Chapter One
How to Become Invisible

Berkeley Square, London
April, 1815

Unlike her far more vibrant sisters, Miss Anne Royle had but one talent—and it wasn’t one to recommend her.

She could become invisible.

Oh, not in the way of fairytales, where one’s form could magically spread upon the breeze.

No, her talent was much more subtle than that.

Anne simply had the ability to move about a bustling drawing room completely unnoticed.

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She considered herself naught but a specter in London society, and rightly so. After all, no one ever sought out her company, or tried to catch her eye. She could stand directly in front of a grand lord or lady, or even a tray-bearing footman, and more likely than not, she wouldn’t be noticed.

Sometimes, it was as if she simply did not exist.

Anne most always viewed her reputed talent as the darkest of damning curses.

But not always.

Only a year ago, she and her sisters Mary and Elizabeth had shed their black bombazine mourning frocks and left the depths of Cornwall for the satin elegance of London’s drawing rooms.

Their effervescent sponsor, Lady Upperton, in her zeal to see the sisters properly matched, had mandated their attendance at an endless ribbon of unnerving balls, routs and musicales.

Anne was no fool. Immediately, she realized the benefit of moving beneath the raised noses of the ton.

It freed her from much of the scrutiny and whispers her sisters endured due to scandalous suspicions swirling about the Royle triplets’ noble parentage.

And tonight would be no different.

As she and her sister Elizabeth primped and dressed in preparation for the grandest society rout in recent history, Anne actually prayed for invisibility.

For within five hours’ time, the course of her life, and her sisters’, would depend upon it.

Three hours later,
MacLaren House, Cockspur Street

“Oh, Anne, how you exaggerate.” Elizabeth laughed and swooshed her frilly lace-edged fan through the air, waving off the claim as if it were a bite-minded winged insect.
             
“I tell you, I can walk through this very crowd and eavesdrop on even the most private of conversations. No one will notice me. No one.”

“Can you now?” Elizabeth arched a dubious eyebrow
at that. “And no one will see you?”
             
“No one.”   
             
“Pish, posh. While your stealth is truly miraculous, you are hardly beneath notice.”
           
Anne exhaled a long breath. Why did she even bother to try to explain it to Elizabeth? The flame-haired beauty would never really understand the truth of it. How could she?
           
The reality of Anne’s gift was that she was rather plain, at least in comparison to her sisters. For what else could explain her unnatural ability?

Physically, she should stand out amongst the petite ladies of the ton. She was as tall as most men, after all. Still, she hadn’t been blessed with rich sable hair like the eldest of the triplets, Mary, nor the glossy copper locks of her sister Elizabeth, who had followed Anne into this world several minutes later.

No, the hair crowning Anne’s head in a mass of tumbling ringlets was the shade of flax, so pale that it was nearly absent of color.

Even her features were delicate and unremarkable, and her skin was as white as a polished ivory tusk.
           
Sometimes Anne mused that if she stood against a wall wearing the very cream-hued gown she had donned this evening, no one would see her. Her coloring would make her virtually indistinguishable from the plaster.
           
Hmm. She might even test that theory. Why, who knows? With the feat she would attempt in just two rounds of the minute hand, a new trick might be her saving grace in the event a quick escape is required.
           
In fact, it might be prudent to exercise her skills of stealth right this very moment, before...well, before she was called to action. Yes, that was exactly what she would do.
           
“Elizabeth, I vow, this very moment, I could glide through this drawing room removing filled crystals of cordials from the fingers of unsuspecting guests, then leave them all wondering a moment later what had happened to them.

“No, you can’t. You are merely having me on. I know you, Anne. But you must realize I am no longer your gullible, wide-eyed baby sister.” Elizabeth chuckled into her gloved hand.

“Still you doubt me. When will you ever learn, dear sister?” Anne caught up Elizabeth’s gloved fingers and slapped her own fan into them. “I’ll need both hands free. Now watch, my doubting miss...and be utterly amazed.”

Laird Allan, the newly anointed Earl MacLaren, opened the French windows, clapped a palm to his lady friend’s round bottom and firmly guided her into the dark passage.

Only one flickering candlestick glowed in the back hallway, and that was for the navigational sake of the additional staff engaged especially for tonight’s rout. But the dimness just here suited Laird quite well.

“When may I see you again Lady....er...my good lady?”

