sound asleep, sat in the chair next to the bed. On closer inspection she realized it was the same man she had spoken to at the Bulfinch House—though, unlike then, now his hair was disheveled; his hard, relentless mouth was soft, even approachable; his penetrating eyes were obscured by sleep.
She rolled back against the pillow and pressed her eyes closed. Dear God, she pleaded silently, say it isn't so. But when she looked again, she found the man was still there, sound asleep, comfortable as you please.
She dropped back again and pressed her eyes closed, tightly, trying to think. To remember. Bits and pieces came back to her. Running. Cold. Very cold. But why, she couldn't remember. And then the man, the pirate-man, leaning over her, making her warm. She groaned when she realized she remembered nothing else. But her groan turned into a squeak of distress when she became aware of the state of her dress—state of undress, she amended. She was as naked as the day she was born. Good heavens, what had she done? What had transpired in this strange room with this virtually unknown man?
But then she calmed, if only somewhat. Surely if anything had transpired of a nature she was disinclined to name, she would have remembered. How could a person ... do those unforgivable types of things and not remember? They couldn't, she reasoned, they couldn't at all. She might be there for reasons that were not altogether proper—the fact that a man was sitting next to her while she wore not a stitch of clothing was certainly improper—but she hadn't been there doing . . . having . . . making . . . uhh—Good Lord, you're a grown woman, Belle Braxton, just use the word—she had not been copulating! Surely!
But then she wondered about something else, something in her mind that was a great deal worse than having . . . mated. What if he had seen her leg? Her head swam. Maybe that was why she was so certain nothing improper had happened. They might have been well on their way to the heights of sinful ecstacy, writhing with wicked pleasures, moaning in immoral delight, until he would have undoubtedly caught sight of her leg, bringing . . . things to an abrupt halt. The end. Finished. Fini. She knew firsthand how such a sight could dampen the mood, snuff out the candles of desire so quickly and thoroughly that one would be disinclined to believe that any had ever been lighted at all.
But then Belle looked back at the man, remembering as she did the very stiff and proper way he had acted at the public house. He appeared to have had his sensibilities abused by her merely asking to share his bread. Good heavens, she couldn't imagine what he would have done had she asked to share his bed! She giggled at the
56 Linda Francis Lee
thought, but sobered quickly enough when she remembered her unfortunate circumstances. Nevertheless, she was reassured that this man hadn't seen her leg or any other part of her unclothed body. No doubt he sat there now to protect his precious domain. It was a maid who had disrobed her, surely, though why, she couldn't imagine. But understanding was the least of her concerns just then, departing was.
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, quietly, doing her best not to wake the man. She had to get out of there, preferably without him knowing, wrapped in the sheet, if that was all that was available. But when she looked around the rest of the room, she found her clothes neatly folded before a fire that burned low in the grate.
With a stealth that would have made a dime novel detective proud, Belle slipped from the bed, her long, dark hair cascading down her slim form. She grimaced only once when her bad leg hit the floor, then she tiptoed across the room, threw her dress over her head, not bothering with the nuisance of undergarments, pulled on her shoes, bundled the rest of her clothes under her arm, before she snuck out the door. She made it through the semi-dark hallway, then down the long curving staircase,
She rolled back against the pillow and pressed her eyes closed. Dear God, she pleaded silently, say it isn't so. But when she looked again, she found the man was still there, sound asleep, comfortable as you please.
She dropped back again and pressed her eyes closed, tightly, trying to think. To remember. Bits and pieces came back to her. Running. Cold. Very cold. But why, she couldn't remember. And then the man, the pirate-man, leaning over her, making her warm. She groaned when she realized she remembered nothing else. But her groan turned into a squeak of distress when she became aware of the state of her dress—state of undress, she amended. She was as naked as the day she was born. Good heavens, what had she done? What had transpired in this strange room with this virtually unknown man?
But then she calmed, if only somewhat. Surely if anything had transpired of a nature she was disinclined to name, she would have remembered. How could a person ... do those unforgivable types of things and not remember? They couldn't, she reasoned, they couldn't at all. She might be there for reasons that were not altogether proper—the fact that a man was sitting next to her while she wore not a stitch of clothing was certainly improper—but she hadn't been there doing . . . having . . . making . . . uhh—Good Lord, you're a grown woman, Belle Braxton, just use the word—she had not been copulating! Surely!
But then she wondered about something else, something in her mind that was a great deal worse than having . . . mated. What if he had seen her leg? Her head swam. Maybe that was why she was so certain nothing improper had happened. They might have been well on their way to the heights of sinful ecstacy, writhing with wicked pleasures, moaning in immoral delight, until he would have undoubtedly caught sight of her leg, bringing . . . things to an abrupt halt. The end. Finished. Fini. She knew firsthand how such a sight could dampen the mood, snuff out the candles of desire so quickly and thoroughly that one would be disinclined to believe that any had ever been lighted at all.
But then Belle looked back at the man, remembering as she did the very stiff and proper way he had acted at the public house. He appeared to have had his sensibilities abused by her merely asking to share his bread. Good heavens, she couldn't imagine what he would have done had she asked to share his bed! She giggled at the
56 Linda Francis Lee
thought, but sobered quickly enough when she remembered her unfortunate circumstances. Nevertheless, she was reassured that this man hadn't seen her leg or any other part of her unclothed body. No doubt he sat there now to protect his precious domain. It was a maid who had disrobed her, surely, though why, she couldn't imagine. But understanding was the least of her concerns just then, departing was.
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, quietly, doing her best not to wake the man. She had to get out of there, preferably without him knowing, wrapped in the sheet, if that was all that was available. But when she looked around the rest of the room, she found her clothes neatly folded before a fire that burned low in the grate.
With a stealth that would have made a dime novel detective proud, Belle slipped from the bed, her long, dark hair cascading down her slim form. She grimaced only once when her bad leg hit the floor, then she tiptoed across the room, threw her dress over her head, not bothering with the nuisance of undergarments, pulled on her shoes, bundled the rest of her clothes under her arm, before she snuck out the door. She made it through the semi-dark hallway, then down the long curving staircase,
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