“Lemon juice,” Claire said. “Just…a small bit of lemon juice. My mother used to do it. It’s habit more than anything else.” She felt her hands knitting in her lap. “Alice can confirm it if you like.”
Mrs. Cartwright let out a breath. “Dear girl, I wasn’t accusing you. I don’t think you have it in you to hurt someone deliberately.” She laid a hand on Claire’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s not had a turn like this in months, and now to have two in as many days. I don’t just wonder what has brought it about.”
So did Claire. But she certainly wasn’t going to ask.
∞∞∞
Gabriel knew he was dreaming. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of his mind, heknewhe was dreaming. But it was such a pleasant dream that he didn’t care. There was no splitting headache, no pain whatsoever, no sense of something intrinsic stripped away from him.
There was only the peaceful serenity of a cold winter day, and the warmth of the woman snuggled up to him beneath the folds of his woolen coat. The sun peeked between the clouds that rolled through the sky above, sparkling across the surface of the small pond. It was one he’d frequented in his childhood, on the southern boundary of his father’s country estate, but less than a mile from the road leading into small a village called Havenwood.
They had been sitting on its bank for some time now, him andher, enjoying a leisurely picnic of gingerbread and cold sausage and cheese. It was far less refined than that to which he had become accustomed, but it was the company that made it truly grand—withhereven the simplest fare would have been a feast.
But he could not see her face.
He endeavored not to look at her, uncomfortable with the emptiness where she ought to have been, where his arms told him she resided, where his lap felt the weight of her cuddled up to him, where his chest felt the pressure of her head.
He felt…complete. Here, he was whole in a way he could not remember having been before. He didn’t know if it was the woman or the dream. If it was the memory he was missing, or if it was justher. Perhaps it wasn’t so muchheras what she represented; a time in his life that had abruptly vanished without a trace, just as she had.
But he felt…hehadloved this woman. Whoever she had been. Whoever shewas. When he had known her, he had loved her. Perhaps he would love her still, if he had never suffered that accident—if his father hadn’t seen fit to throw her out into the cold.
He heard his own voice, a low murmur of regret: “You’ll have to return soon.”
He felt her lungs expand as she heaved a sigh. “Yes. I’ve tarried too long already.”
“Tarry just a little longer,” he replied, and the part of him that knew that this was a dream knew also a moment of sorrow as he lifted her from his lap and rose to his feet, his body moving of its own accord.
She scrambled to her feet as well. He could not see her face, but the shadow of her, the echo of the past that she was, still soothed something in his heart, in his soul.
He had turned away from her, striding across the dried grass to the shade of the willow tree that grew at the bank of the small pond. From his pocket he withdrew a folding knife, and with it he painstakingly carved a rudimentary heart into the gnarled bark of the trunk, and then within its borders, his initials—G N.
He sensed her presence just over his left shoulder as she watched him work. And then, once he had finished it, he turned and offered the knife to her. She took it with her shadowy fingers, and with a charming giggle she brushed past him and bent to carve her own into it, and—
The dream began to blur at the edges, reality creeping in as a cool hand brushed over his brow, soft fingers swiping the dream away from him like cobwebs from a disused corner. He fought to hold onto it, to force himself back into the dream once more. He stumbled forward, reaching for her arm, her hand, anything to bind him to this fragment of the past.
∞∞∞
Claire felt a shriek climbing into her throat as Gabriel, who had been so still and silent as she had brushed her fingers across his forehead, suddenly erupted into motion. His hand snagged her upper arm, hauling her out of her seat and across the bed toward him.
But the sound never had a chance to emerge, as his other hand shoved itself into her hair, shaking free the pins that bound it, and dragging her head down. His lips smothered hers, and the shriek in her throat died with a whimper as she froze in shock. For a man who had had looked to be on his deathbed, he was surprisingly strong. The arm that banded around her back felt as solid as steel. His lips moved over hers with astonishing tenderness, as if in a desperate attempt to coax forth a response.
Which she wouldnotgive.
She gathered her wits and squeezed her arms between them, wrenching herself as far away as she could manage, which was, admittedly, only an inch or two. “My lord,” she whispered frantically, turning her face to the side.
He pursued her, his lips sliding along her cheek. “Darling,” he whispered. “My darling girl.”
Oh. Her arms collapsed beneath her and despite herself she felt her eyes burn with tears. It had been so long since she had heard that, and she had quite forgotten the feel of it, the way the inherent sweetness of the words had warmed every part of her.
And then he stiffened, his body going tense with a jerk. “What the bloody damned hell!”
And she realized that he hadn’t even been awake. He hadn’t recognized her, hadn’t pulled her into his arms out of any desire for her—he’d probably said those same words to a dozen different ladies. It seemed her foolish heart had been harboring some tiny scrap of hope after all. That perhaps there had been some mistake. That hehadloved her.
What a fool she was.
“My lord,” she rasped, though her lungs were quite compressed by the strength of his hold. “I beg you, release me.”
He did, but slowly—as if he had to force himself to let her go, and as soon as his grip slacked enough, she wrenched herself away, scuttling back into her chair, taking several deep breaths in service of calming the pounding of her heart.
