Brackets Around Quotes

There was a dragon who had a long-standing obsession with a queen's breasts," she said, growing breathless. "The dragon knew the penalty to touch her would mean death, yet he revealed his secret desire to the king's chief doctor. This man promised he could arrange for the dragon to satisfy his desire, but it would cost him one thousand gold coins." She spread her soapy hands over his nipples, then down his arms. "Though he didn't have the money, the dragon readily agreed to the scheme." Grace," Darius moaned, his erection straining against her stomach. She hid her smile, loving that she had this much power over such a strong man. That she, Grace Carlyle, made him ache with longing. "The next day the physician made a batch of itching powder and poured some into the queen's bra… uh, you might call it a brassiere… while she bathed. After she dressed, she began itching and itching and itching. The physician was summoned to the Royal Chambers, and he informed the king and queen that only a special saliva, if applied for several hours, would cure this type of itch. And only a dragon possessed this special saliva." Out of breath, she paused. Continue," Darius said. His arms wound around her so tightly she could barely breathe. His skin blazed hot against hers, hotter than even the steamy water. Are you sure?" Continue." Taut lines bracketed his mouth. Well, the king summoned the dragon. Meanwhile, the physician slipped him the antidote for the itching powder, which the dragon put into his mouth, and for the next few hours, the dragon worked passionately on the queen's breasts. Anyway," she said, reaching around him and lathering the muscled mounds of his butt, "the queen's itching was eventually relieved, and the dragon left satisfied and touted as a hero." This does not sound like a joke," Darius said. I'm getting to the punch line. Hang on. When the physician demanded his payment, the now satisfied dragon refused. He knew that the physician could never report what really happened to the king. So the next day, the physician slipped a massive dose of the same itching powder into the king's loincloth. And the king immediately summoned the dragon." -Heart of the Dragon

He would wrap his arms all the way around her shoulders, press his face into her hair while his body curved over hers. His arms became a set of parentheses bracketing the sweetest secret phrase.

Her hair is longer now, and fine lines bracket her mouth, parentheses around a lifetime of words I was not around to hear.

What I didn’t see was that the time had severe brackets around it. Within those brackets nothing else existed. Outside of them, all you could remember was the blur of a momentary madness.

It’s a weird thing, depression. Even now, writing this with a good distance of fourteen years from my lowest point, I haven’t fully escaped. You get over it, but at the same time you never get over it. It comes back in flashes, when you are tired or anxious or have been eating the wrong stuff, and catches you off guard. I woke up with it a few days ago, in fact. I felt its dark wisps around my head, that ominous life-is-fear feeling. But then, after a morning with the best five- and six-year-olds in the world, it subsided. it is now an aside. Something to put brackets around. Life lesson: the way out is never through yourself.

I'm changing..." I said. "Don't do that," Alex said into my hair. Then he scooped me up and over so I was below him, his knees bracketing mine, his arms curving around my head. "Don't change." Truth: When he kissed me again, I couldn't have cared less about being a good person.I felt amazing.

would read through one of Chris’s books until my eyes gave in to my exhaustion and I could no longer focus. One night as I read from Leo Tolstoy’s Family Happiness, I came across a section where Chris had placed an asterisk in the margin and brackets around the following excerpt: “It is a bad thing,” he said, “not to be able to stand solitude.

That was it. The bracket of her bent leg against the stones. The way her mouth angled around the cigar in a grimace that was almost a smile. The sight of a woman in a well-tailored jacket and trousers. Unexpected, unimagined. A prickling sensation. A stomach-dropping, blood-fizzing, breath-stopping, knotted lurch-and-swoop that I recognized, by then, as the first faltering step towards falling in love.

The life changing seems always bracketed by the mundane. The quotidian wrapped around the profound, like plain brown paper concealing the emotional version of an improvised explosive device. Then, in a single interminable moment, when we discover the bomb, absolutely everything changes. But when we recall it from our now forever-changed lives, when we start with the plain brown wrapping, it looks like every other package, every other morning, every other walk.

Love like a dog. As long as it’s been treated with kindness and respect a dog will love you. A dog doesn’t care about your age, sex, gender identity, orientation, religion, race or socioeconomic bracket. A dog doesn’t care if you’re skinny, have stretch marks or scars. A dog doesn’t care how many people you’ve slept with, what hardships you’ve had to overcome; and if you’re crying a dog will come put its little chin on your chest and love you regardless. A dog doesn’t let these things dictate to whom or how much it extends its heart. A dog just loves. Love like a dog. A dog never tries to play it cool, hard to get or shies away from showing how much it loves. A dog’s composure is never betrayed by its tail because it freely and without hesitation shows how ecstatic it is to see you every time you walk through the door. When a dog is around other dogs it doesn’t pretend that it doesn’t really love tennis balls. A dog loves what it loves and is never embarrassed about showing how it feels. Love like a dog. A dog is loyal to and would fiercely defend those whom it loves. “For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.” Life is not always easy. At times you will have to be brave. At times you will be hurt. But a dog will never leave you. Stay close. Be faithful. Protect your pack. Love like a dog. That is my advice to you. Love like a dog.

Her hair is longer now, and fine lines bracket her mouth, parentheses around a lifetime of words I wasn't around to hear.

