Woke, gasping to the gray light of dawn. His wife was sprawled backward on the bed where he’d thrown her. He groaned and closed his eyes. Black tentacles of the nightmare still twined through his consciousness, clinging, pulling him down. His heart was thumping, his palms cold and sweaty with fear. He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.
“Luke?”
He opened his eyes. She knelt at the foot of his bed, watching him anxiously.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “It was just—”
“A nightmare, I know.” And before he knew it, she had her arms around him, murmuring softly that it was all right. And reeking of roses.
“Sorry,” he said, and pushed her abruptly away. He shot out of bed.
“What is it?” She got out of bed and followed him.
“No! Don’t come near me!”
She stopped dead, her eyes dark with worry. “Why? What’s the matter? What have I done?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Nothing. It’s just… the smellof roses.” He shuddered. “I don’t like it.” More like can’t bear it.
She gave him a puzzled look. “I see. Would you like me to—?” Her eyes widened when she noticed the rose-scented soap gone from the dish. She glanced at the open window. “I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her brow wrinkled in concern. “Did you hurt yourself?”
He realized he was rubbing the spot just below his left shoulder and snatched his hand away. “No.” Noticing her arms were wrapped around her body, he added, “You’re cold. Get back into bed.”
“I’m all right,” she said quietly. “The question is, are you?”
“Yes, of course, it was just a stupid dream.” He spoke brusquely, but he couldn’t help himself. He hated having exposed himself to her like that. “Now get back into bed before you freeze.”
She straightened the bedclothes and climbed onto the bed. “Are you coming, too?”
“No.” He pulled on his breeches and boots. “Go back to sleep. I’m going for a walk.” Grabbing the rest of his clothing, he let himself out of the bedchamber.
He stamped his way through the quiet streets, soft and whispering with morning fog. He was embarrassed to have caused such a fuss. How much had she heard? Futile to wish she’d never witnessed it. And now that she had, she’d be asking questions. It was what women did, he thought bitterly.
When Isabella came down to join him for breakfast later that morning, Luke noticed damp tendrils of hair clinging to her nape and temples.
“I had another bath,” she explained. “Our landlady thinks I am mad.” She dimpled. “That or she suspects you did something truly strange to me last night. I asked for her plainest soap. Is this all right?” She extended her wrist for him to smell.
He sniffed. Plain soap and scent-of-Isabella. His senses stirred pleasantly. He gave a gruff nod, touched by her simple acceptance of what must appear to be something ridiculous. “Perfect, thank you.”
A pot of chocolate and a basket of pastries arrived. Isabella shook out her napkin, picked up a pastry, and said, “Who’s Michael?”
“Nobody.” A sharp jab of guilt caused him to correct himself. “No, not nobody. He was our friend. He’s dead.”
“He died in the war?”
“Yes.” Luke addressed himself to his breakfast.
For a few minutes they ate and drank in silence. Then, “You said, ‘our friend.’??”
“We were at school together—Gabe, Harry, Rafe, Michael, and me. And we all went to war together, too.” He sipped his coffee, strong, hot, and black, just the way he liked it. “Gabe, Harry, Rafe, and I came back.”
“And you were dreaming about Michael’s death this morning?”
“It sometimes happens,” he said curtly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
