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THE BOTTOM OF MARISA’S white gown fell in folds around her feet and blended into the wisps of grey fog that swirled around her. The stone walkway lay before her, with dense foliage growing alongside it. Cold and frightened, she craved the safety of Craethorne Manor, but it was behind her on the path, and she couldn’t turn back.
She began to walk, slowly at first then faster, until she was running, gasping for breath. She pressed on, certain that her goal lay ahead. At last, a clearing appeared, where the sun shone bright and the stone and bushes and fog ended, replaced by a fine, green lawn surrounded by beautiful trees.
Will waited for her under one of the trees. If she could just get to him, she’d be safe. She began to run even faster, ignoring the pain of the rough stone beneath her bare feet. She’d almost broken out into the light when something caught and held her. She fell forward, reaching for but not quite able to touch the grass beyond.
In anguish and frustration, she looked back. A vine twined around her ankles, binding them together like a thick rope. Just behind her, Viscount Allersdale keenly studied the leaves that grew from the vine where it snaked its way back into the bushes. She could not speak to him for they had not yet been properly introduced, and he did not seem to see her lying there on the cold stone. She tried to cry out to Will for help, but her voice was gone. As she watched, he gave one last look toward the shrubs and fog that concealed her, then turned and walked away.
She was sobbing, still calling his name when she heard a door open and the sound of hurried footsteps. Strong, yet gentle, hands gripped her shoulders and lifted her up. A face began to swim before her eyes, illuminated by the light of a single candle.
“Marisa?” A deep voice, laced with worry, spoke to her from what seemed like far away. “Marisa, wake up!”
At first, she thought she must still be lying on the stone path and Will had come to rescue her, but she blinked and focused more clearly. It had been nothing but a dream, and she was sitting in a tumble of covers in her bed, in the room next to Lyvia’s.
However, Will was, indeed, the one sitting beside her now, his blue eyes searching her face with concern. Her body trembling, Marisa moved into the security of his arms.
He held her close and stroked her hair, the fabric of his coat collar rough against her flushed cheek. The material felt damp, although whether it was from the rain that she could hear pattering against the window panes or from her own tears, she wasn’t sure.
“My dear, whatever is wrong? Are you ill? Has something upset you?”
Marisa pulled back then and shifted away, awake at last, and all too aware of the inappropriateness of him being in her room. Sniffling, she drew her knees up under the covers, hugging them securely against her.
“I...I’m so sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to awaken the house. It was a bad dream, nothing more.”
“You did not wake anyone, as far as I know. I’ve just come home from the club. I heard you crying and saying...something. Shall I send for my mother? Perhaps she will know better how to help.”
“No, please, don’t bother.” Marisa wiped away the last of her tears. “I am quite fine now.”
Despite her resolve to appear calm, she still trembled. Whether the fluttering in her chest was caused by the remnants of the dream or her proximity to Will in the intimacy of the shadowed room, she didn’t know.
“You’re hardly fine.” Will leaned forward. “In fact, you haven’t seemed at all yourself these last few days. Is there anything I might do?” He brushed back a stray tendril of her hair that had escaped its night-time braid, his fingertips grazing the delicate skin near her ear.
Her heart raced and her breath came more quickly, his touch kindling the embers of that unknown fire deep within her.
Yes, please, do the very thing I most wish for. Do but say that you love me in the same way that I love you, and then we—
“William?” Mrs. Wycliffe stood in the doorway, a candlestick in one hand and shock on her normally serene face. “What do you think you are doing in this girl’s bedchamber at two in the morning?”
Will came to his feet, his back ramrod straight. He looked as he must have as an army officer standing attention before his commanding general. “A well-timed coincidence, Mother. Marisa was in the throes of a nightmare, just as I happened to pass her door.”
“Oh, I see!” Mrs. Wycliffe came to the bedside, setting her candle on the table just as Will picked up the one he’d brought in. He stepped around her and moved toward the hallway. “Why, it must have been most disturbing,” she consoled, and then she turned to Will, who paused in the doorway. “Thank you, William. I can see to Marisa’s care from here.”
“Of course.” He nodded, and with one last look of concern, he left.
Mrs. Wycliffe smoothed the bedclothes and plumped the down pillows, settling them behind Marisa, who sank back gratefully. “Please, ma’am, do not trouble yourself further—” she began.
“Nonsense, for it is no bother at all. What was the dream about, that it frightened you so?”
“I cannot recall all the details now,” Marisa answered, praying that she would be forgiven the falsehood. “I was lost and running, and then I stumbled and fell.”
Mrs. Wycliffe poured a glass of water from the ewer on the dresser and handed it to her. “Here, drink this and then try to get back to sleep. Tomorrow night is Lyvia’s ball, and you cannot be tired for that.”
“No, I would not wish it. Thank you.” Marisa took a sip of water and glanced at the door that adjoined her room to that of her best friend’s. “I pray I didn’t awaken Lyvia.”
“Not at all. I just looked in on her. My daughter was exhausted tonight from our visit to Court and is already sleeping soundly, dreaming of handsome young gentlemen and breath-taking quadrilles, no doubt. Of course, I hardly expected to find my son here when I came to check on you, as well.”
“I apologize, ma’am.” Marisa ducked her head, feeling her cheeks flush all over again.
“No need, dear, for you did nothing wrong.” She gave Marisa a reassuring smile. “Be sure to send for me at once if the dream returns. And do not be ashamed, for night terrors can seem very real, I know.”
After Mrs. Wycliffe left, Marisa set the glass on the bedside table, every image of the nightmare still fresh in her mind. It stayed with her as she blew out the candle and pulled the covers close under her chin.
She’d met the enemy, seen him at least, and he was an absent-minded horticulturist named Allersdale. How could Sir Gerald have hoped to arrange a match between them, knowing the way things were? But no, perhaps he didn’t know, for he had admitted to not having seen Allersdale in ten years.
Marisa preferred to believe that and not that he wished to see her married to a man who seemed to care more for things that grew out of the ground than he did for people. She was still shaky, but it had only been a dream, and she would not let those events happen to her in real life. She would never allow herself to be tied to the viscount, by Sir Gerald or by anyone else.
Finally, holding to the memory of the trace of Will’s fingertips down her cheek, she drifted off to sleep again, confident that all would be well as soon as he realized he could love her.
* * * *
“’TIS UTTER FOLLY,” WILL muttered as he shrugged out of his wet coat, leaving the drying of it to his man, Elvins.
“I beg pardon, sir?”
“What? Oh, dammit, Elvins, nothing. Nothing.” Now in his own bedchamber, Will let out an exasperated sigh. “Bring me a glass of brandy. I fear I shan’t sleep tonight without it.”
Elvins nodded. “I shall make haste, sir.”
Will fell into a wing chair and stretched his long legs out, his booted feet landing inches from the flames that danced amongst the logs in the fireplace. He stared at his fingers as he rubbed the tips together, recalling the smooth feel of Marisa’s sleep-warmed skin. If his mother hadn’t arrived, he might have been drawn even further under Marisa’s spell, and heaven only knew what could have happened next.
Her spell? He snorted at his own foolishness, confident that Marisa was far too innocent and guileless to try to bewitch him. And why would she even wish to?
She will probably have a dozen suitors this Season with far better situations than mine, and that’s what I want for her. Isn’t it?
He’d had similar thoughts that day some weeks earlier back in Dorset when he’d met Marisa while out riding. Tonight, his jaw tightened and his hands clenched at the realization that she might soon belong, irrevocably, to another man.