Читать книгу Claimed by the Laird - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 9
ОглавлениеArdnamurchan, Scottish Highlands, May 1817
IT WAS NOT the way Lucas was meant to die, blindfolded, tied up, on his knees in a smugglers’ cave, with the pungent smell of rotting fish in his nose and the roar of the sea in his ears as it crashed onto the rocks several hundred feet below.
One minute he had been strolling along the cliffs in the evening twilight to stretch his legs after an interminable journey from Edinburgh, the next this nightmare of ambush and capture. He had heard that the Highlands in May were very pleasant, but he had been mistaken in that. The Highlands in May was no place to be if there was a knife at your throat.
He had been careless. The thought made him angry. Lord Sidmouth would be so proud of him, he thought savagely. His spy caught by the very men he had come to investigate. But he had been tired and the last thing he had been expecting was to stumble on the whisky smugglers moving their cargo. He wondered if this was why Peter had died. He wondered if his brother, too, had seen something he should not, had stumbled disastrously into a situation he could not control. The irony would be if he discovered the truth so quickly, so easily, and then did not live to prove it.
The smugglers were arguing. Their Scots accents were so thick Lucas found it hard to understand some of them, but the general thrust of the conversation was not in the least difficult to follow.
“I say we throw him over the cliff, no questions asked.”
“I say we let him go. He’s seen nothing—”
“It’s too dangerous. He could be a spy. I say he dies.”
“And I say we wait for the lady. She will know what to do.”
There was a short, angry pause.
“I told you not to send for her.” The first man swore. “Damn it to hell, you know what she will say.”
“She doesn’t like unnecessary bloodshed.” The second man sounded as though he was quoting. Lucas could not help but wonder if the shedding of his blood would nevertheless be deemed necessary.
Lucas kept silent. He was cold, wet, tired to his bones and starving hungry.
Who was the lady? Some ruffian as brutal as her trade?
Sidmouth had briefed him on the illegal Highland whisky trade. The government in London demanded that every Highlander who distilled whisky should pay tax on it. The Highlanders declined. The government sent excise officers to hunt the smugglers down, which was no doubt why this gang suspected him of being a spy. Which he was. A very incompetent one.
Damnation.
Lucas remembered the whisky he had tasted on the back streets of Edinburgh. They called it the Uisge Beatha in Gaelic, the water of life, but he had thought it was rougher than a badger’s backside.
A faint drift of a salt-laden breeze stirred the noisome press of air in the cave, and the smugglers fell silent. It was a wary silence. Lucas felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and his skin prickle. He found he was holding his breath.
The air shifted as someone walked past him. The lady. She had arrived. Lucas had heard no footsteps. Nor could he see anything from behind the blindfold. The material was thick and coarse. He was wrapped in darkness. Yet he could feel her presence. She was close.
He tried to rise to his feet and immediately one of the smugglers placed an ungentle hand on his shoulder and forced him back down on his knees.
“Evening, ma’am.” The tone of the men’s voices had changed. There was respect in their muttered greeting and a note of caution. Lucas realized that they were on their guard. They could not predict her reactions. And in their uncertainty lay his hope. Suddenly the moment was on a knife’s edge between life and death.
“Gentlemen.”
Lucas’s heart was beating violently against his ribs. All his senses were straining. One word from her and he would be dead. A knife between the ribs, quick, lethal. He fought back the suffocating fear that beat down on his mind. He had nothing in particular to live for, but no particular wish to die, either.
He sensed the lady was very close to him now. He could hear the shift and slip of a material that sounded rich and fine, like silk or velvet, and then he caught the most elusive of scents, a fragrance of bluebells—very sweet, very innocent. The incongruity of it almost made him smile. The infamous leader of a band of criminal renegades and she smelled of spring flowers.
Someone kicked him hard in the ribs, and the thought disintegrated in a blaze of pain. Lucas toppled onto his side under the force of the blow. They were crowding in on him now like a pack of wolves. He could sense their malevolence. There was another blow, and then another. He twisted and rolled in a vain attempt to avoid them, hampered by his bound wrists, blinded, utterly at their mercy. He was too proud to beg a pack of ruffians to spare his life. Perhaps that was a weakness that would kill him but he did not care.
“Stop.”
