What a Wicked Earl Wants by Vicky Dreiling

pounded like a thousand hooves on cobblestones. The carriage hurtled on. Every stop to change the horses felt like an eternity. He kept trying to shout for them to hurry, hurry, hurry, but his voice was lost. God in heaven, let them live. Let them live. He would do anything, give up everything, if only they would recover.
    Bile rose up in his throat. He grasped the strap and prayed. Fear raced through him like a wildfire as the carriage careened into the square. As soon as the carriage jangled to a halt, he vaulted out, running, running, running. Oh, God, there was straw at the door.
    He was too late. Too late.
    “No!”
    He reared up in bed, breathing like a racehorse. His heart drummed in his chest. He drew his knees up and laid his head on his forearms. Cold beads of perspiration dampened his temples. He gritted his teeth, trying to will away the dream, but the remnants persisted. The tension in his arms and legs was slow to dissipate.
    He shoved the covers back and got out of bed. The coals were smoldering, and his skin prickled from the cold. He donned a banyan and lit a candle. Then he added coals to the fire. He poured himself a finger of brandy and downed it in one fiery swallow. The burning sensation helped clear his head. He drew back the drapery and saw that it was still dark. He gritted his teeth. Was he condemned to relive that horrific day for the rest of his life?
    After releasing the heavy brocade material, he held the candle up to see the mantel clock. It was a quarter past three. The worst part was he never knew when the nightmare would strike, but tonight he ought to have been prepared.
    One stray thought about his father had brought it on.
    The cause wasn’t always so clear. Most of the time, he couldn’t attribute it to anything, and he never knew when the nightmare would strike. Sometimes weeks and even months would pass. He’d tried to keep a journal of it in hopes of making sense of the nightmare and perhaps taking control, but it hadn’t worked.
    Something hot sizzled inside him. He was frustrated and furious at his inability to control his own mind while sleeping. He hated it, because there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it.
    The chill in the room drove him back to bed. He lay there staring up at the canopy, trying his best to forget the awful events that had altered his life forever. It was bad enough to have lost his family once, but to relive it again and again was pure hell.
      
    The chill woke Laura. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the drawing room. The fire had died down and the candles she’d lit had guttered. She took a candle to the hearth, moved the screen, and lit the taper. Afterward she found a branch of candles and lit those. A quick check of the mantel clock showed it was four o’clock. She found her shawl and hurried out of the dark drawing room.
    She held on to the rail and took the steps with care in the darkness. When she reached the landing, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she proceeded down the corridor past her own bedchamber to Justin’s room. When she knocked, there was no response. With a sigh, Laura opened the door. The empty bed infuriated her. She’d lied to Montclief to protect Justin, and he didn’t even know how much trouble he’d caused.
    He didn’t care that she’d sat up late worried about him. The only thing he cared about was sowing wild oats with his rakish friends. She’d had quite enough of his rebellion. The minute he came home, he would find his trunks packed. She’d brought him to London so that he could be with his friends, and all he’d done was abuse the privilege. Well, he’d pay for his actions, and he’d better appreciate it, because the alternative—staying with his uncle—would be far, far worse.
    Laura walked back to her room. Her maid Fran met her at the door. “My lady, did he return?”
    She shook her head. “I’m sorry to keep you from your bed, Fran. If you can help me undress quickly, we might as