“I’ll take first watch.” He lifted his cell, which still displayed a view of the lobby. “Someone needs to keep an eye out for the bastards.”
“Then wake me in an hour. I’ll take the second shift.”
“If I can last that long.”
Guilt stabbed at her, but Duncan waved her off with a tired smile. “Fear not. I’ll not dishonor my grandad’s uniform by falling asleep at my post.”
Sharyn still hesitated, until Naomi grabbed her arm and drew her across the common area. As they headed away, Sharyn wondered if the apartment had come outfitted this way or if Archie and Duncan’s parents had hired a designer for this chic bachelor pad. The answer came when she entered Duncan’s bedroom.
It was like stepping into another century.
A tall Edwardian wardrobe commanded one wall. Bookshelves covered another, packed with a disorderly muddle that spoke of its well use. There was even an old Victorian washstand with a marble bowl. Its scarred walnut surface held toiletries and grooming gear, including what appeared to be an old badger-hair shaving brush.
She wondered if the furnishings, like Duncan’s fatigues, had been passed down from his grandfather. If so, she struggled to balance this sentimental side of Duncan with his otherwise cavalier attitude.
“That bed...” Naomi said, gliding past everything else. “I could sink into it forever.”
The four-poster looked as much of an antique as the rest—and as well-used and worn. The mattress rose just shy of her waist. Layers of mussed blankets and quilts, all in tartan patterns, formed a masculine nest.
Naomi shed clothing with every step.
Sharyn followed, but she only removed her Army jacket, ball cap, and boots. Anxiety kept her otherwise dressed—ready in case they should need to run. Naomi had no such restraint. She stripped to panties and a loose-tailed shirt, then buried herself into the pile, nearly vanishing away.
As Sharyn climbed onto the other side, a soft drone of voices rose from down the hall. Duncan had turned on the television, likely to keep himself awake. She half-listened to what sounded like a soccer match as she cocooned herself into the blankets. The bed proved to be as comfortable as it looked. The sheets were silken, the duvet as soft as velvet. It all tempted her to remove more clothing, down to the skin.
Still, she refrained.
As she settled in, she noted the coverings and pillows smelled like Duncan, a muskiness that further lulled her, reassured her that someone had her back. She closed her eyes, but she knew any sleep would be fitful at best, especially as the night’s terrors replayed in her head.
I may never sleep again.
She was proven wrong when time slipped, and a hand suddenly shook her hard. She shattered out of a dreamless void into a room lit by blinding rays passing through folds in the drapery.
Morning already . . .
She shifted up to an elbow, still bleary-eyed, to find Naomi leaning over her, somehow fully dressed again. Her friend’s eyes were huge, her features flushed.
Sharyn coughed to clear the hoarseness from her throat. “Why didn’t someone—”
“You must see this.” Naomi tugged her up. “Right now.”
13
8:38 a.m.
Duncan paced before the warm fireplace, but he remained chilled. His heart thudded hard as he struggled to find his center.
Naomi returned with Sharyn. Tag had already fetched Archie. The two men sat on the leather sofa, both looking equally ashen.
Sharyn entered with a complaint for her flat mate. “You should’ve woken me earlier. I could’ve taken a shift.”
Naomi spoke rapidly. “Tag offered to take your place last night. He couldn’t sleep with Archie’s snoring. Then Tag made Archie pull the next shift—both as punishment and to banish him out of the bedroom. So, the boys had us both covered. For once, chauvinism proved to have its benefits.”
Sharyn turned to Duncan. Her gaze flicked to the side, to the muted television, which was paused on a BBC morning newscast. “What’s going on?”
Tag answered. “Rewind and show her.”
Duncan picked up the remote. “It’s not good,” he warned lamely, but there was no way to lessen the blow.
