Chapter 13
The mantel clock softly chimed the early morning hour of two across the moonlit room, but it did not awaken Susanna.
Held captive by a vivid nightmare, she moaned and tossed fitfully in the canopied bed, her legs and arms ensnared by white sheets that in her unconscious mind had become the huge, grasping hands of a man long dead come back to life.
“No, Papa…no,” she rasped, her features contorted with stark terror in the silvery wash of moonlight spilling across the mattress.
She twisted hopelessly as phantom ropes were tightening cruelly around her wrists and ankles, tying her face-down to a filthy, putrid-smelling cot.
She jerked spasmodically as her threadbare dress was torn from her back, and she began to whimper afresh.
“Papa…Papa, please don’t hit me. I’ll do what you want. I’ll go to him, Papa…I promise. I’ll go to him!”
“Ye lyin’ bitch!” slurred a gruff phantom voice.
“I’ll teach ye t’ run away from yer Daniel Guthrie!
Ye’ll do what I say and like it well enough, ye ‘ear me, chit? Ye’ll spread yer legs fer Keefer Dunn and like it!
Ye’ll not make a liar out o’ me. I sold ye t’ ‘im, damn ye!
He paid me good ‘ard coin fer yer favors!”
Another voice, coarse and loud, came flying at her from the darkness, and she was suddenly surrounded by crude laughter. She gasped in fright at the sneering, disembodied, pockmarked face hovering in front of her, and she felt near to retching when the sour smell of stale ale filled her nostrils.
“Beat ‘er well, Guthrie, but mind ye don’t mar ‘er pretty puss. I’ll not want ‘er in bed if she’s no longer fair t’ look upon. Aye, and maybe when yer done wi’ her, I’ll give ‘er a few blows m’self fer good measure. Do ye ‘ear me, girl? I’ll teach ye t’ run away from Keefer Dunn!”
“No…please, God…no!”
Susanna screwed her eyes shut and turned her face into the stinking straw as the menacing shadow of a hand clenching a leather strap fell across her bare, quaking shoulders.
She began to mumble incoherently, her futile tears nearly choking her.
Thrashing in vain, she could only wait in raw panic for the terrible fall of the lash, wait for the slicing pain… the sting…the horror…
Reclining in bed with the covers drawn to his waist and his hands folded behind his head, Adam stared out the window at the round summer moon dangling like a bright orb in the pitch-black sky.
Sleep was evading him again, but thankfully he was not suffering the wretched torments that had plagued him for the past two weeks.
Tonight was blessedly, peacefully different.
He kept running through his mind the delights of the evening, savoring them, reliving them; the unexpected understanding he and Camille had reached in the library, their supper which had been filled with laughter and gentle teasing, a walk in the garden and then a light-hearted game of billiards just before bed.
Her soft-spoken promise as he escorted her to her chamber that, although he would be out in the tobacco fields much of the day tomorrow, they would share supper again in the evening. Alone. Together.
Adam rolled restlessly onto his side. As he recalled the good-night kiss they had shared outside her door, he felt a familiar stirring, a burning ache he hoped before long to ease in the lush softness of her body.
It was a sweet torture being so close to her, only two doors away, yet he relished it, his anticipation becoming that much more keen. Soon he would be sharing with her that master suite down the hall, their wedding night perhaps only a few more weeks away—
Adam sat bolt upright as a scream rent the air, a sound so tormented that it raised the hair on the back of his neck.
“Oh, God. Camille.”
Hurling back the covers, he lunged from the bed and, grabbing his breeches from a nearby chair, quickly pulled them on.
He was already racing down the hall, cursing the limp that was even now hindering him, when another scream, more terrified than the last, hurled through her closed door.
Cursing again when he found it bolted—at his bidding, he feverishly recalled—he jammed his shoulder against the door.
He pushed with all his might until it splintered near the lock and swung open, slamming against the wall.
“Camille!”
Across the dimly lit room he saw her flailing wildly, and when she screamed again he guessed at once that she was locked in a terrible nightmare.
Reaching the bed, he swept her into his arms, sheets and all, and held her close, although she beat at him desperately with her fists and tried to twist free.
“No…no! God help me, please don’t let them beat me anymore! Oh, Papa, Papa, please don’t let Keefer Dunn hurt me! No! No…oh, Papaaa!”