Furious, the beast writhed and wriggled its iterated integrals beneath the King’s polynomial blows, collapsed into an infinite series of indeterminate terms, then got back up by raising itself to the nth power, but the King so belabored it with differentials and partial derivatives that its Fourier coefficients all canceled out (see Riemann’s Lemma), and in the ensuing confusion the constructors completely lost sight of both King and beast. So they took a break, stretched their legs, had a swig from the Leyden jug to bolster their strength, then went back to work and tried it again from the beginning, this time unleashing their entire arsenal of tensor matrices and grand canonical ensembles, attacking the problem with such fervor that the very paper began to smoke. The King rushed forward with all his cruel coordinates and mean values, stumbled into a dark forest of roots and logarithms, had to backtrack, then encountered the beast on a field of irrational numbers (F1) and smote it so grievously that it fell two decimal places and lost an epsilon, but the beast slid around an asymptote and hid in an n-dimensional orthogonal phase space, underwent expansion and came out, fuming factorially, and fell upon the King and hurt him passing sore. But the King, nothing daunted, put on his Markov chain mail and all his impervious parameters, took his increment Δk to infinity and dealt the beast a truly Boolean blow, sent it reeling through an x-axis and several brackets—but the beast, prepared for this, lowered its horns and—wham!!—the pencils flew like mad through transcendental functions and double eigentransformations, and when at last the beast closed in and the King was down and out for the count, the constructors jumped up, danced a jig, laughed and sang as they tore all their papers to shreds, much to the amazement of the spies perched in the chandelier-—perched in vain, for they were uninitiated into the niceties of higher mathematics and consequently had no idea why Trurl and Klapaucius were now shouting, over and over, “Hurrah! Victory!!

Can I have this dance?" He held out his arms expectantly, waiting as she grappled with her feelings. She gazed up into his eyes. One heartbeat later she slipped into his arms and he pulled her close. Her palm against his was heady, sending all sorts of tingles coursing up and down her arm. His other hand, on the small of her back, kept her close. They were awkward at first, but kept at it. He hummed as they moved around in a circle, her skirt swishing against her legs and sometimes tangling between his. A slow burn started on her neck. When they finished he let her go and took a small step back. "Charlie, I..." "Stop talking, Nell." His eyes closed and his lips covered hers. The kiss was gentle as he pulled her tighter against him, driving all thought from her mind. His hands moved down and bracketed her waist and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

Why, all our art treasures of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried. Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house? That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished lodgings. It is a white dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her. But in 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was. We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as “those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced those china dogs.” The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English curios.

I haven't thought much about goats," Rick said. "May I ask if this represents a new price bracket for you?" "Well, I don't usually carry around three thou," Rick conceded. "I thought as much, sir, when you mentioned rabbits. The thing about rabbits, sir, is that everybody has one. I'd like to see you step up to the goat-class where I feel you belong. Frankly you look more like a goat man to me." "What are the advantages to goats?" The animal salesman said, "The distinct advantage of a goat is that it can be taught to butt anyone who tries to steal it." "Not if they shoot it with a hypno-dart and descend by rope ladder from a hovering hovercar." Rick said.

First and simplest were multi-runes. Multi-runes were the most common type, and they both looked and functioned much like typical runes, just with lots of lines to incorporate different features. The most common multi-runes included capacity, recharge, and a single function of the same type. A basic example would be a rune with a regeneration function, a life mana recharge feature, and a life mana capacity feature. The rune for this would look like a regeneration function rune, but with an extra line for recharge and the extra bracket-looking lines around it for capacity. There would also be lines to signify the levels of each, if it’s a higher-than-Quartz enchantment.

Get your dagger,' he orders. 'What?' My eyes fly wide. He has me defenceless and in the kill position already. 'Get. Your. Dagger,' he repeats, taking my hand in his and retrieving the last blade I have. His fingers curl over mine, clasping the hilt. Fire races along my skin at the feel of his fingers lacing with mine. Toxic. Dangerous. Wants to kill you. Nope, doesn't matter. My pulse still skitters like a teenager. 'You're tiny.' He says it like an insult. 'Well aware.' My eyes narrow. 'So stop going for bigger moves that expose you.' He drags the tip of the dagger down his side. 'A rib shot would've worked just fine.' Then he guides our hands around his back, making himself vulnerable. 'Kidneys are a good fit from this angle, too.' I swallow, refusing to think of other things that are a good fit at this angle. He leads our hands to his waist, his gaze never leaving mine. 'Chances are, if your opponent is in armour, it's weak here. Those are three easy places you could have struck before your opponent would have had time to stop you.' They're also fatal wounds, and I've avoided them at all costs. 'Do you hear me?' I nod. 'Good. Because you can't poison every enemy you come across,' he whispers, and I blanche. 'You're not going to have time to offer tea to some Braevi gryphon rider when they come at you.' 'How did you know?' I finally ask. My muscles lock, including my thighs, which just happen to still be bracketing his hips. His eyes darken. 'Oh, Violence. You're good, but I've known better poison masters. The trick is to not make it quite so obvious.

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A’s play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover’s special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen’s departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at least until there was not a live arm left in the bullpen, the third-string catcher sent in to pitch the thirty-second inning, batters catnapping slumped against one another on the bench, dead on their feet in the on-deck circle, the stands emptied and echoing, hot dog wrappers rolling like tumbleweeds past the diehards asleep in their seats, inning giving way to inning as the dawn sky glowed blue as the burner on a stove, and busloads of farmhands were brought in under emergency rules to fill out the weary roster, from Sacramento and Stockton and Norfolk, Virginia, entire villages in the Dominican ransacked for the flower of their youth who were loaded into the bellies of C-130s and flown to Oakland to feed the unassuageable appetite of this one game for batsmen and fielders and set-up men, threat after threat giving way to the third out, weak pop flies, called third strikes, inning after inning, week after week, beards growing long, Christmas coming, summer looping back around on itself, wars ending, babies graduating from college, and there’s ball four to load the bases for the 3,211th time, followed by a routine can of corn to left, the commissioner calling in varsity teams and the stars of girls’ softball squads and Little Leaguers, Archy and Titus sustained all that time in their equally infinite silence, nothing between them at all but three feet of sofa;

One of my favourite meditations is to drop through layers of sound. You start by asking yourself what you can hear, then absorbing that fully for a while. The background hum of the everyday opens up and separates, and becomes composed of many different actions, many different lives all surging around you as you forgetfully go about your business, thinking you’re all alone. But when you have heard all those sounds, you listen for what’s beneath them, and you find those quieter noises at the edge of perception, or the ones that are so routine to your ears that your brain doesn’t bother to notice them. And then you go lower still, bracketing those surface sounds and the ones beneath them and asking what else is there. It’s like peeling space, stripping off layers until you find, lurking beneath it all, a kind of silence you can be in. This quiet is there all the time, but it takes effort to notice it. Some people even say they can hear the sound of creation behind it. I haven’t found that yet, but there’s no harm in wondering if it will ever come into my hearing.