It only took the one word from her to halt them. She spoke sharply and with such an edge of authority that they all fell back. For a moment Lucas could focus on nothing but the hot flare of pain in his ribs. Then as it dulled to an ache, he drew in a labored breath.
“Here...”
She was helping him to sit; his back was against the wall of the cave. It was cold and damp, but the solid rock helped to steady him. Her touch was gentle but firm. He sensed she was between him and the men, shielding him, protecting him. He felt a wave of shame that he could not defend himself and a fierce, hot tug of emotion toward her that he did not understand.
The silence in the cave was absolute, but the atmosphere still simmered with violence. Lucas could feel it in every cell of his body. He could sense, too, some ripple of feeling in her that belied her confidence.
Fear? No. She was not afraid of these braggarts and bullies.
Revulsion.
Lucas’s heart bounded. Extraordinary as it was, he sensed in her a hatred of brutality.
The smugglers’ words made sense now. This was why the more bloodthirsty amongst them had not wanted her to know of his capture.
They were afraid she would save him.
He felt as close to her as though he could read her thoughts, closer, as though he shared the sensations and emotions that drove her.
He had never felt like this before. He hated the intimacy of the feeling and he hated that he did not understand why he felt it. Most of all he hated his own powerlessness.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” One of the men sounded abashed, like a naughty schoolboy, but there was rebellion beneath his brusque apology. “We caught him on the track above the bothy. He was following us—”
“Spying,” one of the others put in.
“We need to get rid of him.” There was a rumble of agreement.
“Over the cliff,” the first man said. “Now.”
“Is that so?” Unlike the men, her voice held no trace of a Scots accent. It was low and smooth, as rich and soothing as honey. She truly was a lady born and bred.
“Stand back.” There was a rustle of skirts as she shifted beside him. Lucas could not rise as he was once again pinned by the large boot of one of the men, which was lodged in his aching ribs. The boot pressed harder and he sucked in his breath on another wave of pain.
“If you could restrain your tendency toward violence, please.” She sounded weary now but the boot eased its pressure a little.
Her hand was beneath Lucas’s chin. He imagined she was turning his face to the light. She wore no gloves; her skin was soft and her fingers felt gentle against the roughness of his stubble. For a moment they brushed his cheek in a sweet caress. Lucas felt a shiver down his spine of something that was not fear. He fought it back angrily. His life was on the line and all he could think about was her touch.
Get hold of yourself, Lucas.
“What sort of a spy would be caught so easily?” There was mockery in her voice.
“A bad one,” one of the men said dourly.
“Or an innocent traveler,” the woman said. Her tone was sharp. Her hand fell. Lucas sensed she was sitting back on her heels.
“Innocent or not, the sea is the place for him,” the man growled. He seemed to be the spokesman. The others were content to let him talk. “It’s the only thing to do, ma’am.”
“Nonsense.” She sounded angry now. “Our quarrel is not with the likes of him and you know it.”
“And you know he’s a danger to us.” The man was curt. “We’ve no choice.” He was standing his ground and the others supported him. Lucas could smell their stubbornness and their fear. It was in the air and on their unwashed bodies as they pressed closer. They wanted him dead.
He knew the woman could feel it, too. One false step and they would both be in trouble. It was extraordinary to sense with absolute certainty that she was on his side.
“No one will know,” the man said. “Who’s to miss him?”
“Only he can tell us that.” Her voice betrayed no feelings, nothing of the quick, careful calculation Lucas could sense behind the words. “Perhaps it’s time to learn a little more about him.” Her hand touched Lucas’s arm, conveying a warning even as her tone warmed into mockery again. “What’s your name, handsome?”
“Lucas,” he said. He was aware that as repartee went it was far from sparkling.
One of the men laughed. “We could spoil his pretty face. That would teach him a lesson.”
“Don’t you dare,” the woman said. Her voice was light. “I need something nice to look at around here.” Her words were dismissive, as though he counted for nothing. Lucas hated being treated so casually, but he could see how clever she was. She made him seem unimportant, no threat.
“What’s your other name?” she said.
Lucas cleared his throat. “Lucas Ross, ma’am,” he said. “At your service.” It was only half a lie.
“Your speech is as pretty as your looks.” Her voice was cool. “What are you doing in Kilmory, Lucas Ross?”
“I’m after a job,” Lucas said. “At the castle. Footman. I’ve come from Edinburgh.”
