He'd be hard-pressed to name even one marriage among his acquaintances that had been based on love. Certainly not his parents' marriage, and God knows not Margaret's…

Turning from the window, he strode across the Axminster rug to his desk. Reaching across the mahogany surface, he picked up the miniature of his sister. She'd had it painted for him just before he entered the Army. "Keep it with you, Eric," Margaret had said, her encouraging smile not masking the deep concern in her dark eyes. "That way I'll be with you. Keeping you safe."

A lump tightened his throat. Her lovely face had accompanied Him to places he chose to forget. She'd been the one spot of beauty in an existence of ugliness. Yes, she had kept him safe. Yet he had failed to keep her safe in return.

He stared at her image resting in his palm, and a vivid memory rose in his mind's eye. The day she'd been born. His father's disgust with his wife for presenting him with a girl. His exhausted mother's sadness. Creeping into the nursery that night, staring at the tiny, cooing bundle. "It doesn't matter that Father doesn't like you," he'd whispered, his five-year-old heart filled with resolve. "He doesn't like me either. I'll watch over you." She'd wrapped her minuscule fist around his finger and that, quite simply, had been that.

A myriad of images flashed through his mind. Teaching Margaret to ride. Helping her rescue a bird with a broken wing. Patching up the scrapes she'd sustained when she fell from a tree limb, so their father wouldn't scold her. Escaping to the quiet of the forest to evade the constant strain and arguing in the house. Teaching her to fish, then rarely ever catching more fish than she. Acting out Shakepeare's plays. Watching her grow from an impish child into a beautiful young woman had filled him with deep pride. We were all we had in this unhappy family, weren't we, Margaret? We made it bearable for each other. What would I have done without you?