He groaned. There was no getting around it. He bent and scooped one arm beneath her knees and one behind her back.
Her eyes widened. “I’ve got a fork, you know.” But her head lolled back, and her shoulder-blade-length hair cascaded against his arm as he lifted.
Lilacs and heat and too much softness overwhelmed his senses, barely held intact by the stink of laudanum and the smell of horse.
Cheeks burning, he carried her to the bed and lowered her to the rumpled covers.
The movement roused her. She locked her fingers around his neck. “You’re breathing on me.”
“I’m trying to leave.” He arched against her hold, to the full length of her outstretched arms.
Her hands slipped loose, but before he could move, shelatched onto the top button of his shirt, sending his pulse throbbing in his throat. “You took away my moon. How am I supposed to live without the moon?” A childlike tone crept into her voice.
His gaze sank into gold-speckled hazel, and he swallowed hard.
He could not leave her without hope. His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m going to get you out of here someday, Morning Fawn. The moon will be yours for the taking.”
She smiled as her eyes closed, and her hand dropped to her side. “I think you’re a fancy liar, Mr. Trouble.”
“We’ll see about that.” He stood and stepped toward the door, refusing to allow himself one more look. Tomorrow, she’d probably hate him. Then, again, she might not even remember tonight.
But he had no clue how he’d scrub the memory of her touch from his skin. And those eyes of hers went deeper still, piercing through cobwebs and dust to the dungeon door of his heart.
CHAPTER 5
Morning Fawn ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Half the morning was gone, and here she was in bed. She squinted at the bright sunlight pouring in through the windowpane. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton, and her mouth was so dry, her tongue stuck to its roof.
How dare they do this to her? She crammed the pillow to her mouth and screeched into the down. Her fingers dug into the fluff. She should have never touched that horse yesterday. That’s the message they wanted to get across. If only she could scour every trace of poison from her, inside and out.
Throwing the pillow aside, she tossed off the covers and swung her legs over the edge. The leftover whisperings of the laudanum would likely sap the strength from her muscles for another half day, and from her heart, even longer. An enemy more insidious than a rattler.
Her hand brushed the fork, and she threw it on the floor. What she wouldn’t give to skewer her uncle.
A food tray sat on the side table and fresh water in the washbasin. Lucy or someone had already been here this morning,and she’d slept right through it. Eggs and toast. Her stomach rumbled. Was it safe to eat? They usually saved the poison for the night. Now that she’d misbehaved, in their opinion, they’d likely try it several nights in a row.
She glanced at the door and the window. What if she rammed the chair leg through the pane? What would they do then? The chair?—
An image of Devon Reynolds sitting there flickered through her mind. Had she dreamed he’d been here last night? His deep voice barely above a whisper, he’d rested his elbows on his knees and studied her with that all-seeing gaze of his, a frown shadowing his face. He’d look mighty fine with his white shirt contrasting with his tan and his black suspenders stretching taut against his muscles.
No. Nothing but a figment of her imagination. The laudanum did things like that. She moved to the washbasin and splashed her face, avoiding the mirror. No doubt, dark circles underscored her eyes.
Her hand shook as she picked up the water pitcher and drank from it directly. She closed her eyes as the sweet liquid traveled down her throat. The bed called. Another couple hours of sleep would help mute the effects.
A tree branch scratched against the pane. Morning Fawn stilled. Another image. Reynolds at the window pulling out a nail.
Water sloshed out of the pitcher as she clunked it down. It was a dream. Wasn’t it? Why would he come here in the middle of the night? How would he have gotten in? Her uncle would never have allowed it. He’d be more likely to skin Reynolds alive.
Pivoting, she strode to the window sash. An empty hole. Goose bumps spread over her arms. No nail. She rubbed her fingertip over the scratched wood. A second hole.
It was no dream.
I’m going to get you out of here someday…That’s what he’d said.
Her knees wobbled. He’d leaned over her. What in the devil had happened after that? What had she…what had he done? She sagged against the wall. Her fingers had been linked around his neck, pulling him down to the bed.Dear God. Surely, she’d imagined at least that part.
With trembling fingers, she examined her underclothes. Nothing out of order.Thank God. She smoothed her skirt. But how much had happened? There’d been something about a fork and Reynolds locking women in the attic.
She buried her face in her hands as the jumble of slurred memories assaulted her. What kind of man was this Devon Reynolds? He snuck into her room, likely aware she’d been force-fed laudanum. How could anyone in the house have missed that whole struggle?
