Weatherton nodded and climbed the ladder. Alyse stared up at the shadowy ledge he ducked inside. The long length of him disappeared. She inhaled a shuddery breath. She was expected to follow him. To disappear in that dark little den with him.
Her throat thickened and her hand moved to the pocket of her skirts where she kept her dagger. She felt the same panic pressing on her as she had when facing the auction block. The uncertainty. The sense of being penned in. Trapped.
Here she was again. Alone all night with him.
She’d done it before and yet this time felt different.
She should feel a little more at ease, more reassured after last night and this morning. He hadn’t harmed her. In fact, he’d given her a dagger should she ever feel the need to defend herself.
And yet . . .
The dark little cave looming above her was so very different than the spacious room they had shared last night. Odd as it seemed, last night already felt a lifetime ago.
Her fingers closed around the rough wood ladder. She peered above her with another shaky breath. There was only darkness up there. And him.
“I know it’s not the most inviting . . .” Evidently Mara did not miss her hesitation and she misread it.
“Oh, no. Not at all. It’s perfectly suitable. We’re so grateful.” Alyse fixed a smile on her face and hardened her resolve to climb. “Thank you.”
Mara nodded amiably. “Well. Good night then.”
Alyse watched as she ambled toward her bed, her hand braced against the small of her back and felt a fresh stab of guilt for adding to the woman’s discomfort by forcing her children into the bed she shared with her husband.
With a shake of her head, she reminded herself that they would be well compensated for the single night of discomfort. That gave her some consolation. Readjusting her grip on the ladder, she lifted her skirts with her other hand and began to climb, mindful not to miss a rung.
Arriving at the top, she peered into the dark loft. She couldn’t even make out the shape of him in the unremitting blackness. There wasn’t much to the loft other than the mattress. She patted with her hands and crawled forward a few inches before bumping into the bed.
She eased down a knee, testing, making certain she wasn’t going to collide with a man’s body. Fortunately, she didn’t come into contact with him. Evidently he had bedded down on the opposite side of the loft and she wasn’t climbing atop him. She winced. That would have been awkward.
The space was tight. The shared air passed back and forth between them.
She stretched a hand above her, fingertips meeting the ceiling that was only a scant inch above her head. Cramped, indeed. He was much taller than she was. If he sat up too suddenly, he would bang his head.
She lowered her arm and settled down onto her back, arranging her dress around her. She lay stiffly, unaware how close he was to her. It was disconcerting. She was, in effect, blind. He was near, but she had no idea where he was.
She only knew that they were not touching. Relief coursed through her. She could almost convince herself she was alone. That he wasn’t up here with her.
Except she could sense him, feel him, his bigger body radiating heat beside her.
Expelling a breath, she laced her fingers together over her stomach and willed herself to relax. It was futile. A slat of wood couldn’t be any more rigid. Minutes slid past. She unlaced her fingers and her hand drifted to her skirt, patting where the dagger was tucked away, feeling its comforting shape. Ironic indeed that the item gave her such comfort as he had been the one to give it to her.
She turned her face to the side on her pillow, staring where she knew him to be, where she heard the steady fall of his breath.
Everything is fine. Everything is fine.
The refrain ricocheted through her mind. He’d had plenty of opportunities to harm her and had not.
It could be far worse. She knew that. She could have been sold to someone else.
Her mind drifted to the image of the tanner and she had to fight back a surge of bile. All those uncomfortable encounters from her girlhood flooded over her. His disturbing stare. The occasional brush of his hand on her person. She could be married to him right now. Enduring that.
Instead she was here with this man who had not made one threatening move against her . . . who even tolerated her wayward tongue.
The reminder made her feel better.
Better enough for her body to finally relax and drift to sleep.
Chapter 12
The dove told herself it was well and good to be without family.
There was not room enough in her cage for others.
She woke with a scream hot in her throat. She lurched upright. Tears scalded her cheeks as she stared into blackness, bewildered, confused. Terrified.
The darkness was so thick it sat on her skin like a heavy blanket. She was blind to the world, but visions flashed across her mind.
The tanner’s leering face. Rough, dirt-crusted hands, grabbing her, hurting her. The smell of him, foul and bitter as copper in her mouth.
“Alyse,” a voice rasped. Hard hands shook her.
“No!” She surged, fighting like a wild animal, striking out with fists, desperate to get him to go away. To leave her alone.
“Alyse! Stop! Stop! It’s me.”
His words meant nothing to her. They buzzed meaninglessly in her ears. She only saw the tanner. Felt his touch on her. Battled the suffocating fear.
Those hard hands slid down and gripped her wrists, lifting them and pressing them into the mattress. She surged, trying to break free, but her arms were pinned, immobilized.
“Miss Bell! Alyse!” She felt his warm breath on her face. Her own breath escaped in crashing pants.
“Oy! Anything amiss?” a voice called out, startling her. Another voice. A second voice? That didn’t make sense.
A dog joined the din, releasing several growling barks.
“Fergus, quiet!”
