by Eva Shepherd
She wondered if the Earl had been hurt in love and that was why he was so cynical, then dismissed the possibility. Such a man would be incapable of any tender emotions, and no woman could possibly fall in love with such a morose man. She certainly couldn’t. She rolled over in the bed as if to emphasise that point.
As intriguing as he was, and as much as he elicited rather unusual and rather thrilling reactions from her, he was not the sort of man she could ever see herself married to. She liked to have fun, to laugh, dance and enjoy herself, while the Earl looked like the sort of man who didn’t know the meaning or point of having a good time.
The wind continued to howl against the side of the house, making its way down the chimney and causing the flames to flicker in the grate. Iris snuggled deeper under her warm bedcover. Yes, the Earl was a strange man indeed. He was decidedly different from every man she had ever met. His stern, handsome face entered her mind, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he had got his scars. Presumably the same terrible event that had scarred him had also left him blind.
Was it some awful accident that had caused him to be so brooding, alone in his castle? Or had he always been such a misery? Whatever it was, he did not need to be that way. No one in Iris’s family was ever miserable, at least not for long. Her mother would not tolerate it. She tolerated most things, but never self-pity. Everyone was expected to buck up and count their blessings.
Someone should give the Earl a good talking-to and her mother would be the perfect person to do it. But her mother would never meet the Earl. Unfortunately, tonight’s adventure would have to remain Iris’s little secret if she was to protect her reputation.
Iris sighed. That meant the Earl would remain just as he was, hidden away in his castle, cut off from the world and nursing his grievances.
Such a shame. Such a waste. She yawned more loudly than was entirely proper for a well-brought-up young lady. There must be someone out there who could make the Earl smile and realise that there was still joy in the world. Maybe even teach him that love really did exist. It just wouldn’t be her.
With that thought in mind, she drifted off into sleep, only to have it torn away from her when a scream ripped through the air. She sat up in bed and looked around. The dying fire was still burning slightly in the grate, providing some light, but there was no sign of what had caused that chilling sound.
Was it the wind? It was still howling outside, but no more so than it had when she fell asleep. Was it part of her dream? Was the castle haunted? She bit her lip and reminded herself that ghosts did not exist and castles were never haunted except in gothic novels.
Then she heard it again. A man was screaming out as if the hounds of hell were ripping him apart. It was no dream. Nor was it a ghost—it sounded very real and very distressed.
Her heart pounding hard against the wall of her chest, Iris climbed out of bed and with shaking fingers lit her candle. Holding the candlestick holder out in front of her, she tentatively opened the bedroom door then stopped. She had no idea where the cry had come from, did not know the house and did not know what she would do if or when she found the source of the cry, but she had to do something. She could hardly go back to bed and pretend that scream had never happened.
Slowly, she edged her way down the now dark hallway, the candlelight flickering against the walls, her shadow appearing large and unsettling.
Then she heard it again, that mournful, painful cry coming from behind her. She turned and edged her way through the semi-darkness in the direction from which the cry had come. There were so many rooms in this large house, and the darkness was making her disorientated and confused.
The cry came again, louder, more plaintive, and it was definitely from the room at the end of the hallway. Placing her hand over the lone candle so it would not be blown out, she moved swiftly in the direction of the scream.
Her hand clasped the doorknob. She stopped and took in a deep breath. She had no idea what she was about to confront but there was no other option. A man was enduring some sort of torture. She looked back up the dark hallway and wished someone else, anyone else, was about who could help, but there was no one. The servants’ quarters would be at the top of the house, too far away for them to hear. It would be so good to have the ever-reliable Charles with her, but in the darkness she would never be able to find his room. And even if she could it would waste time. No, it was all up to her now. Pushing open the door, she braced herself for whatever horror she was about to confront.
Chapter Five
Iris was unsure what to expect, but her imagination had spun off into wild flights of fancy. If she were in a gothic novel, then inevitably the Earl would be under attack from a supernatural demon and she, the romantic heroine, would have to save him. As unpleasant as that would be, it was still a much better option than his being attacked by a human demon, against whom Iris suspected she would stand no chance.
Slowly she opened the door and peeked around the edge. There were no demons of any kind, human or otherwise. The only occupant of the room was the Earl, thrashing about in the bed, the bedclothes tangled around him, his face contorted but his eyes closed.
A nightmare.
Her first reaction was to breathe a sigh of relief. Just a nightmare. Then she admonished herself for being so selfish. The man was being attacked by demons, neither supernatural nor human, but demons of his own making. How could she possibly feel relieved about that, just because it meant she was in no danger? Although in reality he too was in no danger, in his head, whatever demons he was wrestling with were very real. As was his agony. He still needed to be saved and there was no one else around to do it.
She looked back up the dark corridor, then slipped around the door.
