Victorian Dream (28 page)

“What is it? What’s the matter?” He drew the covers up over her quaking body.

“A dream,” she whispered, “just a dream. I’ve had it before.”

“Not just a dream by the way you’re trembling.”

Walker was correct—it was a hideous nightmare. Although it had been several weeks since the bloody specter had disturbed her sleep, it now returned in even more glaring detail.

“Tell me about it.”

“I dare not. I never tell anyone my dreams.”

“Maybe you should.”

“But to put words to it might give it life,” she said, offering up her rote answer.

“Or,” he pointed out, “take away its power.”

She swallowed hard. That’s what Aunt Abigail always said. She slumped back upon the bed. Maybe with Walker warm and near, she might be able to do as he suggested. It would be a great relief to share the mental burden, something she had never had the nerve to do before.

He settled at her side. Then as if to make her feel less awkward, he nonchalantly bent one arm up behind his head, leaned back against the pillows, and closed his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, she screwed up her courage and took the chance.

“In the dream,” she began, “I’m trapped in a small room. The walls are made of stone, it’s damp and poorly lit, and it smells fetid.” She shivered at the memory and inched closer. “A tapestry hangs on the wall, but it doesn’t add warmth or comfort. The vaulted ceiling makes one hope for stained-glass windows, anything to break the dark evil atmosphere hovering there, but no natural light penetrates the tomb-like chamber.”

Knowing what was coming next, she buried her head against his chest—seeking the heat of his body and the steady beating of his heart. He lowered his arm and cinched her closer.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

She raised her head. His eyes were open now, steadfastly returning her gaze. She tried to gage his reaction to her recitation. His expression held only concern, no mockery, or condescension.

She swallowed hard, lowered her head against his chest, and continued. “Then a crashing ensues, followed by a sparkle of light, and the cubit begins to fill with blood.

The dark ruby liquid sucks me down into a deadly embrace. Thick and warm and unrelenting, it covers my body and face, forcing its way into my nose and mouth.” Her breath came in fits and gasps. “Then when I think all is lost, I wake up—clawing my way back from the edge of death.”

He turned toward her, crossing one leg up over her thighs and hip, partially covering her body as if to shield her. Having torn the hateful apparition apart in her mind, she did feel a little better.

“After I met you, and fell in love,” she said, “I was hoping the nightmares would stop.”

“Then you’ve had other dreams of such a disturbing nature?”

“Sometimes.”

“Even as a child?”

“It was different then. When I was small, I had good dreams, sometimes prophetic, but for happy reasons—such as knowing when a relative was coming to visit, or when a mare might foal. Then there was a good long while with no dreams at all. I was sad because some of them were so much fun. About a year ago, I started having ugly visions. I had one about my parents being hurt, and it was terrifyingly correct. That’s why this one frightens me so much. Since we’ve been together, you’ve filled my world with happiness and pleasure, I thought these wretched specters had given up torturing me and gone away. But now….”

“I must be falling down on the job,” he joked, stroking her neck.

She wanted to respond, but was too upset. Simple distraction wasn’t going to resolve her problem. He seemed to realize gentle teasing wasn’t the answer. “Do you fear this dream is prophetic as well?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I certainly hope not.”

“What can I do to help?”

His willingness to fix the problem eased the tension from her body. He took her seriously, not chiding or laughing at her fearful dilemma.

“Just what you’re doing now. Hold me. Tell me everything will be all right.”

He hugged her tighter. “Everything will be all right.”

He said it with such conviction she could almost believed it was true. Turning to more fully face him, she pressed her hips up against his. The part of him that still held her fascination twitched against her belly.

It was a long time until morning. Perhaps a little distraction wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

****

The day dawned clear and brisk, full of promise and sunny expectation, with no room for nightmares or gloomy thoughts. It was the perfect day for the charity bazaar.

The booth Trelayne managed with Penelope, open now for an hour, was drawing quite a crowd. Their custom was sheet music for the
Hebrides Overture,
signed by Mendelssohn himself, and they were selling faster than roasted chestnuts on a cold winter’s eve. Of course the signature was false and everyone knew it was a forgery—that being the whole hilarious point.

