threads woven in a strange cursive pattern, the viridescent trapping gleamed in the winter sunlight. Madeline ran a hand over the smooth, shining fabric, marveling at its tight weave and shimmering thickness.
“’Tis from the East,” Will told her. “The knight who ransomed it said he won it at the siege of Jerusalem. He swears he had it of Saladin himself.”
“But you should keep such a treasure!”
A tide of red crept up his neck. “Nay, I want you to have it. ‘Tis the color of your eyes, though not as deep or as verdant. And the sheen is naught to that which shimmers in your…in your…” He stumbled, searching for an appropriately shimmering portion of her anatomy.
Madeline bit her lip, then thanked him gravely for his gift. When he looked as though he would launch into paeans once more, the earl gave a snort of disgust and stepped forward.
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