“I am sorry.” “For what?” she asked in a whisper. Though there were undoubtedly a multitude of sins for which he could have sought penance, he merely offered up a crooked smile. “For having washed up on your beach.” Emory waited until the library door closed before he released his pent up breath. His gaze flicked over to the locked gun cabinet. He had given Annaleah the key and had watched her slip it to an inside pocket of her skirt. It had been a simple matter to retrieve it while brushing past her in the passageway, but why had he felt the need? Did he have reason to doubt his own brother’s loyalty? Did he have reason to fear his brother might have betrayed his presence to the authorities? A more nagging question concerned the marquis, Lord Barrimore. Who the devil was he and why had the hairs on the nape of Emory's neck stood on end when Annaleah identified him? He had not recognized him, had suffered no spontaneous flashes of memory, but that was not to say the marquis would suffer from the same handicap.
