A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. This I have sworn to do—this I will do. "I love her already. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. " "Well, rather than you should commit so great a crime, Captain, here it is," replied Quilt, handing him the garment in question.
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