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The door to her bedroom was pushed wide open.
A figure stepped into the room and into the moonlight that spilled from the window, revealing the intruder to her startled gaze.
It was him.
The man from her dreams, tall and fierce looking, but this time he looked solid, real, and he appeared to have a weapon hanging from his belt. A sword? Could it be that he had a sword? Burglars didn’t run around chatting at the top of their voices and carrying swords, surely not—not even in eccentric old Cornwall.
She had to be dreaming. Yes, she realized with a sudden sense of dizzy relief. I’m dreaming about him again, right?
Nevertheless, caution had automatically taken hold of her and she stepped back into the darkness against the wall, but not quick enough and not before the intruder caught sight of her. He stared at her and then, after a silent moment, he laughed heartily. He dropped a bundle from his shoulder to the floor by his feet, and then strode past her toward the window, presumably looking for his partner in crime.
“Well, Nathaniel,” he said, as if voicing his thoughts to the darkness below. “Old friend, you are a true gentleman. I didn’t realize you’d be seeing to my wish for a wench for the night.”
“A wench?” Sunny repeated, astonished, then jumped at the sound of her own voice.
He turned back to her and stepped closer.
Snaking his arm around her waist, he pulled her up against him.
Sunny swore in disbelief when her feet left the floor.
He was well over six feet tall and very strong.
He spun her into the light to look her over, the moonlight flashing on his teeth as he smiled. “Oh yes, and you’re a pretty wench, aren’t you? Unusual, too. You’ll be a fine way to pass my last night on English soil.”
Yup, she decided, I’m dreaming. Like last time, only better.
“Well, I guess I should thank you,” she mumbled, feeling rather oddly as if she was in some kind of role-playing game. Was that what dreams were like, when you were actually in them? And since when did she have the power of analysis in the depths of slumber? She pushed the questions away and tried to get into her role. Because she didn’t want the dream to escape now, did she? She’d wished for it to return, after all. If she thought about it too much she might just wake up, and lose the glorious feeling of those powerful arms around her—heaven forbid. “I’ve been called unusual before, because I’m half Moroccan, but I’ve never been called a wench.”
He gave a deep belly laugh. She felt it rumble right through her body, crushed as she was against him. He was incredibly strong.
“What should I call you then, lass?”
“My name is Yasmina Sunitra Chambers, but everyone calls me Sunny,” she managed to mumble, before he buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply of her scent.
“Mm, you smell good, Sunny, like damsons.”
“It’s probably my bubble bath.”
“Double what?” He leaned over, taking her with him, and snatched up a small, leather-covered object from somewhere behind her.
“Bath.”
It struck her as odd because, glancing down, she didn’t recognize the small t
able standing there by the bed. In fact, the bed looked different, too. The dream had changed everything in her room. The conversation seemed odd too, surreal. But it would, wouldn’t it? That’s what dreams are like, she kept reminding herself.
The object he’d lifted was some kind of hip flask. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a long drink. He stared at her thoughtfully as he swallowed. The heady aroma of potent rum flared through her nostrils. It was so real.
He offered the bottle and she took it, tentatively.
The pungent alcohol swirled into her mouth. She swallowed.
Hang on a minute, she thought. If he believed the other guy had arranged for her to be there, did it mean she was supposed to be like...like a woman of the night, a prostitute even? Sunny laughed aloud at the idea, nearly choking on her rum.
“Too strong for you?”
“No, I, um, it’s fine.” Could she really play the part for him?
