She landed abruptly against a man's broad chest, the dressing case pressing painfully against her ribs. Her breath whistled harshly out collapsing her lungs. His hands clamped about her as her momentum tumbled them onto the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. She gasped and struggled wildly to get up. To her surprise, her rescuer pushed her off his chest and surged to his feet. In the waning moonlight, his face was a harsh landscape of shadows; nonetheless, she recognized him as she would have recognized one of Jessamine's silhouettes. Branstoke! Here, as he always seemed to be so fortuitously at hand. What tie, what silken binding as strong as steel tethered them that he should forever be her rescuer and she should take it as expected and frown if he did not appear, the avenging lord, at her side? The one hand he maintained about her upper arm compelled her to rise as well. She pulled back, more from habit than with cause, and the dark blue cap she wore fell to the ground. Her hair tumbled down in a cloud of moonlight.
