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Page 99
"He says nothing, but his thoughts are obvious. He blames himself either way. So do others. That is why he left his career as an officer with the terrible army of Les Anglais and came here. He saved my life, at this inn, when some English soldiers decided the war continued against this one remaining Frenchman. Now I, who hate the English, can be his friend."
There was a warning implicit in his words. His friend was not to be hurt any further by this story or anything else, if René could help it.
Well, Mariah had no intention of hurting Thorn.
If only she, herself, could avoid being hurt, too.
She stared ruefully at her burning handsthe hands of a servant in the eighteenth century, in the turbulent times of Indian wars, of outhouses, of fires that needed tending and game that had to be hunted for food. A time when the suspicion of dishonor could ruin a man's whole life.
Could she really be here?
Of course not. But if not, why couldn't she just wake up, go home and film the screenplay?
But now she'd have lots of editing to do.

Mariah finished scrubbing her last garment, an undershift, and hung it to dry from a tree limb behind some leaves. Not that she'd be embarrassed to have it seen. Not really. But it might offend the tender sensibilities of the hopelessly macho men of this time.
This time. Pierce, you creep! she thought. He'd been on her mind a lot while she'd worked on the washing. Why didn't he show up here? He undoubtedly knew where she was, but she was in no position to hunt him down. Not without transportation and a guide in this difficult, backward time.
How had he haunted her dreams forever with his incomprehensible order to right a grievous wrong? He had to tell her this, and more.
She wanted to scream at him. To beg him to fix things. Send her home. How could he expect her to fill meek, proficient Matilda's role hereespecially when no one else followed the script?

 
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