But it wasn’t that Miss Kent who kept him tossing and turning into the night. Even as he sank deeper, farther away from the surface of consciousness, he couldn’t escape that haunting aquamarine gaze. Those clear orbs followed him, and he was forced to look into them, to see himself reflected in the pure, unflinching light.
One should be responsible for one’s own actions.
Nothing he hadn’t heard before, and yet her voice threaded his dreams, stringing together a necklace of images and sensations. A beautiful, raven-haired Madonna, her laughter echoing down the hall, her voice softening into a song.
Bye, baby Bunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting,
Gone to get a rabbit skin,
To wrap the baby Bunting in…
Velvet comfort against his cheek as he watched a gleaming pendulum, time ticking away in years rather than minutes, his hand reaching out, tangling in a flowing black mane. Scything hooves beneath him now, a pounding certainty in his adolescent heart.I’m going to live forever!
Back in the stables, he was a child again, his curiosity drawing him to the strange animal sounds, to the farthest stall where it wasn’t a horse but the Madonna on her hands and knees, the groom bent over her, dirty hands gripping her hair like reins. Fear and anger propelled him forward, fists flying.
No, Sinjin, it’s all right… don’t tell, don’t tell…
Tears sliding like pearls down her pale cheeks.
Mama’s gone.Stephan’s young face.But we’ll still have each other.
Two stacks of trunks, one bound for Eton, the other Creavey Hall. As his brother slapped his back goodbye, the words sticking in his throat.Don’t leave me.I can’t do this without you…
Stephan’s dead.The duke’s voice floated through the ether.It should have been you.
He twisted, falling into darkness, an oblivion of deeper shadows. The seduction of pale curves against scarlet satin.Name’s Nicoletta, luv, and I’ll make all your dreams come true…The friction of skin against skin, the temporary lethargy, sweet viscosity relieving his parched throat. Tired, so tired. Voices filtering as if through a wall of water, the rise and fall of indistinct waves, a deep voice rumbling to the surface.Hurry, we must act before he awakens…
Sinjin bolted upright, a scream in his ears.
He sat there, chest thudding, disoriented. His clammy hands fisted the sheets. Even as he tried to sort dream from reality, he heard it again—that high-pitched wail—coming not from his dream but from somewhere in the distance. Human or animal? He strained to hear more, but only insects shrilled in reply.
Reaching over to the bedside table, he grasped his talisman. Squeezing the locket in his fist, he concentrated on its filigreed weight until his breath steadied, until he was certain this was no longer a dream. Only then did he loosen his grip. His lips twisted at the sight of the silver charm. No doubt Stephan would have approved of him using the calming trick, but what would his upstanding brother have said about the trinket in his palm, a symbol of all his excesses?
The locket had arrived on Sinjin’s doorstep a few weeks ago. The appearance of the feminine trinket was not an unusual occurrence as his lovers (or those who wanted to be) made an annoying habit of sending him mementoes. What in God’s name did women think he would want with a garter or jeweled hair pin, some perfumed handkerchief?
He usually let the servants take what they wanted, the rest going straight to the rubbish heap, but the locket had been different. Demure and modest, no note had accompanied it, no nauseatingly romantic verse. Its sender had chosen to remain anonymous, probably assuming that he would know who she was.
Bad assumption. Although the locket had kindled a faint sense ofdéjà vu, he definitely couldn’t recall who it had belonged to. Hell, he couldn’t recall the names of half the women he’d tupped, let alone what baubles they’d been wearing at the time. But for some reason he’d taken to carrying the thing around like a lucky… locket. A talisman of sorts.
Apparently, it worked. Calmer now, he tossed it back on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He strode naked to the window, staring out into the shadowed landscape. Overhead the moon was an opalescent beacon, illuminating his thoughts.
Was the voice I heard real?
Not the scream—he’d slept enough nights here to know that the residents were an unrestful bunch—but the other voice, the one in his dream.Hurry, we must act before he awakens.Deep and low, that distinctive bass belonged to a man.
Sinjin's nape tingled with recognition.
That voice was amemory... of that night with Nicoletta. He’d learned to trust his gut’s reaction more than his mind for the latter could be held hostage by his demons. His primal instinct somehow managed to evade their devilish grasp, and if he could just hold onto it, hear its wisdom, it could lead him out of the darkness. To reality unfiltered by his frantic thoughts.
His instinct was speaking to him now about the scarlet satin sheets, Nicoletta’s carnal offer… and the stranger’s voice. His heart drummed against his ribs. Had someone else been in the room that night? A man—who’d witnessed what happened? Why hadn’t Nicoletta mentioned him?
Why can’t I bloody remember?
He gripped the sill in frustration. The dream—or memory—was already slipping from him.
With an oath, he pushed away from the window, prowling back and forth across the bedchamber. He couldn’t stay here much longer. A sane man would be driven mad here. Nothing to do. Doing nothing but…
