second bed. He put her blanket over her and lay down, grappling with his own.
He was right, she realized. There was probably two inches’ leeway from the other walls at the head and the foot of both beds so she was effectively penned in. She sighed and wriggled a bit to get comfortable.
A sleepy voice behind her said, ‘You’re right. These are only an apology for beds. You’ll be pleased to hear, if you are Joanne Lucas, wandering portrait painter, that the beds up at the homestead are much more comfortable.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I’ve tried ’em.’
Jo frowned. ‘These people you imagine I’m part of—who are they? And why are you running from them?’
‘Kidnappers, as if you didn’t know.’
Jo cast her blanket aside and sat up. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous! Why would anyone, but particularly me, want to kidnap you?’
‘For my sins,’ her captor said, ‘I happen to be Gavin Hastings the Fourth.’
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