Twelve

Caitlin couldn't sleep. The scene in the courtroom, of Esther Abrams—the same proud woman she'd seen in that gleaming carriage in Sydney—despairing and defeated. And her son, a boy she'd carried in her own womb, who she'd raised up and loved . . . gleeful in his mother's defeat. It circled round and round in Caitlin's mind despite all her efforts to banish it.

This place, this world was so stacked against them. Against Caitlin and Esther and so many others like them. Anyone who hadn't the luck to be born into the very upper crust. Of course, Caitlin knew that. She'd known it her whole life, made peace with it. Orchids and turnips, Da used to say. The O'Keefe's were turnips and proud of it—so much sturdier and stronger than the vain, flimsy orchids of the world. They knew how to endure. But sometimes . . . sometimes there was a pain to it that couldn't be shrugged away. The unfairness of this life.

Perhaps it was the hope that made it worse. The prospect of learning to read and of a future on her own terms. It was within her grasp, her ability. But it could still so easily be wrested away by the whims of some rich man she'd never met.

And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Bugger . She tossed and turned for what felt like hours, then finally kicked the coverlet off and sat up.

She needed to move. To exert herself and distract her mind.

She pulled on her dressing gown. She'd go out to the barn to check on the pregnant cow. The poor thing was huge. Her udders had swollen, and Caitlin had noticed her standing away from the others this morning. Her time was near.

The house was quiet as she slipped down the corridor and through the kitchen. She'd heard Dunn come through ages ago. He was surely asleep by now.

The yellow moon hung low, and a mist was rising off the fields, but the stars lent enough light that Caitlin didn't need the lantern. All was peaceful in the barn, the cow and her sisters sleeping contentedly in the straw.

Caitlin stood and watched them until, finally, a weight pulled at her eyelids. Then she turned and walked slowly back to the house.

A sound, very faint, distracted her from her thoughts. A crying, or moaning . . . At first, she thought it was an animal, a possum or a snake in the hen house, riling the chickens. She nearly turned around to check before she realized it was coming from the direction of the house. Dunn's window, to be exact. As she crept closer, she could make out that same nonsensical babbling she'd heard the first night he'd been here. She paused at the open window and listened. He was crying out as if someone were hurting him. And she could hear now that there were words strung into the terrified muttering.

Please . Don't. Let me go —

Her heart lurched to hear him so scared and desperate. So unlike the stoic man she knew in the day.

What had happened to him at Moreton Bay? He seemed to have begun to recover from it—whatever it was—while awake, but it obviously had not left his dreams. Perhaps it never would.

She moved away from the window. He wouldn't want her to listen, of that she was sure.

But she could try to help, couldn't she? To wake him and end the suffering, at least for now. She came in, slammed the back door with some force, and stomped loudly across the kitchen. The sound ceased.

Good then.

She'd almost reached her own room when a blood-curdling scream pierced through the darkness, followed by a series of loud, horrified whimpers.

Melia murder . She turned and walked back to his door, then knocked loudly. "Dunn? Are you all right?" He was quieter now, but she could still hear him pleading with whomever had him in the nightmare. " Dunn! " she tried, louder.

The noise continued.

Caitlin squinted at the rough wood and worried her bottom lip. Should she go in? She no longer feared what he might do to her. He would never hurt her, even in his half-dazed sleep, but would he want her to wake him? Likely not. He'd be embarrassed, certainly. But wouldn't that be better than whatever hell he was going through now? There was no way she'd be able to sleep if he screamed like that again, that was sure.

She took a long breath and opened the door.

He would never escape. The darkness closed in, pressing at his eyes, his chest. There were snakes in the pit. He could feel them slithering around his ankles, their tongues grazing his flesh. One crept slowly up his body, the icy damp of its skin encircling his leg.

His heart stopped. He was petrified. Turned to stone. He could only stand and feel the cold of the serpent's scales as it coiled itself around him, pinning his arms to his side, tightening over his stomach. His chest. His neck. Tighter still.

He couldn't breathe.

Michael screamed, but no sound came. There was no air. No breath—

"Dunn."

It called to him. It would take him. It already had. It was too late—

"Dunn."

It was crushing him, breaking him apart. Fracturing the stone he'd become into a thousand pieces—

"DUNN. Wake up."

Michael came to with a start, his heart pounding, his limbs trembling, every muscle tensed. Damn. It had been some time since the nightmare had taken him like that. He was covered in sweat. Exhausted.

Exhaling, he let himself sink back onto the bed, willing his body to relax, his pulse to slow—

"Are you awake, then?" Mrs. Blackwell's voice, very near.

Shit.

Michael's eyes flew open. Sure enough, there she was, a silhouette sitting beside him on the bed. Her eyes reflected the starlight that filtered through the window, wide and concerned. Her hand hovered above him, as if she—

She'd shaken him awake, hadn't she? That voice and the tremor he'd felt . . .

