But Daniel had never seemed to share her cozy vision of domesticity. He had told her once, years before, that no matter how charming the companion or how much he enjoyed the companionship, when it came to sleeping, he preferred to sleep alone.
Miranda had been surprised by his admission and puzzled by his seeming disdain for intimacy. Daniel was a generous man, a friendly man who laughed often and seemed to enjoy the company of women.
Now she understood.
He talked in his sleep. And Daniel didn’t trust himself to share a pillow with anyone for a full night, didn’t trust himself not to fall asleep because he talked when he slept, recounting his vivid dreams aloud, revealing his deepest thoughts and fears and his darkest secrets.
The way he was doing now.
Miranda didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She was so tired she thought it very likely that she might do either. Or both. What a wedding night this had turned out to be! Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she realized she had shared nearly forty minutes of blissful slumber beside him before Daniel had awakened her with his feverish raving.
“I must get to London tonight! I’ve urgent business there.”
Propping herself on her elbow, Miranda reached out to touch him. His skin was hot and damp, the sheets around him drenched with sweat—as was the front of her borrowed nightshirt. Miranda plucked at it, self-consciously pulling the sodden pleats away from her chest, wishing her breasts weren’t quite so big and prominent, wishing she was small and dainty like most of the other ladies of her acquaintance.
Wishing Daniel would tell her she was beautiful once again …
There was nothing she could do about it now. What was done was done. Marrying Daniel, having Daniel to herself, holding Daniel in her arms for almost an hour, had been the culmination of a lifetime of longings and unspoken dreams, but her wonderful dream had come to an end when her prince charming had awakened her from it by talking in his sleep.
Daniel had been shivering beneath the covers, suffering through a bout of chills, when she returned to the master bedchamber and slipped beneath the sheets to lie beside him, but he was feverish now. “Daniel?”
His eyes were open and he was talking, but Miranda knew he was not awake and that he was not talking to her.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Beekins, but I cannot stay the night.”
Miranda frowned. She ought to wake him to keep him from revealing information she knew he would never reveal in the light of day, but her curiosity and a bit of the old, green-eyed monster got the better of her. Was he dreaming about last night when Mistress Beekins had stitched his wound or some other time? Who was she to Daniel? Was she a kindhearted acquaintance who had tended him in his hour of need as Miranda was doing now, or was she something more? Did he trust Mistress Beekins the way he trusted her?
Trust. Daniel trusted her. Trusted her to keep his secrets. Trusted her to do what she knew was right. By allowing her curiosity to get the best of her, Miranda was in danger of betraying that trust.
“I must return to town,” he was saying. “I have a previous engagement in London that requires my presence. I must be there and I must be seen to be there.”
“Daniel, wake up,” Miranda urged. “You’re in London.”
“Must get to London,” Daniel protested. “Mustn’t disappoint. Must complete my mission.”
“You’re in London,” she repeated. “And if the previous engagement you mentioned was attending your mother’s annual gala, you kept that appointment.”
He kicked at the covers. “Lud, but I’m hot!”
Miranda slipped out of bed, walked around to the bedside table. She didn’t dare give him any more willow bark, and there was nothing else to give him to soothe his fever, so Miranda filled the washbasin with water and reached for a cloth to cool him down once again. “There now.” She placed the damp cloth on his forehead and began to mop the perspiration from his face and neck. “Doesn’t this feel better?”
“Micah, have we any more whisky?” He opened his eyes and looked at her, and Miranda had to bite her lip to keep from crying. Or screaming. Daniel dreamed of Mistress Beekins, but he looked at Miranda and called her by a man’s name—called her Micah.
She wiped the damp cloth over his neck and throat and left it there while she took hold of his wrist and gently pulled his hand away from the strips of cloth binding his ribs and placed it by his side. She thought he’d resist, but Daniel left his hand where she’d put it, and Miranda picked up the cloth and continued his cooling bath. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she answered truthfully, “we’re out of whisky.”
“What of the cargo? Have you delivered it to the address I gave you?”
“Cargo?”
“The cargo we picked up on our journey. Shepherdston is expecting me to deliver it,” Daniel answered. “Take the wheel of cheese and the pouches to Shepherdston. He needs the pouches for the meeting at Whitehall tomorrow.”
Miranda froze, unable to believe her ears. She’d asked the question out of curiosity and was amazed that he’d answered her. She had heard of people dreaming dreams so vivid they talked in their sleep, but she’d never witnessed it. Until now.
“Shepherdston?” She leaned closer and cradled Daniel’s face in her hands. “Jarrod Shepherdston?”
Daniel blinked up at her. “Of course. You must deliver the pouches to him without delay.”
“What pouches?”