Page 51 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
He adjusted the blanket, making sure her feet were covered, then slipped alongside. He only hesitated a moment before putting his arm over her shoulder, making her snug in the crook.
The rest of him he kept apart from her, but she pushed back, as if by instinct, so that her thigh and her cold little feet sought his. Even through her numerous petticoats and layers, he could feel the warmest part of her, fleshy, rubbing against his groin.
He groaned.
Couldn’t she feel it? The almighty cock-stand she’d given him?
Apparently, she could, for she sighed and wriggled, but then her breathing slowed.
The brandy sent her straight to sleep.
Rye smoothed her hair and moved up the bed a little. He couldn’t help the erection in his breeches but he’d at least be gentlemanly enough to stick it into her back rather than the cleft of her buttocks.
It was a good hour before he drifted off, dreaming of wide-open plains and a horse saddled beneath him. He was riding hard, heading into the haze of the desert, towards something he couldn’t quite make out. Something waiting for him in the far-off distance. Something, or someone.
Chapter Eight
Early morning, 14th December
Ursula woke shivering.
She was alone in the truckle bed and the fire had almost gone out, the embers in the stove glowing only dimly.
Where was he?
As she sat up, there was a horrible stabbing through her brain.
Good God!
She raised her hand to her forehead. It wasn’t hot, or bleeding—just dizzy and sore. And her mouth seemed to be full of sand.
Oh for a cup of Earl Grey!
Gingerly, she lowered her toes to the floor. Someone—Rye of course—had draped her stockings of the day before at the end of the bed, and put her shoes nearby. Lowering her head to reach her feet brought on the jagged spike of pain so she leaned back, contorting herself to avoid further infliction.
Slowly, she stood up, taking small steps to the table, upon which her coat lay. It was dry, thank goodness.
He’d left a cup of water for her and, eagerly, Ursula drank it down, though its coldness made her shudder.
The addition of the liquid to her insides brought about a sudden awareness of her bladder and, heavens to goodness, there was no chamber pot! If she wanted to relieve herself, there was only the pan they’d used for boiling the snow—or she might manage with the cup.
She tried to gauge its capacity. No—it would have to be the pan; and best to do it quickly, before Rye came back.
Of course, he would be outside—perhaps answering the same call of nature, or seeing to the horse. It must be ravenous, poor thing. Although her stomach was jumping about, Ursula rather thought she was too. The chocolate hadn’t gone far in filling her up and she’d had nothing else since breakfast on the train.
That thought brought an anxious tightening to her belly. Could she really go through with this? They’d have found Miss Abernathy before the train reached Fort William, surely. There might be a story in the newspapers. How long before something reached Dunrannoch and they discovered she was an imposter?
Ursula felt sick.
But it was all nonsense. Of course it wouldn’t be in the papers. She hadn’t been murdered. She was simply an elderly lady who’d passed away, quietly.
Ursula had only to keep her head. She’d been altogether silly to leave the train as she had. What had she been thinking? She might have been with Daphne by now.
But it was done, and here she was, and why shouldn’t Dunrannoch be as good a place to hide-out as any. If she only kept a cool demeanour, she could pull off what was required.
It was certainly preferable to having stayed in London with her vile uncle.
Having utilized the pan, Ursula slipped on her coat. She’d nip outside and empty her offering, then give it a rinse in the snow.