“Fancy city manners,” one of the smugglers said, and it was not a compliment.
“I want to be a butler one day,” Lucas said.
“Let us hope you live long enough to achieve your ambition.” The lady sounded dry. “Where are you staying?”
“At the inn in the village,” Lucas said. “I booked a room and ordered supper. The landlord will notice if I don’t return.”
“Tom McArdle won’t give us any trouble.” Another of the smugglers spoke this time. “Very likely he’ll dispose of your belongings for us. Where do you think he gets his whisky from, laddie?”
The others gave a low rumble of laughter. They were closing in again now, going for the kill. Lucas knew he had not made a strong enough case to be allowed to live. There would be no loving wife to miss him, no parents and no siblings. He should have invented a few and told an affecting story of how they depended on him. His lips twisted into a bitter parody of a smile.
“We’re wasting time.” One of the men hauled him to his feet.
“Wait.” The woman spoke again, the sharpness of authority back in her voice. “You are too hasty, my friend. Another body around here will bring the gaugers back down on us faster than a sniff of the peat-reek, and the dragoons with them. Have you forgotten that it is only a six-month since the last time?”
Another body...
Lucas felt his blood run cold. She was speaking of Peter.
The silence prickled with tension. Lucas waited, all his muscles wound up tight. He heard the shift and mutter of the men all around him.
“That was nothing to do with us.” The leader sounded defiant. “We know nothing of it.”
“Whether it was your doing or not,” the woman said patiently, “two bodies draw unwanted attention. Do you understand me? Besides, if Mr. Ross here has applied to work at the castle, too many people will know who he is. We cannot take the risk.”
“Be damned to it.” The man’s patience was exhausted. “I say he dies and the others stand with me. We can get rid of the body so they’ll never find it.”
“Enough!” Lucas heard her move, heard the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked, heard the intake of breath as the men froze into immobility. He felt a shiver of fear, for her, not for himself. Absurd, extraordinary, but the bond between them seemed tighter still.
“You are dangerous fools,” she said. She still spoke quietly, but with an undertone of iron. “Do you really want to take this risk? Do you want to throw away all your profits because of some poor benighted city boy who gets lost in the Highlands? Think again, my friends, before it is too late.”
Once again Lucas found himself holding his breath. Violence bred violence, and she was taking a terrible risk to save his life. There were at least four of them. They could overpower her easily enough. One bullet was all she had to stand between him and death.
Time spun out. He felt each second pass.
Then everything changed. Lucas felt it first in the uneasy shift and shuffle of the smugglers’ feet, then in the muttered words he could not catch, then finally in the easing of the tension. It was the money, he thought, as much as the show of force, that had changed their minds.
“She’s right.” One of the men spoke grudgingly. “Think how much we made on the last few barrels. We don’t want the gaugers sniffing around again...”
There was a mutter of agreement, surly, resigned. Someone sighed as though the denial of his right to mete out a violent death was particularly disappointing.
Relief whipped through Lucas; his legs shook. If they made him walk now, he would not need to pretend to weakness. He felt the lady’s relief, too, though she masked it well.
“Bring him.” Her voice told Lucas that she had walked away as though she had already taken their capitulation for granted.
“My lady—” It was the spokesman, fighting a rearguard action. Then, correcting himself, “Ma’am—”
“Yes?” Her voice was light and cold. “If you still have concerns about my clemency, then console yourself with the thought that we will know exactly where to find him if he is foolish enough to say a word about tonight.” She turned back to Lucas. “No loose words in the inn after a few drams, Mr. Ross,” she said. “And no misplaced thoughts of spilling what you know to the authorities. A fine fool you would appear telling such a cock-and-bull story. My advice is that you should give up on the job at the castle, hurry home to Edinburgh and forget all about us.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucas said again. He caught the bluebell fragrance again, sweet, stirring his senses. There was no way he was going to forget her. He willed his body not to harden into arousal. Christ. Who was this woman who could do this to him when he could not even see her?
“Bring him,” she repeated. Her tone was autocratic and this time no one argued.
The men half carried, half pulled Lucas as he stumbled to the mouth of the cave. Outside it was full night, the darkness pressing against his blindfold. The cold air was like a slap in his face, fresh and sharp with the sting of the sea. The sound of the waves was suddenly loud, boiling on the rocks below. He sensed that he was very close to the edge of the cliff.
