Claire had halted, at first sound of Gavin Brice’s pleasantly slow voice, and she stood facing him, wide-eyed and pale, her breath failing.
“I had to go to Washington to make my report,” said he, speaking low and fast. “I came back to you by the first train I could catch. Didn’t you know I would?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her gaze still lost in his. “Yes. I—I knew.”
And now she realized she had known, even while she had told herself she would never see him again.
“Come!” he said, gently, holding out his hand to her.
Unashamed, under the battery of a hundred curious eyes, she clasped the proffered hand. And, together, they turned back toward the sheltering dimness of the gardens.