St Just sat by Bianca’s bedside, holding her hand, stroking it tenderly. Her face was purple where she had been hit by the men who had been trying to kidnap her. A black eye and a large bruise on her forehead added to the damage.

But she opened her battered eye and peered at him.

“Saint…” she swallowed hard and went on, in a voice raw with anguish,

“Where is…Where is that fecking Irishman?”

Her voice was full of resignation and fury.

St Just sighed. Even now, it was clear she loved him, perhaps a tad more than she cared for St Just. But she leaned forward, wincing as her...