Up the row, you could purchase a snippet of wax, supposedly a discard from Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition, or a paper flower complete with certification stating it had been
grown
at Kew Gardens. It was all a lark providing items to be dragged out for amusement at future dinner parties.

She reached to straighten the stack of papers, brought up short when Penelope gripped her arm with the strength of a bricklayer.

“Laynie, there he is. Isn’t he wonderful?”

She craned her neck to follow her friend’s line of sight.

“Don’t look,” Pen warned. “He’ll see us gawking, and think me ever so immature.”

“If I don’t look how can I see how wonderful he is? And who he is.”

“His name is Jeffrey Lancaster. He’s the son of Hubert P. Lancaster.”

“The Lancasters of High Wycombe?”

“The very same. They have a huge bit of property with tons of sheep and a thriving woolen mill. Jeffrey doesn’t often visit London. I didn’t expect to see him today. He must have remembered me mentioning the bazaar at the Queen’s concert. Oh mercy,” her friend squeaked, blushing furiously. “He’s coming this way.”

“Good morning, Miss Penelope. You’re looking more appealing than a lamb in springtime.”

Penelope made a happy sound, coquettishly playing with the ribbons on her cloak. Trelayne tried to keep from laughing. A lamb in springtime? Well, she supposed it was a rather endearing image. The two smitten souls stood mutely staring at one another. It would seem Pen had finally found her Mr. Rochester. Charlotte Bronte would be pleased.

“I’m Trelayne Garrison,” she put in, amused at the couple’s charming lack of social etiquette. It must be love.

Pen and her would-be suitor finally tore their gazes from one another and took note of the world around them.

“Jeffrey Lancaster, at your service.” He bowed in a quaint old-fashioned manner, and Trelayne understood why Penelope would be entranced by the young man. He was sweetly good-looking, and seemed steeped in romantic notions. Even the way he dressed expressed traditions of a by-gone era.

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Jeffrey. Have you tried the new confection called ice cream? Penelope has been going on about it all morning.” Pen shot her a confused look, but not breaking stride, Trelayne rambled on. “The two of you had best go purchase some before it is lost to the heat of the day.”

“I shan’t leave you alone to man the booth,” Pen protested.

“Yes, you shall,” she insisted. “The crowd has thinned since they opened the ring-toss game across from us. I’ll be fine. Please, go, enjoy yourselves.”

More easily convinced, Jeffery offered his arm. Penelope accepted, and together they strolled off into the milling throng. Trelayne was so happy for her friend. They made a decidedly perfect couple. She could envision a huge red barn, filled with fragrant hay, Jeffery reading poetry to Penelope as she wove a garland of wild flowers—bunnies hopping by, and those adorable lambs cavorting about. Penelope never cared for city life. She would be happy playing the mistress of a thriving rural legacy.

As a woman approached the stall, Trelayne’s smile froze. There was something familiar about the person. With a shock she realized it was Lucien’s paramour—the woman who had rescued her from the Bond. Mixed feelings wrapped around her. She recalled Walker telling her the woman’s name was Beatrice. The doxy had done her a good turn that evening. Still, Trelayne was miffed Lucien had kept familiar with this woman the whole time he had been courting her. Whether one wanted the man or not, it was difficult to realize he was dabbling on the side. Making small talk with Beatrice sounded uncomfortable at best.

“Thank you for supporting our efforts to raise money for the orphans,” she began, keeping it on a business level.

“Don’t you recognize me, Miss Trelayne? Or I should say Mrs. Garrison.”

“Yes, I do. I just thought to ignore the fact.”

“Well, that ain’t no way to be talkin’. I mean you no harm.”

She supposed it really wasn’t this woman’s fault for being seduced by Lucien. He could be charming and irresistible when he so desired.

“I’m sorry. Did you wish to purchase a copy of sheet music?”

“Me, sheet music? Not hardly. I come to give you a message from my fiancé.”

“Lucien?”

“Yes, Lucien. I’m soon to be Mrs. Lanteen. You see it all worked out as planned. You have your Captain and I have Lucien.”

