I could easily have accepted what she offered. She was beautiful, and her lips were warm, and she had quite entranced me. It was devilish difficult to tell her no.

But I did it.

She sat back and regarded me limply. I picked up the cloth I had dropped and resumed dabbing the blood from her face. My hands trembled.

Silence grew. The fire hissed in the grate, coal at last warming the air. My lips still tingled, still tasting her, and my body absolutely hated me. None would blame me, it said. She had come here, alone, deliberately forsaking protection, and had offered herself freely. The censure would go to her, not to me.

Except the censure from myself, I finished silently. I had already tallied too many regrets in my life to add another.

After a time, her eyes drifted closed. Her breathing grew steady, and I thought she slept. I returned the cloth to my washbasin, but when I came back to her, she was watching me.

"They killed my husband," she announced.

Chapter Two

I stared at her in astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"

Her voice trembled. "They made him bow his head and take the blame for their crime, and then they murdered him to make certain of it." Her eyes flashed. "May they rot in hell."

I could only gape. A spatter of rain struck the glass of the open window, and the casement creaked softly.

"Madam, who are you talking about?"

"The three of them. The triumvirate, I call them. They did everything."

"Who?" I went to her. "Who has killed your husband? You must tell me."

She blinked, as though just waking. "What?"

"You have just said your husband has been murdered."

Tears filled her eyes. "Has he?"

"You have said so."