Chapter Ten
Aunt Thelma loved to reminisce about her dearly departed husband, a man she’d loved for better or for worse—for worsebeing house-rattling snores that might have awoken the dead from their slumber. Grace had put no more stock in the description than in her aunt’s audacious claim to have gossiped with a certain loose-lipped first lady over tea and pastries in the White House.
Until tonight.
Now, she understood.
Slipping away from the bed she attempted to share with Mrs. Carmichael, she padded over to the rocking chair and plopped into it. Like a child attempting to drown out a scolding, she plugged her fingers into her ears.
No, that would not work.
She was so tired. Utterly exhausted. And yet, there was no rest in sight.
Perhaps she’d learn to ignore the nerve-jangling sounds.
She sighed. Heaven knew she’d have had better luck drifting off to sleep while lying beside a cannon in the heat of battle.
In all fairness to Mrs. Carmichael, the matron was not snoring. Not now, at least. Grace might’ve been able to ignore a rhythmic sawing sound.
It was far worse than that.
Margaret Carmichael talked in her sleep.
Talkedwasn’t really the right word. Argued. Bantered. Bickered. Any of those words would have fit. She yelled or muttered or sputtered some jarring exclamation every quarter hour, as if by clockwork.
All those years, Grace had always thoughtwake the deadwas merely an expression. But now, she wouldn’t be shocked if the infernal noise actually did rouse some unlucky spirit from its rest.
Leaning back, she curled up in the chair. The spindles dug into her back, but she ignored the sensation and closed her eyes. A minor discomfort was no match for sleeping beside Mrs. Carmichael.
Finally, she would get some rest.
She drifted off and flowed into a dream. Images danced through her mind in a blur. Her sister’s face. A kitten she’d adored as a child, a charcoal-gray ball of fur. Her father dressed for a day of work in his store, his stern expression transforming into a smile at the sight of her.
Suddenly, a cry that seemed a cross between a groan and a squawk tore her back to reality. Mrs. Carmichael was tossing and turning on the mattress, seeming to fend off some invisible adversary.
Oh, dear.
With a sigh, Grace came to her feet. Suddenly, she had an idea. Genius. Or perhaps not. In either case, it was worth a try.
Reaching down, she tugged the broad felt tie from her dressing gown and tied it around her head. Once. Twice. With a grain of luck, the thick flannel would block at least some of the sound. Mrs. Carmichael groaned again, the first test of her makeshift earmuffs. The blurred sounds that made it through the cloth were not nearly as jarring.
Grace returned to the bed and pulled the covers around her. Another strangled protest came from the agent’s side of the bed. The grating sound did not make Grace feel as if she wanted to catapult herself from the bed.
Perhaps…just perhaps…she could endure this.
Slivers of moonlight streamed between the window curtains. Rolling onto her side, she could make out the door to the adjoining chamber. Harrison was likely burrowed beneath the blankets, enjoying a deep slumber. Lucky devil.
He’d agreed to protect her. Perhaps she could convince herself that his duty extended to seeing that she got a good night’s sleep. She smiled. Would he think her a complete wanton if she unlatched the door and took refuge in his quarters?
With a satisfying thump of the pillow, she closed her eyes again. In the morning, the dark circles under her eyes would rival a raccoon’s mask. But she’d get through this night.
And before the next nightfall, she’d jolly well see about finding some earplugs.
…
Harrison stripped off his shirt and drank in the feel of cool air against his skin. He’d lingered too long by the fireplace in the pub. Now, the slight chill seemed a refreshing tonic. Shedding his trousers, he tossed the garments onto the wooden chair in the corner and climbed beneath the covers of a bed made for two.
Tossing aside the wool blanket, he stretched out his limbs, as if that might ease the tension in his body, and folded his hands behind his head. His thoughts created chaos in his mind. Slim rays of gaslight flickered in from the lighted corridor, trickling in around the edges of the door, mixing with the shadows. He studied the interplay of light and darkness, the patterns and silhouetted images on the wall and the ceiling, but his attempt to distract himself didn’t work. Damned shame he couldn’t seem to think about something—anything—besides the woman in the adjacent chamber.
