A delicious shiver raced down her spine. She’d never heard him speak that way before. Her name on his lips—that almost wild, guttural Claire—echoed in her ears. It seemed to stoke something buried within her—a dim glow—a faint heat.
“Claire,” came another growl, which made her knees go rather weak. “Don’t be foolish. It’s pitch-black out there.”
“I know my way about the castle.” She tried to escape, disconcerted by her weakness.
But he caught her by the wrist, saying, “Take my candle.”
His touch was a shock. Not that she could sense his warmth through five layers, but she felt the strength of his grip. She saw the size of his hand, the way it engulfed her slender wrist.
The sight conjured thoughts of the last time he’d touched her—really touched her—almost exactly a year ago. When she’d sneaked into his bed on Christmas Eve. The memories added fuel to the glow that was warming her from the inside out. She had an absurd notion that night was the last time she’d felt truly warm.
Now her gaze moved slowly from his hand up to his eyes, which blazed with an answering heat.
Did he somehow know what she was thinking?
Was he thinking about the same thing?
She was surprised when he drew her toward him sharply. He was never forceful with her in the past. He’d never been anything but courteous and respectful.
Yet this new Jonathan had a recklessness about him that made her wonder what he was capable of.
Mere inches between them, she found herself straining toward him. Her heart pounded. Her lips tingled with anticipation.
Would he try to keep her here against her will?
Was his aim to seduce her?
Her heart skittered with dread…or the opposite.
She never figured out which, for instead of dragging her into a passionate kiss, all he did was press the candle upon her. When he let her go, she stumbled back. And though he reached out in concern, she recoiled from his touch, turning to flee the kitchen.
His voice chased her into the corridor. “Sweet dreams, Claire.”
Eight
Greystone Castle
Friday, 24th December 1819
The middle of the bloody night. — Confound it, I still cannot sleep!
What time is it? No, I shall not look. I should rather not know, for daybreak cannot be many hours distant.
Really, upon reflection, I’m inclined to think Jonathan The Ratbag dreadfully inconsiderate. Surely unburdening oneself to one’s former lover at such an hour, and with no regard for said lover’s quality of rest, is quite infamous behavior? Is it not the very height of selfishness? For now I shall continue awake the whole night through, thinking over what I’ve heard and puzzling over what I’ve felt, instead of replenishing myself with much-needed slumber.
What a ghastly toil tomorrow will be! How can I hope to endure the day’s engagements after wasting the night in a wearisome stupor, robbed of even the barest scrap of a wink of sl
Half past six o’clock in the morning. — I fell asleep.
I know you shall pardon me, most wise and merciful Diary, for using your unwitting self as a pillow. Your binding has only slightly split beneath the weight of my head. I shall have you re-bound, of course, along with the new pages and embroidered jacket, just as soon as our guests depart.
Clearly I was exhausted, for even sleeping upright I had vivid dreams. Lord M was in one of them. He got down on bended knee, then instead of proposing, doffed his hat to reveal a headful of snakes like Medusa’s.
So that seems a good omen.
I dreamt of Jonathan too, but not in the usual way. Or rather, it began like usual, with the two of us out of doors someplace (in the shrubbery this time), talking and laughing and walking along on a perfect summer’s day. Then, as always in these dreams, a sudden and horrifying calamity arose to tear us from each other’s arms.
This time it was an earthquake, which opened a chasm beneath our feet. But then something strange happened. We fell in, but instead of tumbling down into the infinite dark, we landed somewhere soft. The dream changed. It became?—
