Free 0764213504 by Roseanna M. White Page A

impression that she must escape. She tried to scrabble for the dream that had found her, but so little of it made sense. Thunder. Lightning. Darkness, consuming and pursuing. And that unmistakable impression that danger poised, ready to pounce.
    She squeezed her eyes shut and ran her hands over the unfamiliar blanket covering her. “ Un rêve. C’était seulement un rêve .” Only a dream. A dream could not chase her, could not hunt her. Could not hurt her.
    “Are you all right, my lady?” The soft question came from somewhere in the predawn shadows to her right. And the English words gave her pause.
    Whitby Park. Brook drew in a ragged breath and pushed her errant curls out of her face. “ Oui. Je . . . ” English, she must wrap her tongue around English.
    The servant stepped forward, away from the unlit fireplace. “My lady?”
    “I am well.” She managed to speak in the correct language, though Brook heard the French in the words more than usual. She cleared her throat and concentrated on speaking as Justin would. “Only a bad dream. Apparently Dracula is not wise bedtime reading.”
    But it hadn’t been Transylvanian monsters hunting her through the darkness. A chill danced over her limbs and made her shiver.
    The maid must have seen it, as she hurried to the bedside and pulled the blankets up around Brook’s chin. “There now, my lady. I shall light the fire for you, and you can go back to sleep. It is only half past six.”
    Brook relented—for a moment, though she had no intention of succumbing to that dark dream again. Instead, she studied the face of the maid. She had seen her several times yesterday. Outside. Coming from her cousin’s room before dinner. And in the drawing room at tea. “Deirdre, isn’t it?”
    The young woman paused halfway back to the fireplace. “Aye.”
    Brook nodded and nestled under the covers. Did every English morning have such a damp chill, or was it due to the mist tapping its fingers at her windowpane? “A fine Irish name—I have read some of the island’s lore and remember the story of Deirdre.”
    The maid turned, offered a tight smile, and went back to her task. “Hard to forget such a bloody tale, I imagine. I can’t think why my parents gave me a name wrapped in violence.”
    Brook noted the perfect profile, the creamy complexion, the rich dark hair peeking from the snow-white cap, and could well imagine why they would name her after the most beautiful woman in Irish history. But beauty had been a curse in the story, and the woman’s manner wasn’t one that invited compliments.
    The cold compounded. And lying abed certainly wouldn’thold it at bay. Brook tossed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Then, when Deirdre spun back to her, wondered if she had done something wrong.
    Though the maid’s lips smiled, her eyes had narrowed. “Can I assist you in something, my lady?”
    Oh, how she missed her lady’s maid. Odette knew her habits, her preferences, and had never once made her feel as if she’d committed a crime by standing up.
    She took a moment to stretch, wishing for a barre. Ballet was no doubt out of question this morning, but she could surely find some exercise somewhere. “If you would help me into my corset, I can otherwise manage for now, thank you. I think I’ll dress and go outside.”
    “At this hour?” Alarm saturated Deirdre’s tone, though she cleared her throat as if to cover it.
    Brook poured hot water from the pitcher into the matching basin. “Is no one else up?”
    “Lord Whitby, perhaps, but the ladies never rise until after eight.”
    “Ah.” Brook would have to learn the way this house operated and change some habits accordingly, but on other things she couldn’t compromise—and wasting so much time in bed was one of them. The early morning hours were her favorite. “I’m afraid I always rise with the sun. Or,” she added, looking out at the grey morn, “with the fog, it would