into two hours, and she hadn’t needed to ask why. Clearly, he had been doing all he could to limit their time alone together in the room. Unlike her, he hadn’t allowed the idea to titillate him. She envied his consistency in keeping to the path of discretion.
Then again, on occasion he might do well to reroute. He seemed to think the world revolved around his father’s values. Well, perhaps it did—but it shouldn’t have.
The wind howled, and a pocket of hard rain splattered against the panes. She shivered, despite the warmth of the counterpane, and shrunk deeper into the feather mattress. She hated waiting out this sort of storm alone. If only Mr. Wyndam were awake, she would have company to help occupy her mind.
Lightning flashed, and she winced in time with the thunder that blasted on its heels, the closest strike she had yet heard. Maybe now he would wake up.
No, below the pounding downpour, she heard another quiet snore. How on earth did he manage to sleep? But he had driven all day, while she had spent the morning dozing. She was selfish to wish him awake. He needed his rest.
Another shock of lightning glared, and a deafening crack sounded almost simultaneously.
She sat up and scooted toward the foot of the bed, away from the window. Lord, that was close. Had it taken down a tree in the yard?
Pulling the counterpane around her shoulders, she peered toward the trundle bed. A white flash lit up the barrister’s motionless figure before the dark swallowed him again with an accompanying rumble. At least that one hadn’t been as near as the last. Perhaps the worst had passed.
The fire in the hearth had died, so she stayed put, bundled in her blanket. After a few minutes, she decided to light a candle. That way she wouldn’t have to wait blindly between those horrid flashes.
She slid out of bed and stood on the cold wooden floor, inching toward the nightstand where Mr. Wyndam had left the candle. The room was pitch-black, and she moved in a stooped posture, her hands stretched out before her to prevent a collision with the furnishings.
Her right hand met with something warm—fabric over hard muscle. She snatched her arm back just as a bolt of lightning revealed she had felt Mr. Wyndam’s shin, covered only by a sheet. The room went dark, and a rustling came from his direction as she stood still, fancying she could feel her chilled fingers thawing from the scant bit of contact.
Foolish! She didn’t know whether to hope she hadn’t disturbed him or had. Then she heard his breathing again, not snoring, but the even respiration of sleep. Had the rain grown quieter? It must have, as she could also hear her own heart thumping.
She located the candle and tinderbox by touch and, after a minor struggle, succeeded in lighting the wick. Rather than providing a reassuring illumination, the flickering flame invoked ghostly shadows in every corner of the room. As she picked up the candleholder to take it back to bed, she glanced toward Mr. Wyndam. He lay on his back, his face turned away from her. She found herself pausing, even leaning a little closer to the trundle bed, a tingle rising up her spine.
She let her gaze linger on his face, tracing his strong jawline, fringed with dark sprouting bristles—fascinatingly male . His need of a shave emphasized the intimacy of the moment; normally he never would have appeared before her in such a state. Indeed, he had not chosen to appear like this now and certainly would not have appreciated her studying him.
She looked away, toward her bed, but still didn’t go to it. Tristan Wyndam was an extraordinary man in both his person and his character. Until she had met him, she hadn’t realized the extent of her sexual vulnerability. Standing here beside his bed, she felt a tremendous yearning...a yearning that her philosophy left no room for. She had long ago accepted that she would spend her life without male companionship. To marry made a woman a slave, and to become a
A. C. H. Smith
Jamie DeBree
Lisa Jackson
Sarah Strohmeyer
Victoria Pade
Kim Taylor
Beverly Connor
Kele Moon
Where Angels Go
Matt Stephens