Truly, what could he say? Admit that he’d been harboring some absurd male fantasy of her running through the woods to save him, hair flowing loose behind her, breasts heaving with every pace . . . aided by helpful songbirds chirping directions . . . simply because she’d known in her heart that he needed her help? Because the moment the Gatesheads’ carriage had rolled away, she’d realized that science meant nothing—absolutely nothing—to her without him, and now she would fall at his feet and beg to be his sultry-lipped love slave forevermore?
