“Patrol? My lord, we are not a regiment stationed near the enemy.”
“Forgive my wording, but you know what I mean.”
She sighed. “Talbot is responsible for locking all the entrances, and he’s spent his life doing exemplary work. The servants know they are not to leave the house during the night. We are secure, Sergeant.”
Though he wanted to chuckle at her use of his rank, he was too concerned about the hours they would spend apart—when she would be alone. Any servant could grant access to the house in the middle of the night, circumventing outdoor watchmen.
At her door, she opened it before he could, murmured a quick “Good night,” and ducked inside, closing it behind her. He heard the key turn in the lock.
He sighed, not expecting anything else, no long kiss or invitation to join her. But he was glad she was safely locked inside and made sure the dressing-room door was locked as well. In his own room, the bed was turned down invitingly, but he wouldn’t be using it although he did disturb it so that the servants wouldn’t realize what was going on. His wife might be in danger. Silently, he entered the dressing room she’d abandoned as some sort of no-man’s-land since his arrival. By leaning his head near the door, he could hear her speak with her maid, and relaxed at their soft laughter.
Then he limped as quickly as he could back downstairs, using only the faint moonlight through the windows to guide him. He checked every exterior door although it took him almost an hour to do so. Talbot was doing his duty, at least.
When he returned to the dressing room, he could no longer hear anyone speaking in Cecilia’s room. He closed his eyes and put his hand on the doorknob, remembering how she’d looked when she slept. After removing his coat and boots without a sound, he lay down on the cot kept there in case the maid needed to remain nearby.
He fell asleep, but in the way of sleeping lightly, he was restless, with dreams invading his mind. His dead friends returned to him again, as they’d begun to do every night. In some ways, seeing their deaths over and over again would be easier than imagining their lives if they’d lived, but tonight his dreams gave him the future that might have been. He saw the late earl in command of his estates, guiding his son, allowing Cecilia peace of mind. His two dead friends returned to England, one to a wife and child, the other to see his sister settled before embarking on his own search for a wife.
Michael forced himself to awaken. They were dead—many men had died in the empire’s endless quest to remain strong. And he was alive. He didn’t feel guilty about things that couldn’t be changed, so what were his dreams trying to make him see?
It was still several hours before dawn, but after listening at Cecilia’s door again, Michael did another slow patrol through the castle. The doors were still locked, but that didn’t mean he could relax.
Cecilia awoke just before dawn, when the world was gray with the promise of a new day. But she felt sluggish rather than energized. She’d heard footsteps several times outside her door and had tensed with fear, but no one had tried the knob. Surely it was a servant passing by in the night, seeing to Oliver.
Or a restless Lord Blackthorne. She was surprised he hadn’t insisted on escorting her directly into her room. Since their kiss, she felt like he hadn’t left her alone, and that was making her even more nervous because of the way he drew her to him.
She was already dressed by the time Nell arrived and had even pulled her own hair back. The maid tsked at her.
“I have so much to do today,” Cecilia insisted. “Do I look presentable?” She took a piece of toast from the tray, slurped her hot chocolate, and started for the door, determined that she was not going to alter her life because of fear.
“Ye didn’t even let me reply!” Nell cried, hands on her hips.
“Sorry!” She opened up her door—and found Lord Blackthorne seated on a bench beneath a wide landscape painting.
“I thought I’d accompany you on your walk,” he said, standing up.
He was so overpowering, even in the high-ceilinged ornate corridor. She glanced behind to see Nell looking past her, full of interest and approval. Since when had Lord Blackthorne begun to win over her servants, even her own lady’s maid? She frowned at Nell, who quickly busied herself in the wardrobe.
Cecilia wanted to refuse him but knew that would make him suspicious, and even more insistent about accompanying her. So she smiled tightly, tossed her piece of toast back on its plate, and allowed him to fall in beside her. He was carrying a basket that bumped rhythmically against his good leg.
“What is that?” she asked with suspicion.
“Breakfast. It seems your cook has heard you are not eating enough. I believe I saw a simple piece of toast in your hand—and you didn’t finish it.”
“Are you spying on me?” she demanded, coming to a stop.
He pivoted about the cane and looked down at her. “Your cook came tome,the man you’ve proclaimed as your husband—although you’ve not convinced yourself.”
She flushed. “We’ve discussed this. It’s only been a few days. I haven’t decided.”
“And now that I’ve kissed you, you seem even more against the idea of spending time with me.”
She swept past him. “Just because you wish to remain married doesn’t mean I do.”
“The longer you take, the more scandal it will be.”
He was right—she hadn’t been thinking deeply about it, weighing her options. She was too concerned with her brother’s future—and with the “accidents” that had plagued her.
“Lord Blackthorne, I don’t even know how tobeginto trust you!” They were near the balustrade that wound about the entrance hall, and her voice echoed. She winced and looked about but didn’t see any servants nearby. “Yet denying this marriage means becoming a ward again, and I don’t want that.”
