The Dream Read Online Free PDF

of time. So was it Theodore who had marked her so? Her husband? Or someone else?
    The more Jason worked and prayed over her, the more he wondered about her. Who she was, what she was doing here, why fate had shoved her into his hands.
    * * * * *
    A moan jerked him awake. Jason blinked in the flickering candlelight as Grims wiped the woman’s brow, the counterpane tucked up under her chin.
    “I think it might be coming down, my lord,” Grims whispered.
    He shot his hand out and laid it on her forehead. Was it just hope or did she feel cooler?
    “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
    One haughty gray brow rose. “We can’t have the master falling ill, even if he is unaccountably stubborn.”
    Jason stretched and rolled his neck.
    Again the woman moaned.
    “Perhaps she is coming to?”
    Jason hoped so.
    “Madam? Madam? You need to wake up.” To Grims he said, “Where is that infused tea the doctor blathered about?”
    “My lord?”
    Jason pointed. “There, that bottle. Take it and infuse a pinch—however the hell much that is—in a cup of tea for the lady to drink.”
    Grims did as he was told.
    The woman sighed and he put his hand to her good shoulder, reaching across her. “Madam. Wake up. Wake up.”
    A voice filtered through the haze, tunneling and echoing off her ears. The mumbles, garbled in their sounds, finally slid into place.
    “I need to know who you are.”
    Who she was? Surely that made no sense.
    “Come now, I know you can hear me.”
    Hear him? Of course she could hear him. He was all but yelling.
    She licked her dried lips and tried to open her itchy eyes. Finally, she cracked open one eye. The room was dark. Someone was leaning over her, a dark form, shadowed in the dim lights.
    “There you are,” he said.
    He. A man.
    Theodore? She shook her head and gazed up at him, the old fear swimming in her stomach. He leaned closer and she tried to shift away.
    Pain seared through her shoulder, down her arm and up her neck. Her head throbbed as she tried to take a deep breath.
    “Easy.”
    All she saw was his hand moving.
    She closed her eyes and waited.
    Silence.
    A touch featherlight down her cheek.
    He cleared his throat. “You are safe here, Madam. No one will harm you while you’re a guest in my home.”
    The voice wasn’t Theodore’s. It was clipped, rough, yet soothing, and most definitely British. Nor was the touch Theodore’s. Then she remembered—Theodore was dead.
    She was in England. Memories of the dock floated through her mind, the coach, Colonel Ludlow.
    A shiver danced through her.
    Gunshots. Death. Air. And the voices.
    “Stupid wench.”
    “Are you out of your mind?”
    Emily opened her eyes and focused on the man hovering over her. She licked her lips again, felt the dry, cracked skin.
    “Where,” she whispered.
    “Where are you?”
    She blinked and looked at the dark-headed stranger. His hair, black as a raven’s feather, complimented his dark eyes set beneath dark slashes of brows. A strong face, almost narrow, but not, chiseled cheekbones and jawline . His lips appeared firm, yet tilted a bit just at the corners. His nose, straight and Romanesque. Perfection marred by a large crescent scar curving from his hairline to his jaw on the left side of his face. Who was he?
    “I’m Jason Claymere . You are at Ravenscrest Abbey, my estate in Kent. Do you remember what happened?”
    His voice was soothing. The short, no-nonsense syllables different from what she was accustomed to hearing in Maryland. Not that she’d never heard an Englishman, but Colonials spoke slower or seemed to. Maybe not. She raised her right hand to her aching head. Must have addled her wits.
    “Do you remember what happened?” he asked again, in that low voice. It reminded her of water over rocks, rain on leaves.
    Definitely addled wits.
    She cleared her throat and rubbed her forehead.
    It was then she realized she was without clothing. Gasping again, her gaze flew to him.
    One dark brow winged