Sharkton, and the children topped the little hill, Lyddie drifting behind them like a kite on a string. Her mind was such a whirl that she said nothing even when they entered the courtyard. Her husband believed the children were illegitimate. He hadn’t known her name. He thought she was some sort of lightskirt, a jade who would . . . would . . . She hated him. “Please forgive me for not rising to meet you,” Griffin said to Alastair. “I’ve injured my leg. I have met Colin, but what’s your name?” “Alastair.” Her three-year-old stood squarely on his spindly legs, gazing at the pirate as if he met men of his cut every day . . . which he did not. They scarcely had a male servant other than two young men who worked in the house when they weren’t in the garden. And the bootblack, of course. “Do you call yourself Dare for short?” Griffin inquired.