So they rolled up their sleeves and sat down to experiment -- by simulation, that is mathematically and all on paper. And the mathematical models of King Krool and the beast did such fierce battle across the equation-covered table, that the constructors' pencils kept snapping. Furious, the beast writhed and wriggled its iterated integrals beneath the King's polynomial blows, collapsed into an infinite series of indeterminate terms, then got back up by raising itself to the nth power, but the King so belabored it with differentials and partial derivatives that its Fourier coefficients all canceled out (see Riemann's Lemma), and in the ensuing confusion the constructors completely lost sight of both King and beast. So they took a break, stretched their legs, had a swig from the Leyden jug to bolster their strength, then went back to work and tried it again from the beginning, this time unleashing their entire arsenal of tensor matrices and grand canonical ensembles, attacking the problem with such fervor that the very paper began to smoke. The King rushed forward with all his cruel coordinates and mean values, stumbled into a dark forest of roots and logarithms, had to backtrack, then encountered the beast on a field of irrational numbers (F_1) and smote it so grievously that it fell two decimal places and lost an epsilon, but the beast slid around an asymptote and hid in an n-dimensional orthogonal phase space, underwent expansion and came out fuming factorially, and fell upon the King and hurt him passing sore. But the King, nothing daunted, put on his Markov chain mail and all his impervious parameters, took his increment Δk to infinity and dealt the beast a truly Boolean blow, sent it reeling through an x-axis and several brackets—but the beast, prepared for this, lowered its horns and—wham!!—the pencils flew like mad through transcendental functions and double eigentransformations, and when at last the beast closed in and the King was down and out for the count, the constructors jumped up, danced a jig, laughed and sang as they tore all their papers to shreds, much to the amazement of the spies perched in the chandelier—perched in vain, for they were uninitiated into the niceties of higher mathematics and consequently had no idea why Trurl and Klapaucius were now shouting, over and over, "Hurrah! Victory!!

Chaworth," the dark-haired man beside him intervened quietly, "if I may speak." The speaker was ruggedly attractive, with boldly hewn features and the sun-browned complexion of an avid outdoorsman. Although he was not young- his black locks were liberally shot with steel, and time had deepened the laugh-lines around his eyes and the brackets between his nose and mouth- he certainly couldn't have been called old. Not with that air of robust health, and the presence of a man with considerable authority. "I've known the lad since the day he was born," he continued, voice deep and a bit gravelly. "As you know, his father is a close friend. I'll vouch for his character, and his word. For the girl's sake, I suggest that we hold our silence and handle the matter with discretion." "I am also acquainted with his father," Lord Chaworth snapped, "who plucked many a fair flower in his day. Obviously the son is following in his footsteps. No, Westcliff, I will not remain silent- he must be held accountable for his actions." Westcliff? Pandora glanced at him with alert interest. She had heard of the Earl of Westcliff, who, after the Duke of Norfolk, held the oldest and most respectable peerage title in England. His vast Hampshire estate, Stony Cross Park, was famed for its fishing, hunting, and shooting.

Sweat popped out on his brow. Little by little he advanced. Higher. Deeper. Her flesh yielding beneath his gentle but inevitable penetration. She moaned. "It's not enough. Dammit, it's not enough!" His laugh was triumphant. "Patience, love. Patience." She buried her head against his shoulder. He buried his finger inside her cleft, as far as he could. His thumb slowly circled her velvety pearl, pressed, then circled anew, faster and faster, gaining a tempo he knew would drive her wild. Her hands came up, clenching and unclenching against his chest. He felt the tension strung throughout her body and knew precisely what caused it. Knew precisely how to ease it. "Don't fight it." The words were a low, silken whisper, yet his tone was almost gritty with self-control. "Just let it happen, darling. Just let it happen." She couldn't stop it. He knew that pure sensation burned inside her. She writhed around his finger, her hips seeking, stark and wanton. He knew precisely when the spasms of release seized hold. She cried aloud. Her body contracted around him, again and again. She collapsed against him, spent and satiated, his finger still deep inside her. Aidan, however, was more aroused than he had ever been in his life. Every part of his body, every muscle, every nerve, was taut and on edge, almost to the breaking point. A crimson haze of desire scorched his insides, for though Fionna had gained release, he had not. He could barely think. Powerful arms lifted her, catching her so that she faced him, her bare legs bracketed around his. a long arm swept around her back. "You pleased me, love. And I am glad that I pleased you so much. But the next time we are together like this, it will be a different part of me that will be inside you. The next time it will be this." Reaching between them, he fumbled with his trousers, freeing his rigid erection, curling her fingers around his thick, swollen flesh and sealing it there with the pressure of his own. "And there will be nothing between us, sweet. No barriers of clothing. No barriers of words. Do you understand what I am saying?" Fionna gaped at him, stunned at what he'd said. Stunned at what he was doing. She could feel that rigidly masculine part of him... good heavens, her palm was filled with that rigidly masculine part of him.

