His leg crumpled.
Bitter. Pitch. Lost.
Murk waters slapped his skin, his eyes, with relentless malice. No strength left to even shiver. His throat a jagged path of pain – breath a mere rasp.
Another wave crashed over his leg and he screamed and–
Wrenched stark upright, fingers clutching at his knee, sweat pouring despite the chill of the room.
Where was he? Who was he?
A faint dawn light permeated the curtains. A room with blue wallpaper and rugs. A desk with a miniature of Sarah.
Tristan. He was Tristan Cadogan.
Gulping, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and breathed.
Slow. Slower.
With effort, he rose to his feet, staggered to the window and thrust the curtains aside. His chambers overlooked the parterre garden with the sea beyond and he rubbed his bleary eyes to contemplate the day.
The lashing wind had blown itself out but murky grey clouds hovered over the sea.
Sinking into the chair that faced the view, he held his nape, a crushing heaviness weighing upon him. Oft that dream of being lost at sea caused this exhaustion the next morn, pressing upon his shoulders and behind his eyes like brass weights, but it wasn’t just his restive sleep that now weighed upon him…
He needed to apologise to Gwen for last night in the attics.
She’d not returned to the drawing room afterwards, so he’d given his excuses, apologised to Mari, blamed tiredness and departed early for his chambers, but he’d not retired abed. Instead, he’d sat here, by the window, watching the blackness outside.
At some hour gone midnight, he’d stumbled to bed, but sleep had been agitated, tormented and then to have that dream again…
Scowling, he stood and, not in the mood for the fuss of his valet, he washed, dressed and tied a simple cravat himself before making his way downstairs.
The breakfast room was at the back of the house in order to catch the rising of the sun, and sitting alone at the twenty-foot-long table was Rhys, coffee cup in one hand, toast in the other while he perused the papers.
“Morning.”
His brother glanced up. “You’re up early. Did you sleep well?” He cocked his head. “No. You look dreadful.”
“It was…disturbed.” He limped over and slumped into a chair opposite.
Morgan the butler brought tea while Tristan pondered – kippers or sausages?
Sausages.
He sipped his tea. Prodded the pot of Mrs Pugh’s damson jam.
No. He’d have kippers.
The clock chimed eight.
Or sausages?
“What’s wrong, Tristan?”
“Hmm?” And he squinted up to find Rhys leaned back in his chair. “Nothing.”
His brother deployed that damn ducal arc of brow.
