” Her words were slurred with sleep. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. So the talk went on. He’s a catch, Lucy. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis.
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