“Heavens, MacLaren, you don’t even know my name, do you?” His lady friend straightened her frothy capped sleeves upon her smooth shoulders, then cupped her blushing full breasts and unashamedly readjusted their position inside her gown before looking up at him.

He raised his eyebrows and gave her a flat smile, to which she immediately responded with an overdone pout.

Laird sighed, in an equally false manner. “Please know, dear lady, my grasp of your name has nothing to do with how memorable you are. I am merely too deep in my cups to be able to retrieve it from my foggy mind, though I have no doubt your name is as lovely as you are. You’ll forgive me. Won’t you?”

She chuckled at that. “Now, now, do not fret, my handsome playmate.” Reaching up, she pinched his cheek affectionately then grinned. “Truth be told, I am not offended in the least. In fact, darling, I am rather relieved. If you cannot remember my name, ‘tis less likely that my husband will learn of our...intimate little tour of your garden during tonight’s rout, eh?”

“You’re married?” Bloody hell. That makes two this night. Where are all of the unattached misses? Still avoiding me like the pox? I’ve reformed. Or at least, I’m trying. Married. Damn it. He reached out his fingers and absently plucked a sprig of white-veined ivy from the woman’s tumbling coiffure.

“Oh, you did not know?” A small laugh sailed upon her exhalation. “Never you mind. His aim is quite pitiful, I assure you. And he is dreadfully old, while you...well, you, my very virile earl, are not. Besides, you have yet to show me the moon garden. It is all the ladies have discussed this evening.”

Doubtful, Laird raised a single eyebrow. “They are chatting about...the moon garden?

“Oh, yes. I daresay, I was told, just an hour earlier, that that particular portion of the garden was most intoxicating...especially in the light of a full moon. Is that true, my lord?”

He held the sprig of ivy up to her and twirled the leaf by its stem between his fingers. “You saw the garden, madam.”

“But not all of it.” She snaked a single finger seductively down his chest, stopping just above the waistband of his pantaloons. “And I would so enjoy seeing it all. Especially, the moon garden.” Her gaze bounced low in the event, he suspected, his foggy mind did not comprehend her barely-veiled meaning. “Perhaps tomorrow evening you will show it to me, hmm?”

Laird cleared his throat. “I do apologize, but you must excuse me, madam. I really must rejoin my guests.”

Her hand dropped lower and she brazenly slid her fingers up his inner thigh as she leaned close and pressed a hard, wet kiss to his mouth. She playfully fumbled at one of the buttons closing his front fall. “Are you certain, my lord?”

Laird swiveled before her fingers could inflate matters. “I-I am afraid so, my dear. Must go.”

“Truly?” She brought her lips to his ear and her hardening words rode a heated breath. “Or could it be that you no longer have any more time for me, MacLaren. Is that it? I happen to know I was not the first to be led down your garden path tonight and, I daresay, probably not the last either.” She nipped the pad of his earlobe.

Laird winced. Raising his hands between them, he caught her shoulders and held her in place as he took a step back.

“Well, if that is the way of it.” She shot him a sharp knowing glance, then turned on her scarlet Turkish heels and strode up the long passage toward the bright light streaming from the noisy drawing room.

Married. Laird shook his head in disgust. He’d tried so hard to put his rakish ways behind him for the good of the family. To show himself worthy, at last, of the MacLaren name...and of her.

For more than a year now, he’d been entirely respectable...as would be expected of a newly-belted earl. His manners had been impeccable and his behavior, nothing less than gentlemanly—that is, until tonight, anyway.

One night back in Society. That’s all it took. One night and he was already slipping back into his old unscrupulous ways. Damn it all.

But at least luck was with him. After all, Lady Goodsport, or whatever her name was, had made his push-off quite effortless.

Laird sighed as he lifted the candlestick and raised it to the mirror above the hall table to illuminate his face.

Just look at me—a bloody rumpled mess.

Then something about his blinking image pinched at him, and made him draw closer. His cobalt-hued eyes were cold and black in the dim reflection, and at once thoughts of his late father sprang unnervingly into his mind. He squeezed them shut, and drew in a deep breath, shaking off, as best he could, the image and the memories that trailed behind.

When he opened them again, Laird shoved his fingers through his wavy ebony hair, smoothing it into place. Turning away from the mirror, he deposited the candlestick to the cherry tabletop and set about attempting to retie the knot of his newly-wrinkled neckcloth.

