“You wanted me for your wife once. Is it too late, Hardcastle of Logie?”
He looked down at her in frank astonishment.
“Are last year’s nests too late?”
“I was a fool. Perhaps five years have taught me to be wise. And you’re harsh these days. Is it love of me that’s hardening you?”
“No, God be thanked. It’s love of hardness for its own sake.”
She let him go the length of the bridge and a little beyond, then called him back.
“You’re hardy, to come so near the Wilderness Folk, after what we’ve left on your gate.”
In spite of his boast not long ago, Hardcastle remembered how he had once cared for this bonnie slip of devildom, the sleepless nights he had gone through in that far-off time.
“Put what you will on my gate,” he said, “except those slim hands of yours.”
“Was it not enough to meet three of our men,” she asked, with dangerous quiet, “and send them bleeding home?”