The Dream

by Jaycee Clark

  She wanted to yell at him that she wasn’t afraid, that she feared nothing. Never again would she fear anything, but the slight tremors and her own bruised spirit quaked at the thought, the truth whimpering.

  She’d been afraid for so long, she hardly knew what else to be.

  “I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”

  Another chuckle. “But I like impertinence, it keeps one on one’s toes. Don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She licked her lips, darting a quick look from the corner of her eye, and picked at the counterpane.

  A long moment passed. “No, something tells me you wouldn’t.”

  What did that mean?

  He shifted off the bed. “Well, Madam Impertinence, I mean to see you well again.” The man sat down in a chair close to the bed. “And I’d rather address you by your name than just Madam, or some other inane title.”

  The tea was making her sleepy. She yawned again, and snuggled deeper in bed, wincing at the now-dull ache in her shoulder. She should ask him for something to wear…

  “A name, a name, what’s in a name…”

  “Like Shakespeare do you? Is your name Elizabeth? Very Shakespearean. Or Ophelia? Desdemona. It cannot be Juliet, that would be too mediocre.”

  She grinned. The man was a charmer, even if she didn’t trust him, but he hadn’t hurt her thus far. “No, that’s my mother’s name.”

  “God’s bones. What a long one it is. Elizabeth Ophelia Desdemona. What did your father call her?”

  Did he always talk as if he were about to laugh at some joke? And she wasn’t about to answer the last question.

  “Her name is Elizabeth.”

  “Ah.” He steepled his fingers and tapped the index ones against his mouth. “The mother’s name. Dare I hope to acquire the daughter’s?”

  Sleep beckoned. “Rebeckah Emmaline Merryweather Smith.”

  “Yet another long name.” She closed her eyes even as she heard him whisper, “I never thought of Rebeckah.”

  The name slithered a tingle down her spine, black in its memories. Why had she told him that? She hated, hated Rebeckah. She could still hear the way Theodore said it.

  She shook her head. “No, Emmaline. Though friends call me Emily.”

  Anne had called her Emmy.

  “Emmaline. Emily. Now that suits you, I think.”

  Did it? To her Emily was the free girl in the fields, wild and impetuous, and maybe even brave.

  She would be that person again.

  “Rebeckah sounds very cold,” he said. “Whereas Emily… Well, Emily would leap out of a runaway carriage.”

  Chapter Three

  Jason sat behind his desk at Ravenscrest and finished the missives he’d just written.

  The first was to one of his two partners who was still in the country and the other missive was to his superior, Sir Vincent Taber. Both recounted the events of the carriage murders as he knew them, and the latter explained how he’d missed his appointment in Portsmouth, thanks to the storm.

  “My lord?” Grims inquired.

  He looked up at his domineering butler. “Yes?’

  “You wished to know when your guest was again awake.”

  Jason stood. “Indeed.” Handing the messages to Grims, he said, “Have these sent immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He strode to the door, the late afternoon sun slanting through his study windows. “And have Mrs. Meddows send up some broth and tea for Mrs. Smith.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  At the top of the stairs, he walked past his own door to the marchioness’ door. This morning, Mrs. Smith had been quite adamant about moving to another room when she discovered she slept in his.

  He’d started to argue with her, but at the tilt of her little jaw and the plea in her eyes, he’d relented on the fact that he was carrying her and she wasn’t about to try and traipse to another room.

  For some reason he had yet to understand, he didn’t want her far from him.

  It had absolutely nothing to do with the woman herself, or even really himself for that matter.

  He knew little about her, other than what she claimed upon awakening and since he was a cautious soul, he wanted to know where she was and exactly what she was doing.

  He knocked, then quietly opened the door.

  She sat, propped on pillows, her complexion as pale as it had been when he’d checked on her earlier after seeing her settled. Her big brown eyes widened as he stepped into the room.

  “Ah, you’re awake.”

  She gaze lowered. “Yes.”

  “And how are you feeling?” he walked across the room to the window. The green lawns sloped down to the tree line and the gardeners were busy on maintenance.

  “Fine.”

  He glanced at her and held the grin. The chit was undoubtedly in pain and not feeling well, but her “fine” almost rang true. Almost, if not for the slight hesitation.

  Jason cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you again about what happened on the stage.”

  Her gaze came back to his and he watched as her brows furrowed. “The stage?”

  Turning, he sat in the window seat. “Yes, madam, the stage.”

  “Why? I told you all I know last night, or was it this morning?” She rubbed her forehead.

  He studied her, watched for small signs that she was nervous and wondered if she were hiding something. “Why did you travel at night? Were you traveling with the colonel?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes. “No, I told you, I was traveling alone. I wanted to reach to London and learned of the stage. I chose, apparently not wisely, to take the coach that night instead of waiting for the one the next morning.”

  He watched as her fingers fidgeted on the counterpane, the way her eyes always looked away from him. Was she as she appeared? A widow who escaped death? Or was there more to her? Not that he had reason to see more. The woman was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. If not for De Fleur, she’d be just the thing, not at his estate and the late colonel would be alive.

