Chapter 47
Forty-Seven
Marguerite was plagued by nightmares. The settings changed, but in all of them, she was on the verge of death, or on the verge of failing to prevent someone else from dying, when she was jolted awake.
She lay tangled in sweaty sheets in the aftermath of the most recent dream, her heart pounding and stomach churning.
She tried to calm them by cataloging the reassuring ordinariness of the room: the lamp burning on the small table by the bed, the now-empty washbasin and pitcher, Marisol’s little purse.
She shifted her gaze quickly away from it to the curled pages of sketch paper—would she ever draw again?
Which led her to wonder… What had become of her paintings?
Her pounding heart, instead of slowing, beat faster.
She tried to calm herself. Listening for the audible reminders that she was no longer in prison: the hiss of the lamp wick, the rustle of her sheets, the creak of settling floors, the distant scuttling of a rodent nesting inside the horsehair-stuffed walls.
Tossing aside her knotted sheets, she rose. Retrieving the sketch and pencil from the table, and she settled cross-legged on the floor. Drawing had always soothed her mind. But now, as she tried to begin, her hands began to shake.
The closer she brought pencil to paper, the more it intensified, as if the two were reversed magnet poles, determined to repulse one another.
Flinging the pencil away, Marguerite buried her face in her hands, weeping soundlessly.
The sound of footsteps stopped her. So careful, so cautious, she had to hold her breath to hear them. They stopped outside her door.
The door latch clicked. Marguerite spread the fingers covering her face enough to see the door opening. She caught sight of Marcus’s broad shoulders, his long, unbound hair, but before she could react, the door snicked shut.
She sat up. Stared at the door. Listened for the sounds of his footsteps walking away. And heard…nothing.
He had to be standing outside. She frowned, remembering the way he’d stopped her kiss, catching her wrists before her roving hands could slide under his shirt. Why had he stopped her? She’d felt the heat of his body, felt his rising desire, his need as fierce as her own.
Had he changed his mind?
She heard the susurration of fabric against the wall, the ‘thunk’ of a man’s body sliding down to the floor.
Again, she held her breath. Listened harder. Heard the creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight.
He must be sitting outside her door. Keeping watch?
After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only fifteen minutes, she set down the sketch paper, rose and tiptoed to the door. Opening it as quietly as she could, she peered out.
Marcus Tyndale, clad only in breeches and an unlaced shirt lay slumped against the wall.
His eyes were closed, his breathing even, and his head lolled to one side.
One knee was bent, one hand upturned in his lap, his other leg was outstretched.
Her gaze sweeping slowly down the line of his thigh to his bare muscled calf and naked foot.
She could have drawn him this way. She had.
She knelt beside him. The delicate fan of his lashes contrasted with the sharp angles of his face. She reached out a finger, wanting to slide it down the length of his aristocratic nose to his lips—not nearly so severe in sleep, making him appear younger, gentler, and utterly exhausted.
She touched her tongue to her lips, remembering the taste and feel of his. The fit so natural, like lock meeting key.
Survival, he’d said, was the insatiable hunger for more.
Need surged through her and she rose on shaking legs. She’d wanted more. She’d thought he did, too. She’d been so sure when he kissed her back. But then he’d broken the kiss. Left the room. Left her.
Why then was he choosing this peculiar place to sleep? Confounding man. Did he know she was fighting to keep the nightmares at bay? From the scars on his body, his determination to hold himself apart, she suspected he had plenty of his own.
Retrieving a pillow and a blanket from her bed, she set the pillow on the floor, just below the spill of his hair, and draped the blanket over his legs. A soft sigh escaped his lips.
Marguerite stood for several moments, wondering if there was anything else she could do to make him more comfortable. But the stubborn man had chosen the hard wall and the hard floor, as if it were a penance.
Returning to her bed, she pulled her still-damp braid over her shoulder and lay down. This time, she didn’t bother with cataloging the contents of the room, instead resting her eyes on the closed door and picturing the man slumbering outside it.
He made her feel safe. At least for now.
And for now, that was good enough.