I could tie you down, but then ye’d be no help to Archie. So what’ll it be, lass? Will you obey me or no?” He tried to intimidate her with his posture and size, bracketing her with his bare arms. It didn’t work. Rather, the sight of the succulent, hard mound of his exposed shoulder so close to her face made her wet her lips. His strong collarbones and sinewy neck glistened with sweat, and he smelled of pine and male exertion. Her libido jumped like a feisty poodle. Jeez Louise, Mel, get a grip. This is not a romance novel. He’s not your hero. The box got it wrong. The box was way out of line. “I need it,” she said, pleased her steady voice didn’t betray her attraction. “I have to go with you.” “I told you I’d look for whatever ye lust.” Lust. The antiquated word spoken in his deep voice did strange things to her tummy. It took a solid effort not to lick her lips in invitation as the word called to mind activities that most definitely related to wanting. Home, she reminded herself. She had to get home. “I don’t trust you to look as hard as I would. I’m coming with you.” “Where are your ropes, Archie?” he asked. “The woman refuses to stay put. I have no choice but to tie her to the wagon.” Several of the wounded men snickered. Archie said, “In the foot case there. And bring me some of yon dried moss before ye tie down your woman.” Your woman. The casual declaration made her stomach leap, and the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “She’s not mine,” Darcy growled as he opened the lid of a wooden chest in the wagon. To her horror, he removed a coil of rope. After tossing a yellowish clump in Archie’s direction, he came at her. Her libido disappeared with a poof. She hopped off the wagon, dodging hands that had no business being so quick, considering how large they were. “Don’t you dare tie me down! I’ve got to get that box. It’s my only hope to return home.” He lunged for her, catching her easily around the waist with his long arm, and plunking her back in the wagon. Libido was back. Her body thrilled at Darcy’s manhandling, though her muscles struggled against it. The thought of him tying her up in private might have some merit, but not in the middle of the forest with several strange men as witnesses. “Okay, okay,” she blurted as he looped the rope around one wrist. “I won’t follow you. Please don’t tie me. I’ll stay. I’ll help.” He paused to eye her suspiciously. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll stay here and make myself useful. As long as you promise to look for a rosewood box inlaid with white gold and about yea big.” She gestured with her hands, rope trailing from one wrist. “As long as you swear to look as though your life depends on it.” She held his gaze, hoping he was getting how important this was to her, hoping she could trust him. The circle of wounded men went quiet, waiting for his answer. He bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly impatient to return to the skirmish, but he gave her his full attention and said, “I vow that if your cherished box is on that field, I will find it.

She transferred the baby and his Tupperware into the playpen for safety, stormed into the well-equipped garage, and searched frantically for a screwdriver. With an exultant cry of victory, she punched the button to the garage door opener and waited impatiently for it to rise. Resolutely, Aggie charged out of the gaping hole left by the door only to return moments later for a ladder. This posed a bigger problem than she’d anticipated. There wasn’t a ladder in sight. She searched corners and behind cabinets. In sheer exasperation, she threw her hands into the air and looked up as if to say, “I can’t take much more, Lord,” but the sight of a ladder hanging horizontally from the rafters halted her internal ranting. Now, she spoke aloud, her voice tinged with disgust. “Who would put a ladder up so high that you need a ladder to get the ladder down in the first place?” After a moment’s pause, she dashed into the kitchen and banged around the room, searching for the step stool. Ian squealed his slobbery encouragement as Aggie dragged the stool through the room, ruffling the few ruddy curls atop his bald little baby head. She teetered on the step stool, barely avoiding a collapse, and finally managed to jerk the ladder from its hooks. Hauling her prize out the garage door, Aggie surveyed the tattered basketball net she had remembered hanging deserted over the garage. The uncooperative ladder fought her at every step. After several frustrating minutes, where every swear word she’d ever heard filled her brain and threatened to overtake her self-control, Aggie realized that the ladder was upside down. Righting it, she climbed to the mounting bracket, the ladder teetering with every step. She eventually managed to unscrew one side of the apparatus and then the other. With a few jerky movements, the backboard lay on the ground beneath the swaying ladder, hardly worse for the fall. Aggie felt like a housekeeping genius as she wobbled through the house carrying her conquest upstairs to the wall above the hamper at the end of the hallway. The backboard was heavy and cumbersome; she found it difficult to hold in place and screw it into the wall at the same time, but several minutes later, she stood back and surveyed the results of her efforts. Though nearly satisfied, the lid on the hamper mocked her brilliant idea. Undaunted, she gave a swift jerk and ripped the cover off the offending hamper. “There. That’ll work,” she muttered as she trudged back downstairs, fighting the compulsion to pick up all the dirty laundry herself.

The young man stood beside the arch the way a tree stood in a forest as if he'd always been there. He wore no cloak or cape, just sinuous leather armour and an unusual bronze helm. The top portion almost looked like a crown, thick and decorated with unfamiliar symbols that wrapped around the young man's forehead. The helm left most of his wavy brown hair uncovered but concealed much of his face with a wide curve of harsh, spiked metal that bracketed the sides of his head and covered his jaw all the way to the bridge of his nose, leaving only a pair of eyes and slashing cheekbones exposed.

Case #6 Sandy and Bob Bob is a successful dentist in his community. In the 15 years since he established his own practice, he has established a reliable base of patients and has built a thriving business in a great location. A couple years ago, he brought his wife, Sandy, a business expert with an MBA, on board to help him oversee the business end of the dental practice. She had recently left her job at a financial services firm, and Bob knew that Sandy’s business acumen would be helpful in getting his administrative house in order. She brought on new employees, developed effective new processes, and enhanced the office’s marketing efforts. Within a few months, Sandy’s improvements had managed to make the dental practice a well-oiled machine. Now she could turn her attention to their real estate portfolio. Bob and Sandy owned three small apartment buildings around town, as well as one small commercial center that was home to a nail salon, a chiropractor’s office, a coffee house and a wine shop. Fortunately, Bob’s dental practice was a success and their investments earned a nice passive income for them. Unfortunately, because Bob earned on average $250,000 per year, the couple couldn’t use passive loss, which in their case came to about $100,000, from their investments to offset his high earned income. Eventually, they would be earning sheltered profits—when the mortgages on their properties were paid off and the rentals made pure profit, or if they were to sell a property. When those things eventually happened, they could use their losses to shelter those profits. But until that time, the losses were going unused. Sandy made an appointment with their CPA to discuss the situation and see how they might improve their tax situation. The CPA asked, “What about becoming a real estate professional?” He explained to Sandy that if she spent 750 hours per year, or about 15 hours a week, on the couple’s real estate investments, she would be considered a real estate professional by the IRS. This would enable the couple to write off 100 percent of their passive losses against Bob’s high income, which would bring his taxable income down to $100,000. This $100,000 deduction brought Bob and Sandy into a lower tax bracket, saving them roughly $31,000 in taxes. Sandy already devoted a large percentage of her time to overseeing their investments, and when she saw the tax advantages, her decision became clear: She would file the Section 469(c)(7) and become a real estate professional.

