So this was the room Lord Fernall slept in before he died.
Isabella had given him the option of choosing a different bedchamber, but logic dictated that he remain close. Besides, his time in France had seen him sleeping in barns, stables, a blanket laid out on the forest floor. And so he was grateful to have a bed. Sentiment played no part in his decision.
Stripping down to his breeches and shirt, he climbed onto the bed and lay back
against the mound of pillows. He crossed his arms behind his head and surveyed the room. Nothing captured his attention. Everything was exactly as one would expect. There was a washstand, his shaving implements laid out in an orderly fashion on top of the marble surface, an armoire which he assumed now contained the spare shirt and breeches he had brought with him in a saddle bag. The tall bookcase opposite the bed was crammed with a collection of dusty old tomes.
Well, at least if he struggled to sleep he would have something to read.
Reaching for his pocket watch, which he had placed on the side table next to the bed, he noted it was only eleven o’clock. Most ghosts and spectres chose to wait until after midnight before performing their devilish tricks. There was something about the early hours that created a perfect setting for a haunting. Perhaps it had something to do with the depressingly dark atmosphere or the eerie sound of silence.
Knowing sleep would elude him, he closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind.
An hour passed.
The distant chimes of the clock in the hallway downstairs indicated the witching hour was upon them.
There was a chance his presence would prevent the perpetrator from acting. Then again, fear was contagious. Having a witness to corroborate the terrifying events would only help to strengthen their cause.
While he tried to piece together what little he knew, he found his thoughts wandering back and forth. Whimsical dreams of Isabella pushed to the fore. Lost in the warm, pleasurable feeling such visions evoked, he must have missed the single chime to indicate it was one o’clock.
However, it was not the chimes for two that captured his attention. The sound of approaching footsteps forced him to sit up. Sliding quietly off the bed, he crept to the door, pressed his ear against it and tried to distinguish any obvious characteristics.
The steps were not the heavy tread of masculine feet, but more a light patter. The short strides indicated a woman of small stature. They stopped outside his door. The hard lump in Tristan’s throat made it difficult for him to swallow. His blood rushed through his veins. Only a fool would open the door.
Turning the handle slowly, he used his other hand to ease the door away from the jamb. Whilst he knew damn well he would not find a ghost on the other side, he did not wish to alert the person of his intention.
But there was no one lurking outside his door.
Gripping the frame, he peered out along the hallway. It was empty, too. Feeling some confusion, he padded down the long corridor. No one lurked in the shadows. There was no sign of a figure moving furtively down the stairs.
He turned and opened the first door to his left, glanced inside but found nothing. As he made his way back to his room, he heard Isabella’s desperate plea.
“Please, stop. Go away. Leave me alone.”
Panic flared.
Tristan raced to her door and tapped twice. “Isabella,” he whispered. “Isabella.”
“No, don’t.”
Without giving the matter another thought, he charged into her chamber.
The dancing flame in the candle lamp on the dressing table cast a faint golden hue over the room. He scanned the shadows for any sign of an intruder. Again the room was empty. The thick red drapes on the large four-poster bed were drawn. He feared someone was hiding inside.
“Don’t,” Isabella cried.
Tristan dragged back the bed hangings to find no one other than an ebony-haired temptress stretched out on the bed. Every soft curve was visible through the thin white nightdress as she writhed back and forth, lost in a distressing dream. He pinched his arm, fearing he was dreaming too.
With trembling fingers, he touched her hand. “Isabella. Wake up. Can you hear me?”
She woke with a start, sat bolt upright, her eyes wide, fearful. “What?” She sucked in a breath, blinked numerous times. “Tristan?”
“You were dreaming,” he said softly as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Tristan!” With a sigh of relief, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “My dream … it was so real. I thought I was alone.”
Dismissing his shock at the affectionate gesture, he ran his palm over her back in soothing, circular strokes, fought the selfish urge to capture her mouth and make her forget all the imagined horrors. “I heard you call out. I would not have entered your chamber had I not thought you were in distress.”