Chapter 17

CHAPTER17

Silas exhaled, savoring the slow rush of air from his lungs as he heard footsteps pattering on the parquet. One set. Light and careful, stuttering every five paces or so as if scouring for danger.

“How was your warm milk?” He rose from the chaise-longue where he had been waiting for her, hidden in the shadows below the staircase.

Emma yelped, her hand flying to her chest, drawing his amused eye to her heaving bosom. “What are you doing? You are supposed to be in your chambers by now, not lurking in the darkness like a… like a… troll!”

“A troll?” He snorted. “Charming.”

“Rather fitting, you mean,” she retorted. “The other ladies are coming. I cannot be seen with you.”

He listened intently but could not yet hear approaching footsteps. “Then, come quickly with me to my study. I have something more potent than warm milk to relax you before you sleep.”

Her bosom rose and fell frantically, her neck arching ever so slightly. And as she turned her face away from him, pushing her palm harder into her chest, he knew exactly where her mind had wandered.

“I meant brandy, Emma. I do not know what you were thinking of,” he whispered, reveling in the gasp that followed.

“Of course, I knew you meant some manner of liquor!” she hissed, facing him with the most delicious fury in her eyes. “I know what you are doing, Your Grace. I know that you enjoy this game far more than cards. I will not play along.”

He feigned disappointment. “You no longer wish to involve yourself in the betrothal ruse?”

“That is all I will involve myself in,” she replied coolly. “Nothing beyond the parameters upon which we have agreed. So, cease these flirtations; I am impervious to them.”

He took a step toward her. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.” She darted around him and was halfway up the staircase before he could think of stopping her. There, she halted for long enough to say, “go to your bedchamber. Do not even consider coming close to mine.”

Silas tutted. “Now, why would you put such a delectable thought into my head?”

“I mean it, Your Grace,” she snapped. “Do not overstep.”

He put up his hands in mock surrender. “I will keep to my chambers like a good boy,” he told her silkily. “Indeed, I do not need to come to yours, for the anticipation will be enough to keep you awake all night. Every creak of a floorboard, every imagined tap of footsteps—you will think it is me, while I am in my bed, being utterly obedient.”

She muttered something under her breath that once again made him wonder where she had gained such a filthy mouth, and took off up the stairs without another word.

* * *

Emma cursed Silas for being right, cursed him for putting thoughts in her head. She had been tossing and turning in her bed for hours, barely drifting off to sleep before a creak of the house had her jolting awake, her eyes on the door, watching and waiting for any turn of the handle.

She wished she had brought Snowy to bed with her, certain that he would bark if there was anything to be truly alarmed about, but Augusta had drawn the line at the puppy staying in Emma’s bedchamber. Instead, he had a warm spot in front of the stove in the kitchens, watched over by the cook who was baking bread for the morning.

Why is he still playing when he already has what he wants? She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head, huffing her frustration into it. He had framed it as the perfect solution to both of their problems, but now he was becoming her most pressing problem.

What would happen if he did come to my door? It was a question she had been asking herself ever since he put the notion in her mind. Would he kiss her again, as he had done by the stables and the willow tree? Would he make time and the world stop again? Would he make her body respond in ways she did not know it could? Would she damn what was left of her reputation to find out the extent of what he could make her feel?

“I hate him,” she muttered. “Goodness, how I hate him.”

She threw the pillow to the end of the bed and flopped onto her side with a grumble, squeezing her eyes shut with determination. Go to sleep. Go to sleep and do not dare to dream of his lips or his wandering hands or…

An almighty roar split the silence of the manor, her eyes flying open. It sounded like a powerful animal in pain, bellowing.

She was out of bed, racing for the door before she could stop to think. The sound came again as she barreled out into the hallway, the skirts of her nightdress flapping behind her. A roar of agony. An unnatural, wrenching sound that yanked upon her heart, pulling her in the direction of the noise.

Someone is hurt. It was the only thing in her mind as she continued on, running toward potential danger.

A few minutes later, the sound brought her to a chamber door. She knocked but received no answer, just the same, pained bellow, booming from within. Terrified and determined in equal measure, she flung the door open and rushed inside, just as an adjoining door within the room also opened.

She recognized Silas’s Scottish friend and valet at once.

His startled eyes met hers. “Ye shouldnae be here,” he said, darting toward the bed, where he turned and stood in front of it as if to keep Emma from seeing. “Leave, m’ lady. This is nay place for ye.”

Someone writhed and thrashed on the bed, tangled in the sheets. He wore nothing at all, his bare skin slicked with sweat, but it was not the thrilling vision she had wickedly imagined.

It made her blood run cold, seeing him like that, hearing him roar and pant as if he was in great pain. The cords of his neck stood out as he strained his head backward, every muscle bulging as he fought whatever invisible force had a grip on him.

The valet turned to him, now ignoring Emma. “Silas, wake up,” he urged, climbing up onto the bed to physically shake Silas. “Silas? Silas, wake up!”

But Silas did not, roaring louder as his valet tried to halt the thrashing.

With a hiss, the valet struck Silas hard on the face. “Wake up, Silas!”

There was a moment of perfect, chilling silence after the thunderclap of that hit. Emma held her breath, her hands clasped as if praying, shuddering as if she had received the strike.

Silas’s body relaxed into the bed, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he glared up at his valet, who released him immediately. But as Silas’s gaze wandered the room, a ripple of horror washed across his face as he set eyes on Emma.