“Untie him.” She was taking no chances that when her back was turned they would throw him over the edge. He knew it and the men knew it, too.
Someone was fumbling behind him to undo the ties that held his wrists, swearing all the while because they could not see what they were doing. He was free; he flexed his hands, feeling the pain of the blood returning.
“Remember what I told you,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Lucas said.
The blindfold fell from his eyes.
It took him a second to adjust to the darkness. There was no moon tonight, and the light of the stars was dim and pale, no more than a glitter on the sea. Lucas looked down and felt a clutch of fear. He was within two feet of the edge of the cliff; a step forward and he would have fallen. He could feel the small stones slipping beneath the soles of his boots. For a second he felt light-headed and nauseous, repressing the panicked reaction to scrabble backward for a safer foothold. He forced himself to keep still, slowing his breathing, fixing his gaze on the dark horizon until the world steadied around him.
The whisky smugglers were gone, melting into the shadows as swiftly and silently as they had appeared. Perhaps they were still watching him. He knew that the only thing he could do was to return to the inn and behave as any other man might do when he had had a narrow escape. That probably meant getting drunk on bad whisky. And remembering to keep his mouth shut about what had happened to him.
He turned his back on the vertiginous drop and started to climb up the cliff face. It was tough going. The rough stems of heather scored his palms. Loose rock slid and slithered beneath his feet where the dry peat soil crumbled. It took him a good ten minutes to reach the path at the top where he turned inland toward the faint light in the distance where the village huddled. He was cold and damp and bruised, but he was damned grateful to be alive. The air seemed sweeter, the light and shadows sharper, the hoot of the owl clearer than ever before. Even the persistent ache in his ribs was welcome as a measure of the fact he was still alive.
It was as he came to the edge of the village, past the kirk sheltering behind its low moss-covered wall, that those instincts that had failed him earlier in the evening blazed into life and told him that he was not alone. He stopped in the shadow of the churchyard yew and waited. His skin prickled, the wind breathing gooseflesh down his spine.
She was here. He could sense it.
A second later he felt the cold caress of the pistol on the side of his throat.
“Remember what I told you. Go back to Edinburgh, city boy. There’s nothing for you here.” Her whisper was fierce.
Lucas did the one thing he was certain she would not be expecting. He spun to face her, catching her wrist so tightly that she gasped and dropped the pistol with a clatter at his feet. He kicked it aside, pulling her hard against his body, his arms going about her cruelly tight. The shadows were so thick here that he could see nothing of her face, but he could hear the quick catch of her breathing and feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest.
It felt astonishing to hold her in his arms, this woman who had saved his life. The blood surged through his veins, bringing with it instant arousal. Everything that had passed between them that evening fused in that moment into a blaze of lust as scorching as a heath fire.
Lucas brought one hand up to push back the hood of her velvet cloak. The material was rough against his palm, the friction delicious. Uncovered, her hair was dark in the faint moonlight, a satin-soft cascade as it tumbled through his fingers. He ran his thumb along the line of her jaw, tipping up her chin so that her mouth met his.
She made a startled sound in her throat that had Lucas’s body hardening still further, and then her lips parted beneath the insistent pressure of his. She responded hesitantly at first, then sweetly, passionately, with a lack of artifice that shook him to the core. Her body softened and yielded to his and the kiss spun away into a different realm entirely, a place of heat and need. This was new, and dangerously seductive; Lucas had always had iron control, but now he felt the danger of losing it completely.
Under his fingertips he could feel both delicacy and strength in the exquisite lines of her jaw and neck, and when he dropped his hand to the warm hollow at the base of her throat her pulse beat frantically beneath his touch. It dimly occurred to him that he had no idea what she looked like or even how old she was, nor anything else about her. He could have been kissing a woman old enough to be his grandmother, and in that moment he was not sure he cared. Kissing her was the most explosively pleasurable experience he had ever known.
He pressed his lips to the line of her neck and then the curve of her shoulder, pushing aside her cloak and the flimsy layers of silk he could feel below it so that he could trace the line of her collarbone with his tongue. She gave a little gasp, and he felt her knees weaken so he pulled her down to where the heather made a soft bed beneath them. There he kissed her again, deep, slow kisses this time; kisses that made time stand still. He was aware of nothing but the intimate tangle of her tongue with his, the heat of her body, the smoothness of her skin beneath his fingertips.
