could oblige him. All the while, he tried to ignore the strangely comforting feeling of protectiveness that enveloped him as he tightened his grip around the girl. His strong arm encircled her slender waist and he noticed how helpless and fragile she appeared. He could not bear to consider what might have become of her had he not happened past when his did — his heart constricted painfully at the thought.
***
The first thing she knew was the sound of birdsong, somewhere in the distance. She could also feel the warmth of the sun on her face. Araminta shifted slightly, still not quite awake. She wondered dizzily why the curtains were open. Kitty never opened the windows until Araminta woke up. She felt very warm and comforted, as though in a cocoon.
She had had the strangest dream in the night, and she knew that when she told Kitty about it, her duenna would laughingly dismiss it as a night-time fancy. And yet the dream had felt so real! She tried to remember it exactly, but it was as if the dream was broken into puzzle pieces, and as soon as she tried to put it all together, it would start to come apart again. She remembered a thunderstorm, and Nightstar, and a sense of falling that made her stomach wobble uncomfortably. She struggled to remember anything past that point, except a sensation of being held in a comforting pair of arms. A sense of warmth, contentment and security had surrounded her in the dream, and even now that she was awake she could clearly recall how it had felt. She thought she might have tried to speak, but had not been able get the words out, and the voice had murmured for her to be still. It was a kind, low voice that rumbled in the speaker’s chest. The warm arm around her had tightened, and a scent of spice and leather, a scent of masculinity, had filled her nostrils, making her head spin. She didn’t know anyone who smelt like that in real life — like danger. Like things rarely voiced and very much forbidden.
It had certainly been an odd dream, and for a moment, despite herself, Araminta felt a stab of disappointment that it was nothing more than that.
There had been other dreams too, of a fire-lit room, and voices murmuring over her, and of a cool cloth on her forehead. She was sure that she had woken up at some point, her mouth dry and her body on fire and she had tried to throw off heavy covers, which had been stifling her body, like a funeral shroud. Steady hands had held her down, and had given her something bitter to drink, and then she had been so terribly, terribly cold and the blanket had been as thin as a sheet of muslin over her. But the memory was feverish and episodic, and she was sure that that could not have been real either.
She opened her eyes, and looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Sitting up quickly, her eyes darting around, Araminta felt a sharp stab of pain in her head. Her heart was racing. Where was she? It was an elegant, well-appointed room, decorated in green and gold, with rosewood furniture and a large canopied bed, in which she had been sleeping. Panic rose as she realised that she was not in her room at Fanshawe Hall, or at the Worthings’ London townhouse. She was not in any bedroom she had seen before — she had no idea where she was! Could she have been abducted? But surely such things only happened in novels. Araminta’s head pounded and she struggled to straighten her thoughts, as she wondered what she ought to do.
A door opened on her right, and a matronly, steely-haired woman came bustling in. She stopped suddenly, appearing momentarily surprised that the young woman was awake. She recovered quickly, however, and approached the bed, taking a washcloth from a basin of water on a table by the bed.
“You’re awake, my girl. That is good to see. Relax now, child, it is alright. You are quite safe. Lie down, now. Your head must be paining you something dreadful. And you must feel very weak indeed.” With gentle hands, she pushed Araminta back down
***
The first thing she knew was the sound of birdsong, somewhere in the distance. She could also feel the warmth of the sun on her face. Araminta shifted slightly, still not quite awake. She wondered dizzily why the curtains were open. Kitty never opened the windows until Araminta woke up. She felt very warm and comforted, as though in a cocoon.
She had had the strangest dream in the night, and she knew that when she told Kitty about it, her duenna would laughingly dismiss it as a night-time fancy. And yet the dream had felt so real! She tried to remember it exactly, but it was as if the dream was broken into puzzle pieces, and as soon as she tried to put it all together, it would start to come apart again. She remembered a thunderstorm, and Nightstar, and a sense of falling that made her stomach wobble uncomfortably. She struggled to remember anything past that point, except a sensation of being held in a comforting pair of arms. A sense of warmth, contentment and security had surrounded her in the dream, and even now that she was awake she could clearly recall how it had felt. She thought she might have tried to speak, but had not been able get the words out, and the voice had murmured for her to be still. It was a kind, low voice that rumbled in the speaker’s chest. The warm arm around her had tightened, and a scent of spice and leather, a scent of masculinity, had filled her nostrils, making her head spin. She didn’t know anyone who smelt like that in real life — like danger. Like things rarely voiced and very much forbidden.
It had certainly been an odd dream, and for a moment, despite herself, Araminta felt a stab of disappointment that it was nothing more than that.
There had been other dreams too, of a fire-lit room, and voices murmuring over her, and of a cool cloth on her forehead. She was sure that she had woken up at some point, her mouth dry and her body on fire and she had tried to throw off heavy covers, which had been stifling her body, like a funeral shroud. Steady hands had held her down, and had given her something bitter to drink, and then she had been so terribly, terribly cold and the blanket had been as thin as a sheet of muslin over her. But the memory was feverish and episodic, and she was sure that that could not have been real either.
She opened her eyes, and looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Sitting up quickly, her eyes darting around, Araminta felt a sharp stab of pain in her head. Her heart was racing. Where was she? It was an elegant, well-appointed room, decorated in green and gold, with rosewood furniture and a large canopied bed, in which she had been sleeping. Panic rose as she realised that she was not in her room at Fanshawe Hall, or at the Worthings’ London townhouse. She was not in any bedroom she had seen before — she had no idea where she was! Could she have been abducted? But surely such things only happened in novels. Araminta’s head pounded and she struggled to straighten her thoughts, as she wondered what she ought to do.
A door opened on her right, and a matronly, steely-haired woman came bustling in. She stopped suddenly, appearing momentarily surprised that the young woman was awake. She recovered quickly, however, and approached the bed, taking a washcloth from a basin of water on a table by the bed.
“You’re awake, my girl. That is good to see. Relax now, child, it is alright. You are quite safe. Lie down, now. Your head must be paining you something dreadful. And you must feel very weak indeed.” With gentle hands, she pushed Araminta back down
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