Those hard hands slid down and gripped her wrists, lifting them and pressing them into the mattress. She surged, trying to break free, but her arms were pinned, immobilized.
“Miss Bell! Alyse!” She felt his warm breath on her face. Her own breath escaped in crashing pants.
“Oy! Anything amiss?” a voice called out, startling her. Another voice. A second voice? That didn’t make sense.
A dog joined the din, releasing several growling barks.
“Fergus, quiet!”
Gasping, she went still as stone and assessed, taking note of the mattress under her, the pop of crumbling wood in a fireplace somewhere in the distance, a big body against her own trembling form. Then other voices. Small voices. Children’s voices.
Instantly, she knew where she was. It struck her all at once. She remembered the events of the day.
Alyse swallowed back an epithet.
Blast it. She’d acted a fool, waking the entire house. She blamed it on thinking of the wretched tanner before she fell asleep. Thoughts of him had filled her head and followed her into her dreams.
“I . . . I had a nightmare,” she whispered, her tone tormented even to her own ears. Mortified . . . apologetic.
“Evidently,” Weatherton whispered back. “Can you assure him I’m not killing you up here?”
“I’m f-fine. Just a nightmare. I’m s-sorry for disturbing your rest,” she called down, wincing at the sound of Mara earnestly humming the children back to sleep.
Mara’s husband grumbled beneath his breath and stomped back toward the bed. His dog whined, nails scraping the wood floor as he scurried below. “Enough, Fergus,” he snapped. “Go back tae sleep.”
After a moment, Weatherton whispered near her ear, reminding her of his presence. Not that she forgot. How could she forget? He was . . . everywhere. His breath fluttered her hair. “Well, that was fun. Not a dull moment with you, Miss Bell.”
She cringed and laughed weakly, the sound hoarse.
The hands on her wrists loosened, but he didn’t move and she was achingly aware of the big body covering her own.
“You can get off me now.”
“Can I? I suppose I should count myself fortunate you did not go for that knife I gave you and skewer me.”
“It won’t happen again.” She doubted she would be able to fall back to sleep at any rate. Her mortification ran deep and would keep her tossing and turning.
He didn’t move but he released her wrists and balanced his weight on his arms on either side of her head.
“What was your nightmare about?” His deep voice came out softly, curious and almost . . . kind.
She fidgeted. His kindness made her uncomfortable. Not that she wanted cruelty from him, but she did not want to like this man. She wanted indifference. She wanted to feel toward him what any employee might feel toward her employer. Cool indifference. Aloofness.
“Nothing.”
She didn’t want to share her nightmare with him, her fears. She didn’t want to expose herself and be vulnerable. Contrary to how they met, she was no fragile flower.
He’d already seen her at her most vulnerable on that auction block. She needed to show him that she was strong.
“I’m not weak, you know,” she heard herself blurting. Great. Denying it so emphatically probably made her appear that very thing.
“Weak. You? No, I didn’t imagine you were.”
“You needn’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you.”
“You bought me. I was like a . . . a slave up there.” She hated admitting it. The truth sounded so much worse uttered aloud.
“I thought you were very brave. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry or beg. I don’t know a single woman who would have stood as proudly as you did up there.”
She couldn’t breathe. Did he mean that? She blinked furiously, feeling the burn of tears. Now she would weep? Over his flattering words? She really was daft.
Silence stretched between them and he finally moved, sliding off her.
She exhaled, the tension in her chest easing. There was a slight rustling as he settled down beside her.
Only he wasn’t finished with her.
He continued talking. “You needn’t be embarrassed, you know. It happens to all of us.”
Was he actually trying to make her feel better? He’d already done that, surprising her with his flattering words. Couldn’t he just hold his tongue? She didn’t want to share and swap stories with him.
She didn’t want him to be so nice.
Still. He’d piqued her curiosity. “What happens to all of us?” she grudgingly asked.
“Nightmares.”
“You have nightmares?” It shouldn’t amaze her. Just because he was a big, arrogant man with expendable funds didn’t mean he wasn’t human.
He paused a beat. “I talk in my sleep. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
And who told him that? Immediately, she told herself she didn’t care. He could have had a thousand bed partners—he was certainly physically appealing enough—and it was none of her business. It had nothing to do with her. She didn’t care.
“I didn’t talk in my sleep. I screamed,” she began, “like I was being murdered and woke up these nice people. It is embarrassing,” she replied in hushed tones. “First we take their children’s bed and now I ruin their sleep.”
“It’s only a single night. We’ll be gone tomorrow and leave them with a pocketful of coins for their trouble.”
His reasonable tone and reasonable words did serve to comfort her.
“Don’t worry,” he added. “Go back to sleep, Alyse.”
She sighed. “I don’t think I can.”
He didn’t respond. She stared blindly into the dark, wishing she could see his face and then she remembered his face was far too good-looking and definitely weak-knee inducing. Given their proximity and the intimacy of their circumstances, it was probably better she couldn’t see his features.
His breath fell soft and even beside her, and after a while she assumed he had fallen back to sleep until he said, “Give me your hand.”
Her pulse jumped at her throat. He wanted to touch her? “My hand?”
“Yes.”
“W-what for?”
“Come now. Just hold out your hand. I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, you still have your knife. Feel free to use it if you feel threatened.” She could almost imagine the sarcastic twist to his lips. There was definitely humor to his voice.
Warily, she stretched out her hand and he took it, clasping firm fingers around hers.
In the dark, her sense of touch was heightened. His hand felt so much bigger than hers. The fingers long, tapering. His grip strong, the pads slightly rough. Callused. For all his apparent prosperity, he wasn’t a dandy then. He used his hands. This should not affect her one way or another, but her chest lifted on a hitched breath.
He flattened out her palm, stopping her fingers from curling inward. Then he began lightly stroking. His fingertips brushed back and forth over her palm, his blunt-tipped nails softly scoring her skin.
It was a delicious sensation. Gooseflesh broke out over her skin.
Her breath caught. “What are you doing?”
The physical contact was more intimate than she had experienced in years. Her kiss with Yardley had been brief. Chaste. Weatherton’s fingers running over her quivering palms felt . . . personal.
“I used to do this to my little sister. It always put her to sleep. She was a headstrong child. Never wanted to sleep and miss out on anything.”
She didn’t know what was more shocking. That this hard man petted his little sister to sleep or that he was petting her.
Her stomach felt funny. Bubbly like she drank too much of Mr. Beard’s ale and then went sledding down a hill. Not that she had gone sledding since she was a carefree child but she remembered the plummeting sensation in her stomach.
“That feels . . . nice,” she admitted, wondering why her body was starting to hum, like all her nerve ends were tingling.
“Clara never lasted very long. Usually this put her right to sleep. Course I haven’t tried this on her since she was a child of eight.”
“How old is she now?” She yawned.
“Fourteen. Almost fifteen.”
“Might be trickier with me. I’m not an eight-year-old little girl.” She opened her mouth wide on yet another yawn that belied her words.