Overhead the stars spun in their courses and the moon had risen higher, but it was a mere sliver, too pale to lift the shadows. Lucas did not care that he could not see her. She was the only thing that was real to him, a creature of quicksilver and darkness. He slid his hand into her bodice and felt the curve of her bare breast warm against his palm. She arched upward, pressing herself into his hand. Her responsiveness had his cock hardening to almost unbearable proportions. He rubbed his thumb across her nipple and heard her gasp. The silk and lace of her bodice felt crisp and expensive, but beneath it her skin felt richer still, soft and sleek to the touch, her body a sensual paradise a man could lose himself in.
The church clock chimed the hour loudly, the ten long strokes vibrating through him and breaking the moment. He felt her go still in his arms, and then she scrambled up, pulling her cloak about her.
“Wait,” Lucas said, catching her hand. He could feel her trembling, and the sense of her vulnerability and need made him want to wrench her back into his arms again and finish what they had started. His senses were full of the taste and the touch of her, and he did not want to let her go. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life,” he said.
She paused. “I think you have done far more than thank me,” she said. Her tone was dry. She had herself back under control now. Her voice betrayed nothing.
“When will I see you again?” Lucas asked.
“You won’t.” She sounded amused. “Good night, Mr. Ross.”
For a second she was a darker shadow against the darkness, and then she was gone. The night was empty and still again. Lucas leaned his back against the churchyard wall and waited for the near-intolerable ache in his body to ease. He had come shockingly close to making love with a woman he did not know and had never seen. The mere thought of it caused his body to harden again. At this rate the walk back to the inn was going to be a long and uncomfortable one, but he could not regret it. It had been quite a night.
Ten minutes later Lucas was back in the village main street and stumbling into the Kilmory Inn. The landlord cast him a curious glance as he pushed open the door of the taproom. Lucas wondered what he must look like with his clothes filthy and torn. There were marks on his wrists, too, where the rope had bitten. The smugglers had not been gentle.
“A drink, sir?” The landlord was smooth but his gaze was sharp. “Get lost on your evening stroll, did you?”
Lucas nodded, sliding onto a hard wooden chair in a corner by the fire. His bruised ribs protested the lack of comfort but he did not think they were broken. He could not risk consulting a doctor, and since he was masquerading as a footman he could not afford one anyway. He was simply going to have to wait for the bruises to fade.
In his pocket was the pistol. Like a rather deadlier version of Cinderella his mystery woman had left it behind when she had run away, which suggested that she had not been as in control of her emotions as she had wanted to appear. That gave Lucas more than a little satisfaction. He decided to have a look at it later in the privacy of his chamber.
He cast a covert glance around the taproom. It was almost full. Three men were playing cribbage in the opposite corner, leaning over the board, wrapped up in the game. No one was watching him—or so it appeared. But word would go around about the smooth fellow from Edinburgh who had come for a job at the castle and had accidentally fallen foul of the local smuggling gang. Small communities like this one were close and loyal. Everyone would know about the whisky distilling.
The landlord pushed a glass toward him across the table. It tasted of smoke and peat, almost strong enough to choke him. Lucas could see the gleam of amusement in the man’s eyes. Perhaps he thought him a Sassenach, an English foreigner who could not hold his drink. Or perhaps his accent tagged him as a Lowlander. There was no love lost between the Highlanders and their compatriots to the south. Truth was he was a fusion of races and a mixture of languages. His mother had been an educated woman who had taught him to speak both French and English faultlessly. When he had been thrown out of his stepfather’s palace and come to Scotland looking for his inheritance, he had quickly adopted the accent of the streets so that he did not stand out. When he had started to profit in business and made his first fortune, he had shed the streets and readopted the faultless English of his childhood.
He sat quietly, thinking, whilst the noise of the taproom washed over him. The taste of the whisky was mellowing on his tongue and he felt a pleasant lethargy start to slide through him. Contrary to his previous experience, the whisky tasted delicious, warm and deep, once he had got used to the fact that it was strong enough to take the top of his head off. The Kilmory distiller was clearly very talented.