Gasping, she went still as stone and assessed, taking note of the mattress under her, the pop of crumbling wood in a fireplace somewhere in the distance, a big body against her own trembling form. Then other voices. Small voices. Children’s voices.
Instantly, she knew where she was. It struck her all at once. She remembered the events of the day.
Alyse swallowed back an epithet.
Blast it. She’d acted a fool, waking the entire house. She blamed it on thinking of the wretched tanner before she fell asleep. Thoughts of him had filled her head and followed her into her dreams.
“I . . . I had a nightmare,” she whispered, her tone tormented even to her own ears. Mortified . . . apologetic.
“Evidently,” Weatherton whispered back. “Can you assure him I’m not killing you up here?”
“I’m f-fine. Just a nightmare. I’m s-sorry for disturbing your rest,” she called down, wincing at the sound of Mara earnestly humming the children back to sleep.
Mara’s husband grumbled beneath his breath and stomped back toward the bed. His dog whined, nails scraping the wood floor as he scurried below. “Enough, Fergus,” he snapped. “Go back tae sleep.”
After a moment, Weatherton whispered near her ear, reminding her of his presence. Not that she forgot. How could she forget? He was . . . everywhere. His breath fluttered her hair. “Well, that was fun. Not a dull moment with you, Miss Bell.”
She cringed and laughed weakly, the sound hoarse.
The hands on her wrists loosened, but he didn’t move and she was achingly aware of the big body covering her own.
“You can get off me now.”
“Can I? I suppose I should count myself fortunate you did not go for that knife I gave you and skewer me.”
“It won’t happen again.” She doubted she would be able to fall back to sleep at any rate. Her mortification ran deep and would keep her tossing and turning.
He didn’t move but he released her wrists and balanced his weight on his arms on either side of her head.
“What was your nightmare about?” His deep voice came out softly, curious and almost . . . kind.
She fidgeted. His kindness made her uncomfortable. Not that she wanted cruelty from him, but she did not want to like this man. She wanted indifference. She wanted to feel toward him what any employee might feel toward her employer. Cool indifference. Aloofness.
“Nothing.”
She didn’t want to share her nightmare with him, her fears. She didn’t want to expose herself and be vulnerable. Contrary to how they met, she was no fragile flower.
He’d already seen her at her most vulnerable on that auction block. She needed to show him that she was strong.
“I’m not weak, you know,” she heard herself blurting. Great. Denying it so emphatically probably made her appear that very thing.
“Weak. You? No, I didn’t imagine you were.”
“You needn’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you.”
“You bought me. I was like a . . . a slave up there.” She hated admitting it. The truth sounded so much worse uttered aloud.
“I thought you were very brave. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry or beg. I don’t know a single woman who would have stood as proudly as you did up there.”
She couldn’t breathe. Did he mean that? She blinked furiously, feeling the burn of tears. Now she would weep? Over his flattering words? She really was daft.
Silence stretched between them and he finally moved, sliding off her.
She exhaled, the tension in her chest easing. There was a slight rustling as he settled down beside her.
Only he wasn’t finished with her.
He continued talking. “You needn’t be embarrassed, you know. It happens to all of us.”
Was he actually trying to make her feel better? He’d already done that, surprising her with his flattering words. Couldn’t he just hold his tongue? She didn’t want to share and swap stories with him.
She didn’t want him to be so nice.
Still. He’d piqued her curiosity. “What happens to all of us?” she grudgingly asked.
“Nightmares.”
“You have nightmares?” It shouldn’t amaze her. Just because he was a big, arrogant man with expendable funds didn’t mean he wasn’t human.
He paused a beat. “I talk in my sleep. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
And who told him that? Immediately, she told herself she didn’t care. He could have had a thousand bed partners—he was certainly physically appealing enough—and it was none of her business. It had nothing to do with her. She didn’t care.
“I didn’t talk in my sleep. I screamed,” she began, “like I was being murdered and woke up these nice people. It is embarrassing,” she replied in hushed tones. “First we take their children’s bed and now I ruin their sleep.”
“It’s only a single night. We’ll be gone tomorrow and leave them with a pocketful of coins for their trouble.”
His reasonable tone and reasonable words did serve to comfort her.
“Don’t worry,” he added. “Go back to sleep, Alyse.”
She sighed. “I don’t think I can.”
He didn’t respond. She stared blindly into the dark, wishing she could see his face and then she remembered his face was far too good-looking and definitely weak-knee inducing. Given their proximity and the intimacy of their circumstances, it was probably better she couldn’t see his features.
His breath fell soft and even beside her, and after a while she assumed he had fallen back to sleep until he said, “Give me your hand.”
Her pulse jumped at her throat. He wanted to touch her? “My hand?”
“Yes.”
“W-what for?”
“Come now. Just hold out your hand. I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, you still have your knife. Feel free to use it if you feel threatened.” She could almost imagine the sarcastic twist to his lips. There was definitely humor to his voice.
Warily, she stretched out her hand and he took it, clasping firm fingers around hers.
