She sat up slowly. The room was changed.
“Oh my! Am I dreaming…” she whispered.
Everywhere she looked, there were flowers. Wild blossoms in jugs exploded with color. Roses filled vases with regal splendor. Lavender was tied in bunches and filled the room with their fresh, clean scent. A bee had found its way in, buzzing lazily about the space. It was every inch a dream.
Yet it was solid and real.
Her eyes were drawn to the blanketed shape that lay on the floor in front of the hearth.
It was Aaron.
His dark head rested on his arm. The blanket had slipped, baring a glimpse of stockinged feet. The fire had burned itself to embers, and he slept on his side, back to the dying hearth, facing her bed. He looked younger in sleep. The hard lines of his face had gentled, the sharp edges worn smooth as river stone. A crease she had not noticed before sat between his brows, faint as a pencil mark, even now.
Pulling her knees close, she propped her chin against them and watched him in silence.
He looks even more handsome when he is not so moody all the time.
A smile touched her lips. Quietly, she rose, her bare feet making no sound upon the boards. She took up a corner of his blanket and slipped down beside him. The floor was hard, but the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breath drew her close. She nestled against him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Memories flickered through her mind. Dreams. Nightmares. Hellish meldings of the conscious and unconscious when hermind had been wracked by fever and desperate longing. People in masks. Pulling away their faces to reveal different identities beneath. She could not tell what was truth and what was illusion.Except there was one constant through it all.
Aaron had been there. Guiding her through. A beacon, steady and unyielding.
Except… he is the biggest mystery of all. He is the one whose identity I am least certain of. Why, in my mind, is he a rock? Why do I feel comforted when I am with him?
She pressed her forehead against his and breathed him in. Warmth. Wood smoke. Something underneath that was simply him.
His eyes opened suddenly. Dark and alert. For a moment, he looked startled to find her so near. Then his gaze softened.
“Sally has gone back to Caerleon,” he murmured, his voice still husky from sleep. “She will bring supplies before evening.”
Catherine only nodded, pressing closer her cheek against his chest.
“You stayed,” she whispered.
“Of course. How do you feel?”
“Better. Much better. I feel…” She fished for the right words, “...free.”
“Do you still believe it to be a curse?” he asked, intently.
She looked back at him, equally as intent.
“I have the evidence of my body. I was being poisoned. I will know why—and if the same thing happened to my parents.”
He frowned, his face diving into a magnetic intensity that made her heart thunder. She wet her lips, mouth suddenly dry. He had his arms around her, holding her close. Her breasts pressed against him. He would certainly be aware of the increase in her breathing. The added pressure of her bosoms, protected by a thin layer of muslin.
“I will help in any way I can,” he whispered.
Catherine opened her mouth to thank him and found that the words had fled. His eyes, his mouth, the press of his chest against hers—all of it conspired against rational thought.
“Thank you,” she managed. “For staying.”
“I have seen enough poppy juice withdrawal to know that someone ought to be near at hand.” A pause. “Sally is capable, but I would not leave it to her alone.”
“You have said something like that before.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Where, Aaron? Where have you seen such things?”
“I told you. My father exiled me,” he murmured. “That bastard discarded me, and the hells of London rose up to catch me. I sank into them for a long time before I was able to pull myself out with the lifeline of my father’s death.”