I love the scream that rips from her throat as she gushes into my mouth, and I don’t even try to stifle the sound. Anyone who comes back here is getting an eyeful and an education. She starts sliding down the wall, her legs giving out, but I bracket her slim waist with my hands. “Not yet, baby.” I trap her against the wall with one hand and fumble to get my pants undone with the other. Her eyes are cloudy and sated, but when I jerk her legs up and around my back, she blinks and lust filters back into her stare. I thrust up, deep and hard and sudden, making her breath hitch.

Her lower lip nestles into the dip between mine and I’m beyond tempted to suck it into my mouth and see what kind of noises I could pull from her throat.  She’s kissing me. Kennedy is kissing me. Her other hand comes to bracket my jaw before her fingers move to the back of my head, cupping my skull and pulling me close. Her body sags into mine, perfectly nestled between my hips as her lips take their time exploring my own. She works to find a pace that feels right for her, and I let her lead. I want her to have the moment of taking control when she hasn’t been allowed any. My palm curves around the back of her thigh, rubbing along her soft skin, and apparently the movement acts as a reality check because she instantly pulls away. Hands still around my face, her eyes go big and a little bit wild, shocked that she kissed me. I’m shocked that she kissed me.

It was jealousy.” The fire blazing in him roars, scalds. Scorches the earth he’s standing on. “I’m still not fucking over it. How he has you. How he touches you.” Shock renders my body frozen as he slams another hand on the wall, bracketing me. His hands slide down lower, his thumbs grazing my biceps. “Kisses you.” My eyes widen, but I don’t see anything around me. Nothing other than Killian Murdock. His ravenous gaze, the tic of his jaw, his strong nose. Every pore on his skin. His overpowering intensity. “And the other way around. How you’ve been touching Carter. How he looks at you when he bends you over and fucks you on the kitchen island.

They walked down the main street past Zonko’s Wizarding Joke Shop, where they were not surprised to see Fred, George and Lee Jordan, past the post office, from which owls issued at regular intervals, and turned up a side-street at the top of which stood a small inn. A battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door, with a picture on it of a wild boar’s severed head, leaking blood on to the white cloth around it. The sign creaked in the wind as they approached. All three of them hesitated outside the door.

Darcy picked her up again, this time not as gently as he had when she’d tripped on the root. He carried her under one arm like a sack of grain, though to his credit, he avoided putting pressure on her lower abdomen. “I said no, ye contrary thing, and I’m big enough to make you obey whether ye want to or no’.” He crashed through the line of trees, stomped past the wounded men, and set her firmly in the wagon. “A skirmish is no place for a woman. I willna be responsible for you getting raped or killed.” That vulnerable look softened his hard features for a second. “I could tie you down, but then ye’d be no help to Archie. So what’ll it be, lass? Will you obey me or no?” He tried to intimidate her with his posture and size, bracketing her with his bare arms. It didn’t work. Rather, the sight of the succulent, hard mound of his exposed shoulder so close to her face made her wet her lips. His strong collarbones and sinewy neck glistened with sweat, and he smelled of pine and male exertion. Her libido jumped like a feisty poodle. Jeez Louise, Mel, get a grip. This is not a romance novel. He’s not your hero. The box got it wrong. The box was way out of line. “I need it,” she said, pleased her steady voice didn’t betray her attraction. “I have to go with you.” “I told you I’d look for whatever ye lust.” Lust. The antiquated word spoken in his deep voice did strange things to her tummy. It took a solid effort not to lick her lips in invitation as the word called to mind activities that most definitely related to wanting. Home, she reminded herself. She had to get home. “I don’t trust you to look as hard as I would. I’m coming with you.” “Where are your ropes, Archie?” he asked. “The woman refuses to stay put. I have no choice but to tie her to the wagon.” Several of the wounded men snickered. Archie said, “In the foot case there. And bring me some of yon dried moss before ye tie down your woman.” Your woman. The casual declaration made her stomach leap, and the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “She’s not mine,” Darcy growled as he opened the lid of a wooden chest in the wagon. To her horror, he removed a coil of rope. After tossing a yellowish clump in Archie’s direction, he came at her. Her libido disappeared with a poof. She hopped off the wagon, dodging hands that had no business being so quick, considering how large they were. “Don’t you dare tie me down! I’ve got to get that box. It’s my only hope to return home.” He lunged for her, catching her easily around the waist with his long arm, and plunking her back in the wagon. Libido was back. Her body thrilled at Darcy’s manhandling, though her muscles struggled against it. The thought of him tying her up in private might have some merit, but not in the middle of the forest with several strange men as witnesses. “Okay, okay,” she blurted as he looped the rope around one wrist. “I won’t follow you. Please don’t tie me. I’ll stay. I’ll help.” He paused to eye her suspiciously. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll stay here and make myself useful. As long as you promise to look for a rosewood box inlaid with white gold and about yea big.” She gestured with her hands, rope trailing from one wrist. “As long as you swear to look as though your life depends on it.” She held his gaze, hoping he was getting how important this was to her, hoping she could trust him. The circle of wounded men went quiet, waiting for his answer. He bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly impatient to return to the skirmish, but he gave her his full attention and said, “I vow that if your cherished box is on that field, I will find it.

