Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. “You shall,” she said. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back.
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