The Presence by Heather Graham

felt a moment’s softness. The terror in her eyes seemed real. For the first time she seemed vulnerable.
    â€œToni,” he said firmly, stretching out his arms to catch her around the middle and lift her down. “Toni! Wake up!”
    She stared at him blankly.
    â€œToni!”
    With a jolt, she blinked and stared straight at him.
    He thought she was going to scream again. Instead, she blinked once more and quickly stepped back, eyeing him up and down. Luckily he had donned a long pair of men’s cotton pajama pants.
    â€œI think you were dreaming,” he said.
    She frowned, flushed and bit her lower lip. “I screamed?”
    â€œLike an alley cat,” he informed her. He stepped back himself. In this pale light, in this strange moment, he suddenly realized just how arresting a woman she was. Not just beautiful, but fascinating. Eyes so intensely blue, bone structure so perfect and refined, her mouth so generous. Her features seemed carefully drawn, as if they had been defined by an artist. And despite the vivid color of her hair and her eyes, there was a darkness about them, as well.
    â€œI woke you,” she murmured. “My deepest apologies.”
    â€œI wasn’t actually sleeping, but I am surprised you didn’t wake the entire castle. Or maybe you did,” he added. He couldn’t refrain from a dry smile. “Maybe they’re creeping down the hall now, afraid to come in and find out what’s happening.” He left her and walkedto the door, opened it and looked out. Then he shrugged. “Well, castle walls have been known to keep the sounds of the tortured from traveling too far.”
    She still stood there, tall, elegant, strangely aloof. He found that he was annoyed to be so concerned. She seemed to be the head of this wretched gang that had the gall to “invent” history and entertain others with their perception of the past. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
    â€œI just… I’m fine. And I’m truly sorry.” Her words were sincere. Her eyes were still too wide. And she seemed to be afraid of something.
    Him? No. Something in her nightmare?
    Bruce hesitated. Leave! he told himself. He didn’t want them here. Lord, with everything else going on…
    She shivered as she stood there. That was his undoing.
    â€œThe wretched room is freezing. Why didn’t you build yourself a fire?” he demanded.
    â€œI…”
    The uncertainty seemed so unlike her. She’d been a tigress, arguing with him before. Impatiently he strode to the fireplace, dug behind the poker stand for kindling, laid it over the logs and struck a match. Hunkered down, he took hold of the poker to press it deeper into the pile of wood. He wondered if that had been a mistake, if she was going to think that he’d turn and take the poker to her.
    But she was still standing, just as he had left her. To his sincere dismay, he felt a swift stir of arousal. The flannel should have hung around her like a tent, but it was sheer enough for the light to play with form andshadow. And there was that hair…long, lustrous, blond, curling around her shoulders and breasts.
    â€œA drink. You need a drink,” he told her. Hell, he needed one.
    She lifted a hand suddenly, obviously regaining some of her composure. “Sorry, I don’t have any.”
    â€œThankfully you didn’t jimmy the wardrobe,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
    He went back through the bathroom and opened the wardrobe, found the brandy and poured two glasses from the left-hand shelf. Returning to the bride’s room, he found that she had taken a seat in one of the old upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.
    He handed her a glass. She accepted it, her blue eyes speculatively on him. “Thanks,” she told him.
    â€œThey say it will cure what ails you,” he told her, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”
    â€œCheers,”