“You have a whole bloody house, MacLaren,” came a low male voice from several feet up the passage.

Laird yanked his head around and squinted. Against the golden light breaking through the drawing room doors, he saw the familiar silhouette of a lanky gentleman.

“And yet, tonight you prefer the garden,” the man said.

“Apsley.” Laird turned fully, if a bit unsteadily, to face his old friend. “Sod me. Where have you been all night? Thought you’d changed your mind about coming and decided to take a turn with that saucy opera dancer of yours instead.”

 “Ah, well, no chance of that. Put that little minx on the shelf Tuesday.” Apsley stole an admiring glance at himself in the mirror, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind his ear.

Laird shook his head. “No doubt for another bit of muslin twice as...talented.”

“Well, yes, if you must know.” Arthur Fallon, Viscount Apsley ruffled his blond curls and cockily tugged the points of his shirt collar higher, then turned again to face Laird. “But you had to have known I would come. I have not forgotten. Had he not...well dammit, we’d be toasting your little brother’s twenty-fifth birthday this night...instead of his memory.”

Laird gazed down at the golden signet ring, all that had been returned to him a year ago by Graham’s teary-eyed batman after the fateful battle that had taken his brother’s life. “I miss him.”

“I know. But you have to know, no matter what your father believed, it wasn’t your fault. You have to believe that.”

“It was though. Had I done what Father had wished of me, Graham might not be dead.” Laird leaned his head back, while he blinked away the ridiculous tears of weakness stinging the backs of his eyes.

Apsley squeezed Laird’s shoulder. “No more lamenting what may or may not have been.” Then, like a hound catching a scent, he sniffed the air between them. “So brandy is your choice tonight, eh? Any good? I do hope it is because I fear you might have a slight lead this eve. Can’t have that, now can we?”

“More than a lead. My horse is lengths ahead, good fellow.” When he looked up again, moisture pushed into his eyes. He raised the back of his hand to his face, to preserve his dignity, but the movement of his head, slight though it was, sent him staggering two steps to the left.

Apsley caught Laird’s arm and steadied him. “So I see. But you shan’t drink to Graham’s memory alone for a moment longer.” The corners of Apsley’s lips turned upward. “Show me the decanter and your deepest crystal. I vow my horse will overtake yours within the hour!”

He smiled, knowing Apsley was quite serious, and all too capable. Before he could even think to oblige, he noticed they were no longer alone.

“Laird, son, that is you down there, is it not?” came Countess MacLaren’s booming words from the far end of the long passage. “And is that Apsley’s voice I am hearing as well? Is he with you?”

Oh Good God.

Laird winced. “Yes, Apsley is here, Mother.” Laird stepped forward and clapped his hand to the other man’s arm and then leaned close to speak quietly into his ear. “I do apologize, but I must warn you. My mother has been asking after you for hours.”

“Has she?” Apsley held his words to a low whisper. “Oh bugger it, whatever for?”

The countess clapped her hands, and both men looked in her direction once more.

“We have guests who have just arrived. Please return at once and greet them. You are the head of the family now. They expect to see you,” the countess hissed, before frantically dashing back into the drawing room.

Apsley’s eyebrows lifted until they nearly grazed the golden lock of hair dangling over his forehead. “In a bit of a fluster, is she? So, tell me, Mac, why does the countess require of me this time?”

“The answer is quite amusing really.” Laird glanced toward the light, and hastened his warning to Apsley, for certainly the countess would return to the passage within a moment’s time.

“So tell me. I could use a bit of folly just now.”

“If you can imagine it, it seems she is convinced you have enough sway to urge me into my family’s seat in the House of Lords.”

Apsley laughed. “How you do go on.”

“No, no, there is more.” He raised a hand before the other man could interrupt again. “She even believes you possess the influence to urge me into marrying before the end of the season. Now agreeing to change my manner is one matter—but marriage? Ha! After what happened with Constance, I will never consider such lunacy again.”

“Marriage, you say?”

Laird forced a laugh. “Isn’t that diverting? As if anyone could convince me to become shackled willingly ever again.” He raised his eyebrows, and waited for Apsley do the same.

But he didn’t.

Instead Apsley stared back at Laird as though he...as though he...no, surely he did not agree with her!

