The bedlinens that had been tucked up around her neck fell away. She blinked into near-darkness from a bed opposite a window and vaguely haloed in moonlight. A figure beside the mattress set aside the book in his hand—the one he’d been using to fan her face.
“The children are asleep.Finally.” His deep baritone whisper came from the shadows. “If you make too much fuss, they’ll wake.”
Hurtheven.
She glanced down. She was still in her clothes, thank goodness. She gathered the bedlinens back up beneath her chin anyway. She may be hot, beaded with sweat and disoriented—butheneed not know the extent to which she was disheveled.
“Where are they?” she asked.
His inky form leaned to one side. A coal fire glow beyond revealed two bundles in a tiny trundle.Safe.And, apparently, sleeping in the same bed.
Despite her unease, an involuntary, quiet laugh bubbled up. “Thatcouldn’t have been easy.”
“Vienna negotiations were less of a challenge.” His voice held an unseen smile. “We must’ve gone ten rounds before finally settling on head to feet.”
“With no face-kicking?”
“I should have known you’d tried the scheme before. Fee did complain of Delmare’s odiferous stockings, but, on threat of dire consequences—unnamed, of course, to increase their hideousness—they eventually settled into a mutually agreeable position.”
Well, at least noteverythingcame easily to him.
She frowned—uncharitable thought—and herself uniquely indebted to him, too. He’d been the one to organize their rescue, she was certain. No one else had come to her aid until he burst out of the door.
How had he persuaded the people who finally mounted the rescue to risk their lives for strangers?
“Did you tell the men who helped you that you’re a duke?” she asked.
“Still plain old Mr. Smith, traveling with my family.” He snorted derisively. “Although Fee’s penchant for calling meUncle Papahas raised a few brows.”
She blinked into the darkness, still focused on the fact he had convinced the men to face the lion entirely by the force of his character.
“I imagine,” he continued, “the story will be spread over half the county by morning. To avoid awkward questions—and the inevitable crowds—we’ll have to leave at first light. As it is, the characters gathered below have demanded reports on your health hourly until the innkeeper closed the taproom just after the midnight bell.”
She gasped. “That late already?”
“I’m afraid it’s only you, me, and the moonlight.” He cleared his throat. “Do you think you’ll be well enough to travel in a few hours?”
“Yes, yes of course,” she lied. “But the children. Have they sufficiently recovered from their ordeal?”
“They are children.” He rested his elbows on his spread legs, though his face remained shrouded. “They’ll retell the story until they feel beyond its reach, and they will take on the spirit of those they trust.”
“Like you?”
He inclined his head. “And yourself.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them the outcome was never in doubt. That they can trust us both to care for them and keep them safe...”
So, he’d lied. But what a beautiful lie! How long had it been since she’d felt cared for? Safe?
When she was little and her mother was alive, she’d felt the curious stares and derisive whispers whenever they’d gone out as a family with her much older father—not harmful so much as hurtful, although she’d sensed they were objects of derision. Only after her father died had she learned what it was to truly lack security.
“Perhaps I laid it on a bit thick,” Hurtheven continued, “but they needed sleep. And to sleep, they needed to set aside their fears.”
“I’m glad you were able to calm them.” She reached to her hair only to realize her braid had come loose and her wretched spirals had hopelessly matted. “I apologize for being...indisposed.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I left you alone. If anyone is at fault?—”
