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Shuddering to think where she might have ended up this day, she shot a smile at him. There was no answering softening of his glare, and Mariah felt her features set into a stony mask. |
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How would this scene play if Angela filmed her script? Probably with sweet, brave Matilda stating boldly at her Thorn, sharing smoldering looks that told the audience to expect an R-rated scene. |
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This man, gorgeous as he was, hurled only glacial glances at her that would freeze a firestorm. |
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She turned to René. "So tell me. What kind of meat is this?" She had been eating the salt-tangy meat by hand as the men did. |
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"Smoked venison," he replied. |
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Of course. She should have guessed. But for a moment she felt ill. "I've resorted to eating Bambi," she whispered to herself. |
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"What was that, mademoiselle?" René's look was puzzled. |
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"Nothing." Mariah took a swig of ale from a tankard. |
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She was glad when supper ended. She helped René clean the wood plates and wondered about the lead content of the pewter cups. No matter. People in these times were likely to die far more quickly from violence or contagious disease than from lead poisoning. |
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Would she die here? Or would she ever be permitted to return to her own time? She missed comfortable clothing, makeup and sanitary bathroom facilities. |
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And people, too. There was Angela, and . . . Who else? She couldn't think of anyone, but she would. |
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Though not, of course, her father. |
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"Show me where these things go, will you, René" She had stacked the plates on a table in the vast kitchen. Yesterday evening, her first in this era, the Frenchman had put away all the supper paraphernalia. But since she was still here, Mariah figured she'd need to know everything a servant would. |
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"Comme ça, mademoiselle." |
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