Felipe’s shouts awoke Franny.
She sat bolt upright at the first hoarse exclamation, the sheet sliding down to pool in her lap. Her last memory before falling asleep had been the clock sending forth twelve tinkling chimes.
No light peeked through the crack in the curtains, so it must be sometime before dawn.
The shout came again.
Definitely Felipe, but she couldn’t make out any words.
She crept out of bed, her toes curling when they hit the cold, bare floor, but she kept quietly moving. She didn’t want to disturb him if he were awake and… And doing what? What could possibly require him to be shouting in the middle of the night?
It must be a nightmare. She remembered Isabel’s cries when nightmares flooded her sleep after her attack by that outlaw. Of course, their mother had gone to Isabel to comfort her.
But Franny was the only one here.
The shout came again, formless, nothing discernible within—only inchoate agony.
She pushed open his door, the silver light of the moon illuminating his form on the bed. He’d fallen asleep fully clothed and on top of the covers, which made her heart squeeze. His face was contorted in a grimace of agony and his legs kicked restlessly at nothing.
“Felipe,” she hissed, staying close by the door, her fingers wrapped round the frame. She suspected he wouldn’t be pleased to have her in his room.
His eyes stayed closed.
“Felipe,” she called a little louder, wondering why she was bothering to keep her voice down. There was no one else to hear.
He moaned, his legs thrashing again. His brow was drawn tight with distress. God, but it hurt to see him like this.
“Felipe!” She marched toward him, her feet softly thumping across the floor. She grabbed his shoulder, the fine fabric of his suit caressing against her fingertips, and shook him. “Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
His hand closed on hers, strong and large and engulfing. She shook him harder.
The black depths of his eyes when they finally fluttered open were bleary and sad. “Franny?” Puzzlement spread across his face, followed by something deeper, darker. She was acutely aware of the weight of his hand on hers, the distance between their lips, and that they were alone in the dark on their wedding night.
“Did I wake you?” His voice was low and a touch raspy. The words trailed across her skin like calloused fingertips.
She swallowed. “No. Yes. I mean, it was nothing. Are you all right?”
His smile was sleepy and fond all at once. “Just a nightmare. Hasn’t hurt me so far.”
“Do you often have them?”
“I used to. They stopped for a while, but…”
But now he was back in this house, the house he’d avoided for years. She tightened her hand on his shoulder, thinking to comfort him.
“We could… sleep out of doors,” she offered. “If that would help.”
“Even in the winter?” His laugh was soft. “No, I only have to get used to sleeping here again.”
“Well…” If he said he was fine, she’d go then. But her hand had gone mutinous—it wouldn’t release its hold on him.
“Really, I’ll be all right. Go back to bed.”
Her hand finally returned to her command and unclamped from his shoulder. “If you’re certain.”
“I am. Don’t worry.” Again, his smile was fond. It seemed he had to be half asleep to give her that smile. “Go back to bed.”
She padded back down the hall and slipped into her now-cold bed as the clock chimed two.
The clock had already chimed three when the shouts started up again.
She didn’t hesitate as she swung her legs over the bed, cinched her wrapper tight, and went to his room.
Only this time, he’d taken off his suit. His bare chest peeked out from beneath the quilt. She studied him, telling herself she was trying to decide if she should wake him again, even as her eyes were stuck to all that nude skin she’d never seen before.
She chewed on her lip, her hand hovering over his shoulder. If she shook him awake now, it wouldn’t be the fine cloth of his suit she’d touch. It would be his warm, sleek skin.
Her mouth went dry as her fingers curled into her palm. And then she obeyed an impulse she would regret in the morning—she lay down next to him, her over the quilt and him under it.
“There, there,” she whispered, patting at his shoulder. “It’s all right.”
His skin was hot under her hand, the muscles flexing as he shifted with his dreams. He turned toward her, her hand sliding down to his chest as he did. Hair prickled under her palm, making the breath flutter in her lungs.
She’d never seen him like this—he’d kept his clothes on when they’d done that. His skin was a dusky silver in the moonlight, the hair dusting his chest black and wiry. The quilt trapped tight under his arms covered the rest of him, and she wondered if he was nude all the way down.
Wondered and shivered with her imaginings.
Looking at him uncovered made her more than aware of her nightgown, the collar tightly buttoned against her neck, the fabric drawing along her breasts, the length of it tangling with her legs.
He shifted again, settling closer to her, his mouth working softly as if he meant to cry out again. She rubbed her hand along his shoulder, thinking to soothe him, but enjoying the silken heat of his skin a little too much.
He calmed after a few moments, his breathing returning to the slow rhythm of sleep.
She ought to get up and leave. She was going to freeze without any blankets, and he would be furious if he caught her in his bed.
But lying next to him, skin flushed from head to toe, she didn’t feel in the least danger of freezing. She placed her hand over his heart, feeling it beat steady and true under her palm.
