A sigh rustled the hair by her face.
“That sounds marvelous,” Prudence said sleepily, then yawned.
“It was, Pru. It truly was.”
Alan paced from one end of his bedchamber to the other. He’d never bothered to move to the master’s rooms when he’d returned from war two and a half years ago, and now he was glad he had not. At least this room had no connecting door to a lady’schamber. That would remind him even more of how much he wished things were different.
Even now, he berated himself for kissing Grace. He could have given her a nice chaste peck on the cheek or even better, upon her hand, but she’d been too irresistible in the warm candlelight. Her hair had shone like burnished copper and her skin had glowed with health and beauty. In his delusion, he’d convinced himself that he could handle one little kiss. It would be the only one they shared. A sort of goodbye kiss to bury his infernal attraction to her.
What a ridiculous notion. How had he ever thought that one little taste of Grace’s lips would ever be enough? He was like a drunk who’d been given a sip of brandy after a hard day. He wanted more, needed more. It would be even harder to resist her now.
He flopped into a chair near the fire and buried his head in his hands. Why had he let Emma convince him to hold this house party?
Leaning back, he stared into the embers until his vision grew blurry. The warmth of the blaze made him yawn, and he leaned his head back against the chair, telling himself he’d close his eyes for only a moment.
When he awoke hours later, the room had grown chilly, but he was drenched in sweat with his hands aching from being clenched so tight. He tried to calm his heavy breathing. With the dream still vivid in his head, he rose and found the pitcher of water on the side table and poured a glass. He downed the cool liquid in a few quick swallows. Something creaked in the corner and he spun, instinctually snatching a dagger out of the nearby drawer.
Darkness was all that met him.
His hand shook as he picked up the poker and stirred the fire back to life. When the light was sufficient, he checked everycorner. All was clear. He slipped the knife back into its place in his bureau.
Out the window, the horizon was becoming grey, warning that dawn was far closer than he’d realized. He shook his trembling arms and willed the unwelcome fear to depart, but it always happened like this.
He’d have a dream that started with Harvey’s disappearance and ended with him finding his body. But it had never really happened.
He still did not know what exactly had happened to his friend. The only proof he was truly gone had come through an unrepentant confession from a man far more evil than any other he’d ever met.
Sancerre’s beady, heartless eyes and bulbous nose swam in his memory. The image was so real he had to remind himself that France’s most lethal spy was dead. Hung two years ago. But his broken mind could not seem to grasp the truth and kept torturing him with realistic dreams. When would it ever catch up with reality?
Maybe never. Dipping his hands in the washbasin, he splashed his face with shockingly cold water, but it did not still his racing thoughts.
His dreams always made him jumpy. Even the smallest noises would muddle his mind and send him back in time to battles he never wanted to remember. He’d have to be careful today if he did not want to scare anyone.
Or, even worse, injure them.
Chapter 11
Grace woke to a jostling on the bed.
“Wake up, Grace.”
“Pru, stop.”
“Tomorrow is Christmas. Are you not even a bit excited for today?”
Grace blinked at her, the light from the window harsh on her sleepy eyes. “I suppose.”
“Then get up. There is so much merriment to be had. I wonder what tales Anthony will have for us tonight?”
“Whatever they are”—Grace yawned and stretched— “they will be better than the same two ghost stories Bradley tells.”
“Indeed. Maybe if Bradley read more Gothic novels, he’d learn that a true ghost story ought not to leave its listeners in stitches.”
Grace smiled. While she liked to laugh as much as anyone, she had to agree that Christmas ghost stories should be more chilling than comical.
“Do you think Lord Gladsby will share a story?”
Would he? Grace was not sure. He certainly could tell an interesting tale, but that was in personal conversation. Would it transfer to a social interaction?