He leaned an elbow on the table, staring into the deep golden liquid. It swirled like magic, like a witch’s spell. This was the whisky’s skill, he thought; it could make you forget, ease you away from all kinds of raw memories and soothe the pain of the past. But tonight, here in Kilmory, he felt the shadow of the past standing right at his shoulder. It was here that Peter had died. He had stayed with his friends in this very inn, had dined at the castle and had walked on the same cliffs.
Lucas thought about the whisky-smuggling gang. He had heard the men deny any involvement in Peter’s death, but he did not believe the word of a bunch of criminal thugs. They would have dispatched him swiftly enough had the lady not saved his life, and it was the obvious explanation.
Still, he knew the key to discovering the truth was finding the woman he had met tonight. He would never be able to identify the individual members of the gang, but she was a different matter. He could find her and she would lead him to the others. He could then betray them to Sidmouth.
He thought about what he had learned of her. He thought of her touch, of the rich, sensual rub of her velvet cloak and the scent of her perfume. He thought of her kiss, of the heat and the sweetness of it and the blinding sense of recognition he had felt. The memory of it still disturbed him. If he were a fanciful man, he would have called it love at first sight.
He was not a fanciful man.
It had been lust.
The other stuff, the sense of intimacy, of understanding, was no more than a trick of the senses. He had been fighting for his life and she had helped him. It had been relief and gratitude that had touched him, nothing more.
It seemed that “the lady” was precisely that, an aristocrat. She had spoken with an aristocrat’s confidence and authority. Lucas had heard one of the men address her as “my lady” before he had quickly corrected himself. There were not many ladies to the square mile around here. Inescapable logic suggested that she must be related to the Duke of Forres and be a resident at Kilmory Castle.
The landlord brought him his supper at last, a plate of fragrant mutton pie with steaming vegetables, which Lucas fell upon with all the enthusiasm of a man who had just cheated death. As he ate, Lucas thought about what Jack had told him about the duke’s female relatives. There was Lady Semple, the wife of the duke’s heir. It seemed unlikely that she would be involved with a gang of outlaws but perhaps her daughter might be. He needed to find out more about Lady Allegra. Then there was Lady Christina MacMorlan, the self-effacing spinster who kept house for her father and was eclipsed by her two beautiful younger siblings. The thought of her as the pistol-wielding leader of a band of outlaws was mind-boggling.
On the other hand, there was no better cover for the pistol-wielding leader of a band of outlaws than being the self-effacing daughter of a duke.
But he was getting ahead of himself. There might be other possibilities. The first thing he needed to do was obtain the job at the castle. His lady smuggler had told him to go back to Edinburgh, but he had absolutely no intention of doing so. Tomorrow he would present himself at Kilmory Castle as a candidate for the post of footman as though nothing had happened. It would be a test of his acting abilities. He was not good at taking orders, so it would also be a test of his tolerance. He loathed the aristocracy with their opulent lifestyle and their sense of entitlement. A position of servitude in a ducal house was the worst possible match for him.
He smiled faintly. It was a small price to pay to find out the truth about his brother. If it also meant that he found his lady smuggler as well, then so much the better. He knew that he would recognize her again. One touch, a hint of her fragrance, would be sufficient.
If she really was the duke’s daughter, then he had no sympathy for her. Either she was a spoiled little rich girl playing at being a smuggler for some excitement, or she was a cunning, deceitful criminal. Or perhaps she was both. Lucas did not really care about her motives. He could remember what it felt like to steal food in order to survive, to beg and thieve and fight simply to stay alive. He had no time for those who had every privilege and still behaved like delinquents.
In the privacy of his chamber, a tiny little box of a room tucked under the inn’s eaves where he was too tall to stand upright beneath the sloping ceiling, he finally took out the pistol and examined it. It was a fine piece of workmanship, expensive, made entirely of brass and beautifully engraved. Lucas suspected it had been made in the late eighteenth century and that it would not look out of place in an aristocrat’s collection. He tucked it away at the bottom of his bag, then lay down to sleep. The inn was noisy, but he could sleep anywhere, another legacy of the years he had spent on the streets, seizing rest when and where he could, always half-awake to trouble. Tonight, though, he found it more difficult than usual. He thought he might be haunted by memories of Peter, but instead he slept in snatches of dreams, and always through them there was a woman running away, a woman he yearned for, a woman whose face he could not see.
