Page 24 of Beloved Enemy
He paused in his stride, turning back to her. “I’ll be just there, near the fire.”
Charlotte bit her lip, nervous about being alone and so far removed from him.. “Oh.” She judged the distance from here to there. “Okay.” Maybe he would hear her if she screamed. If she needed to.
Though his frown remained intact, his expression did—miraculously and barely—soften. “Or I can sleep here, closer,” he offered.
She thought his teeth might be clenched, and she felt bad.
“No, it’s fine. Okay, goodnight,” She said nervously.
Reid nodded and left her, and Charlotte settled onto the bedroll, which was padded but thinly so. She rearranged the blanket—thebreacan—so that it covered all of her, including her feet. Luckily, the thing was huge, far longer than she was tall, and wide enough that she was able to wrap herself in it. Despite her anxiety, the tent did offer a bit more warmth and the breacan really was wonderful. The sounds outside, of the Nicholsons still gathered round the fire, were somehow soothing.
However, she struggled to sleep. Her overactive brain tortured her with countless fears and scenarios. The weight of her predicament felt suffocating, and no matter how she tried to calm herself, sleep remained elusive. As the sounds outside the tent faded, with men finding their beds or falling asleep where they lay, the silence became her enemy. The frightening reality of living in a world seven hundred years in the past pressed down on her, pounding relentlessly inside her head.
After quite some time, she knew sleep was futile. The overwhelming anxiety and fear began to well up inside her, and she felt tears were imminent. She clenched the blanket tighter around herself, feeling utterly alone, and soon, she was overcome with a wave of uncontrollable sobs. She muffled them in the wool as best she could, though she was sure she was distant enough from anyone else that she might not be heard.
About a minute later, a voice called out in the night, startling Charlotte.
“It’ll scare off the critters, sure, but bound to draw the wolves, she keeps it up.”
She thought she recognized Seumas’s voice and clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise of her crying, her eyes wide with this fresh humiliation.
“Aye, and leave her alone,” another defended; she thought it sounded like Lachlan. “Had a day, she did.”
A moment later, the tent flap opened, and Reid showed his face, kneeling at the entry.
“Charlotte?” While he did actually—almost—sound concerned, there was a hint of reprimand in his tone, as if he were scolding a child for waking the household with a tantrum.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to be quiet. I j-just...I can’t seem to stop.” She sniffled, very sorry that his nice wool blanket was going to be tear-stained and snot-covered.
“Bluidy hell,” she clearly heard Tavish grumble.
What a cold, unemotional jerk.
“Think on something pleasant, lass,” Seumas suggested, his voice muted. “Whatever maids kent is pleasant.”
“Flowers, bairns,” an unknown voice offered as ideas. “My mam used to like the sound of rain.”
Oh, God! If only it were that easy.
She swallowed and assured Reid she was fine. “I’ll stop. I’m fine. Sorry.” There wasn’t anything she could do about the pathetic whimper of her voice.
The tent flap did not close, though, not immediately. Reid’s gaze glittered in the darkness, she saw through the haze of her tears. She returned his stare...waiting.
She realized—ridiculous as it was—she rather hoped that Reid would have offered to keep her company, that he might have even gone so far as to offer his big, strong shoulder for her to cry on. Not that she wanted to be in his arms, or anyone’s for that matter, but ... well, yes she did want to be in someone’s arms, to be told that everything would be all right.She was accustomed to being alone but yearned now—suddenly, desperately—for comfort, for someone to ease her fears.
The tent became completely dark again as Reid let the flap close once more.
Chapter Six
She was, all things considered, rather pathetic.
That’s what he’d thought throughout the night, having squandered time he might have been sleeping, thinking about Charlotte O’Rorke and her woeful weeping.
But then he had to re-evaluate his impression, given that she’d barely spoken this morning, hadn’t whined at all. He thought at first some large embarrassment over last night’s blustery crying might have compelled her to keep to herself. She’d left his tent, had disappeared briefly into the trees, and had kept her distance upon her return, her head bowed as she sat near his tent while the army readied for the day’s march. But then, once in the saddle with him, she’d said only two words—‘thank you’ when he’d lifted her onto the horse—and nothing since, not in more than an hour.
And he shouldn’t care, shouldn’t be concerned that she likely was trying to hide her anxiety, but he found this silent and stiff Charlotte did indeed rouse a careful curiosity in him.
“Ye are quiet today,” he remarked. “Ye’ve made peace with yer circumstance?”
