20Don’t fall for it, Caleb. He’s never letting me go. Don’t do it!
Madeleine moved her heels up and down, working her ankles, releasing the cramping in her legs. Even if she had a chance to run, she didn’t think her legs would carry her.
She suppressed a shudder at the revulsion she felt every time Philippe Coubert touched her. She clenched her jaw tight so as not to groan, to protest, to cry. The agony of being held like this was close to intolerable.
The only thing that made it endurable was Caleb Stewart’s nobility. Such an old-fashioned word. Practically medieval, straight out of the stories she’d told her pupils back in France about knights of yore. But that was what he was.
“Shoot me if you must but let her go.”
What was it she had said to him only hours ago?
“Promise me you’ll
