Christmas With His Wallflower Wife. Janice PrestonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Jane awoke with a start. She leant up one elbow, wondering what had disturbed her. The happenings of the day before…and the night…gradually surfaced. She reached behind her, feeling for Alex, but her hand met empty space. She sat bolt upright, throwing back the covers, at a shout. That was Alex’s voice, she was sure. She scrabbled on the nightstand for the tinderbox and, with shaking fingers, lit the bedside candle in its silver holder.

      She listened for any further disturbance, but heard nothing. She sat on the side of the bed, irresolute. Should she go and investigate? Was she overreacting? What if it was just a bad dream…? Surely Alex wouldn’t thank her for disturbing him? And while all those thoughts rushed through her head one bigger, more important question hovered.

      Why did Alex leave?

      He must be so very disappointed in her, to wait until she slept and then creep away to his own bed. Yet he had been so sweet at the time…his care and consideration for her had filled her with trust and love, and she had vowed to overcome the trauma of Pikeford’s attack and to become a wife to him in every way.

      Another shout from the next room wrenched her from her thoughts. She shot to her feet, grabbed her shawl and flung it around her before hurrying to Alex’s bedchamber. She hesitated outside the closed door, raising her candlestick to illuminate the dark passageway, her heart thumping at the low moans sounding from within the room. She tiptoed forward and opened the door, peering around it.

      ‘No…don’t…no…no…stop…please…no…’

      ‘Alex?’ Her whisper threaded through his heartfelt pleas.

      ‘No…no… No!’

      She jumped at his final yell, her heart clenching at the sob that followed. She shut the door behind her, set the candle on a chest of drawers, then crossed the room to the bed. The blankets and sheet were pushed away, leaving Alex exposed. He lay on his side, shaking, curled into a ball, his arms bent over his face, his hands hooked over the top of his head.

      Uncertainty clutched at Jane’s throat. What should she do? Was it true one should never wake someone from a nightmare? What was happening to Alex in his dreams? She lowered herself on to the bed, swung her legs on to the mattress and then inched closer to him until her hip butted against his back. The entire time Alex emitted low, eerie moans that set the fine hairs on her arms on edge. Slowly, she eased over to face his back and—as he had done with her earlier that night—she nestled her body into his, like spoons in a canteen of cutlery.

      ‘No…no… Mama…stop…no…’

      His cries grew louder and, at the same time, more pitiful.

      ‘Shhh…’ Jane laid her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right. I’m here.’

      Her whispers were barely audible but, somehow, his trembling lessened and his ragged breathing steadied. She continued to soothe, stroking his arm and his shoulder and then, once he uncurled a little, his sweat-damp hair, as he relaxed and the nightmare loosened its grip. She tugged up the bedcovers and listened to his breathing, until she, too, fell asleep.