But Apsley was actually smiling.

Bloody hell, it seemed that he did agree.

“And you mock your mother’s well-placed faith in me, sir? I assure you, I can be quite persuasive when I am passionate about something.”

 “That is true enough, except I happen to know you aren’t invested in this cause, Apsley. Not in the least.”

“Care to wager on it?” Apsley lifted his left eyebrow.

“Do yourself a good deed, save your guineas and a trip to White’s to mark the book. For this would be one wager I would certainly win.”

“Really? Are you so sure?” Apsley folded his arms across his chest, looking almost perturbed.

“Haven’t a single doubt. For, sir, while I know you enjoy nothing so much as a challenge with such long odds, think about what your winning would mean. Were I to marry, my shares of respectability would no doubt increase, but my days of freedom would be at an end. I ask you, who else could match your stamina in carousing, gaming or raising a glass to Bacchus?”

“Carousing, eh?” Apsley scratched his temple in feigned contemplation. “I thought you had vowed to become respectable after your failure with Lady Henceforth.”

“Allow me to rephrase. Carousing in more relaxed circles. In Society, I will remain the mannered gentleman and redeem myself for the sake of the MacLaren name.”

“So that is what you doing just now in the garden with the baroness—redeeming yourself?” Apsley raised his eyebrows. “She’s married you know.”

“Yes, but I’ve heard he’s a poor shot.” Laird grinned at his own poor joke. He’d had an unfortunate start in London this time, that’s all. Tomorrow, he would do better. And in time, he would finally prove himself worthy of his title and of the good widow, Lady Henceforth.

The click of heels on the marble floor drew the curtain on any further comment on the subject.

“Here comes your mother again.”

Laird sighed resignedly. “I apologize, Apsley. I fear there is no escape for you.”

Apsley fashioned a shudder as Laird’s damning words reached his ears, but hoisted a smile onto his lips and turned in the direction of the drawing room. “Lady MacLaren, how are you, this evening?” He glanced momentarily back at Laird. “You owe me one, you do realize this?” he whispered.

“I do, and I truly appreciate your sacrifice.” Then, with a chuckle, he nudged Apsley mercilessly forward and into the countess’s clutches.

Laird drew in a deep breath and fired it through his teeth as he leaned against the wall nearest the door. The drawing room was more populated with guests than it had been only an hour before.

Ladies garbed in flowing silken gowns stood uncomfortably elbow to elbow with dark-coated gentleman. Naught but narrow rivulets of unoccupied space ran between the conversation clusters, and those existed only to allow the footmen to continue their libation service.

He peered through the open door at the clock in the passage, and huffed a sigh. Damn it all, not yet half-past eleven. It was early by society’s standards. Still, he would have left the infernal rout long ago were it not being held in his own bloody townhouse.

He should not have allowed his mother, who was just fully out from mourning both his father and brother, to arrange such a grand event here in Cockspur.

Clearly, he had gone mad.

Why had he not convinced her to wait until autumn, then toss a country house party at MacLaren Hall? But he knew this was an idle wish for she was the Countess MacLaren, and had earned a reputation for doing nothing by half.

 Her rout, marking the MacLaren return to society, had been the talk of the ton for more than eight weeks. Why, the London newspapers dedicated nearly as much column space to impending rout as it did the goings-on at Parliament. Sadly, it seemed that he alone had dreaded this much touted event.

Laird thumped the back of his head against a wall in frustration. He had naught in common with these society boors. Nothing at all.

He wanted to be at Covent Garden or at the backstage at the opera with all the pretty dancers. Not here, hobnobbing it up with the Quality’s white-skirts and their starched elders.

But he was the new earl, and he owed to his family to uphold the honor of the title.

He knew, too, that it was his mother’s greatest hope that this night her only surviving son would meet a woman and escort her down the aisle of St. George’s by season’s end. And so, for her sake, he tried to be charming, to push aside his sadness.

Still, the only women who interested him in the least where two who eagerly offered to join him in the garden and tamp down his pain as effectively as a snifter of fine brandy.

Nothing, however, lasted long enough this night. Not the spirits, not the carnal pleasures. His emptiness, feelings of loss, of guilt, soon returned two-fold with a raw vengeance.

