The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(20)

She shook her head. “You pushed me away when I tugged your arm to make you halt. But you did not strike me. I am not hurt.”

Without warning, he reached down, placed a finger under her chin and tilted it upward, gazing at her neck. “I had my arm across your throat. Is it sore?”

She shook her head, and he released her.

Distractedly, he picked up her discarded boot from the floor and frowned over it. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“I wouldn’t have crept up on you if I’d known you were asleep.” She regarded him curiously. “Were you dreaming?”

“Yes. But not about here.”

“A nightmare?”

“That, certainly.”

“Do you always have the same dream?”

“Variations on a theme. Why do you ask?”

“My nephew walks and cries in his sleep and does not seem to know you when you take him up and carry him back to bed. Afterward, he can’t remember his dreams.”

“Lucky nephew.” His gaze fell away to the boot, which he began to examine, more as an excuse to avoid her gaze, she suspected.

“What do you dream of?” she asked curiously.

He turned the boot up and discovered the hole. “Escape.”

That made sense. He had been getting away from the house. “Escape from where?”

“You really don’t want to know.” He thrust his hand inside the boot, which he cast aside with sudden displeasure. “Your boot is soaked through. The sole is so fine I could pierce it with a finger, and there is a hole in it already. You have a day off on Saturday, do you not?”

They had never discussed such things. “Do I?”

“Yes. Oblige me by going into Blackhaven and ordering a new pair. They may send me the bill.”

Caroline bridled, and his lips curved in mockery.

He reached behind him for the decanter. “I won’t have you catching cold and failing to teach my daughter. I require you to have new boots.” He raised the decanter to her invitingly, and when she shook her head, merely sloshed brandy into his own empty glass.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “If we may count it an advance on my salary.”

He sat back, regarding her. “You’re very proud, Miss Grey.”

“I suppose it is a sin in a mere governess.”

His lips curved. “But there is nothing mere about you, is there, Miss Grey?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied with dignity, suspecting him of further mockery.

He only smiled around his glass as he took another mouthful of brandy. “No, I don’t suppose you do, and therein lies my salvation.”

Disconcerted, she rose to her feet, forgetting that he would stand with her. But although she meant to say goodnight, her slightly desperate gaze landed beyond him to his glass cabinets, which immediately distracted her.

“What are these plants? Are they rare?”

“Yes. Various samples and cuttings I have collected on my travels.”

She walked over to the nearest case. “Where have you travelled?”

He shrugged. “Southern Europe, the Ottoman Empire and beyond. India, China. Over many years.”

“I would love to see such places,” she said wistfully.

“Then you will.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, unconvinced. “Do you miss travelling? Do you find England boring now?”

There was a pause before he replied. “No. Not just yet.”

“What is this flower?” she asked him.

A couple of questions seemed to be enough to unlock his enthusiasm. He told her about the plants and sometimes amusing stories about how he’d come across them. And he talked of his plans to replant some of them in England, breeding them to hardier climates. After some time, she became more intrigued by his interest, in the suddenly mobile expressions of his usually harsh face. Whatever lay behind his injuries or his nightmares, this was an uncomplicated enthusiasm.

“I’m boring you,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. You want to go to bed.”

“I should,” she acknowledged. “Since I have work to do tomorrow. But I am fascinated rather than bored.”

He looked skeptical as he limped back to the rug by the fire and picked up her damp cloak and hat and boots, which were gently steaming in the heat. “Saturday,” he said, dropping them into her waiting arms.

She took them with an uncertain smile and inclined her head. His scar stood out lividly against the swarthy skin of his face. His nearness did strange things to her breathing, to her whole body.

“Goodnight, sir,” she said breathlessly, and all but fled to the door.

“Goodnight, Miss Grey. Sleep well.” His mocking voice sounded too aware as it followed her. But she suspected that on some level at least, it was himself he mocked.

*

Javan Benedict was not in good health. On top of which, he was lame. So why was it only now, after finding him sleepwalking in a storm, that she felt she’d found a vulnerability in him?

Not that it solved any of the mysteries surrounding him. Instead, last night’s revelations, such as they were, only inspired more questions. Why did he dream of escape, and where he did imagine he was escaping from? Had he travelled so widely, simply for botanical purposes? Or was the botany a substitute, an interest to distract him from his troubles—which were what exactly?