Despite his mother’s vexation, he could make do without a valet as he’d been able to dress himself well enough in the army. He did acknowledge, however, that Weston’s fit was much tighter than any army jacket.
“Shouldn’t betoodifficult, Major. No disrespect.”
No, Lucas supposed he wasn’t exactly a walking sartorial fashion plate. It wasn’t as if he had a huge range of coats outside of the brown.
After recovering from the burns, he’d worn his previous favourite colours – burgundies and rich blues. He’d looked like a clown – the burgundy had matched his scars and the blue just looked frivolous. Black had thrown his face into stark contrast, so he’d settled on mud brown and grass green, blending into any background, be it a field or panelled study.
Wind thudded into the side of the carriage but Billy finally fell silent. Every now and then, however, the boy jumped and let out an oath as the wheels bounced and he clouted his head.
Lucas pitied the poor driver. He’d have to up his pay or the man was likely to leave him at the next inn, never to return. Harsh curses reached his ears from outside as the rain began again in earnest, pounding on the carriage roof and causing Billy to shiver in his seat as a single drip landed on his shoulder.
The boy eyed the gathering collection of droplets wending their way across the roof covering and pulled his cloak even tighter to his body. “Never leaving London…never…ever again.”
Blankets fell to the floor as Rosalind flailed restlessly in the bed. Even asleep, she could feel the sudden darkening of her vision, pressure bearing down, and everything blackened.
Trees stared, eyes wide in their trunks, unblinking at the woman’s plight. Through the dark she reached out but they closed their lids, the bark sealing itself against her misfortune.
So the woman ran.
Black, vile mud. It crawled up her ankles, then calves, to drag her down to the wet earth, but still she ran. Fear. Terror. Legs seized by the mire. So dark, the rain beating remorselessly down.
Pain tore at her stomach, and she paused. Breath rasping in her throat and now bent over in hurt, she heard voices, far away but carried on the wind – gruff and violent.
Hauling wet skirts, she ran again, with no feeling of direction, as long as it was away…
An ancient sprawling tree and she stopped. Usually benign and life-giving by day, it stood ghostly and alone in the nudity of winter.
She pressed hands to the bark, feeling for the strength it may give. It began to freeze, rising up, white and icy around and around the trunk, burning her hand with its cold and forcing her away, lest she freeze with it.
Moisture cascaded down her forehead, and she raised fingers to wipe the torrent from her eyes. Even in the gloom, she could see dark-red liquid staining, running amongst her fingers.
Where did she think she was going? He would find her, wherever she went.
Barking slashed through the trees. Dogs. He had the dogs out. They would have her scent, her blood. Bounding through the woods, they cried out hysterically, howling her name.
On and on, she ran. Vision blurring, shivers raking her body, but still she ran, heart thudding in terror and fright. She didn’t want to die…
She fell…hard, and roots clutched her to the ground, ripping air from her lungs.
A footfall. She stared blindly ahead from the forest floor as mud-splattered boots appeared before her, a crop held tightly in a large, masculine hand.
Too late, she realised, and her whirling head dropped to the sodden leafy earth.
Rosalind clenched the blanket tight, digging in her nails: to sense her muscles flex, to let her body react to the stimulus, to allow her frantic heartbeat to lessen – to touch something real. She was breathing as harshly as the woman she had just dreamed about.
A woman running for her life. Was she out there? Even now? Or was it in the future? A week? A month? When…?
Frustration coursed through her – this damned curse! Was there anything she could recognise? The woman had been dark-haired, but the woods had been black and all she’d felt was the fear and terror.
Was it related to the murders? She’d awoken Benedict late at night before with frantic dreams, only to send him out on a wild goose chase: patience, they had both learned, was usually the key.
After hours of restlessness and no sleep, she hurled back the blankets and let her feet slip to the floor. The cold nipped at her toes, despite the woollen stockings, and she quickly found her slippers, also pulling on her pistachio-coloured robe and Indian shawl for good measure. The fireplace still glowed softly, so she lit a candle from it and shovelled on more coal from the small box to the side. By the time she returned from the kitchens, it would be roaring.
Letting herself quietly out of the bedchamber, lest she wake the household, she made her way down the stairs. At one time, the dark would frighten her, and she remembered as a child begging Lucas not to leave the nursery. Nowadays, she saw it as a comforting blankness, a haven of oblivion and peace. The dark itself was not frightening – only what might lie within it.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped to listen to the pleasant sounds of the night: rain dripping, floors creaking, faint sound of dogs and…a door closing?
Holding her candle aloft, she saw a shadow pass from the kitchens, moving with a soft tread.
