“Hold me,” was all she could say. “Just hold me.” He raised her up and crushed her to him, his face as wet as hers.
“Dear God, I love you.” And again he kissed her, long and full. But then he drew back, and a dark shadow clouded his features, as if recalling some barrier which stood between them still.
“What is it?” she asked, terrified.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I know you’re glad to see me. . .and I have no right to ask.” Their eyes met, and there was such astonished pain in her gaze..... “Do you still love him?” he whispered.
“Do I still love who?”
“The Englishman.”
“Michael! Whoever said that I did?”
“.....but your letter, the day I left to join our troops. The one you put in my pack, explaining---”
“Michael, look at me.” He did, as bewildered as she. “I have never loved anyone but you. I never could. And I wrote you no such letter, then or otherwise. The only Englishman I know is my half-brother, and if in the whole of my lifetime I can learn not to hate him, I will deem it a blessing from Heaven.”
He fell back further still, as if it was she who had returned from the dead. The question of who, then, had written the letter, hardly occurred to him. Only one thing mattered. Against all hope. . .she loved him too. A tortured groan escaped him, and his face so convulsed with emotion that he could only hide it in shame against the coverlet.