Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. She removed it. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night.
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