“I can’t. I’m dying,” she wheezed.
Startled, he reared back. “God, I hurt you? What did I do?”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Her tender, noble Lucas had returned.
“No, no, it was wonderful. But you do weigh rather a lot and I couldn’t breathe.”
She watched the panic fade to relief and then to pleasure as he gazed at her smiling face. With a sudden movement and a soft murmur about naughty teases, he rolled over to pinch out the candle, then settled on his back, tucking her into his shoulder and pulling up the discarded blankets.
Lucas filled every corner of the small bed with his heat and size. It was so warm and cosy that she soon felt herself slipping away into sleep.
“You see, Rosalind,” he whispered, “we fit perfectly together. Sleep well.”
The sharp scream shook his body, and Lucas sat up fumbling for the gun that he always kept under his camp bed. It wasn’t there, just a mound of fluffy pillows that smelled of…roses.
Awareness bloomed within. He wasn’t in Portugal, Spain, France or any of the other numerous places he’d been to. The sound wasn’t gunfire or men screaming in pain and his eyes started adjusting to the dark.
The bed was trembling with Rosalind thrashing about on the pillow, her head restless and mouth muttering unintelligible things.
“Love, wake up.” He leaned over to caress her, but a flailing arm caught him full in the face. He could taste blood in his mouth, but he ignored the copper tang and put his hand to her shoulder.
“Have to find it… Find the box…the forest,” she muttered.
“Wake up, my love. ’Tis just a dream.” His gentle touches didn’t seem to be working, so he caught hold of her slender wrists, attempting to still her flailing arms. He could see no other way and he began to gently shake her.
“No, let me go. Don’t touch me…no, not those.”
She struck out, her knee catching him hard in the ballocks and all air left his lungs.
“Jesus.” He rolled over, clutching himself. So much for iron balls! Why did nothing ever hurt as bad as that?
“Lucas…” Her voice still shook and quivered, and he turned on hearing his name.
“You have quite a fight for a dainty thing. Wait a moment, I’ll light a candle.” The fire was still burning low and he placed the lantern by the bed. “My poor darling. That was quite a nightmare. You were screaming like a banshee.” He sat back on the bed. God, how had they managed in this piddling thing? It was far too small.
Her face caught in the candlelight as she raised herself up. She was ashen. No, worse than ashen, her features were drained of all colour. Pallid, wan. Tears streaked down her cheeks, making her appear gaunt and grey. She looked like a ghoul.
“What’s a banshee?” She questioned with a whisper.
“Oh…er, some Irish witch, I think. No, can’t remember, one of O’Carroll’s bedtime stories.”
She didn’t move, expressionless and stoic, so…unlike Rosalind.
“Can you remember your dream? Sometimes it helps.”
She shook her head, and he had the feeling that nothing he said was helping.
He smiled at her. “Would you like a hot drink. I can–”
She shrank back. “Your teeth, Lucas, they’re red.”
“Oh. ’Tis nothing, no need to worry. You clouted me in the mouth with your arm. No harm done.”
A violent shiver overtook her. He needed to get her warm, so he reached for another blanket and placed it over her before clambering back in, cursing the short length of the bed. He pulled her trembling body back against his. She felt so cold and he willed his body to warm hers.
Rosalind had seen the worry on his face as he’d gently tucked the blanket over her and then pulled himself close behind. She’d seen his red teeth and the discreet rubbing at his pained nether regions. She closed her eyes.
The shivering wouldn’t stop. Her limbs seemed to have no control, and every now and then, one jerked out.