With a sigh, Laird scanned the room for a pretty someone to elevate his disposition during this endless affair, when his gaze lit on a tray-bearing footman who was busily dispensing claret to the guests.

Ah, there was his salvation.

He was about to push off from his propped position against the wall, when suddenly a pale female seemed to emerge from the plaster not a shoulder’s width from him. An odd shiver seemed to tease every bit of his skin at once.

She was a startling vision, swathed completely in white, and he could not manage to remove his gaze from her as she drifted into the center of the drawing room, seemingly unseen by anyone other than himself.

Gorblimey. Could it be that he was imagining this?

He shook his head, wanting to be sure she was actually there, then widened his eyes and focused his gaze entirely on her.

The woman’s hair was as pale as sunlight on a winter’s morn, and her skin as snowy and smooth as fine porcelain—an angel incarnate.

Or, at least this was his first impression of her, though Laird was willing enough to mark this one down to having indulged himself too generously. Admittedly, he was defeated by the heavy, numbing effect of the spirits on both his mind and body.

He should have turned for his bedchamber at that moment, but instead he took a wobbly step toward her, then another.

And then he witnessed a most astonishing sight.

The angel walked up to a trio of gentleman in the midst of a lively discussion, and without one of them noticing her or what she was doing, she eased a glass of claret from the shortest man’s hand, then turned and settled it upon a passing footman’s tray.

Damned odd thing for her—or anyone—to do.

And yet, to his astonishment, she repeated the sequence again. This time she lifted a glass from a giggling debutante, too absorbed in her own conversation to notice the crystal’s removal from her hand.

What the hell was she about? Didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

Just then, a footman passed Laird by, pausing just long enough to allow him to lift a filled goblet from the silver salver.

A diverting thought swept into his mind, setting a mischievous grin on his mouth.

Hurriedly he followed the angel as she slowly moved through the crowded drawing room. He watched intently as she looked this way and that for her next victim.

Good, good, she was coming his way now. He would play her game. Just a little closer. That’s right.

He slipped into the fringe of a lively conversation, and then hoping his apparent inattention would mark him her prey, began to laugh uproariously as though some great joke had just been told.

He knew the exact moment her attention fixed on him. A thrill shot through his body as she neared and felt the pull of warm air as she circled the group, calculating her moment.

His heart thudded hard inside his chest, but he didn’t dare look up. Instead he watched her from the periphery of his vision.

Closer and closer, she came.

Then, it happened.

Her slender gloved fingers pinched the thin lip of his goblet and began to lift.

His free hand shot through the air between them and before she could register what was happening, he seized her wrist and held firm.

She gasped in surprise, and swung her head around and up to look at him.

Laird’s breath left his lungs in a whoosh the moment their gazes locked. His left eyebrow shot toward his hairline.

Damn me.

Though her hair, skin and even her gown were nearly colorless, her lips and her cheeks were the same hue as cherry blossoms in the spring.

But it was her eyes that held him fast. Twin bursts of radiant gold, rimmed with the green of summer, blazed up at him.

Neither he nor she moved, or said a word for a minute, or perhaps a blink. He didn’t quite know. Time seemed to cease to exist in that small space they occupied.

Until, all of a sudden, she slyly arched a single golden eyebrow, almost as thought she were mimicking him. In a single movement, she twisted her wrist from him, then turned and ducked into a gaggle of strolling matrons.

In that instant, she was gone.

The corners of Laird’s parched lips lifted as he stared into the direction she had disappeared.

Absently, he raised his hand to sip from his goblet. But, he realized, too late, that it wasn’t there.

The golden-eyed minx had managed to take it after all.

He laughed into his fist, until he realized his grave error.

Bloody hell. She had a fire within her, that one. Might even have been the only woman tonight for whom he held any interest...and he didn’t even think to ask her name.

It was nearly two in the morn, and yet the rout showed no sign of drawing to a close.

But it really didn’t matter, Anne decided. Within an hour, she would be home in bed...or in shackles. Her temples throbbed madly at the thought.

“Anne, Lilywhite has given the signal.” Elizabeth turned from her sentry-like position beside the cold hearth and looked straight at Anne. “The passage is completely clear. Go. Go now.”

Threadlike wisps of hair rose up at the back of her slender neck. “This is insanity, Elizabeth. I cannot do it, I simply cannot.”

“Yes, you can. You know you must. There’s no other way. This is our only chance.”

