As to herself, she felt raw and disturbed, as if the Earth had shifted off its axis and she couldn’t find her balance.
“I want you to always be mine,” she brashly declared, a huge surge of possessiveness sweeping over her. “I won’t permit any other woman to have you. I couldn’t abide it.”
“I like the sound of that.”
After that comment, she didn’t know if he said anything else. Sleep claimed her, and she plummeted into a deep slumber. Her next cogent thought came in a nightmare, and it was one she’d frequently suffered over the years.
She was little and back in the middle of the shipwreck. It was dark, and she couldn’t see. People were screaming, and she was desperate to stay afloat. It was very cold, and someone was shouting at her: Hold on! Hold on! Then, Grab her! She’s sinking under!
But she couldn’t hold on. Her hands were too small to grip the log, and it was too slippery. Waves were crashing over her head, and she swallowed a gigantic gulp of water. She couldn’t breathe! She was drowning, and she’d never learned to swim!
Help! she pleaded, but the storm was so loud the wind whisked the word away.
Another wave crashed over her, and she reached for a . . .
She bolted upright, her pulse pounding, a moan escaping from her lips. Frantically, she glanced around, several seconds passing before she remembered where she was: in the guest bedchamber at Barrett. She was naked, her robe lost in the blankets, and she clutched them to her chest.
She struggled to calm herself and gain her bearings. In her nightmare, she’d been yelling. Had she called out? Oh, if she’d been overheard, she’d die of embarrassment.
Without peering over, she sensed that Luke was gone. Instead, there was a single rose on his pillow, along with a note that said, Don’t forget we’re having breakfast at nine. Can’t wait until then. He’d signed it with the letter L for Luke.
She wondered when he’d tiptoed out. She certainly hadn’t noticed, and she tried to picture him, roaming through the quiet house, searching for a flower in a vase, locating a quill and ink, then writing her the note.
Out the window, dawn was breaking. It was cloudy, but the rain had stopped. She considered dawdling until nine o’clock, having breakfast with him, chatting over eggs and tea as if all was fine between them, but it wasn’t fine.
She’d given herself to a man who wasn’t her husband, a man who would never marry her, a man who was hoping to betroth himself very soon. What if she was with child? What then?
She’d assumed she understood all she should know about carnal matters, but she’d been so wrong. She hadn’t grasped how intimate it would be, how dear and tender. She hadn’t grasped how profoundly she would be affected.
It was possible she was madly in love with him now. She felt filled up with gladness, which was bizarre. Where was she to put all the feelings that were churning inside her? How could she stagger into a relationship with him when she could never have him for her very own?
She couldn’t meet him at nine. What would they discuss? Would they parlay over the bastard babe he might have planted?
No, she couldn’t tarry. What she urgently needed was to confer with Fish. Immediately. That’s what the situation required.
She threw off the covers and hurried to the dressing room where her borrowed gown hung on a hook. It was a simple garment that she could don without a maid’s assistance. In a few minutes, she’d be on her horse and on her way to the safety of her bedchamber at Roland—with Fish present to tell her what to do.
“Father, may I ask you a question?”
Penny had caught him in the breakfast parlor alone, as she’d been hoping she might. She’d gotten up early for that specific purpose. He was seated at the table, and she pulled up a chair across from him.
She’d tossed and turned until dawn, her mind awhirl with problems she’d never contemplated in the past.
Ever since she’d met Simon, she’d been confused about her path. She’d always been a dutiful daughter, and because of her father’s tragedy as a young man—when her little half-sister, Henrietta, had vanished—Penny had grown up with the implicit understanding that she should never upset him.
Yet she’d learned how to coerce him into giving her whatever she desired, and he’d never been able to refuse any of her requests. She’d wanted to become engaged, and she’d begged him to pick a husband for her. Luke had seemed like a perfect choice until Simon had pointed out that he might not be.
Luke was so much older than she was, and he was stern, polite, and unbending. He rarely smiled. He never joined in the afternoon lawn games, never danced at night. No, he lurked in the corner, watching the crowd as if trying to figure out how he’d stumbled into it.
It was clear they had nothing in common except the fact that their families were neighbors. Was that really a viable basis for a marriage? She no longer thought so.
Then there was the other issue about what would happen in the bedchamber. She had several friends from school who were already wed, and they whispered alarming tales about what a spouse expected from his wife. Nudity was required, as were various physical acts that were too shocking to describe.
She pictured herself in a bedroom with Luke, pictured herself removing her clothes and being naked in front of him. The idea was disturbing on every level.
I could do it with Simon though . . .
The wicked notion flitted through her head before she could tamp it down. For Simon Falcon, she might consent to any risqué conduct. She was that fascinated.
Her father had been reading the morning newspaper,
