Page 6 of The Dreaming Beauty
Marcus lit a candle and noiselessly moved through the dark corridor. Blasted storm. Though, it did spark an idea in his mind. If the weather played a role in body aches, it likely affected the subconscious too. Natural fears and uneasiness would lead to dreams, no doubt. It would be worth researching.
He held the flickering light out in front of him as he went down the stairs and stepped through the open library door, but instead of the late Duke of Westmorland greeting him silently from his portrait, what he saw made him stumble back. A figure, an unknown person. Whether bandit or boy he did not know, but his heart raced and his hand on the candle tightened.
When the lump did not move or even react to his presence, he held up the candle so he might see more clearly. It was more fantastical than his mind could believe. An angel lay sleeping on the hearth, and the glowing embers of the dying fire formed a halo around her.
Stunned, he blinked and stepped closer. She was barefoot, clothed in a white nightdress, and blanketed to her waist by her long white-blonde locks. Was it an angel? Or a fabled fairy maiden like the folklore of Whitfield claimed came out of the moors? He nearly laughed at the absurdity of both. It was more likely a dream conjured by too many sleepless nights and too many missed social opportunities—a product stimulated by his subconscious, portraying his needs through a fantasy.
He came up beside her and held his candle closer. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and opened them. His dreaming beauty was still there. This was no illusion—not even a heavenly apparition—but a young lady fast asleep. The smooth contours of her face told him she was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. He must wake her, tell her to go back to wherever it was she’d come from, before her reputation and his were ruined. The duke’s library was not the place for runaways or scandals.
Extending his hand, he brushed his fingers against her damp shoulder and pushed back a few strands of hair. His fingers grazed her collarbone just above the hem of her nightdress. His breath hitched, and he curled his fingers up away from her skin. She was as cold as ice. He put his hand fully on her neck and ignored the tightness in his stomach from the contact. She was half frozen. Thinking quickly, Marcus set his candle on the hearth and scooped her into his arms. Not even for a moment did she stir. Her limbs were awkward, and her head hung over his arm in an unnatural way. Dash it all. She was dead.
His heart stuttered as he shifted her weight over one of his legs in his crouched position and freed one of his arms so he might check her pulse. A deep sigh sang from his lips. Her heartbeat was faint but steady. Relief came quickly, but it was short-lived as his hand moved to her forehead. How could her body be as cold as ice and her head as hot as the coals in the fire? He put his arm back under her legs. In one quick motion he stood, abandoning his source of light, and moved toward the door. Although she was alive, she was still not waking, and there was much cause for alarm. Marcus was not one to be riled easily—not even by a woman—but he sensed something important about this one, and she clearly needed a doctor.
“Mr. Hobson! Mrs. Kirk!” he yelled for the butler and housekeeper. He had always appreciated the stillness of the household at this hour, as it allowed him to think better, but tonight was different. He hurried to the staircase and began climbing while he yelled once more for help. Once atop the stairs, he turned toward the family rooms. His door was the first in the corridor. He flipped the handle and pushed the door open with his hip.
Laying the woman down as gently as he could in his bed, he reached and pulled the cord to alert the servants. A sliver of moonlight spilled into the room from the gap in his curtains, but it was suddenly overtaken by a flash of lightning followed by a rolling of thunder. The unconscious woman did not so much as flinch. He lit another candle and stared at her white-blonde hair sprawled over his pillow, her nightgown bunched to her knees, and her arms splayed across his bed. He tenderly lifted his quilt and covered her, tucking it against her side.
“Be warm, my lady. I will see you well.”
Even as he whispered it, Mrs. Kirk and a maid stumbled into his room, their candles creating dancing shadows around them.
“Send for a doctor. This woman showed up on our doorstep, and she’s burning with fever.” No reason to mention her nightdress or let them speculate on why she’d let herself into their home.
The maid hurried away, and Mrs. Kirk stepped forward to examine their guest.
“Do you recognize her?” Marcus asked. “A woman from the village, perhaps?”
Mrs. Kirk shook her head. “I’ve never laid eyes on her before. She’s not a ghost, is she? You’ve heard the stories.”
“No. No ghost still has a heartbeat.”
“Should we move her to a different room, Mr. Taylor?”
“Not yet. We will wait to see what the doctor says.”
Mrs. Kirk nodded, then hurried to his wash table and dampened a washcloth. She draped it on the young woman’s forehead while Marcus pulled the chair from his desk. He set it beside the bed, slipping into it.
“Shall I ready another bed for you?”
“That won’t be necessary. I doubt I could sleep anyway.” Awake, his thoughts would haunt him more than his dreams, but until he had answers, that would always be the case. Now he had just one more thing to ponder: who was this woman before him?
Mrs. Kirk left to refill the pitcher with more water, and Marcus leaned forward, putting his elbows on the mattress. He stared at the only woman to ever be in his bed. If Simon had returned from New York sooner and taken his role as duke more seriously, he would have been the one to find this sleeping angel. Remaining in Simon’s shadow wasn’t a terrible place for Marcus to be on nights such as this, at least not with this strange and beautiful view in front of him.
An hour passed before Mr. Jamison arrived with his black bag in tow, rainwater dripping from his greatcoat and forming small puddles around him. Unfortunately, he could not identify Marcus’s dreaming beauty either. They convened in the corridor outside the bedchamber after the doctor’s examination.
“I cannot see any outward injuries to her body or head.”
“But she will be all right?” Marcus glanced back through the doorway into his room.
“I did not attempt to wake her, for rest is precisely what she needs to combat the fever, but I see no reason she would not recover. Mrs. Kirk is capable of tending to her, and I will return tomorrow afternoon to check on our patient.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jamison. I hope you will be discreet about this.” Until he knew who this woman was, Marcus was determined to protect her reputation.
“Always, Mr. Taylor. Doctors learn quickly that gossiping loses them business.” He glanced back to Marcus’s chamber. “However, I do admit to being curious who she is and where she came from.”
“You aren’t the only one.” Marcus let Mrs. Kirk show Mr. Jamison to the door and stepped back into his room. He walked to the woman’s side and stopped at the head of the bed. “Who are you?” he whispered. “And why did you come here in the dead of night?”
As if to answer him, she whimpered and shifted—her first actual sign of life.
