Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

C aleb was beginning to think that he might commit actual, honest to God, murder for a full night’s sleep.

Caleb hadn’t been pleased to leave the army. He hadn’t been furious about it, he supposed—he’d not chosen his military career, so he wasn’t necessarily attached to it, though he’d resented having yet another choice taken from him when he’d been forced to resign his commission.

The one part about which he’d had decidedly uncomplicated feelings was sleeping in a proper bed. Every night.

He’d been an officer, a junior one at first before moving higher in the ranks, so he’d rarely been forced to sleep properly in the rough.

But there was just something so pleasant about a bed that stayed put, one that wasn’t too short or too narrow for him.

Getting to enjoy that, he’d told himself on the long journey back from his last assignment, might even be worth the bloody dukedom that came with it.

Except he wasn’t getting to enjoy it, because he spent every night—every bloody night now—worrying that his wife was going to wander off in her sleep and break her bloody neck.

All of which meant that when he heard Grace whimper, late in the night after they’d returned from the village, he was already awake.

He was on his feet in a flash, pulling on his trousers and shoving his feet into his boots a moment later, intuition guiding his movements.

Something in that village had bothered his wife. Something had made her turn suddenly ravenous for local gossip.

And whatever it was, she was hiding it from him.

“Thank you for the lovely day,” she’d said absently as they’d returned home, her gaze a thousand miles away.

“I think I’ll retire early,” she’d told him without meeting his gaze.

Pleasant, empty distractions.

Under the influence of sleep—and she was asleep, he knew by the way she failed to hear him when he quietly called her name—however, his wife could not be distracted. Instead, she moved with purpose, her feet unerring on the steps, her eyes wide and unfocused, as if whatever she was seeing was different from what was truly before her.

He followed close behind her, knowing he should stop her, should turn her and guide her back to her own bed, back to safety.

But he was so damned curious. And the instincts that had kept him alive on battlefields—not to mention the dangers of his own childhood—told him that this, right here, was his best chance for answers.

So he just followed, determined only to bar her if she risked herself. He followed, even as she walked through the lower level of the house and out the front door, though it was too cold for her to be out here in bare feet, in naught but her nightgown. He followed as the wind tugged at her, leaving her almost ghostly in the dark, quiet expanse of night.

He followed her out of the keep, over the walls, and to a bluff that overlooked not the sea, but the village below.

She stopped before she got too close to the edge—thank Christ —and stared and stared. He drew up beside her, careful not to alarm her.

“I don’t want to go back,” she said, her voice so small and frightened that it was almost childlike.

“Where, leannan ?” he asked.

She swayed almost dreamily.

“There,” she said, though she wasn’t pointing, just staring. “I don’t want to go back.”

He looked out and then saw it—the place she’d been so keen to discuss with the garrulous villager, the place she’d asked his housekeeper about.

The place she would have been able to see, he realized, from the carriage window the night they’d returned from the banquet.

The mill. The mill with the sordid past and the mysterious owner.

Why on earth would his privileged, London-born wife care about some run-down old mill in Northumberland, he wondered. He thought back to the murmurs of Grace’s ruination, back to the villager’s speculation that some sort of lovers’ spat was at the heart of the trouble at the mill.

Could the mysterious seller be his wife’s lover, the one who had ruined her? If so, the man had best not show his ugly face anywhere near Caleb’s holdings.

Except then what was the part about the bedlamite? And the kidnapped girl?

None of it made any damned sense, but Caleb had little time to think on it, because just at that moment, his wife collapsed to the ground in an ungainly heap.

And then, an instant later, she started to scream.

Grace woke up cold. Not just chilled, like she’d kicked off the blankets in her sleep, or like the fire had been banked too carelessly and had gone out.

Cold, like it had sunk into her bones. Cold, like it was a part of her. Cold, like she’d never be warm again.

And she knew—just knew—that she was back there.

Being back was, in fact, the primary reason why she should have kept her mouth clamped shut, should have choked any sound before it could get free. But the scream tore itself out of her, nevertheless, shredding her throat before she clamped her hands over her mouth to prevent another one from coming out.

No. Her breaths were coming too fast, rasping in and out of her nose above her hands, her mind only conjuring one thought in a frantic repetition. No, no, no .

“Hush, leannan , you’re safe, you’re fine.”

Another voice, quiet and low, reached her over the pounding of her own blood in her ears. Warm arms encircled her, banishing just a little bit of that awful cold. She was tugged to her feet with gentle, inexorable pressure.

“I’ve got ye, I’ve got ye.”

Caleb. It was Caleb.

Caleb was here, which meant Caleb was real—which meant the rest of it was, too. Her escape, her return to London, her marriage.

It was real, and she was free.

Relief almost choked her. She dropped her hands from her mouth and threw them around her husband’s neck and sobbed.

He just held her, murmuring into her hair, sometimes in English, sometimes in Gaelic, once perhaps even in French. But always, he came back to the same reassurance.

“Hush, leannan, you’re safe. I’ve got ye.”

Grace was certain she’d never felt more reassuring words in her life.

Gradually, the hysterical tide of her relief faded, and her circumstances crept in. She was cold because she was outside without any shoes and only wearing her nightgown. Caleb was somewhat better equipped—he had on trousers and boots, at least—but his shirt was only half-fastened, like he’d leapt out of bed and followed her.

The idea was oddly warming, though not quite so much as his arms were around her.

He’d followed. He’d come for her.

It was a terrible liberty, shockingly inappropriate of her, but she pressed her nose against that open spot on his collar, breathing in a hint of soap and the slight crispness of his aftershave, before pressing her cheek against the warmth.

He didn’t pull her away, didn’t scold her for her boldness. He just let this small patch of his skin touch hers as he held her tight and didn’t let go.

Eventually, her tears dried, her energy fading with them.

This was for the best, she decided, as if she wasn’t reserving all her power for keeping herself upright—a feat, even with Caleb’s assistance—she would no doubt be feeling mortified that she’d allowed her stalwart husband to see her like this, like a pathetic, sniveling mess.

But he didn’t comment on her disarray. He didn’t push her away or demand to know what in God’s name she’d been thinking.

He just waited until she was done crying and then asked, in a low, rumbling voice that moved through her, “Are ye ready to go home now?”

It sounded so nice that she nearly started crying again. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded.

Maybe he knew, somehow, that her legs were not up to the task of carrying her back home, because he didn’t try to lead her back to the keep. Instead, he scooped an arm under her knees and carried her like she weighed nothing at all.

Though Grace knew that this, too, would mortify her tomorrow, she tucked her head against his neck and clung with all the meager strength in her arms, letting him hold her tight as he went back into the house and up the stairs. She listened to his breath as he kicked open the door to her bedchamber and deposited her against her pillows.

“Sleep, leannan ,” he said.

She found that she obeyed before his hand could even finish its one, gentle caress over the top of her head and therefore did not know that her husband stood over her like a sentinel for many long minutes as she sank into a sleep that was, this time, undisturbed by dreams or fears.