“Camille, wake up! Wake up! It’s me, Adam!” Seeking to still her battering fists, he enfolded her so closely in his arms that she could barely struggle. “It’s Adam! No one is beating you. No one is hurting you. I’m here with you, Camille. You’re safe, love. You’re safe!”
As her eyes suddenly flickered open, he exhaled sharply with relief. But when her slender body stiffened, he knew she was so disoriented from her dream that she hadn’t yet recognized him.
“Camille,” he said, shaking her gently. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me…I’m Adam.”
She blinked, for the first time focusing her wide, frightened eyes on his face. “Adam?”
“Yes, love, it’s me.” As she went nearly limp in his arms, he sank down on the bed, cradling her to his chest. He stroked her tousled hair, her tearstained cheeks, the silky-smooth skin of her bare upper arm, speaking to her in low, soothing tones.
“You had a bad dream, that’s all. Just a bad dream.
No one’s going to hurt you. I wouldn’t let them. ”
“It was horrible…awful,” she whispered, trembling.
“I know, love, but it’s over now. You’re safe.”
A sharp knock on the doorjamb caused her to gasp in fright and grow rigid again, and Adam swore under his breath.
“Who is it?”
“The footman, Mr. Thornton. Daniel. I heard Miss Camille scream. Is she all right?”
“Daniel…no…” she breathed in the voice of a child, scrambling from Adam’s arms and over to the headboard, where she curled into a ball, hugging her knees. “Make him go away…please. Tell him to go away!”
Adam stared at her in surprise, wondering if someone named Daniel had been in her nightmare. Whoever he was, whether real or imagined, she was obviously terrified of him.
And who was Keefer Dunn? Had these two men perhaps been servants in her aunt’s home?
Had Camille met them on the Charming Nancy?
God help him, if he discovered that a sailor or passenger had hurt her in any way aboard that ship, he would track the bastard down if the fever hadn’t claimed him and finish the job himself!
Adam rose in anger from the bed, his gaze fixed on the servant’s tall, broad-shouldered form standing just inside the door. “Miss Cary is fine. She had a bad nightmare, but she’s over it now.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Thornton? Maybe I should fetch Corliss to come and stay with her.”
“That won’t be necessary, Dan—” He stopped himself just in time, glancing at Camille huddled so pitifully against the headboard.
He didn’t want to utter that name again if it upset her so much.
“Go back to your post by the front door. I’ll stay with her for a few more minutes, just until I’m sure she’s asleep. She’ll be fine.”
“If you say so, Mr. Thornton,” the servant replied, closing the door with its shattered lock behind him. “But if you change your mind, I’ll fetch Corliss up here straightaway.”
Adam turned back to the bed, knowing it wasn’t appropriate for him to remain alone in this room with her, but not wanting to leave her so soon after she had suffered such a scare.
He decided to speak with Daniel later, to explain the need to keep silent about his presence here.
The servant might think the worst of him for a few days, but when their betrothal was announced, all doubts would be dispelled.
“Is he gone?” came a small voice.
“Yes, love, he’s gone.” Adam sat down next to her and eased her into his arms again, rocking her gently. He sensed that the last remnants of her nightmare were loosening their grip when she gradually relaxed, her body slipping back against his chest.
If he had noticed earlier that she was clad only in a thin nightrail, now that things were calmer he was acutely aware of it.
As he tucked his hand around her narrow waist, he could almost feel the smoothness of her skin through the light, pastel-colored silk.
Her hair was soft where her head rested against his cheek and she smelled intoxicatingly sweet, a fragrance she had never worn before.
He recognized it as yellow jasmine, a flower native to the southern colonies.
He immediately decided its haunting complexity suited her far better than simple lavender.
“Thank you for waking me, Adam,” she said after long moments. She leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed softly. “I…I think I’ll be able to go back to sleep soon.”
“Let me know when, and I’ll leave you,” he answered, lightly kissing her temple, although in truth he was loath to move an inch from her side.
Nor was he inclined to ask her any questions about her nightmare.
That could wait until tomorrow; he didn’t want to upset her again.
It was simply too pleasant to hold her close against him, feeling her draw breath within his embrace, and inhaling her scent, half perfume, half a sweetness that was uniquely her own.
She shifted slightly, her hand innocently grazing that sensitive part of him in which a low burning fire had already been kindled.
As his desire flared bright and hot, he stifled a groan.
For a young woman who had been so concerned about preserving her reputation, she certainly seemed comfortable in the arms of a man who was naked but for his breeches.