It had been quite a day. She had shot a man in the leg, almost killing him—probably. Someone had returned the pistol to her, and she’d tucked it back into her reticule. She tossed the bag into the corner now, not wanting it near her. Stephen had been wrong. She wasn’t anything like James. James was brave and smart, and he wouldn’t be hiding in the dark of his bedroom trembling like a leaf. She forced herself to cross the room and light a candle. She caught sight of her pale reflection in the mirror. Was she different? Her eyes were deep hollows, her cheeks lean and reddened by the wind. Would James even recognize her? She was not the little sister he’d known. Not only had she shot someone today. She’d allowed Stephen Ives to kiss her. She put a hand to her lips, touched the still-tingling flesh tentatively. It hadn’t been a brotherly kiss, or the type of kiss given in thanks for a kindness.
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