She studied his face. In sleep, he was relaxed. No, more than relaxed. He was abandoned, his head tilted back, his mouth soft, and all of him looking very kissable. His forehead was high and smooth, his nose suitably noble, and his chin had the most intriguing dimple right in the center.
She sighed and crowded a bit closer to him. She’d wait a few moments more to ensure the nightmares wouldn’t return, then go back to her own bed. No sense in leaving now if she’d only have to come back later.
She was telling herself that very thing just before she fell asleep.
Felipe opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling.
This wasn’t his overseer’s cottage.
It was…
His old house. That was the ceiling to his old bedroom.
He was married now.
To Franny.
He wasn’t quite alert enough to be panicked by that thought.
Something or someone was snoring in his room, loud enough to wake the dead. Had a drunk from the wedding snuck into his bed last night?
He rolled toward the sound, his hand landing on something soft, supple.
What the—?
His heart clambered up his ribs.
Franny.
His wife. His wife was in his bed. He was holding her breast in his hand.
What had happened last night? He remembered having a nightmare, although the particulars were gone, the fear and nausea the only impressions left. She had come in, comforted him—imagine that, Franny comforting him—and then returned to her own bed.
She’d left. He was certain of it.
He must have had another nightmare, and she’d come back—he just didn’t remember.
What else didn’t he recall? Had they been intimate?
No. No, if that had happened, he would know. Their one time together was seared into his skin, branded there by the intensity of the experience. There was no earthly way he could have done that again and not remembered.
But she was in his bed.
He flexed his hand, enjoying the press of her bosom against his fingertips. That might be the very tip of her nipple brushing against his palm.
He ought not to be doing this. She was sleeping, their marriage wasn’t like that, he didn’t want to fall in love with her—so many reasons.
His hand flexed again.
As his fingers sank into that softness, his cock twitched almost painfully. This was madness.
He had to stop before she awoke. And he had to get up and start his day. There was a barn to be cleaned, small repairs to be done before the horses could be put up, and there were corrals to check—
Her mouth curled lazily in a welcoming smile just before her eyes opened, and Lord help him if he didn’t want to kiss her, to take all that fondness into himself. A man could keep himself warm at night with only that smile for fuel.
He drew his hand back. “Did I wake you again last night?”
“You did,” she said, “but you calmed down when I slipped in next to you and stayed quiet the whole night.” She yawned widely and stretched, obviously unaware she was shoving her breasts right into his face.
He cleared his throat. Hard. “I don’t remember you snoring that loud on the lion hunt.”
She laughed, completely unembarrassed, which captivated him. “I wasn’t as tired on the trail as I was last night.”
“Getting married is tougher than hunting a lion?”
“Wearing a corset for that long isn’t for the faint of heart,” she replied. “I’m glad I won’t have to do that again. Except on Sundays.”
Silence fell between them. The urge to kiss her was a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow, and it might just choke him if he didn’t feel those lips under his.
She couldn’t spend the night with him again. If he woke up to this every morning, his resolve would snap quicker than a frayed rope. His resolve already was a frayed rope.
One pull from her and he’d go right under—and straight into her.
“Should we get up?” she asked.
Oh, but he already was.
“You—” He cleared the hoarseness from his throat, tried again. “You go use the water closet first. I’ll be in when you’ve finished.”
“All right.” She swung those long legs of hers out of the bed, every inch of them bared to his gaze as her nightgown rucked up to her waist, the lean muscles of her thighs working under her golden skin.
He had to close his eyes before he lost all composure.
“Are you all right?”
When he opened them again, she was hovering over him, worry pulling her brows together. He wanted to kiss that little crease there. His lips pursed for half a moment, an involuntary kiss pressed against the air instead of her.
“Fine,” he croaked. “Just tired from yesterday.”
She nodded. “You didn’t sleep well either. I’ll start the coffee when I’m finished getting dressed.” She turned to leave, whipping around so fast her braid flew over his head.
He waited until she’d shut the door behind her, then began thumping his head against the pillow. But it wasn’t hard enough to knock some sense into him. Perhaps he ought to try the headboard, to see if that worked better.
She’d lain next to him all night, to comfort him. He’d never thought he could sleep easy in this house—but when she was next to him, his slumber had been deep, dreamless.
He fisted a hand against his forehead. Lord help him if didn’t want to kiss her until she was cross-eyed, then pull off that chaste nightgown so he could see every inch of her. Touch and taste every inch of her. For all that he’d ruined her so thoroughly, he’d never seen more than her bared legs.
No, he wasn’t being entirely truthful. More than all those carnal imaginings, he’d wanted to wrap her in his arms and whisper, Thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for not leaving me alone.
Those longings of his soul were more dangerous than the lusts of his body.