Savagely, he jammed his open palm across her mouth and swept her to him, smothering her kicks and blows and struggles. Lips close to her ear, he rasped, "Ylana! It's me—Jarl...."
He could feel her muscles contract, her body stiffen. Then, suddenly, she was limp in his arms—clinging to him, half-sobbing.
"Quick! We've got to move!" He dragged her with him, on along the bulkhead, then off amid the black mass of the debris.
Halting, finally, once more he strained his ears, listening for any hint that they'd been heard and followed.
But none came. At last, relaxing, he let go of her and slumped down into the drifted sand and litter.
He could feel the girl's eyes on him. But he held his silence.
"Jarl Corvett ..." she choked. And then, in a rush: "Thank the Gods you came, Jarl; so glad...."
She dropped down close beside him, her shoulder pressing against him, her hand on his.
Turning, he studied her.
The grey eyes were black-shadowed, her lovely face deep-lined.