Yes?” “Um…” the receptionist says. “What is it?” I bark. But then my office door opens, and Matt steps through. “He’s on his way to you,” the receptionist says. “Thanks for the warning,” I mutter. Matt closes my office door behind him and approaches me. I stand, and he tips my chin up toward his face. “I forgot something,” he says. He’s breathless, and his eyes search mine. “I forgot to tell you that I want your heart more than I want your body,” he says. His eyes are flitting all over my face. “I fucked that up, but I’m not done yet. And I know how to say I’m sorry.” “Matt—” I start. But he cuts me off. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and it’s difficult to even walk when I’m around you, because my dick gets so hard I could pound nails with it.” Heat creeps up my cheeks, but he doesn’t stop. “I shouldn’t have gone there with you yet, but I can’t help it. I’m fucking dying to be inside you. I’m fucking dying to hold you close to me, hopefully when we’re both naked.” He grins. “But even more than that, I want you to love me. I want you to love me a lot, and I went about it the wrong way. Please forgive me.” He finally stops and draws in a deep breath. “Please.” “Matt…” I say. “When I saw your boyfriend, all I could think was that I could satisfy you so much more, mainly because I was jealous as hell that he’s been close to you. Maybe I was trying to get him off your mind and put myself there. Or maybe I’m just an idiot. It’s probably the latter. I admit it. I’m an idiot when it comes to you. But that’s okay with me. I hope it’s okay with you, too.” “Matt,” I say again. “Forgive me,” he urges. “I won’t ever do it again.” I bracket his face with my hands. “Would you shut up for a minute?” I say. He breathes out a sigh. “Okay.” “I’m not mad. Well, a little annoyed that Seth repeated something to you that he overheard in a private conversation. That’s about me and Seth, though, not about you. I’ll deal with him about that. And no, I’m not mad at you. There’s nothing to forgive.” He doesn’t say anything. He just looks into my eyes. “Really, Matt,” I say to assure him. “You completely shut me down, which I deserved. But I already miss you.” “I haven’t gone anywhere.” I laugh.

I don’t know what to do with myself all alone with Matt, so I start to load the dishwasher with today’s dishes. Matt picks up plates and cups from the table and helps me. “Careful, or I’ll get used to having you around,” I warn playfully. He looks directly into my eyes. “Good. That’s what I’m going for.” My breath hitches, and I have to turn away so that I’m not facing him. I lay my hands flat on the counter and take a breath. But then I feel Matt’s length behind me. His palms lie flat on the counter beside mine, his arms bracketing my body. I can feel him from the top of my head to the heels of my feet, he’s that close. “You in love with me yet?” he whispers quietly. A grin steals across my face, and I’m so glad he can’t see it. “Nope,” I say past the lump in my throat. He brushes the hair from the back of my neck and presses his lips there. I’m suddenly glad he’s behind me, because my knees might just give out. His lips are soft and warm, but insistent. He kisses the side of my neck, and I tilt my head because it feels so damn good. “Someday, you’re going to want to marry me,” he murmurs. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.” My voice quavers only a little. I’m quite proud of that. “Mmm hmm,” he murmurs, and his lips gently slide up the side of my neck.

Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher’s large bay gelding. Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. “Don’t I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?” His lips twitched. “We’ll ride together. If you’re willing. I have a surprise for you.” “How unconventional of you.” “Yes, I thought that would please you.” He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her. No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth. “Where are we going?” she asked against his coat. “We’re almost there. Don’t look.” Soon Christopher reined in the horse and dismounted, helping her down. Viewing their surroundings, Beatrix smiled in perplexity. It was the secret house on Lord Westcliff’s estate. Light glowed through the open windows. “Why are we here?” “Go upstairs and see,” Christopher said, and went to tether the horse. Picking up the skirts of her blue dress, Beatrix ascended the circular staircase, which had been lit with strategically placed lamps in the wall brackets where ancient torches had once hung. Reaching the circular room upstairs, Beatrix crossed the threshold. The room had been transformed.

Your eyes say I lie when I call you my woman. This is not good. It is our bargain, eh?” He plucked a wisp of grass and ran it slowly between his fingers, watching her in a way that suggested he would soon touch her--just as slowly. “It was a promise you made for me, and now you make a lie of it? This is the way of your people, to say empty words. Penende taquoip, honey talk, eh? But it is not the way of the Comanche. If you make a lie, I will carve out your tongue and feed it to the crows.” The breeze caught his hair, draping strands of it across his chiseled features. For an instant, the knife slash that marred his cheek was hidden, and he seemed less formidable. Her attention was drawn to his lips, full and sharply defined, yet somehow hard, perhaps because of the rigid expression he always wore. Deep crevices bracketed his mouth--laugh lines, surely. Ah, yes, she could imagine him cutting out her tongue and smiling while he did it. “You do not like me too good. This is a sad thing, eh?” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the world around them. “The sky is up, the earth is down. The sun shows its face, only to be chased away by Mother Moon. These things are for always, eh? Just as you are my woman. The song was sung long ago, and the song must come to pass. You must accept, Blue Eyes.” Loretta yearned to break eye contact but found she couldn’t. The silken threads of his deep voice wove a spell around her. She must accept? Already he was planning to give her away to his horrible cousin. She sank lower in the water, keeping her arms crossed to hide her breasts. Could he see through the ripples? Still studying her with the same unnerving intensity, he said, “When the wind blows, the sapling bends, the flowers lie low against the earth, the grass is flattened.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I am your wind, Blue Eyes. Bend or break.