This was much worse than arriving unannounced at the home of someone to whom she had not been formally introduced. Worse than visiting a man’s house alone. Even worse than staying the night in a man’s home without a chaperon. What she was about to do bordered on the scandalous.
She was unmarried. This was a man’s bedroom. They were alone. It more than bordered on scandalous—it was the very definition of scandal. But what choice did she have? And the reality was, they were alone. No one would know what she was doing. Breaches of propriety only became breaches when they became public knowledge. And scandalous behaviour couldn’t become a scandal unless people were talking about it.
Iris nodded to herself, pleased with her logic, and quietly walked further into the room. She stood at the side of the high, wide bed, the Earl still thrashing about in the centre. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to join him on the bed if she was to free him from his torment.
Reminding herself that it was only a scandal if people knew and were talking about it, she placed the candlestick on his bedside table, gathered up the folds of the voluminous nightshirt and climbed onto the bed.
What would her mother say if she could see her now? Iris hated to think. While she might be commended for her concern over someone in distress, she knew her mother would not be able to excuse her daughter from joining a man in his bed.
But your mother is someone else who will never know.
The Earl continued to twist and turn, his head tossing from side to side on the pillow. She reached down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, which were slick with sweat. He turned towards her and clung on like a drowning man. He needed help, needed her, so to hell with propriety. No matter what anyone might or might not say, Iris knew she was doing the right thing.
She pulled him closer to her body, placed his head on her shoulder, and gently stroked his hair. That was what her mother had always done when she was a child and having a bad dream, and it had always provided such comfort.
‘There, there, you’re safe now,’ she said in the same soothing voice her mother had always used. ‘I’m here now. Everything is going to be all right,’ she added. It was also what her moth
er would have said.
His thrashing became less intense and she smiled. Yes, she was doing the right thing, and surely no one could disapprove, even if the Earl’s chest was bare and he was possibly completely naked. She had no idea what state he was in under the twisted sheets, and, as a well-brought-up young lady, she should not even be speculating.
She gently ran her hand across his sweat-soaked brow, brushing back his damp hair.
His thrashing subsided further but he continued to gasp out no, no, repeatedly.
She tilted her head and leant it gently on top of his. ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ she murmured. ‘I’m here now and nothing or no one will hurt you.’ Her lips were close to his forehead, so she gently kissed him, telling herself that she was merely doing what her mother would have done.
He relaxed in her arms, although his breathing was still laboured. He was mumbling, and she could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He needed her, needed to be comforted.
Her kisses moved down slightly to his cheek. Just to comfort him, of course, for no other reason. Then her lips lightly skimmed his lips. That was purely to still his fevered mutterings in the best way she could think of, for absolutely no other reason.
And it worked. Proving that she had nothing to admonish herself for. His breathing settled down and he relaxed completely in her arms, his still head resting on her shoulder, his chest pressed against hers.
She should go now, gently lower him back onto the bed and quietly slip away. The demons had left him and there was no reason for her to remain.
But she stayed, enjoying the feeling of having this muscular man in her arms. Loving the sensation of holding him. She placed her hand on his chest. His heart was still rapidly pounding. That convinced her.
She needed to stay. It would be wrong to leave until he had completely settled down. Once she had confirmation that the demons had completely left his mind then she would depart. In the meantime, there was no reason why she shouldn’t continue to have her arms wrapped around him, his head on her shoulder. It was only right and proper.
She nodded, as if, since she was alone in the room, there was no one else to give her permission, so she granted it to herself. Her hand continued to rest on his chest, feeling the strong pounding of his heart, then moved slowly across the sweat-slickened muscles of his chest, causing her own heart to increase its furious beating. In the warm light of the flickering candle, his skin appeared bathed in a golden glow, showing off his sculpted muscles to perfection. He really was rather magnificent. Her fingers traced a line over his shoulders, and she could sense their strength and power. It was as if he had been chiselled out of marble, except that he was warm and very much alive. She traced her finger along a prominent vein that ran the length of his upper arm, then back up again.
Slowly her hand moved up his neck, to his cheek, running across the dark stubble of his unshaven face. When she had first met him, she had been tempted to place her finger in the cleft in the middle of his chin. So that was what she did now. After all, she thought, smiling to herself, she might never get another opportunity.
His face was now completely composed. She placed her hand back on his chest, just to check that he was indeed settled. His heart had returned to a regular rhythm. She had her confirmation. There was no justification for staying a moment longer.
She paused and touched his chest one more time. His heart now pounded slowly and strongly under her fingers. He was completely recovered. It was all over. It was time she left.
As gently as possible she unwrapped her arms from around his chest and lowered his head back to the pillow. Then, moving as slowly as she could, making sure she caused no disturbance, she eased herself to the side of the bed, determined not to wake the Earl, who was now sleeping restfully.
But she failed.
He sprang up. Jumped off the bed and turned towards her, his body rigid.
