face.
And yet somehow not.
A jolt of recognition.
Not so much a memory. More a sense of knowing. As if his whole life had been coming to this moment. To her.
Which—given his current situation—seemed a little . . . unexpected.
James shook his head. He must be more exhausted than he thought. He never felt this way about women. Particularly strangers found clinging to trees along his lane. In the middle of the night. During a thunderstorm of epic proportions.
She shivered more violently and quietly moaned. Who was she?
Tucking her trembling body against his chest, James wrapped his greatcoat around her, hoping his body heat would help. Whoever this woman was, she was not from Marfield. This woman he would remember. How had she come to be here on a night such as this?
James had had quite enough adventure for one night. Cradling the unknown woman’s body closer, he turned Luther for home.
Chapter 8
The blue guest bedroom
Haldon Manor
Beltane
April 30, 1812
H ours later, James, finally dressed in dry clothing and wrapped in a warm banyan, silently entered the bedroom. He was ready to drop from fatigue. His restless body begged for stillness and sleepy oblivion. But courtesy—and curiosity, if he were honest—required that he check on his guest. And James Knight might legitimately be called many things, but discourteous was not one of them.
The mysterious woman lay under the counterpane, her breaths gently stirring the heavy blanket, short dark hair spread on the pillow. Though still pale, her color was much improved, her breathing more even.
Again, he felt that strange sense of familiarity. Like he knew her.
But he didn’t. He was confident they had never met. Perhaps she reminded him of an acquaintance or the relative of a friend—just enough connection to give that sense of recognition. He found it puzzling.
James walked to the fireplace opposite the foot of the bed. Candles danced on the mantle and bedside table, reflecting off the dark paneled wainscoting and blue bed hangings. A fire crackled brightly in the hearth, lighting and giving the room a cozy warmth.
Georgiana sat in a chair next to the large bed, her face weary, fingers of one hand stroking her long golden braid. She was so thin, so fragile. Truthfully, she looked more in need of rest than the woman she watched over. Georgiana coughed—thankfully shallow for now—and looked up, seeing him.
She instantly stiffened, something tense and unreadable in her eyes.
“How is she?” he asked quietly.
“Resting,” Georgiana replied, her tone shuttered. “She does not have a fever. Aside from some scratches, she seems to be in fine health. Just tired and recovering from the cold. She is an utter mystery to me .” Georgiana oddly emphasized that last word, meeting his eyes challengingly. Expectantly.
James tilted his head, confusion apparent. Georgiana’s agitation was a subtle thing, showing only in the rigid uprightness of her shoulders, in the clipped emphasis of her speech.
“Well, once the storm breaks, I will send for the doctor. Perhaps he will have more answers for us,” James said, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair.
Whatever upset Georgiana could wait until morning. A good sleep often solved most arguments anyway. Georgiana looked exhausted. She needed rest more than any of them.
“Is there something you would like to tell me, James?”
Georgie did not want to wait, apparently.
She stood and walked toward him, her hand a fist at her side. She took in a breath as she stopped in front of him.
“I have always trusted you. As I hope that you will always trust me. With anything.” Her face again expectant and now also slightly accusatory.
James sighed the sigh—that sound that men intuitively perfect from the cradle. That sigh that connotes equal parts weariness and resignation. That can-you-just-tell-me-what-I-need-to-say-so-I-can-go-to-bed sigh.
“Georgie. . . .” He paused letting out a tired puff of air.
And yet somehow not.
A jolt of recognition.
Not so much a memory. More a sense of knowing. As if his whole life had been coming to this moment. To her.
Which—given his current situation—seemed a little . . . unexpected.
James shook his head. He must be more exhausted than he thought. He never felt this way about women. Particularly strangers found clinging to trees along his lane. In the middle of the night. During a thunderstorm of epic proportions.
She shivered more violently and quietly moaned. Who was she?
Tucking her trembling body against his chest, James wrapped his greatcoat around her, hoping his body heat would help. Whoever this woman was, she was not from Marfield. This woman he would remember. How had she come to be here on a night such as this?
James had had quite enough adventure for one night. Cradling the unknown woman’s body closer, he turned Luther for home.
Chapter 8
The blue guest bedroom
Haldon Manor
Beltane
April 30, 1812
H ours later, James, finally dressed in dry clothing and wrapped in a warm banyan, silently entered the bedroom. He was ready to drop from fatigue. His restless body begged for stillness and sleepy oblivion. But courtesy—and curiosity, if he were honest—required that he check on his guest. And James Knight might legitimately be called many things, but discourteous was not one of them.
The mysterious woman lay under the counterpane, her breaths gently stirring the heavy blanket, short dark hair spread on the pillow. Though still pale, her color was much improved, her breathing more even.
Again, he felt that strange sense of familiarity. Like he knew her.
But he didn’t. He was confident they had never met. Perhaps she reminded him of an acquaintance or the relative of a friend—just enough connection to give that sense of recognition. He found it puzzling.
James walked to the fireplace opposite the foot of the bed. Candles danced on the mantle and bedside table, reflecting off the dark paneled wainscoting and blue bed hangings. A fire crackled brightly in the hearth, lighting and giving the room a cozy warmth.
Georgiana sat in a chair next to the large bed, her face weary, fingers of one hand stroking her long golden braid. She was so thin, so fragile. Truthfully, she looked more in need of rest than the woman she watched over. Georgiana coughed—thankfully shallow for now—and looked up, seeing him.
She instantly stiffened, something tense and unreadable in her eyes.
“How is she?” he asked quietly.
“Resting,” Georgiana replied, her tone shuttered. “She does not have a fever. Aside from some scratches, she seems to be in fine health. Just tired and recovering from the cold. She is an utter mystery to me .” Georgiana oddly emphasized that last word, meeting his eyes challengingly. Expectantly.
James tilted his head, confusion apparent. Georgiana’s agitation was a subtle thing, showing only in the rigid uprightness of her shoulders, in the clipped emphasis of her speech.
“Well, once the storm breaks, I will send for the doctor. Perhaps he will have more answers for us,” James said, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair.
Whatever upset Georgiana could wait until morning. A good sleep often solved most arguments anyway. Georgiana looked exhausted. She needed rest more than any of them.
“Is there something you would like to tell me, James?”
Georgie did not want to wait, apparently.
She stood and walked toward him, her hand a fist at her side. She took in a breath as she stopped in front of him.
“I have always trusted you. As I hope that you will always trust me. With anything.” Her face again expectant and now also slightly accusatory.
James sighed the sigh—that sound that men intuitively perfect from the cradle. That sigh that connotes equal parts weariness and resignation. That can-you-just-tell-me-what-I-need-to-say-so-I-can-go-to-bed sigh.
“Georgie. . . .” He paused letting out a tired puff of air.
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