Chapter Twelve

Later that night, her usual sanctuary of sleep morphed into a battleground, where nightmares waged war on her. She thrashed beneath her sheets, ensnared in the clutches of unseen tormentors. Men with masks and horrible, oily laughs. Cold sweat and fear clung to her skin as the dreams unfurled, painting a grotesque image of menace and malevolence.

In the hushed hours of the night, Juliette's restless murmurs intensified. Words spilled forth, half formed and fragmented, echoing the terror that gripped her in the dream realm. "Please, no… Don't…" The words tumbled from her lips, desperate pleas entwined with the horrible laughter of nightmares that haunted her. She smelled the acrid scent of smoke, fire vivid in the recesses of her nightmares, swallowing wood and walls and anyone left inside. "Stop! Someone, help!"

Suddenly the torment dissolved as a deep, soothing voice cut through the terror, wrapping around Juliette like a protective blanket. The harsh edges of her nightmares softened as warmth and strength enveloped her. In the dimness of her room, she felt him pull her close, protecting her. Catamount anchored her, his sturdy arms pulling her from the clutches of her subconscious demons.

"Easy now, Julie. You're safe," he murmured. His hand, firm and gentle, traced comforting circles on her back as she nestled against his bare chest. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breath became a calming lullaby, a stark contrast to the disarray of her dreams.

Juliette's nightgown clung to her, bunched around her thighs. She tucked into him and let him hold her.

"You're safe with me," he continued. "I won't let anything harm you. I've got you."

Juliette nuzzled into the crook of his neck, seeking refuge in the solid warmth he provided. His heart beat beneath her touch, a steady rhythm that synchronized with her own. The scent of him—musky and somehow familiar—wrapped around her.

As she clung to him, the remnants of the nightmare began to dissipate. The terrible visions, once vivid and tormenting, receded like shadows chased away by the dawn.

He said again, "You're safe. Nothing can harm you now," like he knew how much she needed to hear that over and over like a mantra.

Juliette felt the resonance of his voice deep within her. The intimacy of the moment wove a connection that defied explanation. He'd called her his Julie, a name that reverberated around her heart with a resonance that went beyond the confines of their current reality. Catamount seemed to belong where the present and past that she could remember converged.

As if drawn by an invisible force, their lips met in a luxurious, lingering kiss. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the heat of the connection they forged in the quiet hours of the night. The taste of shared history lingered between them. In that stolen moment, the kiss, a symphony of emotion and unspoken truths, became a bridge between memories and the tangible present.

As they finally parted, breaths mingling in the shared space, the air seemed charged with promise. They lay entangled on her bed in the aftermath of their kiss. Simply feeling each other. Simply being .

She drifted to sleep in his arms.

Later, with the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains, Catamount gently extricated himself from their embrace, leaving a lingering warmth in the space between them. With a half-smile, he leaned down to press a tender kiss on her forehead as she stared groggily up at him. "How about some breakfast?" he suggested. "I can whip up something decent."

Juliette, still caught in the hazy aftermath of the night's shared moments, blinked in mild disbelief. "You can cook?"

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, every Bow Street Runner has a few hidden talents. Cooking happens to be one of mine."

As he headed toward her tiny kitchen, Juliette marveled from her nest at the incongruity of the situation. "I never would've guessed. What's your specialty, then? Arresting criminals or making a delectable omelet?"

Catamount chuckled, the raspy sound echoing in the small space. "Why not do both? But this morning, let's go with omelets. What do you say?"

She nodded, a bemused smile playing on her lips. "Omelets it is, then. But no arresting criminals in my kitchen, please."

Too curious to resist, Juliette climbed from her bed and put on a dressing gown before following him. She leaned against the kitchen counter as she observed Catamount in the midst of domesticity. The morning sunlight kissed his tanned skin, accentuating the rugged contours of his face. His movements were fluid, a mix of grace and raw masculinity that held her captivated. There was a certain allure in witnessing this side of him—the Bow Street Runner with a penchant for cooking. As he cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them with practiced ease, a cascade of thoughts and emotions surged within her.

The contrast between the hardened detective and the man navigating her kitchen stirred something deep within in her. His presence exuded strength and protection, yet the way he handled the ingredients hinted at a gentleness that hid beyond the surface. She couldn't deny the pull of his rugged charm.

