The year of our Lord, 1192
…“Zipporah…” He kissed her once. “I’d do anything.”
He didn’t say more, even though that had sounded like an incomplete thought to her. Anything for what, to bed her, to keep her safe, to fix what had torn them apart in the first place?
He leaned around her to open the door. “I’ll leave when I hear you bolt it.”
“All right.” She went inside, looking at him once more; green eyes, start of a beard, tousled blond hair. Lean, hard body, new scars, and a calculated look in his eyes she hadn’t remembered before.
He wasn’t the boy she’d grown up with. She wasn’t sure if she should mourn the loss of that, or praise him for the man he had become.
This man could keep her alive, but who was he? She’d need to know more…
Darcy Branwyn 
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