Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
He’d seen her this way before.
“Shall I call the physician?” Rochelle asked.
“No. She’s dreaming of the fire again. Bring some cool water and a cloth.”
While the maid hurried to comply, he strode to Ophelia’s side and tried to wake her, but she was seized hard in the nightmare’s grasp. It was frightening, and frustrating, to see her suffer so. He sat on the bed and pulled her against him, settling her tossing head upon his shoulder.
“You’re dreaming,” he said, repeating it as if she could hear him. “You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming. You’re dreaming, little crosspatch. You must wake.”
Rochelle bathed her forehead and cheeks with a cool cloth, though Ophelia struggled against the contact as if it were fire itself. She let out another scream, trembling in terrified spasms. The depth of her fear took Wescott’s breath away.
“Why won’t she wake, my lord?” the maid asked.
“She’s a deep dreamer.” He held her so she wouldn’t throw herself from the bed. Finally, when he called her name loudly, she shook off the nightmare and regained her waking faculties. She was still afraid though, still gasping for breath.
“There’s a fire,” she said, struggling to get away from him. “A fire. We must go, quickly!”
“There’s no fire. You’re safe in bed, in your room at Wescott Abbey.”
“I made the fire. It shot from my fingers and everyone is angry with me.” She grasped his arms hard, willing him to believe. “I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. It burned me too.” She drew her hands forward to show him, then turned them over, staring in confusion. “The fire burned me and I lost control of it. It chased me when I tried to push it away.”
“You haven’t started any fires. Nothing’s chasing you, love. You had a dream.”
Rochelle produced a cool glass of water and he held it to Ophelia’s lips. She could barely drink from shivering.
“Is she ill, my lord?” asked the maid fretfully. “Perhaps she caught an ague on the trip, at one of the staging inns.”
“We didn’t stop on the trip. She’s got no fever, and she has energy enough to fight me. She’s merely overtired.” He was doing his best to present a facade of capability in front of the servants. “Are you awake now?” he asked his wife, looking into her eyes. Her gaze still darted about the room, fixing fearfully on the candles and the dying fire.
“Shall I bring more light, my lord?” asked Rochelle. “I can send a footman for lamps right away.”
“No. In fact, extinguish the candles for now. There’s enough light from the fire. Close the screen upon the hearth, if you would.”
The maid pulled the sides of the fire screen together, blocking the flames from view. All they really needed was the heat.
“You may go,” he told Rochelle when she finished. “Get some rest so you can care for your mistress tomorrow. I’ll stay with her through the night.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As soon as he climbed into bed beside her, his wife protested. “No, please. I’m too afraid of that. I don’t want you to—”
“I won’t, if you don’t wish it.” A flush burned his cheeks. Humiliating, for the maid to hear this exchange. “I’ll only lie next to you, Ophelia. Good night, Rochelle,” he said pointedly, as the maid dawdled on her way to the door. The servant was clearly the loyal sort, which pleased him, although at the moment, he wanted her gone. Not because he intended to mistreat his wife, but because he didn’t want servants gossiping about her disdain for him.
“You…you needn’t stay,” Ophelia repeated.
She wasn’t happy for his company, but he slid beneath her covers anyway and pulled her into his arms, so her cheek rested against his chest.
“There, see now,” he said soothingly. “We’ll only talk together until you’ve forgotten your nightmare and start feeling better.”
“I’m better now.”
“Hush, little liar. You’re trembling like a leaf in a storm.”
“I’m not a liar.”
“I say you are. Be still. Take some calming breaths.”
He cradled her against him and stroked her arm, up and down, up and down. She began to settle in stages when it became obvious a seduction was not at play. Her trembling stopped, her breath slowed, and she finally allowed herself to go slack against him as she had earlier in the carriage.
This time, though, exhaustion would not carry her away. Her fingers worked nervously at his shirt’s sleeves, and she kept glancing about the room.
“You must be so angry with me,” she said.
“Why?”
“I didn’t mean to start the fire. It came from my fingers. Wherever I touched, things burst into flame.”
He looked down at her. “Are you still dreaming?”
She stared at her hands, bewildered. “I don’t mean to be so awful. Oh, I wish I could be a proper lady. That’s why everything caught fire, you know.”