Page 21 of The Agent and the Outlaw
Charlotte nodded. “I take it you have personal experience with that.”
“Deception? Certainly. It’s why I cannot abide dishonesty. The world would be a much better place if people didn’t go around perpetuating falsehoods,” I grumbled.
Charlotte covered a wince with a yawn—perhaps hoping I didn’t notice.As if I don’t notice every damn thing about her.
“Yes, of course. Well, Antoine, I’m exhausted. We should probably get some rest if we’re to make an early start.”
“You take the bed,” I offered. “I’ll sleep in the chair by the fire.”
She snorted. “Don’t be absurd. We can share the bed. You’ll need to sleep if you’re to be alert enough to get us to Gévaudan and keep an eye out for more soldiers.”
I balked. “That’s a horrible idea. I’ll be fine.”
“We’re both adults, Antoine. I assure you that I have no interest in you carnally, and even if I did, I’m far too tired to attempt to seduce you. But if you’re afraid that I’ll attack you in the middle of the night…” She chuckled.
“I’mnotafraid of you,” I barked. “I was thinking of propriety and ofyourcomfort.”
She lifted her brows. “Well, I’m sure I’ve never been comfortable with propriety, but you may do as you wish.”
She gathered up our damp clothes into a bundle and set them atop the empty dinner tray, then took it outside for the innkeeper. When she returned, she pulled one of the blankets off the bed and tossed it to me.
“I said I’ll be fine,” I protested.
“Yes, I’m sure you will. Do me a favor and take it anyway to spare me the guilt.”
With that, she got into bed, pulled the remaining blankets up to her chin, and blew out the candle on the bedside table.
I sat down in the armchair in front of the fire, tucking the proffered cover around me. I was loath to admit that she’d been right about my level of comfort. Fortunately, the fatigue and ale had me dozing sooner than expected.
Some hours later, I woke with a start. The room was black as pitch, save for the dim glow of embers in the fireplace before me. Quietly, I listened, coming to full awareness. The storm had eased, and the rain had softened to a gentle tap upon the windows. What had woken me?
A distressed murmur rose from the bed where Charlotte lay. She mumbled something, then began thrashing violently in her sleep.Nightmares.I knew their sting all too well. Her cries grew louder, reaching a fevered pitch of sheer terror. I got up and went to the bed, trying to find her arm in the tangle of bed linens.
“Charlotte,” I whispered. “Charlotte, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
I grabbed her shoulder and shook her gently. In an instant, she sat bolt upright, and her hand shot out to my throat. Before my shock could register, she’d started to squeeze my windpipe, cutting off my breath. I pulled at her arm, surprised at her strength, until she seemed to come to her senses and let go.
I coughed and sucked in air.
“Antoine! Forgive me. I thought… I think I was dreaming. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. You were having a nightmare. I worried that you’d wake the whole inn. Are you well?” It was partially true. Mostly, I’d been thinking of her, wanting to end her torment, but I hated to admit that, even to myself.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
I sat on the edge of the bed, and she shifted over. Despite her insistence, I could tell she was shaking.
“What was your dream about?” I asked.
“Needlepoint.”
“Very funny.”
“You know, I don’t even remember.” Her faint reply was not convincing.
“You were shouting something about demons.”
She didn’t answer. In the quiet, raindrops tapped a soft staccato against the windowpanes, and I strained to listen for a change in her breath to see if she’d fallen asleep again.
