Tremors shook through her at the memory. She would have killed for soap and water or a gun to shoot the bastards. If they could even be killed. Their sweat still stank on her skin. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw their faces, leering down at her while they held her down and hurt her … .
Oh, Malcolm, why did I run from you? That memory was torture, too, the sweetness and gentleness contrasted with abuse beyond anything she’d been capable of imagining. I’m sorry, Malcolm, I’m sorry, I failed you, failed Kit, failed men. who counted on me to get them out alive, I even failed Mom.
At least Margo’s mother had died doing something to keep her child alive. All Margo had done was behave like a reckless, ungrateful brat. Locked naked in a Portuguese prison awaiting execution was a helluva time to learn one’s lesson.
”I’m sorry,” she whispered over and over, “I’m so sorry … .” She wiped her nose and sniffed, surprised she was able to conjure more tears. Life had handed her a precious friend and she’d fled, too much a baby to face what a wonderful relationship he’d offered. Now she was going to die and she would never have a chance to tell him what a thorough going, cowardly fool she had been.
And Kit. He’d never know what had become of her. What she’d done to him was inexcusable. If she ever, ever had the chance …
But life wasn’t like that. The cavalry came over the hill only in fairy-tale Westerns. And the prince on the shining charger had vanished right along with blunderbusses and sailing ships and gentlemen who tipped their top hats and smiled when a lady walked past. She’d never get to tell him how sorry she was or to beg forgiveness and the chance to go to college for several years before trying it again.