He'd woken her.

Shame rose hot on his cheeks, and Michael reached a hand up to scrub his face. What could he say?

"I—"

"Good." She lowered her arm, satisfied that he was, indeed, awake. "No need to explain. You were having a nightmare, that was clear." She cocked her head. "You're hardly the first man from Moreton Bay to be plagued by such things, you know."

Ha. She thought it was Moreton Bay he was reliving in that dream. If only it were that simple.

"Do you—are you all right now?" She looked down at him, the concern still etched on her face.

"Yes," Michael managed. He closed his eyes, as if that would do anything to make this less humiliating. But it worked. With the sight of her gone, she became distant, unreal, another dream, perhaps . . . albeit not a nightmare.

"Do you want me to stay?" He felt her voice, the whisper of it, almost like a touch. "‘Til you fall asleep again?"

There was a part of him, the weak, pitiful man who hid inside, that wanted to give in and say yes. Yes, please. Stay with me. He exhaled, pushing that man away. Then he drew a breath, intending to say no. But before the word could come, something brushed across his cheek, light as a feather. Her thumb. Stroking him.

All his strength left him with that touch. He leaned into it, then opened his eyes—helpless as a babe—and met hers just in time for her to speak again. "I don't mind." Her thumb settled on his jaw, and she looked at him. Just looked. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, her head dipped toward his. All Michael could hear was his heartbeat pounding in his ears as she drew closer and closer.

When she was so near that he could feel her breath on his lips, she opened her own. "Can I kiss you?" She bit her bottom lip as soon as the words were out, as if she'd meant to catch them on their way and just missed. But they'd escaped, and there was no taking them back now.

It was a dream. But goddamn, Michael did not want to wake up.

"Yes," he whispered.

A luminous smile lit her face. Then, like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, it dimmed. Her eyes searched his face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." And to show her he meant it he reached both hands up and drew her down to him.

She hadn't been expecting it. She gave a little shriek, and she lost her balance for a moment, but it quickly turned into a sweet, giggling kind of laugh as she allowed Michael to pull her on top of him.

Then their lips met, and all sound, all thought vanished.

It was unlike any kiss Michael had ever known. Not hard and desperate, nor soft and tentative. Only solid and flowing and sure. As if they'd done this their whole lives. As if they'd been born to it, like two parts of a well-matched team. Their mouths opened as one, then their tongues met, twining and dancing, giving and taking, generous and bountiful. Not holding back, nor forcing. Just being. Mouth on mouth. Breath with breath.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as his hands wandered lower, to her shoulders, down her back, settling on the curve of her waist before burrowing into the soft fabric of her dressing gown.

The kiss went on for what seemed like hours. Or minutes. Or seconds of effortless, mindless bliss.

But at last, Mrs. Blackwell seemed to come to her senses. She straightened back up to sitting, then peered down at him. In the starlight, he could see her chest heaving, the dark smudge of her lips where they'd melded with his own. "I—I'd thought of this," she whispered. "Of talking with you about this, I mean—" She screwed her eyes shut, then opened them again, and this time her words sounded more sure. "Of talking to you of an affair. While you're here. But I didn't think—I don't want to press it on you and take advantage. You mustn't do it because I'm your master and you think—" She took another long breath. "I'm sorry. This isn't how I'd thought—"

"I'm not doing this because you're my master." Michael couldn't allow her to keep on like that, so flustered about what he wanted. Wasn't what he wanted clear? "I'm—I'm a man, Mrs. Blackwell. I assumed you wouldn't be interested in such a thing. But if you are . . . well . . ." He looked down to where his cockstand was making an obvious tent of the sheets.

Her gaze followed his. Then a slow, sly smile started in her eyes, spreading to her lips. "It's Caitlin to you."

"Caitlin." Michael repeated. "I can't promise I'll be a—"

She brought her finger to his lips, and the smile vanished. "I don't want your promises. There's no future in it, you understand. Just . . . now. While you're here."

Michael nodded. He had no future anyway. It hardly mattered to him. "Of course."

"Well, then." She rose and smoothed out her dressing gown, no longer the eager wanton he'd just kissed, but the brisk woman she showed to the rest of the world. "‘Tis late now. I'd say we both get some sleep and start tomorrow night. If you agree?"

Michael stared at her, her mussed hair, her pink cheeks, the way her lips pursed with authority. Those lips had been so soft when they'd kissed. Yielding and pillowy . . .

"Dunn?"

He started. He hadn't answered her question. His throat was suddenly parched, and his cock pulsed with need. He swallowed. "Yes. I mean. If you'd like to begin tomorrow, I see no reason why not."

Her lips relaxed into a smile before she seemed to remember herself and pulled them back into their tight line. She nodded curtly. "Good night, then."

And she turned and left the room.