“I do.” Helen considered. “Perhaps we might go and speak with her together, Mr. Hudson? See if we might make her see reason?”
Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “I’d happily accompany you anywhere, miss. But make Miss Nash see reason...? I shall leave that to you.”
———
An hour or so later, Nathaniel walked across the lawn toward the road, tossing a stick to Jester as he went. He was on his way to meet with the Weavering Street craftsman he’d commissioned to make new cradle scythes for the upcoming harvest.
Hudson and his sister strolled into view, returning from the direction of the estate cottages. They were talking and laughing companionably, apparently successful in their quest. Helen smiled up at Hudson, and he was glad to see his sister warming to their new steward. One look at the man’s beaming face, however, and Nathaniel realized Hudson was long pastwarm.
Margaret steeled herself, as she always did, when it was time to enter one of the men’s bedchambers—especially the first time of a morning, when the occupant was still in his bed. She had gotten over the initial shock of having to do so but still did not relish the prospect. Her early training was imbedded too deeply within her. Heaven help her if anyone ever found out she had done so not once, but every morning for months.
Margaret took a deep breath and eased open Nathaniel Upchurch’s door. Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her so any corridor noises would not disturb the sleeper. It was too late, however, for the sleeper seemed disturbed already. Nathaniel’s head thrashed from side to side, though his eyes remained closed.What in the world?
One leg, dark with hair, escaped the bedclothes. Cheeks warm, she averted her eyes. She delivered the water, found the chamber pot blessedly empty, and made to leave. But Nathaniel groaned like a man in pain. He was having a bad dream, apparently. A very bad dream. She risked another glance, knowing she ought to slip out before he awoke. How rude an awakening would it be to find a housemaid staring down at him?
He moaned again, a tortured sound. If only he had a valet to rouse him and end his misery. But there was only her. A wave of dark hair fell over his brow, and with those piercing eyes closed, he looked younger, less dangerous. For a moment he reminded her of Gilbert, who had experienced terrible nightmares as a young child. She had never hesitated to wake him, to soothe him, to stroke the hair from his brow.
Margaret took a tentative step forward. From the weak morning light leaking from between shutters and transom, she saw Nathaniel’s face contort. Poor man. Of what must he be dreaming?
Perhaps if she whispered to him, the dream would end, or at least shift, without him waking and she could slip out undetected.
She took another step toward the bed and leaned near. “Sir?” she whispered. “Sir?” Gingerly, she reached a hand toward his shoulder. Dared she give him the barest tap?
His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. She gasped. His eyes flew open, but they were glazed with that vague, unfocused look she recognized from Gilbert’s sleepwalking days. His eyes might be open, but Nathaniel Upchurch was still asleep.
She tried to extract her arm, but his grip was too tight. “Sir, you’re dreaming. Wake—”
He rolled toward her, grasping her other arm as well. “Margaret?”
Her heart lurched. Was he dreaming of her, or of some other Margaret?
“Cannot save her...” The ragged timbre of his voice tore at her heart.
“Sir. You’re all right,” she soothed. “You’re safe.” She hesitated, then lifted one of her captured hands and awkwardly patted his arm. “Margaret is safe.”
He suddenly pulled her toward him and she lost her balance, falling to her knees beside the bed. He pulled her closer yet, until their faces were very near.
Stunned, Margaret did not move quickly enough to escape his grasp. Was not sure she wanted to escape him. Nathaniel Upchurch was dreaming of her, touching her, perhaps about to kiss her. Was she dreaming as well?
She could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin of her upper lip.
“Margaret...” The name was part groan, part growl.
She was filled with a sweet, aching longing to bridge the lingering space between them. She leaned down and their lips met in a feather touch. Sparks thrilled her every nerve. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, fervently, fiercely. Her head felt light, her pulse pounded.
What was she doing? The heady, delicious kiss took her off guard. She had never expected such a passionate, forceful embrace from a man she had once thought timid.A man who doesn’t know what he is doing,she reminded herself.Who is dreaming.
She, on the other hand, knew very well what she was doing. She tried to pull away but, leaning over as she was, fell forward, her elbows spearing his chest. Crying out, she scrambled out of his hold and to her feet.
“What on earth?” His voice was different now. Lucid, though still hoarse. Awake.
She turned away, flying toward the door.
Incredulous, he called, “What in heaven’s name...?”
Too shaken to force an accent, she fled without a word.
———