Lost in her thoughts, Juliette watched on, appreciating the way his shirt (a clean one—how had he managed that so fast?) clung to the contours of his muscles as he moved. Curiosity, attraction, and a tinge of vulnerability she hadn't expected swept through her.

A swirl of emotions and questions mingled within her. The sizzling sounds and enticing aromas filled the space, creating a tableau of domesticity that seemed both surreal and comforting. She couldn't shake the feeling of being caught in the crossroads of two worlds—his world of investigations, danger, and the relentless pursuit of justice, and her world of delicate fabrics, fashion, and the pursuit of beauty. The man who had barged into her life now stood before her, effortlessly flipping omelets in a pan.

Juliette's eyes lingered on his strong hands. Questions surfaced in her mind, swirling like the fragrant steam rising from the skillet. What did his presence mean for her peaceful modiste shop? How did he seamlessly transition from the stern detective interrogating criminals to the man flipping omelets in her kitchen?

He turned to face her with a charming smile as the scent of breakfast hung in the air. Juliette's nerves prickled, a sudden wave of disquiet sweeping over her. The cozy familiarity of the kitchen, the shared laughter, and the easy banter clawed at the corner of her mind where elusive memories hid.

In a sudden surge of anxiety, she shoved from the counter and excused herself, feigning a need to check on her shop below. She rushed into her bedchamber and changed briskly, almost frantically, fumbling with the buttons of her dress. She suddenly couldn't stay here, in this domestic space with him.

"Everything all right?" Catamount's voice carried concern as she swept back through, but she couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. Her gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape route. She needed space, air, anything to shake off the disquiet that clung to her. She wasn't sure what was happening, only that she felt agitated in a way she'd never before experienced.

"I just remembered an appointment I'd forgotten," she lied, smoothing down her blue dress with hurried motions. "I need to tend to some customers. Business calls—you know how it is."

His expression shifted, a flicker of disappointment. "Of course. Duty calls."

She forced a smile, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. "Thank you for breakfast, but I'll have to pass. I'll be back later."

As she made her hasty exit from her flat, the stairwell landing was a welcome reprieve. Each step away from the cozy kitchen brought a measure of relief, yet the nagging questions and the elusive memories lingered like cobwebs in the corners of her mind.

Outside the shop, the streets of Mayfair stretched before Juliette as she navigated the bustling thoroughfares, thoughts weaving erratically through her mind. The need for a confidante, someone to unravel the tangled threads of her mind, pushed her on. A friend who could help her decipher the strange visions and keep her secrets. But who?

As she wandered down the sidewalk and deeper into the recesses of her own memories—or the lack thereof—a peculiar revelation dawned. Julie wasn't alone—she had Catamount. The profound warmth that accompanied that acknowledgment stirred something deep within her. It wasn't just the passionate kisses or the intimate moments. He cared. Really, truly cared about her. She'd seen that glimpse in his eye. Julie had been loved.

By Catamount.

As the streets unfurled with each step she took, she contemplated the mystery that was Catamount Castlebury. A man who seemed to know more about her than she did herself. A man whose presence invoked a sense of security, a flicker of recognition that eluded the rest of her fragmented memories. The yearning for answers pulsed beneath her skin, the desire to understand the intricate dance between herself, Julie , and Catamount. She yearned for connection.

The truth hit Juliette like a sudden downpour, drenching her with understanding. She walked the crowded streets, and a veil lifted, revealing the stark truth. The absence of friends, the longing for confidantes—those were her life. The life of Juliette Toussaint, the modiste.

A pang of something deep and resonant surged through her. She wanted to be Julie, to have that connection with someone. It wasn't just about memories or forgotten laughter. It was about the person—the person who had Catamount Castlebury. The person she wished she could be.

The yearning became a palpable force, urging her to understand the complex connection between Julie and the man who seemed to hold the key to her forgotten self. A gasp escaped her lips. Catamount Castlebury wasn't just a fragment of Julie's past; he was the very essence of her existence.

She thought of that look in his eye again. Love . She wanted that. Fiercely and with all her being.

But what if she wasn't this Julie he seemed to think she was? What if she was just Juliette Toussaint, the Frenchwoman with the faulty memory? Would he look at her with love?

Perhaps this connection she felt only existed because she looked like his Julie. Gah, it was tricky, and it seemed like she only knew portions, paragraphs of a bigger piece.

Catamount Castlebury wasn't just a chapter; he was a whole complicated story.