‘What? Where?’ his panicked voice cried out. His arms flailed in the air, his breath coming in quick, harsh gasps. Then his arms dropped to his sides. His spine straightened and he pulled back his shoulders.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice cold.
Iris wasn’t sure if the you he was referring to was her or someone in his dream, but as she was the only other person present she decided she had better respond.
‘It’s just me. Iris Springfeld.’
‘I know who you are. What are you doing here, in my room?’
‘How did you know it was me?’ After all, he couldn’t see her and a few moments ago he thought he was being attacked by some invisible demon or other.
‘Your scent. You smell of orange blossom, and the rosewater you presumably apply to your face.’
And you smell all masculine and lemony, Iris was tempted to inform him, but instead she bit her lip to stop that embarrassing revelation from escaping.
‘Answer my question,’ he said sharply. ‘What are you doing in my room, in my bed?’
Good question. What was she still doing here? She looked over at him and her hand shot up to cover her mouth, but not quickly enough to stop a small squeak of surprise from escaping. He was scowling at her, but presumably he didn’t know he was completely naked.
She was in a bedroom with a naked man. Now, this really was scandalous. And what was even more scandalous was that she was staring at him as if she had every right to do so.
Her hands flew to her eyes to cover them from the sight they had just seen, something a young lady should never see before her wedding night. Then, as if with a will of their own, her fingers slowly splayed open and she peeped out at the naked man standing in front of her.
Her hands moved from her eyes, where they were serving no purpose, and covered her mouth to stop any further gasps from escaping. She should not be doing this. It was so wrong. But how could she not? He was standing in front of her. Naked.
‘Well, are you going to answer me?’ he demanded.
Iris tried to answer, but instead she merely gulped and continued to stare at him.
And she wanted to do more than just stare. The temptation to run her hands over him was almost overwhelming, and her fingers were actually itching to do so. She swallowed again, lowered her hands from her mouth and tucked them under her legs, as if they needed to be restrained from doing what they longed to do.
This really was a shocking situation for any young lady to find herself in. Her intentions on entering his room had been honourable, but some of her subsequent behaviour had been decidedly improper. If he was horrified to find her in his room, heaven only knew what he would think if he realised that she had stroked his cheek, his chest, his lips.
‘I...um... I was just...’
He placed his hands on his hips, waiting for the explanation that she was finding herself incapable of forming.
Her mind was too occupied by what she was seeing. While she was trying to tell herself to behave, to answer his questions and leave as quickly as possible, the part of her brain that controlled her eyes was not listening. They continued their own unforgivable progress down his body, taking in the dark hair on his chest, which thinned out into a line as it moved down his flat stomach. Her hand flew back to her mouth to cover the gasp that threatened to escape as her gaze moved lower.
She should not be looking. She really should not be looking. This was unforgivable for so many reasons, and not just because it was not the way young ladies behaved. She was taking advantage of him, and she should be thoroughly ashamed of herself for acting in such a wanton matter. Yes, ashamed, she thought as her eyes lingered. Then her gaze flicked back up to his face, which was contorted with annoyance while he waited for her answer.
Tell him.
‘Um...you’re probably unaware of this,’ she said, then paused, ‘but I brought a lit candle with me and you’re...well, you’re standing in the middle of the room...and you’re complete
ly...’
She tumbled to her side as the sheet was wrenched off the bed from underneath her. When she sat back up and looked in his direction the lower half of his body had disappeared behind white linen, the sheet draped around his narrow hips. But there was still his chest on display, and an emboldened Iris felt no compunction about feasting her eyes on that part of his anatomy. After all, if he hadn’t wanted her to look, he should have covered himself up completely, she reasoned, or was that justified?
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ he barked at her. ‘What are you doing here? Or do you make a habit of this sort of behaviour, coming into men’s rooms in the middle of the night? Uninvited? And climbing into their beds?’
Now that some of him at least was covered her brain was able to function a bit better and she could focus on countering his accusations.
‘No, I most certainly do not.’ She jumped off the bed and placed her hands firmly on her hips, even though the defiant stance was wasted on him. ‘You were crying out in your sleep, if you must know.’
The anger on his face slowly subsided, to be replaced by a hard look of reproach, either for her or for himself.
‘And what did you think you were going to do? Rescue me?’
Iris shrugged. ‘I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know why you were screaming out.’ She looked up at him and remembered how he had been when she had entered the room, his handsome face distorted in pain and distress. ‘You were having a bad dream,’ she said gently.
‘A dream!’ he all but shouted. ‘You came into my room because of a dream?’
‘Well, yes. It was a very bad dream.’ She indicated the tousled sheets, then remembered that he couldn’t see them.
‘But still just a dream,’ he spat out.
Iris shrugged. ‘Sometimes dreams can be just as frightening as real life, or even more so.’
He shook his head as if not believing her.
‘And, as I said, it was a very bad dream. You weren’t just crying out. You were tossing and turning...your heart was pounding hard.’