She turned and saw Kit. “Oh, God…”
Kit was staring at them, pale and silent in the lantern light Malcolm swallowed hard and met Kit’s gaze. Their position was painfully clear. Margo clung to him, not to Kit, had kissed him as only men and women who have become lovers kiss.
Margo forestalled the explosion by throwing herself into Kit’s arms. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry .”
”Shh …” He held her as though she might break, but his look over her shoulder boded ill things to come in Malcolm’s immediate future.
Malcolm met that cold gaze steadily. He was ashamed of the fact he hadn’t told Kit sooner and he was ashamed of the fact he’d been drunk when he’d gone to bed with her. But he wasn’t ashamed of the way he felt about Margo, and it wasn’t his fault he hadn’t known she was only seventeen at the time. At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself for weeks. So he held Kit’s gaze and said quietly, “We aren’t out of danger yet.”
He halfway expected Margo to wail, “What do you mean?” but she didn’t. She let go of Kit and carefully pulled Malcolm’s cassock more tightly around herself. Then she straightened against obvious pain and said quietly, “What do we have to do?”
Her voice shook a little, but childish petulance and every trace of impatience were gone. Terrified and battered and clearly only beginning to dare hope she might live through this, Margo met his gaze and faced the possibility she could yet die. Moreover, she did it with a quiet dignity he’d first glimpsed in London, standing on a street of kosher shops and rebuilt dreams.