In the hallway outside, she followed that sound like a bloodhound on the scent of an animal, swallowing her astonishment as she ended up at Cyrus’ door. Surely, there was some mistake. Maybe, it was the labyrinth of the halls and corridors, disorienting her, making it sound like the woeful noise was closer than it really was.
“I do not want to die,” Cyrus’ voice croaked, as if there was someone else in the room with him, and he was pleading for his life.
Without stopping to think of her own safety, Teresa barged into the bedchamber. The room was empty, save for the figure in the bed, who lay tangled in the coverlets. They twisted around him like serpents, revealing more of him than she had ever expected to see, considering their arrangement.
A bare chest, slicked with sweat; the ridges of a honed abdomen; the contours of strong arms and the immense muscle of powerful thighs, all intersected by the coiling diagonals of his bedlinens. It answered a question she had never dared to ask, ofwhat he wore to bed, and it took her a second longer than she liked to admit to remember why she was there.
“Cyrus?” she gasped, running to his side.
He writhed in his sleep, breathing hard, his face scrunched as if in extraordinary pain. “I do not want to die,” he managed to hiss through a clenched jaw.
“You are not going to die,” she told him, grasping hold of his hand. “I am here, Cyrus. You are not going to die. You are safe. You are safe—all you have to do is wake up.”
She knew a nightmare when she saw one; she had tended to Prudence often enough, who had suffered awfully with night terrors in her younger years.
His eyelids fluttered open, his dark blue eyes staring at her like he did not know her at all.
“I am here, Cyrus,” she said softly. “You were having a nightmare, I think.”
Recognition finally settled across his face and, with it, a coldness that she had not encountered since her first days at Darnley Castle.
“You may leave,” he said gruffly, sitting up. “You should not have troubled yourself.”
She stayed where she was, her hand refusing to relinquish his. “You sounded like you were in pain, Cyrus. I could not ignore it, and I will not be sent away now. When my sister used to have nightmares, I would stay beside her until she fell asleep again, so she could sleep soundly.”
“Yes, well, I am not your sister,” he replied, his tone short. “I do not need your assistance. I need no one’s assistance. So, do as I ask and go.”
She shrugged, shuffling further onto the edge of the bed. “No, I will not.”
“I am perfectly well,” he insisted, a note of irritation in his voice. “This is pointless. You should return to your own chambers and sleep. Indeed, your being here, chattering, will just make it take longer formeto go back to sleep.”
Pulling herself backward until she sat against the headboard, her presence prompting him to move to the far side of the bed, she ignored his protests.
“It is nothing to be ashamed about,” she said. “Everyone has nightmares, I expect, and you have the added influence of living in a creepy castle. It would be strange if you didnothave nightmares, in truth. That is why I read before I fall asleep, so I have pleasant dreams instead of nightmares. Oh—that gives me an idea!”
She darted off the bed, racing back to her own chambers. Snatching the papers off the bedside table, she sprinted back—running faster than she ever had in her life—while hoping that Cyrus had not closed the door and locked it.
Instead, she found him sitting up with a blanket over his shoulders, concealing his bareness from her. In a way, itwaslike he had closed a door and locked it, just not the one she had expected.
“If that is what I think it is, do not bother,” he said tightly, rolling his eyes as she jumped back onto the bed and wriggled back into her earlier position.
“You wanted me to read it to you before,” she argued. “I cannot think of a more ideal opportunity.”
He puffed out a breath. “You said you did not like to read aloud. I have no interest in hearing it. My sole interest is in you leaving this room at once.”
“One cannot overcome a fear if one never faces it,” she insisted, smoothing out the pages. “That is a lesson that I used to stubbornly refuse to learn, but I am beginning to see the merit in it now. My friend, Beatrice, is not afraid of anything. I have always wished to be more like her but have never—ironically—had the nerve. Now, I am trying to be more courageous.”
Cyrus wrapped the blanket tighter around his bare chest. “Why would you want to be anything like Miss Johnson? She is… crass.”
“She is not crass!” Teresa retorted, her eyes flaring with annoyance. “She is confident, and most gentlemen do not know the difference. They do not like a fierce woman. Rather, they do not know what to make of a woman who is as capable and assured as they are.”
She held her tongue, not wanting to say too much about her dearest friend that might be incriminating. It was not common knowledge that, in secret, Beatrice had been coming up with ways to make her own fortune, so she would never have to rely upon a man for anything. And, by all accounts, she was rather good at it.
“Youare confident,” Cyrus said.
Teresa’s brain faltered. “Me?” She laughed awkwardly. “That was a terrible jest, Cyrus.”
“It was not a jest,” he replied, his tone perfectly serious. “You are also confident, capable, and assured.”
