"I realise that her remarks were uncalled-for, but please, leave her be," he cautioned quietly. "No affront was intended. She will realise this for herself, once she has recollected her wits."
Before anyone had a chance to react, Dorain had drawn her blade, and held the ribbon of razor-sharp steel pointed directly Brogan's throat.
"How dare you-!"
Pushing her sword away with the back of his hand, never taking his eyes from her own, which were dilated with some nameless extremity, Brogan said quietly and evenly, "Put up your sword; refrain from further disgracing yourself, or I will break it and put you over my knee!" Her hand trembled as she obeyed, white-faced, furious at him and appalled at herself. And then, firmly and deliberately, interlacing their fingers, he took her hand, drew her to the chair beside so that she had
no choice but to sit close against him.
Considering their interlaced hands, which now lay on the table for all to see, Dorain gaped as though in disbelief and despair at her own weakness. "Brogan-?" It was equally an unwilling endearment, a moan of protest, a fearful question.
"Control yourself!" Brogan cut her off quietly, with gentle firmness. "We will speak of this later."
Trembling visibly, swallowing, she took a deep breath and leaned self-consciously against his shoulder, unable to look the others in the eye.