It was the first unguarded display of emotion she had seen from him, and not at all what she had expected. She had thought nothing could ruffle him.

He sat up, still catching his breath, and growled, “Leave.”

She held her ground. “Are you well? You were⁠—”

“I said leave.” His lip curled into a grimace. “Do not make me ask you a third time.”

The nightmare was the same as always. Shadowed oak trees surrounded Silas, the wind whispering a warning that he did not heed, as he followed the faint path that he walked every morning to reach the beach. Muffled music lilted in the distance, coming from the birthday ball he had departed in a hurry, answering the frantic summons of the crumpled note he gripped in his hand.

The writing in the nightmare was a”ways’smudged and illegible, but he knew what it said, down to the letter: Your Grace, I am with-child. The child is yours and I do not know what to do. Someone must pay for this, and I have not yet decided whether to destroy you or destroy myself, and the child along with me. I will be waiting at the hut where I am certain all of this—this child of ours—began. I will wait until midnight. If you do not come, it is but a short walk to the lake.

Every time that nightmare replayed, it played exactly as it had happened: the breathless, sweating messenger approaching him as he made seductive eyes at a young blonde; the note pressed into Silas’s hand with a warning of urgency; Silas reading the letter, his blood running cold; a glance at the old grandfather clock that marked a quarter to midnight.

He ran from that ball, in real life and in his nightmare, chasing time itself. But in the nightmare, a clock clanged over his head as he raced as fast as he could, charging into the woodland with terror pulsing in his veins. Terror for the woman who had made the veiled threat to her own life, terror for the child she carried, terror for himself, that he might be too late to save either.

Veering off the path to the beach, he tore through dense underbrush, gnarled roots snagging at his ankles, while the trees themselves closed in on him, raking at his face and body with thin, sharp branches, like a crone’s fingernails.

Then, he heard it: a scream, piercing the air. A chilling sound that he would never forget, awake or asleep. In real life, he had feared the worst. In his nightmare, he knew it was a trap, but could do nothing to stop himself from running onward, heading right for the snare.

That night, however, the nightmare had shifted ever so slightly. He had endured it often enough that he could mark the subtlest difference, but the change his mind chose to make was not subtle in the slightest.

He crashed through the undergrowth, grabbing at the trunks of silver birch trees and hawthorns to keep his balance, until he staggered into a glade of sorts, deep within the forest. The whisper of the willow trees could be heard in the distance, though it was not possible for the noise to carry so far.

The woodland itself chimed midnight as he tiptoed toward the hut that sat in the middle of the glade, a candle flickering on a windowsill. A shadow moved within and his heart lurched: there was no woman, no child, no threat to any life but his own.

He had not known that then, but he would think of it every day he was imprisoned, wishing he had been more callous, wishing he had not cared about a fleeting paramour and her child, wishing he had tossed the note into the fire and carried on drinking.

He froze, halfway to the hut. Deep in his subconscious, he knew something was amiss—that had never happened before. Usually, he approached the hut, flung the door wide, waited to see who it was who had summoned him so desperately, and that was when the kidnappers descended on him.

The crack of a twig underfoot snapped his attention toward the trees off to his left. A pale, beautiful figure emerged like a wood nymph, clad only in a nightdress. Fear gripped Silas’s chest in an icy fist as he tried to call out to her, tried to warn her.

Emma, no! Run! It is a trap! No words would leave his throat. No movement could unstick him. All he could do was watch as she followed the steps that he usually took in his nightmare, approaching the hut door.

“I hope I am not too late,” Emma said, knocking politely.

Emma! Silas roared inside his head.

The door flew open, and darkness spilled out in a black tide, sweeping her up into writhing arms. She screamed—a bone-splitting, earth-shattering scream that cleaved his heart in two—as the shadows carried her off into the forest and the invisible clock clanged out the last stroke of midnight.

And in his hand, in place of the crumpled note, was a playing card: the two of hearts. Scratched across it in black ink were two accompanying words: Too Late.

Concentrating on her now, grasping handfuls of the blankets to anchor himself in the real world, Silas’s chest still ached with the brutal shudder of her screams. Although he was looking right at her, seeing her standing there unscathed and untouched, he could not quite get himself to believe it.

“I told you to leave,” he hissed. He was not certain if he was talking to her now or the version of her who had wandered into the glade in his nightmare. Either way, she could not be there.

Emma frowned. “Tell me you are well, and I will.”

“I am well,” he snarled.

“But you did not sound well. Are you certain that⁠—”

He shot a glare at Duncan. “If she will not leave of her own volition, please throw her over your shoulder and remove her.”

At that, Emma hurried toward the door, mumbling an apology as she slipped out and very politely closed the door behind her, clicking it into place instead of slamming it, as Silas had anticipated.

All of the strength drained from his bones. He flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, dragging a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “We need to catch that bastard, Duncan.”

“We will,” Duncan replied. “I promise, we will.”

Silas paused, raising his head a little. “How much did she see? Did she hear me say anything?”

Did she hear me call out her name?

“I cannae say for sure,” Duncan answered. “Nay doubt, she’ll give ye the details herself in the mornin’.”

Silas groaned, draping his arm over his eyes. “Yes, no doubt she will.”

He had been laid bare in front of her, and he did not know how he would scramble to cover himself up again. For she had witnessed the one thing that he never wanted anyone to see: that there was a weak spot in his armor.