In the dark, her sense of touch was heightened. His hand felt so much bigger than hers. The fingers long, tapering. His grip strong, the pads slightly rough. Callused. For all his apparent prosperity, he wasn’t a dandy then. He used his hands. This should not affect her one way or another, but her chest lifted on a hitched breath.
He flattened out her palm, stopping her fingers from curling inward. Then he began lightly stroking. His fingertips brushed back and forth over her palm, his blunt-tipped nails softly scoring her skin.
It was a delicious sensation. Gooseflesh broke out over her skin.
Her breath caught. “What are you doing?”
The physical contact was more intimate than she had experienced in years. Her kiss with Yardley had been brief. Chaste. Weatherton’s fingers running over her quivering palms felt . . . personal.
“I used to do this to my little sister. It always put her to sleep. She was a headstrong child. Never wanted to sleep and miss out on anything.”
She didn’t know what was more shocking. That this hard man petted his little sister to sleep or that he was petting her.
Her stomach felt funny. Bubbly like she drank too much of Mr. Beard’s ale and then went sledding down a hill. Not that she had gone sledding since she was a carefree child but she remembered the plummeting sensation in her stomach.
“That feels . . . nice,” she admitted, wondering why her body was starting to hum, like all her nerve ends were tingling.
“Clara never lasted very long. Usually this put her right to sleep. Course I haven’t tried this on her since she was a child of eight.”
“How old is she now?” She yawned.
“Fourteen. Almost fifteen.”
“Might be trickier with me. I’m not an eight-year-old little girl.” She opened her mouth wide on yet another yawn that belied her words.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You’re not a little girl.”
In her suddenly drowsy fog, she thought his voice sounded gruffer, thicker. She didn’t know what that signified, if anything, but she shivered. Even though she wasn’t cold anymore, she shivered.
She supposed his tickle-soft touch on her palms had something to do with that. Her hand felt like a lead weight. She let it droop. He caught it and lowered it onto his chest.
She felt his shirt against the back of her hand.
A lethargic smile curved her lips. “Breaking custom tonight, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re wearing clothes.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, this entire journey has been one for breaking tradition, I suppose.”
“I suppose it has.” Not that journeying anywhere was a custom of hers. This entire trip, in fact, was a break in tradition for her.
His fingers continued their sensual assault on her hand, creeping up her wrist and forearm in slow, measured strokes and then back down again. Sensual? When had his touch become sensual?
She gave a slight shake of her head and told herself it was relaxing. Not sensual.
“Is your sister in London?”
“Yes,” he answered.
She thought about that for a bit. He clearly liked her. Clara. So he would return eventually.
As though he could read her thoughts, he asked, “Why do you want to go to London so much?”
Her lips worked before she arrived at her answer. “I’ve never been.”
“So? I’ve never been to Warsaw, but I’ve no overriding desire to go there.”
She laughed once, lightly, and then sobered. “My father visited London. He told me about it. The buildings and people. The museums and galleries. The theaters. The bookshops.”
“It’s crowded. You can’t breathe there.”
“What do you mean? There’s air there like anywhere else.”
“Not like anywhere. Not like here.”
She turned that over in her mind. Perhaps she had built London up in her mind. Perhaps the most imp
ortant thing was to simply get away from Collie-Ben, where she was known as the girl married at the age of ten and five to old man Beard . . . and now where she would be known as the girl sold at auction.
Anywhere else was preferable. As long as it was someplace else. As long as it was away.
“I suppose the air can be different,” she agreed as his fingers traveled over her skin, “in certain places.” Life at the Beards’ had smelled of sweat, the air cold and ripe as an onion field, but next to him the air felt . . . warm. Electric. Not easy to breathe necessarily, but still different from Collie-Ben. Better.
And that was a rattling thought. She shouldn’t enjoy being near him quite so much. At that thought, she pulled her hand away. “Thank you. I’m much relaxed now. I should sleep quite well.”
Rolling onto her side, she pulled deep inside herself and feigned sleep.
Chapter 13
The dove never felt frail. Never weak.
Her heart always beat strong beneath her feathered chest . . .
ready for the day the cage door flung open.
The good news was they left early the following morning and reached the next village well before nightfall.
Alyse only offered the sparsest of words as they traveled. She was too preoccupied with her thoughts. She almost didn’t feel the cold at all as she recalled how she fell asleep last night with his fingers tracing her palm and his deep velvet voice talking to her about dreams and his little sister and places where the air flowed clean. It was unnerving. Nothing about it felt like something that should have happened between them, and she thought of little else as they traveled deeper north.
She thought about it too much.
When they arrived at the village the only lodging to be found was more of a boardinghouse than an inn, and it didn’t boast a bounty of bedchambers. Once again, they were forced to share a room. At this point, it felt par for the course and she experienced only a momentarily flash of unease.
They had shared a bed twice now. She’d endured it both times with no mishap—well, if one did not count a great sense of awkwardness.
The boardinghouse was operated by Mrs. Collins, a widow who currently looked them over critically, clearly trying to decide whether or not they were married.
The Duke Buys a Bride Page 10
