Page 32 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“I’m rather embarrassed about the spectacle I made of myself last night,” she began.
“You shouldn’t be. Dreaming of monsters can be upsetting. Do you recall anything else?”
She was lying on her side, one hand beneath the pillow, the other curled around the blankets. She considered sitting up, but she thought any movement might break whatever spell was presently between them, creating an intimacy she didn’t understand. He hadn’t moved either, as though he sensed it as well.
“A man. He was trying to hurt me, and I was fending him off.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. He was shadow, dark, foreboding, sinister. No features. But he loomed over me. I was suffocating. I couldn’t move, and I wanted to. Desperately. I screamed but no sound escaped no matter how hard I tried to make the noise, so no one could hear me. I was terrified that this time he’d have his way.”
“This time?”
She sensed the alertness in him, as though his entire body had suddenly awoken. She rubbed her brow. “I must have had the dream before. Something about it was familiar. Or perhaps that was simply part of the dream, thinking that it had happened before. Perhaps a dream within a dream.”
“I want you to tell me if you remember anything else about it, about the attacker.”
She couldn’t help but form a smile. “Are you a dream slayer then?”
He was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before. He blinked, looked down at his bare feet. His shirt was as it had been yesterday, loose and unbuttoned. But now she knew the corded muscles he hid beneath it, the ink that resided just below the surface.
A corner of his mouth finally curled up. “I’m not but the dragon on my back is.”
“Is that why you had him inked? You had nightmares as well?”
He was studying her intently again, and she thought he might not answer. Yet she wanted him to, badly. She wanted to know everything about him, everything she’d forgotten. While she understood—but could scarcely accept—that she worked for him, she couldn’t help but believe a bit more existed between them. They had some sort of history. She was certain of it, because why else would she not be alarmed that she was in his bed, with his linen shirt gathered at her hips, her legs bare while he was sitting there completely comfortable with half his clothing gone? It involved more than the fact that she bathed his back. While that had created a startling closeness, she knew the familiarity wasn’t foreign to them.
In spite of their lack of attire, her bare legs, his bare feet, he wouldn’t suddenly pounce onto the bed, hewouldn’t take advantage. She knew that, but how the devil did she know?
It was so frustrating to know only pieces of him when she wanted to know the whole.
He unfolded his arms, leaned forward, planted his elbows on his thighs, and met her gaze. “During my time on the streets, I witnessed horrors that still sometimes visit my dreams. When I was younger, I did have the rather juvenile thought that the dragon would fend them off.” His lips formed a self-deprecating smile that caused her chest to tighten. “But I’ve come to believe that only we can conquer our demons.”
“Have you conquered yours?”
“Not to my satisfaction.”
“Are we not also our own worst critics?”
“Perhaps.”
“We always want something different from what we have.” She furrowed her brow. “Why do I think—no, why do I know that with certainty? I wanted something different, but what did I want?”
He didn’t say anything, only held her gaze as though he had the power to draw the memory, the truth, from her. She trusted those eyes, the depths of them, the sincerity. He was not a man who ridiculed or taunted.
“I believe I may have unraveled the mystery of my clothes,” she said.
One dark brow shot up. “Oh?”
She didn’t know if he was reacting to her sharp change in topic or was truly interested in the answer. “I must have packed everything into a valise that night, all except the most hideous of my clothing. I must have lost it in the river. That’s why I have no apron or nightdress. Although I don’t know why I didn’t leave the apron behind, because I think I was striving to escape this life. As I see no value in it.”
“The life of a servant?” he asked, as though she could possibly be speaking about something else.
“Yes. I can’t imagine awakening every morning and knowing that my day would be naught but dealing with dust and dirt.”
“The value in it is a salary, satisfaction in a job well done. Ensuring a residence is pleasant to live in. The family with whom I lived—they were well off. One must eat. They could have prepared their meals. Instead they hired someone to do it for them. While that person cooked, they were out doing good works. The cook, while preparing nourishment for them, allowed them to have the time to do their good works. It’s all interconnected, it all has value. If you’re not seeing it, it’s because you’re not looking at it properly.”
His words were laced with passion, his voice teeming with it.