She was shocked to realize Lucien was actually going to marry this woman. He always maligned people who were uneducated and from what he considered the lower classes. This was a complete turn-about. Maybe he had changed his ways. For Beatrice’s sake, she prayed so.

“Congratulations. I hope the two of you will be very happy.”

“Well, that’s why I come. Lucien wants to say good-bye as it were. Wish you well and all.”

“That’s not necessary. Tell him thank you for the felicitations and extend mine to him. I don’t think having him visit Royston Hall is a good idea.”

“But he’s here now. Just over there in that grove of elm wood. It won’t take but a minute.”

Considering the malicious acts Lucien had committed against her and her parents, Trelayne knew she couldn’t face him and long remain civil.

“I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

“Please,” Beatrice begged. “Let him get this off his chest so’s we can be happy with no undone business between the two of you standin’ between the two of us.”

She felt herself weakening. Beatrice sounded desperate to start her new life free of bad feelings or omens. It was a relatively small request, and to dampen the spark of love, regardless of how incongruous it may seem, was disconcerting. Out of pity for Beatrice, she wavered. And as Lucien would most likely never be legally brought to justice, she could at least tell him off good and proper.

She glanced around. Penelope and Jeffery were long gone. Well, no matter. The ring-toss competition was still in full swing, monopolizing all the customers. Surely it would be all right to slip away for a few moments.

She gave Beatrice a nod of consent, and snuggling into the cloak Walker had given her this morning, she stepped from behind the booth. Like a big hug, the warm wool cozened her, and she thought again how lucky she was to have Walker as her husband. It wasn’t her birthday, or their anniversary, or any special occasion. He had surprised her with the present for no other reason than wanting to see her “beautiful face
”
framed by the exquisite burgundy shade.

When they were almost to the thicket of trees, she noticed a large brutal-looking man lounging beside the horses, but she didn’t see Lucien. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Sensing alarm, she slowed her pace then halted.

“I’ve changed my mind. I really must return to the bazaar. It was irresponsible of me to leave the booth unattended.”

“But we’re nearly there, ducks,” Beatrice encouraged. “Lucien? Where are you?”

The door to the carriage swung open, and Lucien stepped down. Dressed smartly from head to toe in somber black, he’d never looked more handsome, or more dangerous.

But his stare gave her chills. The expression in his pale blue eyes was cold as ice. There was nothing warm or pleasant about his demeanor. His manner held no intention to please or amuse as before when he was with her. A full-fledged shiver ran through her. Lucien really had changed, and not for the better.

He ambled forward, took her by the elbow, and escorted her closer to the conveyance. She snatched free of his grip.

“How is married life?” he sneered.

“Wonderful,” she breathed. “I hear you are soon to be married as well.”

“Something like that. Shall we drink to both our future happiness? Grimsby,” he ordered with a snap his fingers.

Grimsby
…that was the name of the man who had injured her parents and sought to murder Walker. The ruffian sauntered forth with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She shrank back.

“I’ve no time for a toast, I really must be going.”

Coming ever closer, the man scared the daylights out of her. As panic set in, she stumbled backward then turned to run.

“Yes, you must be going,” Lucien agreed. “But not back to the bazaar.”

His henchman threw down the champagne and glasses, grabbed her around the waist, and wrestled her up off the ground. Kicking out with her feet, she tried to break free, but he hurled her into the coach. With a painful bounce, she settled onto the floorboards then scrabbled up onto her hands and knees.

Hampered by her skirts and cloak, she floundered about unable to gain purchase. Lucien leaped in after her, nearly stepping on her hands. He grabbed her and flung her up onto the far seat. Her head hit the side of the coach, and she saw stars.

“Say, what goes on here,” Beatrice demanded.

“Shut up and get onboard or I’ll leave you behind.”

The carriage sagged as the woman followed orders. The door banged shut, and the coach lurched into action. Trelayne grabbed at the handle, attempting to gain freedom, but Lucien backhanded her. Pain shot through her jaw, and the metallic taste of blood permeated her mouth. She tried to scream, but he presses a damp cloth against her face, muffling the sound and restricting her movements.