“There are still at least three score guests in the house. What if I am seen? What if I am caught—again?”

“Oh, Anne, stop fretting. That gentleman was of no consequence, whatsoever. Lud, you were playing a game, and who among us hasn’t ever done so at a rout?”

“It was not a game, Elizabeth. I was flexing my skills, gathering my courage. But then he saw me when no one did. Don’t you understand? I am not ready to do this. He saw me.” Anne glanced worriedly down the passage in the direction of the staircase.

“What does it matter if he noticed you? He was completely sotted. It is not as though he will remember you.” Elizabeth snatched up Anne’s wrist. “Besides, the Old Rakes are at the ready in the event anything goes awry. Look yonder.” She tipped her head to an elderly, apple-shaped gentleman standing just inside the drawing room doors scratching his ample belly. “Do you see? Lilywhite is just there.”

“Is the earl in the drawing room?” Anne swept the room with her gaze. “Because if he isn’t, he might have retired to his bed for the evening. Has anyone considered that?”

“How, pray, would I know? He has not been in society for more than a year, so I cannot identify him either. But Lilywhite has been positioned at the stairs for almost an hour. No one has passed him.”

“I cannot go, Elizabeth.” Anne’s entire body began to quake.

“Yes, you can.” She nudged Anne forward a step. “No one else can do this, sister. You know that.”

Anne stared mutely at Elizabeth.

She did know it.

Their sister Mary, plump and in her sixth month of confinement, was off happily rusticating in the country with her adoring husband.

And as insane as this idea was, Anne knew copper-haired Elizabeth couldn’t take three steps through this crowd without earning the admiration of a gentleman or two.

Such was not the reality for Anne. Until this very moment, it had always pricked at her that no one ever assigned her any consequence or bothered to know her name.

But why should anyone pay her heed? She was simply Anne, the middle Royle sister. The one who minded her manners. The one who followed the rules and never purposely did anything that might bring undue notice to herself or her family. Well...at least, until tonight.

Anne cast a nervous glance through the open drawing room doors at Lilywhite. He flashed his eyes at her and raised his chin, indicating her path.

“Go, Anne.”

She nodded, and, with a nervous gulp, started forward.

Until now, more than anything, she wanted to be noticed, to be seen. Be appreciated.

But on this particular evening, as she snaked her way through an elegant drawing room filled with the frothy cream of London society, Anne purposely did not raise her golden eyes or make any attempt to prompt an introduction to anyone.

She had to rely on her talent for remaining unnoticed. Invisible.

For her very future depended on it.

Lifting the hem of her gown from the floor, she made her way toward the grand staircase leading up to the earl’s bedchamber.

Her heart thudded against her ribs as she crept up the treads to the second floor.

She set her ear to the door and listened. Only silence greeted her. And so, she felt for the escutcheon, then bent and peered through the narrow keyhole. There was no candlelight within. No light at all. Only darkness.

She straightened and stood. Lud, her corset suddenly seemed abnormally tight. The simple act of filling her lungs became difficult, and her breaths ever thin.

This is madness. Madness!

Why, she could scarce catch her breath. But in her heart she knew there was no turning back.

Carefully, she set the tips of her fingers on the latch, pressed down, then slipped inside the darkened chamber and eased the door closed behind her.

Heavens, she was actually here—in the earl’s chamber.

Everything depended on her now. She had to find the letters. She must.

The Old Rakes had said this was their one and only chance. Wait any longer and the new earl might find them first and deliver them to the Prince Regent. She had to risk it.

Anne blinked her eyes, and waited for them to adjust, but not a sliver of moonlight penetrated the bedchamber. The darkness was as completely black as a swath of thick velvet.

If she could just locate the window and part the curtain to the pale moon. Even as it was rising earlier, the full moon seemed abnormally close. Its light blue glow might provide enough light to assist her in her search.

Her heartbeat pulsed within her ears as she raised her hands before her, and with fingers spread wide, blindly felt her way around the perimeter of the bedchamber until she found the windows.

She grasped the center part in the smooth satin fabric, and at once whisked back the curtains, allowing a flood of cool light to wash into the room.
           
At once, there was rustling behind her, and she whirled around to see a huge shadow moving in her direction. Her eyes went wide with fear.

Lord, help her.

She was not alone.

 

End of Chapter One.
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