  He’d been on his way to Ravenscrest because he’d learned that one of the French counteragents was supposedly in the area. The man and Jason were not what anyone could even on the best of terms label as civil. De Fleur, the French agent, felt betrayed and, Jason knew, with good reason. However, war was war and lies were a necessity as was the knowledge of who was on which side.

  Could the Frenchman have instigated this? Was the woman, this widow somehow part of it? Or was it coincidence a Frenchman had ambushed her carriage? No. Jason normally didn’t hold with coincidences. So what, if any, part did Emily play? A mere widow in the wrong place at the wrong time? Probably, he conceded. To this point, De Fleur’s targets seemed to be officers of the British military.

  Jason continued to stare at her, until her gaze rose to his.

  Emily shifted on the bed and finally raised her eyes to the intense blue ones of her host. “You do not believe me?”

  He arched one black brow. “Do I have a reason not to believe you?”

  Emily gritted her teeth, an old anger swirling through her blood. She hated games such as this. “You said I was safe here, did you speak the truth?”

  He gave a slight inclination of his head.

  Was that a yes? Sighing she asked, “Why do you not believe me? And why is it men always assume a woman is lying?”

  Theodore had always assumed she’d lied. She’d been beaten just as surely for telling the truth as she had for any lie she might have once been brave enough to utter.

  “Are you used to lying?” he asked, in that deep voice of his.

  She wasn’t certain, but she detected a faint edge to it.

  “I am not any good at it, if you must know, and if I had been, it would have been dissuaded out of me long ago, sir,” she said, looking straight into his eyes.

  His lips tightened, and the lines around his mouth and corners of his eyes deepened.

  “
Do you mistrust everyone? Or is it just me?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I am not the most trusting of souls, madam.”

  She said nothing to that. She had not a thing to hide and if he thought she was lying, well… There was little she could do to prove to him otherwise.

  His eyes cut away every barrier she had ever erected and seemed to study her soul. Theodore’s eyes could seem intense at times, but there had been a hint of madness in them that had chilled her. This man had no such look in his eyes, but they made her stomach tingle. However, she couldn’t hold his stare for long.

  As if it were the most important thing in the world, she picked at the light blue jacquard counterpane. This room, adjoining the other she’d occupied, was clearly the feminine partner to the master’s suite. There was nothing frilly about it so much as it was merely softer than the other room. Where his had been dark and elegant, this one was light and sophisticated; where his seemed heavy and serious, this one was airy and easy. The colors of the other had been dark blue and gray, this was silver with differing shades of light azure.

  She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her bent head. Yet even as the sensation annoyed her and bothered her, surprisingly there was not the terror she was accustomed to when being the object of a man’s questioning stare.

  At a knock at the door, she startled and winced at the pain in her shoulder. A maid carried in a tray.

  Her host shifted. “You should eat.”

  Perhaps she should, but she wasn’t hungry. “I’m rather tired, Mister…” What had he said his name was?

  “Ravensworth,” he said, his voice made her eyes open and look back at him. “Just Ravensworth will do.”

  He stood and walked to the bed, taking the tray from the maid and setting it on the side table. The chair’s legs thumped on the carpet as he moved it closer to the bedside. “And you will eat.”

  The smell of herbs wafted from the tray. Perhaps she was a bit hungry.

  Emily made no comment as he sent the maid from the room. Finally, he turned back to her, after uncovering the dishes. Bread and soup, warm and steamy filled the air.

  He broke a piece of the bread off and held it out to her.

  Emily tilted her head. “Is this some sort of trick?”

  “Is what a trick?” He held the bread up to her mouth.

  Emily took a small bite, reaching up to take the offering from him. Her fingers brushed the back of his and a warmth tingled down her spine. She jerked her hand away.

  “The-the… You being nice to me?”

  His mouth tilted ruefully on his frown. “No, no trick.”

  “Then what are you about?”

  He smiled at her then and the breath caught in the back of her throat. “I’m feeding you, in case you can’t tell.”

  She stared at him. The man was decidedly odd. “No, before. You were kind and for that and your help I thank you, but I do not understand your questions of a few minutes ago.”

  He paused in dipping the spoon into the bowl of broth. His eyes when they rose back to hers were softer, the lines around them easing. “If you are who you claim, then you have no worries.” Something in the blue depths hardened. “But if I find out you’ve lied, that you are in some way tied to what happened on the stage, I will not be pleased.”

  For a moment, Emily was speechless.

  “How can I not be tied?” she said, anger shimmering through her. “I was shot, in case you didn’t notice.”

  A slow grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “I noticed.”

  * * * * *

  Jason held the flowers out to his guest who, with a bit of color in her cheeks, sat up a bit more than in days previous. She was dressed in one of his sister’s old night rails with green embroidery around the neck.

  Something in him warmed at the sight of her, even as anger rose to war with the pleasant emotion. Not that he should feel anything. Mrs. Smith was simply a houseguest. Albeit an unusual one in the course of things, but still just a houseguest. He didn’t want to feel anything warm for her. She could be lying, but the deeper he dug, the more he didn’t believe that to be the case. Though, woman had been attacked in a dastardly way so his anger was justified.

