Page 104

Judith woke with a start and discovered herself in Major Baines’ arms, which, for several bewildering seconds, seemed considerably less alarming than it ought to have been.

She was warm, and that was her first observation. Her second was that her cheek rested against something firm beneath dark wool, one of her hands had curled against a gentleman’s waistcoat, and a decidedly masculine arm lay around her shoulders. Her third, and most unsettling, observance was that Major Baines smelled faintly of clean linen, leather and the cold night air he had carried into the room with him.

Memory then returned in a rush: the handbill, the three false reports inexplicably combined into one, Baines returning after midnight, Lady Dunsmore’s infernal spaniels occupying the sofa, and her own insistence that she was not tired when every sensible portion of her person had plainly known otherwise. She remembered, too, the suggestion that she close her eyes for ten minutes, although she had no recollection of actually deciding to do so.

The room remained dim except for the fire, which had burned low enough that the coals glowed red beneath a fragile crust of ash. The candles upon the side-table had guttered into pools of wax, and beyond the bow window the first suggestion of morning had begun to lighten the sky above the south garden. Horatio lay upon the rug with his paws twitching in some private pursuit of rabbits, while Ptolemy was snoring with remarkable force for so small an animal.

Baines was asleep, and that discovery prevented Judith from moving.

She had never seen him entirely unguarded. Even when silent, Baines ordinarily gave the impression that some portion of his mind remained several steps ahead of everyone around him. Sleep had removed the performance. His head rested against the back of the sofa, turned slightly towards hers, while dark hair had fallen untidily across his forehead. Without the smile to disguise them, the faint lines beside his eyes seemed deeper, and there was something unexpectedly weary in his face, something older than his years and more serious than the gentleman who flirted with elderly dowagers and pretended military service consisted chiefly of annoying Colonel Renforth.

Judith looked at him longer than good sense recommended—until, in fact, his eyes opened and became immediately alert. A heartbeat later, amusement entered them. “Good morning.”

Judith became acutely aware that she was still lying against him and sat upright so quickly that Horatio woke with a startled snort. “I fell asleep.”

“Indeed you did.”

“You might have awakened me.”

“I considered it.”

Judith glanced at the arm he had withdrawn with suspicious leisure. “I was using you as a pillow.”

“I have suffered worse indignities during service to the Crown.”

“I cannot imagine Colonel Renforth includes this among your duties.”

“Renforth has always been regrettably narrow in his interpretation of duty.”

She smoothed her skirts, although there was nothing particularly wrong with them. “How long was I asleep?”

Baines took out his watch and examined it, which made Judith stare at him with immediate suspicion.

“You know precisely how long!” she accused.

“I was awake for part of it.”

“How large a part?”

“Enough to discover that you make a very small sound in your sleep when displeased.”

“I do not.”

He demonstrated something between a sigh and a disapproving hum, and Judith regarded him with horror.

“I most certainly do not.”

Horatio lifted his head at the sound, and Baines pointed towards him with satisfaction. “Even the dog recognizes it.” Baines grinned, and enough of the strange intimacy dissolved for Judith to breathe normally again, although not quite enough to make her forget that she had awakened with his arm around her.

He rose and stretched, revealing that sleeping upright had done nothing to disturb the immaculate cut of his coat.

“We have work to do,” she said.

“That is a remarkably cold conclusion for a lady who has spent the night in my arms.”

“I spent perhaps an hour asleep upon your shoulder.”

“History will remember it differently.”