The Dream by Jaycee Clark Page B

he wondered how she made it from the nursery to his room. No sign of the young maid sent to sleep in the nursery with Joy until a nanny would be found. There was a faint light from the windows, but it was dark.
    He shut the door and looked back at her. She stood there in a small nightgown trimmed in pink roses. Her eyes, red rimmed from crying, stared up at him.
    Jason sighed and squatted down in front of her. “What’s the matter, Poppet?” He brushed hair back from her forehead. “Did you have a bad dream? You know, you really shouldn’t be out of bed, walking around at night. You might hurt yourself.”
    Joy pulled her thumb out of her mouth with a wet pop. “Mum?”
    His heart squeezed. Leaning over, he gathered her close and stood. At the bed he sat and she scooted to lie on his pillow, her thumb firmly back in her mouth. It really shouldn’t have surprised him. On the trip home, he’d made her a pallet on the floor and woke up with her in bed beside him. Jason leaned back against the headboard. “Joy, honey, your Mum is very ill. She’s going to…” How in the hell did one explain such things to children? “A trip. Your Mum is going on a trip.”
    Pop, out went the thumb. “I wand go.”
    “I know you do, but you can’t.”
    Joy stared at him. He wished he had dismissed Isobelle’s wishes and stayed through to the end. But she’d asked him, pleaded and begged that he just leave, take her daughter and go. She didn’t want him to see her die, didn’t want to know that her daughter might sneak in and see it. So, angry at fate, and not understanding her, he packed his daughter up, and carried her screaming from the house. It had torn his heart from his chest and he couldn’t even imagine what it must have done to Isobelle . Shaking off the depressing thoughts, he brushed a finger over his daughter’s smooth cheek. “But while your mum is away, you get to stay here with me. Would you like that?”
    In answer, she shoved her other little hand out and held onto his.
    She should undoubtedly go back to her own bed. He watched as her eyes became heavy and she finally fell into sleep. To hell with it. What would one more night hurt?
    Breathing deeply, he found a more comfortable position and watched his daughter sleep.
    Her hair was dark and curled. Her nose tilted up on the end, and her cheeks, plump as ripened apples, moved in time with her suckling her thumb. He watched her mouth relax, the thumb slip partially out, only to see her brows frown before she quickly sucked her thumb again. Her hands were chubby and dimpled.
    It was amazing to him, everything so incredibly amazing. Her hand still firmly in his, he fell asleep.
    * * * * *
      “And have you heard from this child’s mother?” Sir Taber asked him, sitting across from Jason.
    Jason thrummed his fingers on his desk, the polished top hidden beneath mounds of papers. Lemon oil and beeswax filled the air.
    Clearing his throat, he looked down. “Yes. We received a message from her maid that she passed on.”
    Regret shot through his heart as it did when he thought of Isobelle .
    Sir Taber grunted.
    Sir Vincent Taber worked under the Minister of War. Most did not know exactly what he did, or his exact title of position. In fact, come to think of it, Jason could never remember referring to him as anything other than Sir Taber. The man dressed as a gentleman, but the clothing was as much a façade as the charming smiles. Underneath the fine tailored wardrobe was one of the most ruthless men Jason had ever met. Black hair, graying at the temples, ice gray eyes, sharp angular features, a long lithe frame, neither tall or short, made up the man that was Jason’s boss. A man who ran a secret agency as tightly as a banker ran his accounts.
    “And the other? The carriage incident? You believe the woman was no more than a bystander?”
    Jason thought of Emily Smith and sighed. “You know my feeling on widows.”
    Sir Tabor narrowed his gaze, his raptor