Page 47 of Love in Bloom

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Château & Gardens of Vaux-le-Vicomte

Camille lay awake on the king-sized bed, replaying the strange day. From the most amazing kiss she’d ever experienced, to walking through the gardens with Tristan’s hand in hers, to their awful conversation on the boat. Sleep eluded her due to the naps she’d taken during the day. She listened to Tristan’s breathing and stared at the ceiling. Periodically she checked the clock. The minutes and hours ticked by.

Somewhere around two in the morning, Tristan's breathing changed.

Nightmare time.

She sighed and threw off the covers. All she wanted to do was help him. Why did he keep pushing her away?

Tristan thrashed and moaned. “No, please don’t,” he said over and over again, his cries louder than ever before.

Carefully she approached his bed on the floor. His actions reminded her of Clara’s night terrors when they were children. Clara would look as if she was awake, but she was completely asleep. She’d cry out and act as if she was in pain or being tortured.

In Tristan's case, this was actually the truth. He was reliving the awful experiences he’d told her about. Camille knew better than to try to wake him if it was like a night terror. She’d have to wait it out and comfort him in the meantime if she could. In the morning he probably wouldn’t remember it at all.

The moans started.

She whispered, “It’s okay, Tristan. I’m here.” She sat on the floor and cradled his head in her lap, stroking his hair. She hummed a childhood lullaby in an effort to comfort him.

The moans increased, and his body shook. “No,” he cried out repeatedly. “Please. Stop. Stop. Stop!” Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Camille frowned. The tears were new. She sang instead of humming, hoping her words would reach his subconscious and soothe his fears.

The tremors increased, and his hands and legs flung about. His spine contorted.

She dodged a hand as it flew toward her head. Tristan wasn’t purposely trying to hit her. It was the unseen tormentors he wanted to protect himself from.

His yells grew louder.

Camille set his head on the pillow and scooted back. She wanted to help him, but this nightmare was a level above anything she’d encountered so far. “Help me,” she whispered to the heavens. “Help him.” In distress on his behalf, she drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them with her arms. All the while Tristan cried and yelled and lashed out.

Camille had never felt so helpless in her life. Not even when she collapsed in the lab, and Connor told her she was going on a mandatory vacation. Seeing Tristan in such anguish elevated her to a level of almost physical pain.

Tristan curled into a ball and sobbed.

Camille reached out a hand and laid it on his head. “Tristan, climb up. With me you’ll be safe from the monsters.”

She reached under his arms to haul him onto the bed. “You can do it,” she told him. “Reach up. I’ll keep you safe from them.”

Miraculously, Tristan followed her directions, and, with more coaching, she was able to get him onto the bed. She settled his legs into place. “There you go. Safe. I’ll stay with you. I won’t let you go.”

Camille grabbed the extra comforter from the floor and covered Tristan with it, tucking him in. She kissed his forehead.

On the other side of the bed, she snuggled back under the covers, turned on her side to face Tristan, and placed a hand on his cheek and the other on his chest. And there they lay, with her under the covers, and him on top. She murmured reassurances to him until she drifted off to sleep.

♥ ♥ ♥

Still half asleep, Tristan dreamed. Something soft brushed against his cheek, and then softer lips captured his. He responded readily, greedily, tasting and exploring. Hands slid onto his cheeks, and body warmth invaded his personal space, curving against him. He sank into the dream, embracing all the sensations coursing through him. In his dream the lips and body belonged to Camille. This was what dreams should be. Joy and light. Not the nightmares that plagued his sleep.

A hand rippled across his chest, sending shivers of pleasure through him. His neurons fired.

Hands, lips, a surface too soft to be the floor. Bed.

Disoriented, he sat up and shook his head. He stared at his legs covered by a comforter and raised his eyes to the wall. He was at mid-height, not floor level. He flipped up a corner of his comforter to reveal another beneath him. He was on the bed. How had he gotten here, and what had happened? He slowly turned his head, scared of what he would find, and certain of what he would see.

Camille’s blonde hair spread out across the pillow like a fan. She stared up at him, her blue eyes a little unfocused. “Good morning, husband,” she said.

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