to come to heel when I called, then turned tail and went galloping
away.”
The poor creature struggled even now to be freed. Copeland soothed the silken head
with gentle hand. “And who was walking about at this hour of the night?” Exhausted
irritability fast replaced the mellow warmth of the brandy.
“The place was empty, my lord.”
“Empty? Are you sure?”
“I checked most thoroughly, my lord, looking between all the pews and behind the altar.
Not a soul to be seen. Shall I check again, my lord?”
“No. No. We shall sort it out in the morning.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good night, Bolton.”
“Good night, my lord. Shall I take the dog?”
“No. I shall keep him with me tonight, Bolton.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The circle of light from Bolton’s lamp parted from the smaller, wavering circle his
candlestick threw. Shadows leapt and played upon the walls. Gabriel whimpered.
With no inclination to dally in dark hallways, Copeland returned to a room of moonlit
darkness, a clutching closeness of shadowed corners and tumbled bedclothes. Candlelight
danced, playing tricks on his eyes. The memory of his fear over a silly nightmare,
coupled with the fear he had seen in Gabriel’s tucked tail and rolling eyes, led him
to settle the dog among the bedcovers.
As he pinched out the candle he could not help but wonder who walked the chapel in
the middle of the night. What was there to fear in a dream? In a dog’s foolishness?
Silly, really. Surely nothing could be more fearful than the knowledge one was dying?
And yet he lay in bed wide-eyed, heart thumping wildly, staring at the mounded covers
that marked his feet, and Gabe’s sleeping form. He was unaware when his eyelids drooped,
when fatigue overtook him, when the woman in white came and sank into the bed beside
him.
He only knew he woke, but no, not a waking state at all, this was a dream in which
he thought he woke to find himself cradled in warmth, in the comforting smell of Christmas,
evergreens and cedar, his head filled with it, evoking all the pleasant memories of
Christmases past.
The bedclothes cocooned him. Or was it someone in the bed! His heart sprang into a
dead run.
He thought to turn, to confront the audacious invader of his private and personal
space, but a murmur in his ear, in his bed, in the middle of the night, stopped him.
“Who?” he managed to sputter.
He told his limbs to turn, to face her, for it seemed a woman’s voice, but his body
did not listen, and his eyes did not want to remain open. So heavy he felt. So tired.
The wonderful well of her heat was deep and welcoming.
She spoke, breath cool against his temple.
“Sleep,” she whispered, so soft he wondered if it was the crisp hiss of clean linen
whispering against his nightshirt, not a woman at all.
Frozen. He lay frozen, heart stopped, breath stopped, but then it seemed that strong
hands clasped his chest, and forced his heart to beat again.
A dream. It must be a dream, he told himself as his breath dragged back into his lungs
with a gasp. The idea could not calm him, or slow the horrible banging of his pulse,
but the warmth of the bed, the covers like arms about him, brought some comfort.
Wrapped tightly, cloaked in possibilities, he slid into the warmth, sank willingly
under the weighty blanket of darkness and sleep. He jerked, forced his eyes to pierce
the darkness. He must know who the woman was—this stranger who invaded his private
chamber.
“Sleep,” she breathed, something familiar in that voice, elusive, like a half-forgotten
song, a tune so beautiful and soothing he could never forget the words.
Never forget.
She slipped away like smoke upon a breeze, faded from memory like a dream in daylight.
The world went white, the brightness through the windows, cold and still, all hard
edges softly draped, sound muffled, snow still falling—Gabriel on the bed, curled
in a warm ball near his
away.”
The poor creature struggled even now to be freed. Copeland soothed the silken head
with gentle hand. “And who was walking about at this hour of the night?” Exhausted
irritability fast replaced the mellow warmth of the brandy.
“The place was empty, my lord.”
“Empty? Are you sure?”
“I checked most thoroughly, my lord, looking between all the pews and behind the altar.
Not a soul to be seen. Shall I check again, my lord?”
“No. No. We shall sort it out in the morning.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good night, Bolton.”
“Good night, my lord. Shall I take the dog?”
“No. I shall keep him with me tonight, Bolton.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The circle of light from Bolton’s lamp parted from the smaller, wavering circle his
candlestick threw. Shadows leapt and played upon the walls. Gabriel whimpered.
With no inclination to dally in dark hallways, Copeland returned to a room of moonlit
darkness, a clutching closeness of shadowed corners and tumbled bedclothes. Candlelight
danced, playing tricks on his eyes. The memory of his fear over a silly nightmare,
coupled with the fear he had seen in Gabriel’s tucked tail and rolling eyes, led him
to settle the dog among the bedcovers.
As he pinched out the candle he could not help but wonder who walked the chapel in
the middle of the night. What was there to fear in a dream? In a dog’s foolishness?
Silly, really. Surely nothing could be more fearful than the knowledge one was dying?
And yet he lay in bed wide-eyed, heart thumping wildly, staring at the mounded covers
that marked his feet, and Gabe’s sleeping form. He was unaware when his eyelids drooped,
when fatigue overtook him, when the woman in white came and sank into the bed beside
him.
He only knew he woke, but no, not a waking state at all, this was a dream in which
he thought he woke to find himself cradled in warmth, in the comforting smell of Christmas,
evergreens and cedar, his head filled with it, evoking all the pleasant memories of
Christmases past.
The bedclothes cocooned him. Or was it someone in the bed! His heart sprang into a
dead run.
He thought to turn, to confront the audacious invader of his private and personal
space, but a murmur in his ear, in his bed, in the middle of the night, stopped him.
“Who?” he managed to sputter.
He told his limbs to turn, to face her, for it seemed a woman’s voice, but his body
did not listen, and his eyes did not want to remain open. So heavy he felt. So tired.
The wonderful well of her heat was deep and welcoming.
She spoke, breath cool against his temple.
“Sleep,” she whispered, so soft he wondered if it was the crisp hiss of clean linen
whispering against his nightshirt, not a woman at all.
Frozen. He lay frozen, heart stopped, breath stopped, but then it seemed that strong
hands clasped his chest, and forced his heart to beat again.
A dream. It must be a dream, he told himself as his breath dragged back into his lungs
with a gasp. The idea could not calm him, or slow the horrible banging of his pulse,
but the warmth of the bed, the covers like arms about him, brought some comfort.
Wrapped tightly, cloaked in possibilities, he slid into the warmth, sank willingly
under the weighty blanket of darkness and sleep. He jerked, forced his eyes to pierce
the darkness. He must know who the woman was—this stranger who invaded his private
chamber.
“Sleep,” she breathed, something familiar in that voice, elusive, like a half-forgotten
song, a tune so beautiful and soothing he could never forget the words.
Never forget.
She slipped away like smoke upon a breeze, faded from memory like a dream in daylight.
The world went white, the brightness through the windows, cold and still, all hard
edges softly draped, sound muffled, snow still falling—Gabriel on the bed, curled
in a warm ball near his
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