“Dolt,” Lady Hamdon tossed back.
Grace covered her laugh, knowing there was no malice behind either of their words. For once, she was grateful for Lady Hamdon’s interference. She was like a good luck charm that kept showing up at just the right times.
What she wouldn’t give to have the woman as a sister-in-law. They would be a force to be reckoned with.
Chapter 18
The air around Alan was so cold he could see his breath, yet his body felt warm. Someone laughed, a deep, low, chilling laugh filled with a menacing promise. A tree snagged his leg as he ran through the forest, tripping him and sending him sprawling to the ground. He landed on something soft. Slowly, he met Harvey’s lifeless gaze.
Alan screamed, but nothing came out. The face morphed into his father’s; disappointment evident in his expression.
He’d let him down, not living up to all he could be. Now he’d never be able to return home and carry on the family legacy.
The haunting laughter came closer and Sancerre’s beady eyes and bulbous nose hovered above him. The French spy raised his hand, a knife in his grip.
He was going to die.
A scream echoed through the trees. It sounded like Grace. Alan turned his head, but all he could see was Lord Ratford with another form at his feet.
GRACE!
Alan bolted upright, fully awake. He took in his bedchamber. Everything was just as it had been when he’d fallen asleep, but the horror of the dream clung to him like the sweat rolling down his back.
He tried to move, but his feet were tangled in the bed linens. It took several tries before he released them. When he stood, however, his legs wobbled as he moved to the pitcher for water. Fire burned in his throat, but the cool water soothed it.
Someone knocked at his door and he fairly flew to his bureau drawer for his knife.
“Alan?” Emma’s voice filtered in above the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. “Alan, are you well?”
“Fine,” he said, his voice screeching out like a lad in the throes of puberty.
“You are not fine. You screamed. Please let me in.”
The last thing he wanted was for his expectant sister to be in the same room with him. He cleared his throat. “No, Emma. You need to sleep. I am well.”
Silence met his words, but Emma had not left. He would have heard her retreating footsteps if she had. He released his achingly tight grip on the knife, dropping it back into the drawer and shutting it.
Grabbing a rag from a different drawer, he dipped it in the basin of water and washed the sweat from his face, neck, and torso. There was no use trying to sleep anymore tonight. The grey sky out his window was a sure sign that morning had already approached.
Not wanting to wake his valet, he dressed himself, pulling on his riding boots and slipping in his ever-present knife without bothering to tame his wild blond curls. A good bruising ride would go a long way toward calming his jitters.
When he opened the door, however, he discovered Emma seated on the floor, eyes closed, and her head propped againstthe frame. Guilt pricked at him. How often had he worried her? She’d never once mentioned it. Knowing her independent nature, she’d probably suffered in silence while his nighttime screams terrorized her. One more proof that he was not meant to marry.
His gaze rose to Grace’s door across the open court. If Emma had heard him, had she?
What sort of misery had he caused everyone in the house?
Stooping down, he gently shook Emma’s shoulder. “Come, Emma. Let’s get you back to bed.”
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Are you ready to talk?”
“When did you become so stubborn?”
She rose to her feet and brushed off her dressing gown. “I’ve always been stubborn, just like my brother.”
A small smile pulled at his lips. “Very well. I will speak to you after you have had several more hours of sleep and a good breakfast.”
“Is that a promise?”
