In her anger she was beautiful in a different way her long dark hair in disorder across her white gown, her eyes blazing with hurt and disbelief. "It is Lord Nelson's funeral in a few days time." She had stepped back from him as he had made to calm her. "No, listen to me, Richard! We shall have less than two weeks together, and, much of that time spent on the road. You are worth a hundred of any of them, though I know you would never say it… Damn their eyes! You lost your old ship, you have given everything, but they are so afraid that you will refuse to attend the funeral unless you can take me with you, when they are expecting Belinda! "

Then she had broken and had let him hold her, his cheek in her hair like the time they had watched the first dawn together in Falmouth.

Bolitho had stroked her shoulders and had replied gently, "I would never allow anyone to insult you."

She had not seemed to hear. "That surgeon who sailed with you-Sir Piers Blachford? He could help you, surely?" She had pulled his face to hers and kissed his eyes with sudden tenderness. "Dearest of men, you must take care."

Now she was in Falmouth. Despite all the offered protection and love, a stranger nonetheless.

She had accompanied him to Portsmouth on that cold blustery forenoon; so much to say still unsaid. Together they had waited by the old sally-port, each aware that these same worn stairs had been Nelson's last contact with England. In the background, the carriage with the Bolitho crest on its doors waited with Matthew the coachman holding the horses' heads. The carriage was streaked with mud, as if to mark the time that they had spent together in its secret privacy.

Not always so secret. Passing through Guildford on the way to London, some idlers had raised a cheer. "God bless you, Our Dick! Don't you mind they buggers in Lonnon, beggin' yer pardon, Ma'am! "

She had watched his reflection in the carriage window and had said quietly, "See! I am not the only one! "