‘Street? What the hell are you doing here? What’s the time?’
‘Two, Cap’n.’ The big man, incongruous in flowing nightshirt and bare feet, stood clutching a chamber stick. ‘Eliza said to get you, it’s Miss Clemence, sir.’
‘Tell me,’ Nathan snapped, his stomach sinking in a sudden swoop of fear.
‘It’s a nightmare, Eliza says. She can usually wake her up, but this time she can’t and she’s frightened.’
Nathan began to stride down the corridor. ‘Send Eliza to wake the duchess.’
‘She says it is you she needs, Cap’n. Miss Clemence is calling for you something pitiful.’
The room, when he reached it, was lit by four branches of candles. Eliza was leaning over the bed, shaking Clemence, who was tossing and turning, her face flushed and feverish, her hair damp. The bedclothes had been thrown back by her thrashing limbs and her nightgown was twisted around her knees. The old hound was standing on the other side, whining anxiously.
‘Nathan? Please, where’s Nathan?’ Clemence was muttering, her voice hoarse.
‘Oh, thank God, sir. She can’t call out any more, her poor throat.’ Eliza straightened up and as she released her hold on Clemence’s shoulders, she began to toss and turn.
‘Clemence?’ Eliza stepped aside and he took her place. ‘Clemence? Hush, I’m here now.’ She seized his hand, her eyes still tight shut. Behind him the door clicked. Nathan glanced back—Street and Eliza had gone. Puzzled, but too worried about Clemence to pursue it, he got on to the bed, gathered her into his arms and began to rock her gently, talking all the time.
‘I’m here, it’s Nathan, you’re in England, in bed. One-here, too, you’re safe, no one will hurt you. I’m holding you. My love, I’ve got you safe.’ The painful pleasure of saying it—my love—hit him in the gut and he tightened his hold. ‘Clemence, my love, wake up, sweetheart, wake up.’
Nothing mattered now, not his honour, not his scruples, nothing, so long as she woke and felt safe. He slid down the bed, pulling her against the length of him, drowning in the scent and feel of her. ‘Shh, Clemence. I’m here, I love you, you’re safe.’
I love you. Nathan’s voice penetrated the smoke and the screams and the noise and suddenly they had vanished and the light against her screwed-up eyelids was different and she was being held tightly against what felt and smelled wonderfully like Nathan’s body.
‘Nathan?’
‘Open your eyes.’
Obedient, she did so and found she was in bed and that Nathan’s head was on the pillow beside her, turned so he could look into her eyes.
‘There, you are safe back. It was a nightmare, Clemence. Not real.’ He was stroking her hair, smiling at her.
‘Have I been ill?’ She felt weak, as though in the aftermath of a fever. ‘My throat hurts.’
‘It was a very bad dream. Eliza could not wake you. You had shouted until your voice cracked and thrashed around until you were almost exhausted. Here, can you sit up?’
He helped her until she could sit up next to him, their backs propped against pillows, then held out a glass. ‘This smells like barley water, it was on the nightstand. Try to drink.’
She sipped and her spinning head settled and the nightmare evaporated and all that was left was the man next to her on the big bed, smiling at her, his eyes anxious.
‘When I woke up, you were saying—’
‘I was saying I loved you. I thought I should not tell you, but I find I am too selfish not to let you know how I feel, even if it changes nothing. I should not be here, not now you are awake. I’ll ask Eliza to call the duchess.’ He began to turn, to get up.
‘No!’ She fastened her fingers on his wrist. ‘Things have changed, everything has changed.’
‘Not really.’ But he lay back against the pillows, his shoulder carefully not touching hers.
‘We know how we feel about each other,’ she said. ‘Shh! Let me finish. I know you are not in love with Julietta, perhaps never were. You know I am going back to Jamaica and have no intention of settling in England, finding a husband here.’
‘It seems I misjudged you. You know your own mind after all if you really mean that,’ he said, his fingers toying with the fringed sash of his dressing gown. ‘Then you will go back to Jamaica to your inheritance, a wealthy woman.’
‘I will go back to an income of one thousand pounds a year, for life,’ Clemence said concisely. Her head was clear now. She had one chance—by a miracle that dreadful nightmare had given her this opportunity.
‘One thousand? Surely your uncle cannot have squandered your inheritance? The lawyers will get it back for you.’
‘They will get it back and they will invest it in the trust fund Mr Wallingford has set up for me. There will be money to invest in the business, maintain the properties, make sure all the staff are kept on. I will have my allowance.’