“Who are you? Show yourself.” If someone thought to steal from this house, she’d have their guts for garters. After all, she had a sturdy brass candlestick in her hand and a very loud scream.
“Calm yourself, Rosalind. ’Tis only I.”
“Benedict? What in the devil are you doing, creeping around in the middle of the night?”
“I could ask the same of you?”
The shadow became flesh as he stepped into the light of her candle, and she gasped.
He was soaking wet. His hair was plastered flat to his head and, despite the cold, he was only wearing a shirt. That too was drenched and it moulded to his slim physique, delineating his chest and firm stomach.
None of that made her gasp. It was the blood. It stained the front of his shirt, not lots but enough that it had spread in blotchy patches.
“You’re hurt?” And she rushed forward.
“No.” He held out a hand to keep her at bay. “It’s not mine. No need to worry, and you’ll dirty yourself. One of the horses was foaling and I went to help. What are you doing up?”
He seemed almost angry and she had never seen Benedict anything but calm. Sometimes mildly amused, but never angry.
“I had a dream. A woman in the woods, running.”
Benedict didn’t say anything, just eyed her, his face frozen.
“I was heading for the kitchens to get some spiced milk. Would you like some?”
“No…thank you. I must change or I’ll have a case of the snuffles.”
Rosalind nodded. She had never felt nervous in her cousin’s company before but he was making her feel distinctly uneasy. “I will bid you good night, then. If everything is as it should be.”
Benedict seemed to hesitate for just a moment before he inclined his head again. “Everything will be fine.” And he began to wend his way up the stairs. “By the way…” he called out as she started for the kitchens.
Rosalind stiffened. Why did he always say that? “Yes, Benedict?”
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone about tonight. I don’t want the housekeeper to worry about the mud. I’ll clear it up myself.”
Opening her mouth to say the housekeeper got paid enough, she stopped as she saw Benedict gazing at her, a beseeching look on his face.
“Please…” he said. “You trust me, don’t you?”
She did, implicitly, and Benedict never said please. He never asked anything of her, except to marry him, but that didn’t count, so she found herself nodding. “Of course. I won’t say a word to anyone.”
How odd. Benedict was always so…predictable. Still, she’d learned that outward appearances could hide a multitude of sins or virtues and, despite living with him for many years now, he was still an intensely private person.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “I hope you sleep again with the milk. No need to worry, Rosalind. Sweet dreams to you.” And with that, he took himself up the stairs, two at a time, still dripping water.
Shivering, she descended to the kitchens and felt the range. It still had enough warmth to heat the housekeeper’sspecialmilk, so she gathered a pan. Cinnamon, honey, nutmeg, milk and a generous slug of brandy. The warming aromas filled her nostrils as she stirred the concoction, frowning.
Benedict hadn’t asked her about the dream either. Normally, he enquired if anything needed to be done. She loved Benedict. He had accepted her and given her a home, returned her freedom and always been honest. She would trust him with her life.
But things were changing.
Lucas Mainwaring was arriving tomorrow, Benedict had been…odd, and someone was murdering women.
Sweet dreams indeed…