ARE MY CHILDREN still alive?" Sara Prague asked the question in a quiet, steady voice that he heard very clearly despite the noise around her. Cops coming and going, keyboards clicking, phones ringing. She looked haggard. Hard. She hadn't always, Vince figured. The worry lines bracketing her eyes, her mouth, the dry skin, the chapped lips, the sense that she really didn't give a damn what she looked like—those things had been strangers to her that first day. The day her kids hadn't come home from school. Now those lines, that hardness, had made themselves at home. It looked as if they planned to stay awhile. This shouldn't have happened to Sara Prague, a PTA mom whose world revolved around her kids. It shouldn't have happened to her husband. Mike, full-time plumber and part-time Little League coach. It shouldn't happen to anyone. Ever. Vince walked around his desk and eased Sara Prague into a cracked vinyl chair, ignoring the chaos around them. He poured her some stale coffee from the pot on the nearby stand, just as he had every day for the past three weeks. She came in here like clockwork—something the Center for Missing and Exploited Children had probably told her to do. He thought she would keep doing it, too. For years, if necessary. It wouldn't be necessary, though. She took the foam cup and sipped automatically. It was all part of their daily

in Solution Most chemical reactions that occur on the earth’s surface, whether in living organisms or among inorganic substances, take place in aqueous solution. Chemical reactions carried out between substances in solution obey the requirements of stoichiometry discussed in Chapter 2, in the sense that the conservation laws embodied in balanced chemical equations are always in force. But here we must apply these requirements in a slightly different way. Instead of a conversion between masses and number of moles, using the molar mass as a conversion factor, the conversion is now between solution volumes and number of moles, with the concentration as the conversion factor. For instance, consider the reaction that is used commercially to prepare elemental bromine from its salts in solution: 2 Br � (aq) � Cl2(aq) 02 Cl � (aq) � Br2(aq) Suppose there is 50.0 mL of a 0.0600 M solution of NaBr. What volume of a 0.0500 M solution of Cl2 is needed to react completely with the Br � ? To answer this, find the number of moles of bromide ion present: 0.0500 L � (0.0600 mol L �1 ) � 3.00 � 10 �3 mol Br � Next, use the chemical conversion factor 1 mol of Cl2 per 2 mol of Br � to find moles Cl2 reacting � 3.00 � 10 �3 mol Br � a 1 mol Cl2 2 mol Br � b � 1.50 � 10 �3 mol Cl2 Finally, find the necessary volume of aqueous chlorine: 1.50 � 10 �3 mol � 3.00 � 10 �2 L solution 0.0500 mol L �1 The reaction requires 3.00 � 10 �2 L, or 30.0 mL, of the Cl2 solution.(In practice, an excess of Cl2 solution would be used to ensure more nearly complete conversion of the bromide ion to bromine. ) The chloride ion concentration after completion of the reaction might also be of interest. Because each mole of bromide ion that reacts gives 1 mol of chloride ion in the products, the number of moles of Cl � produced is 3.00 � 10 �3 mol. The final volume of the solution is 0.0800 L, so the final concentration of Cl � is [Cl � ] � 3.00 � 10 �3 mol � 0.0800 L 0.0375 M Square brackets around a chemical symbol signify the molarity of that species.

Those lines that bracketed his mouth were deeper, his neck was bigger around so his Adam’s apple no longer stuck out like someone had thrown a boomerang through the back of his neck.

I want to go home very badly.” Loretta fixed her gaze on her captor’s medallion. All around her, the smell of his world permeated her senses, leather, dust, smoke, and unidentifiable foods. She was probably out of her mind to trust him. But, oh, how she wanted to. Home. To Aunt Rachel and Amy. It was a fact that he hadn’t lied to her--except for the time he had promised to cut out her tongue and hadn’t. She couldn’t very well hold that against him. She scooped up a handful of nuts and berries, taking a small amount into her mouth. The sweet taste of honey washed over her tongue, activating her salivary glands. Her stomach growled in response. He heard the sound and cocked an eyebrow. “It is good?” “Mm,” she said, taking another bite and brushing her palm clean on her bloomers. “Delicious.” “Dee-lish-us?” For the space of a heartbeat she forgot to be afraid of him, and a smile spread across her lips before she realized it was coming. When he smiled back at her, the strangest feeling swept over her, an inexplicable warmth. He had smiled at her before, of course, but never like this. “Delicious,” she repeated. “That means very good, much better than just good.” His smile didn’t fade, and she found herself fascinated. On a civilized man, that lopsided grin of his could have been heart-stopping. His sharply defined lips lifted lazily at one corner to reveal gleaming white teeth, deep creases bracketing his mouth. Not the face of a killer, surely. The mood shattered when he reached out to touch her cheek. The sudden movement made her recoil, reminding her of who he was and what he was. That he considered her his property. Because she jerked away, he settled for capturing a lock of her hair, twining it through his fingers. “You are dee-lish-us. Like sunshine, eh?” Unnerved by the gleam that had stolen into his eyes, Loretta caught hold of his hand to disentangle it from her hair. Just because there were no scalps in his lodge didn’t mean he was above taking one if the mood struck. “Only things you can taste are delicious.” The moment the words passed her lips, she recalled how he had nibbled at her neck. Heat crept up her nape. As if he guessed her thoughts, his gaze dropped to her throat. She found herself longing for her homespun dress with its mutton sleeves and high neckline. Mischief danced in his eyes. Or was it a trick of the light? “This Comanche is not a Tonkowa, a People Eater.

There’s fine lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but since smiles are the main weapon in his charm offensive, he’s probably had those since he was nine.

Try. It’s more efficient. You can’t go through life doing this the wrong way. The wasted minutes could add up to days. Weeks.” An unexpected giggle escaped her, as if she were a young girl being teased. “I don’t use a pencil that often.” Devon reached around her, his hands engulfing hers. And she let him. She stood still, her body wary but compliant. A fragile trust had been established during their earlier encounter--no matter what else she might fear from him, she seemed to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her. The pleasure of holding her washed through him in repeated waves. She was petite and fine-boned, the delicious fragrance of roses rising to his nostrils. He’d noticed it when he’d held her earlier…not a cloying perfume, but a light floral essence swept with the sharp freshness of winter air. “All it takes is six cuts,” he said near her ear. She nodded, relaxing against him as he guided her hands with precision. One deep stroke of the lade neatly removed an angled section of wood. They rotated the pencil and made another cut, and then a third, creating a precise triangular prism. “Now trim the sharp edges.” They concentrated on the task with his hands still bracketed over hers, using the blade to chamfer each corner of wood until they had created a clean, satisfying point. Done. After one last luxurious inhalation of her scent, Devon released her slowly, knowing that for the rest of his life, a single breath of a rose would bring him back to this moment.

