Rhys Blackwell was waiting in his study, in the old stone heart of the manor, beside a fire that had burned down to embers. Jocelynn stopped in the doorway and stared.
He'd grown so frail since the last time she saw him. The broad shoulders she remembered had shrunk beneath a heavy wool robe, and his close-cropped beard had gone from steel-grey to white. His sea-green eyes were sunken and dull. A cup of pear wine sat on the blackwood desk at his elbow, and his hands trembled when he reached for it.
But when he saw her, he smiled. And for a moment, he was her father again.
"Jocey," Rhys said warmly. "Come here, my girl, come here," he said, patting his knee as though he expected her to come sit on his lap the way she had as a little girl.
