“I love you… I will always love you…” His eyes were blazing with the passion she knew so well, as he said it. It was not the passion born of desire, but of believing and wanting and caring so much it almost kills you. Charles cared about everything that way, and she knew that one day it would kill him. She had barely survived his flame, and now she knew that she could no longer risk it. He had his scars, and she had her own, no less fierce because they hadn't been won in battle.

“I love you too,” she whispered, knowing that she shouldn't say those words to him. But it was a whisper from the past, a salute to all that had been and had died with Andre.

“Will you see me before I leave for Spain again?” It was so like him to pressure her, to make her feel responsible for him once he went into battle. She smiled at him, but she shook her head this time.

“I can't, Charles. I'm married.”

“Does he know about me?” Slowly, with a look of agony, she shook her head in answer.

“No, he doesn't. He thinks I went a little wild one summer on the Grand Tour, and got a little out of hand, as I think my father described it to his friends. That's what my father said years ago, something about a little romance.' And that's all Malcolm knows. He has never allowed me to discuss it. Malcolm has no idea we were ever married.” It was so like her father to tell people that. He had never told people of her life with Charles and their staying in Europe had made it easier for him. All he cared about were appearances, and reputation. He had lied to protect her, and told everyone she had stayed in Europe to study. He had to save face at all costs, and he had wanted to save Marielle from her “terrible mistake” when she married Charles Delauney. And now, Marielle's husband still believed the lie, because she let him.