Page 31 of The Winter Husband
“Lucas?”
At the sound of her voice, he swung a fist hard through the air. She gasped as he lost his balance, falling back against the mantel, only to keel forward again to hit the hearth chair with his knees. With a growl, he seized the chair and shoved it away, shouting something in a language she didn’t recognize as he tripped and fell hard to one knee.
She pressed a hand against her throat to dull the pulse that pounded beneath. No creature of fang and claw stalked the room this time. Yet she recognized the threat all too well. Lucas was caught in a nightmare, swinging at phantoms.
Moving slowly so as not to startle him, she set the poker aside. She couldn’t see his expression, not with the light behind him. His long, sun-lightened hair had come out of its rawhide tie. It lay wild about his heaving shoulders. His stance said he was ready to pounce on something, the swell of his muscles beaded with perspiration, his stomach compressed to hard ripples. The muscles in his legs bulged as he lumbered to his feet and took a staggering step in her direction.
“Lucas.” She made her voice commanding, a superior officer speaking an order. “Wakeup.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The enemy’s voice rang in his head. Lucas pulled at his chest, seeking the strap of his rifle, catching nothing but cloth. His attention fixed on a faint glow in the distance, on the silhouette within. A pulse pounded in his temple as the figure moved. He reached over his shoulder to seize the bore of his rifle, only to grasp air.
“How am I to sleep, Captain, when you’re raising such a clatter?”
That voice again. High-pitched, but not a war cry. Someone pretending to be an officer, a ruse to lure them all into death—
“Keep this up,” said the voice, “and you’ll destroy what little furniture we have.”
He jerked back a step. The enemy had shortened the space between them. How had he not noticed? He’d lost too much blood, his senses were hazy. His flintlock was gone, where was his sword? He slapped his hip in search of the hilt as he saw a slim, small figure emerge from the gloom.
“I won’t leave crockery on the table overnight anymore.” The woman—a woman?—stopped just out of reach of sword, bayonet, fist. “Do you rise up like this every night, Lucas?”
The words garbled in his head. She wasn’t speaking the Flanders dialect. Or Huron.French.She was speaking French.
Not an enemy.
He blinked hard. Saw a dark braid, a pale face against the backdrop of the soldiers grappling in the shadows.
Marie.
Why was she here? She’d be massacred on this battlefield.
Run.He tried to shout, but no words left his throat. He stepped toward her. His foot didn’t sink into mud. The air didn’t stink of cannon fire. The screams of horses didn’t rend the air.
He paused and patted his chest, side, and arm.
He wasn’t wounded.
“Are you awake yet?” Her pale face loomed close. “Help me pick up this chair, would you?”
She gestured to something on the ground between them. A mossy boulder reformed before his eyes. He slapped a hand on it. His fingers sank into the soft surface. He hauled it up with one hand.Green brocade, stuffed with hay.He set the thing to rights on the flat surface—a floor—and then fixed his attention on Marie’s face—the pink mark that creased her cheek, the worry in her eyes—a rope against the pull of his delirium.
I am dreaming,he thought.
She sees me.
He jerked away, turned to the fire and flattened his hand on the mantel. The bloody tentacles of his nightmare retreated under a wave of shame. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He wasn’t fit to live with a woman.
He wasn’t fit to live with anyone.
Marie moved like a haunt, materializing beside him. “What was that language you spoke, Lucas?”
He bellowed air like he’d run a hundred miles, but Marie acted as calm as rain.
“You were mumbling,” she continued. “It sounded…different.”