  Her hand rose slowly to take the offered bouquet. “What are these?”

  He sighed and turned them in his hand as if studying the array of peach and white roses from his conservatory. “I believe they are often referred to as flowers, madam.” His gaze rose back to meet hers. “Or more specifically roses.”

  The lines between her brows deepened. “But why?”

  A smile caught him off guard, and a chuckle danced out unchecked. “You are the most wary female I have ever encountered. They are only flowers.”

  She shook her head, confusion still in her face. “Yes, but why did you bring them to me?”

  What the hell was the matter with them? Reigning in on his patience, he held them out to her, waiting.

  “Most women like flowers to brighten things up.”

  Come to think of it, why did women like gifts of flowers and blooms?

  “Oh,” she answered, reaching up to take them.

  Just as her hands closed over the stems, he brushed her fingers with his. Something within him startled at the simple touch. Not precisely lust, after all she was wounded. But she was unquestionably lovely. Not breathtaking, more an appreciation of studied fine art. The kind of lovely that one sees in a vague way, but only truly notices upon further inspection.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she buried her nose in the blooms and inhaled, wincing slightly.

  “Feeling better today?” he asked, sitting down again in the widow seat, pulling one leg up and resting his forearm on his upraised knee. In no other woman’s presence would he be so informal, but then they’d passed all the boundaries of propriety.

  She blinked at him, and blinked again. “Um… Uh… Yes, yes, I am.”

  He smiled. Good. As far as he could find, she was who she claimed to be. An honest widow? Still a new thought for him.

  “Do you like to read?” he asked her, searching for something to discuss.

  She looked away and shrugged with one shoulder. “Yes, I do.” Her eyes rose from beneath her lashes to gaze back at him before she asked again, “Why?”

  Jason shook his head. The woman reflected innocence with her curious surprised looks, yet he still sensed she was keeping things from him. “I thought you might like an activity to pass the time, while you recovered.”

  “Oh.” She smiled.

  Jason blinked. The smile completely transformed her face. It brushed away the wariness, the exhaustion replacing it with vitality.

  “You should do that more often,” he said quietly.

  “Do what?”

  “Smile.”

  A faint blush stole up her cheeks and she looked away. He decided then, he would make certain he came daily to see her. The woman was quite delightful when not hiding behind her wary walls.

  * * * * *

  He leaned back and watched them dancing. The firelight cast their shadows, demons stretching and reaching for the unguarded.

  Yells and guttural calls slid along the air. The chants filled his head. Drums and voices, drums and voices, over and over.

  His hands shook as he slapped them over his ears.

  He would not participate, not like last time.

  The fall from grace before had bled demons into his very soul, his heart, his blood.

  He would conquer them. After all, he had the power.

  And with that knowledge, that power, he knew that one day he would escape these confines and when he did…

  He shook his head. He really shouldn’t be here at all.

  The blame fell on another’s shoulders and he would make certain that person paid and paid dearly.

  The chants filled his head. The drums beat against his heart, the rhythm tempting him to join them.

  But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. It was wrong, wrong!

 
; Why was this happening to him?

  The chanting rose around him and he stood, unable not to.

  The shadows danced with the music, the voices, the fire.

  He kept waiting to awaken, but he hadn’t yet and some part of him knew he wouldn’t. Some part of him knew he would always hear the screams in his head. Always the screams.

  The dance was for the harvest, and he knew his time was coming short.

  He’d watched, planned, plotted very, very carefully.

  Soon the rains would come. The rains would bring a cover, the rains would flood the river.

  And perhaps, just perhaps the water would wash away his sins.

  He looked to the sky and saw the moon rising above the trees. One day he would go home and get his life back as it should be.

  * * * * *

  Emily stood at the window of the library and looked at the moon, hanging pregnant in the indigo sky. A chill shivered over her skin and she rubbed her arms.

  In the two weeks she’d been at Ravenscrest Abbey, she’d settled into a sort of routine.

  Everyone seemed to panic if she so much as moved from her bed, but ‘twas the truth, she’d learned not to lie around, and some habits were hard to break. The bullet wound itself had healed rather nicely, or so she was told. Remnants of the fever had weakened her more than she’d care to admit. Everyone here was so incredibly nice, polite, and…kind. The servants, the doctor, the marquess. And what, pray tell, did that say about her person? To be wary of kindness? She reached out and fingered the heavy velvet drapes.

  She loved this room with its faint scent of lemon oil and the sharp smell of paper, melding with the musk of older books. The walls were covered in books, from the floor to the ceiling, there was even a second level of books and a small winding staircase in the far corner. The windows let in soft light in the afternoon, making this a cozy place to sit for a quiet bit. The long table down the center of the room held different books, sheaves of paper, and rolls of maps. This was, without a doubt, her favorite place here at Ravenscrest. She rubbed her arms.

  Restlessness pricked through her veins. And what did she really have to be restless over? She did want to get on with her life, to get to London, to find her mother and sister and the rest of her family. Family she’d never before met.