To the contrary: he felt as if he had been one of the contestants in a bare-knuckle fistfight, trading gut-wrenching blows with an able and dangerous opponent. But Nuala had promised. For what such a promise was worth. He didn’t know if he believed her. He didn’t know if it would make the least bit of difference in his feelings about her, or about Giles’s death. His feelings about her. It was so simple to let himself believe that he despised her. He’d told himself when they’d met again in Hyde Park that he’d never felt the slightest interest in Nola the maid. But Nuala had revealed herself to him before the final confrontation between Arion and Giles. She had asked for his assistance then, though it had already been too late. He’d thought he’d felt nothing but anger toward the beautiful witch, so very different from the quiet, mousy girl she had been. He’d certainly treated her with hostility, just as he had since they’d first spoken in London. Far easier to hide behind contempt and resentment when the alternative was something even less palatable.
