Raven settled himself beneath the trees and tried to get more comfortable.
The walls of her caravan were too damn thin. Despite the patter of the rain he was sure he could hear her undressing. His mind, of course, put an image to every rustle and thump. The minutes passed. He heard the splash of water, the sound of bare feet on wood, the whisper of sheets across her body. Not even the bloody French had devised such torture.
He waited a good hour, until he was certain she was asleep, before he slipped into the caravan. The doorway was so low he had to duck his head, and once inside he could barely straighten up, but at least it was dry.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her. She wore that damnable teal chemise again, little more than scraps of silk and lace, designed to entice rather than conceal. One thing you could say about the French, no matter how wrong-headed their politics, as a nation they were masters of producing undergarments that could drive a man to the brink of insanity.
He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, listened to her breathing, and lost all track of time. He could stay like this forever, watching her, guarding her. It was a total invasion of her privacy, just as reading her journal had been, but he didn’t care. He’d steal whatever moments he could to nourish his dark soul.
His eyes traced the delicate lines of her shoulder and collarbone. Awake, she was so feisty, so fierce, like a tiny force of nature. He kept forgetting how fragile she was. Each time he lifted her he was shocked at how little she weighed.
And yet she constantly surprised him with her resilience. He’d mocked her ability to survive, but she was as adept at self-preservation as he. She’d endured the barbs of the London ballrooms after her accident, avoided marriage as successfully as he’d avoided sniper’s bullets. She’d faced the challenges of traveling as an adventure rather than an ordeal.
His chest constricted. That bullet today had been too close for comfort. He’d hit the shooter, but there was no way of knowing whether it had been enough to put the bastard out of action.
Heloise stirred restlessly. Her forehead puckered as she turned her head and she muttered something incomprehensible.
He ought to leave. He had no business spying on her.
She flailed and kicked a leg out from underneath the blankets. The chemise pulled taut, baring the upper curve of one breast, and Raven swallowed. She needed rest, and all he could think about was putting his mouth on her skin.
Her eyelids flickered. And then she screamed.
“Tony!”
The ice cracked beneath her feet, hideous gray lines radiating out with every step she took. Heloise raced forward, her panicked breaths white puffs in the freezing air.
“I’m coming, Tony! Hold on!”
She was almost there, so close. And then the ice gave way and she was falling, down, into the frigid black water. She flung out her arms and kicked her legs. Surfaced with a gasp. Somewhere, nearby, Tony was shouting her name, frantic, desperate, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t reach him. The weight of her skirts dragged her down, wrapping round her legs in an icy embrace as she thrashed. “Wait! I’m coming! Wait!”
She clawed and grasped nothing. Tony’s voice was fading, slipping away, and a scream tore from her throat, of rage and frustration and grief. This wasn’t what had happened. Tony couldn’t leave her!
Heloise sat bolt upright, her heart hammering, her throat tight and raw. Strong arms enveloped her and she didn’t even question their presence. She let out a choked sob and buried her head in the comforting warmth and strength. Raven. Of course.
A shudder ran through her. “I dreamed of Tony. On the ice.”
Soothing hands rubbed her back. “Shh. It’s all right.”
She could barely breathe past the weight of loss crushing her chest. “Oh God. Why did he have to die?”
“I don’t know.”
She suppressed another shuddering sob. “It’s so bloody stupid. What was the point in me saving him from drowning? He went and got himself killed a few years later in the war.” Tears threatened behind her eyelids but she refused to let them fall. She buried her face against Raven’s shirt instead. “I couldn’t save him. He died.”
Raven stroked her hair, smoothed the damp tendrils back from her face, and simply held her, offering wordless comfort. Heloise lifted her head and stared at him in the shadows. “I miss him so much. It still hurts. Every day, you know?”
Oh, yes, Raven thought helplessly, he knew. That gnawing sense of loss. The impotence and hollowness and rage. He’d never wish it on his worst enemy.
She made a soft sound, a little sigh, and burrowed her face into his chest again. He stiffened but didn’t move.
“I was afraid for you this afternoon,” she sniffed, her words muffled against his shirt. “What if you’d been shot? I’ve already lost Tony. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”
Raven stilled at her admission, then forced his muscles to relax. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll stay on this earth just to haunt you.” He smiled when she chuckled, and felt an instant gratification that he’d eased a little of her pain. “I thought you hated me, Hellcat?” It came out gruffer than he would have liked, but she didn’t notice, thankfully.
She gave a watery laugh. “I might want to kill you, Ravenwood, but I’d never want you dead.”
That was paradoxical, but he knew what she meant. He felt the same way about her. She lifted her eyes and he felt himself weakening. That pleading look was killing him, as sure as a knife through the heart. He stood abruptly and stepped to the door. He had to get out of there.
“Stay,” she said softly.