Sebastian's arms were about her, his fists pumping her stomach as she coughed forth saltwater from her belly and lungs. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him.
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