What are you facing today that you wouldn’t be facing if you were in control? What are you required to deal with that you really wish you could avoid? Where have your plans dripped like sand through your fingers? Where would you like to take back choices and redo decisions? Where do you tend to look over the fence and wish you had someone else’s life? Where do you feel troubled, inadequate, weak, defeated, overwhelmed, alienated, or alone? Where do thoughts of the past tend to flood you with regret, or visions of the future make you a bit afraid? What causes you to wish life was easier or at least a bit more predictable? If you could change a couple of things in your life right now, what would they be? Where does it feel to you as if you’re on an amusement park ride that you never intended to be on? If you’re not in one of the moments I’ve described above, you will be someday, and you are near to someone who is. Life in this fallen world is often very hard. This world and everything in it are not functioning the way God intended. The brokenness of this fallen world will enter your door and somehow alter the trajectory of your life. In those moments, it is tempting to conclude that life is all about surviving the chaos. You feel that you don’t have much power, you have been confronted with the fact that there’s not much that you control, and you have no idea of what might be lurking around the corner. It all seems impossible and scary. But this is not where God’s Word leaves us. Yes, it does confront us with our smallness, weakness, and lack of control, but it doesn’t leave us there. The Bible declares something to us that is the opposite of the way we tend to think. It tells us that the difficulties that we face every day, the seeming chaos that regularly greets us, are not the result of the world being out of control, but the result of the reign of One who is in complete control. Paul says in Ephesians 1:22, “And he [God] put all things under his [Christ’s] feet and gave him as head over all things to the church” (the explanations in brackets are mine). So no matter how it looks to you at street level, your world is not out of control; no, it is under careful rule. As radical as that thought is, it’s not radical enough, because it does not do justice to all that Paul says. Paul wants you to know something else. That rule has you in view! Right now, Jesus rules over all things for the sake of his children. This is where peace is to be found.

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: ‘… I smell blood … I SMELL BLOOD!’ His stomach lurched. ‘It’s going to kill someone!’ he shouted, and ignoring Ron and Hermione’s bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps. Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage. ‘Harry, what was that all about?’ said Ron, wiping sweat off his face. ‘I couldn’t hear anything …’ But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor. ‘Look!’ Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached, slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches. THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE. ‘What’s that thing – hanging underneath?’ said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice. As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped over: there was a large puddle of water on the floor. Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched towards the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realised what it was at once, and leapt backwards with a splash. Mrs Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said, ‘Let’s get out of here.

At a health food store he and I had run into a girl I knew who was spaced out and scratching herself. She asked Jimmy if he knew whether the juice she’d chosen was organic, and he acted like he’d never encountered that kind of contradiction, junkies who refuse non-organic juice. He was a little sheltered, like most people who come to the city from elsewhere. Normal, educated, had a job, felt there was a purpose to his existence and so forth, and he didn’t understand about people who grew up in the city, the nihilism, the inability to go to college or join the straight world, get a regular job or believe in the future. I fit into some kind of narrative for him. Which isn’t to say that Jimmy Darling was dipping down into a lower class bracket by hanging around with me. He wasn’t. He was as common as I was, commoner, but he was the one slumming.

As she approached the library, she felt her heartbeat quicken uncomfortably. Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the threshold. Devon appeared to be browsing over a row of books, reaching up to straighten a trio of volumes that had fallen sideways. “My lord,” Kathleen said quietly. Devon turned, his gaze finding hers at once. He was stunningly handsome, dressed in a dark suit of clothes that had been tailored in the new looser-fitting fashion, the coat, waistcoat, and trousers all made of matching fabric. The informal cut of the suit did nothing to soften the hard lines of his body. For a moment Kathleen couldn’t help remembering the feel of his arms around her, his solid chest beneath her cheek. Heat swept over her face. Devon bowed, his face inscrutable. He appeared relaxed at first glance, but a closer look revealed faint shadows beneath his eyes, and finespun tension beneath his calm veneer. “I hope you’re well this morning,” he said quietly. Her blush deepened uncomfortably. “Yes, thank you.” She curtsied and wove her fingers together in a stiff knot. “You wished to discuss something before you depart?” “Yes, regarding the estate, I’ve come to some conclusions--” “I do hope--” she began, and broke off. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to--” “Go on.” Kathleen dropped her gaze to her clenched hands as she spoke. “My lord, if you decide to dismiss any of the servants…or indeed all of them…I hope you take into account that some have served the Ravenels for their entire lives. Perhaps you might consider giving small parting sums to the oldest ones who have little hope of securing other employment.” “I’ll bear it in mind.” She could feel him looking at her, his gaze as tangible as the heat of sunlight. The mahogany bracket clock on the mantel measured out the silence with delicate ticks. His voice was soft. “You’re nervous with me.

I have you. Settle…easy.” She stiffened at the feel of being clasped firmly, his muscles working around her, his breath at her ear. “This will teach you to bring baskets to ailing neighbors,” he said. “I hope you realize that all the selfish people are safe and dry at home.” “Why did you come after me?” she managed to ask, trying to calm the little shocks that kept reverberating through her. “Lady Helen was worried.” Once assured of her seat, Devon reached up with his left hand, tugged at her veil and headpiece, and tossed them to the ground. “Sorry,” he said before she could protest. “But that dye smells like the floor of an East End tavern. Here, slide your leg to the other side of the saddle.” “I can’t, it’s caught in my skirts.” The horse’s weight shifted beneath them. Unable to find purchase on the smooth, flat saddle, Kathleen fumbled and accidentally gripped Devon’s thigh, the surface hard as stone. Gasping, she drew her hand back. It seemed that no matter how much air she took in, it wasn’t enough. Temporarily transferring the reins to his left hand, Devon removed his felt hat and pushed it over Kathleen’s head. He proceeded to pull at the twisted, bunched layers of her skirts until she was able to unbend her knee enough to slide her leg over the horse’s withers. In childhood she had ridden double with the Berwicks’ daughters when they had gone on pony rides. But there was no possible comparison with this, the feeling of a powerfully built man right behind her, his legs bracketing hers.