it. We'll finish him in the mornin'," a voice muttered. "It's no matter if he don't heal right. He ain't never leavin'. I don't think we even need t' bother puttin' the shackles on him."
"But—" the other voice protested.
"Don't think he's in any condition t' go anywhere tonight. 'Cept maybe t' hell." They had laughed at that.
They left him there in the dark—heaving, helpless, and alone. The sea of nausea and pain was a raging storm. He was tossed upon it like a piece of driftwood totally at its mercy.
While he lay shivering, too sick to even beg for clemency from whatever god might listen, he knew with absolute certainty that that minister hadn't the slightest idea what hell was really like.
In his weakness he wanted to weep but his body wouldn't release its precious fluid. Help me. I'm thirsty. Oh God—I hurt.
Out of the dark, hands gripped him again. No, don't touch me! I'll do whatever you want...no more...no more... With the last of his strength, he struggled to be free of them...
"Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown! Wake up!" the voice said.
Coolness touched his brow. It was heavenly against his hot face. He turned his head toward it and dizziness enveloped him.
"Lie still. There now. Shhhh," the soft voice soothed again.
Fletcher came awake bit by bit. His heart was hammering against his ribs sounding like a barrage of cannon-fire in his ears. His lungs were desperately sucking in air. Something touched his face. It startled him, and he jerked away with a gasp.
"It's all right. It's only me—Miss Jurrell."
Fletcher rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, willed them to focus while he tried to control himself. Sweat poured from him, and he knew Miss Jurrell could see the tremors that wracked him.
Her cool hands touched him again but this time he didn't flinch. He lay back and puerilely gave in to the trembling.
"That's it. Shhhh. That's right," she repeated. She continued stroking his forehead and blotting the droplets that had formed at his temple. He opened and closed his eyes again and again in an effort to breathe deeper.
Moments later, as the quivering subsided, he found his voice. "I don't mean to s-seem ungrateful, but why are you here?" he whispered. He was tired and weak.
"I was walking down the hall," she said, "and I heard your call for help. I knocked but you only groaned louder. Your door was unlocked and being the independent wench I am, I came to see if I could help. It wasn't easy. You struggled with me brutally, and I fear tomorrow I shall have bruises that will give the gossip mongers around here no end of enjoyment."
The moonlight lit her face with a soft glow. Her expression was full of concern. "Are you all right now?"
He closed his burning eyes and nodded, felt her smooth the hair from his damp forehead. He wanted her to leave. He was self-conscious that she should see him helpless. But he hadn't the will to ask because he wanted her beside him to ward off the nightmare's return. Pressing his fingers to his forehead, he opened his eyes. She was still there, gazing at him with intensity.
"Does your head hurt?" she queried in a soft tone.
"It's pounding unmercifully."
He saw her start to rise, hiked himself to one elbow and caught her hand to stop her. "Might you stay with me—just for a while?” He chuckled and stared at the floor, feeling as sheepish as a schoolboy. "I could use the company right now."
She retrieved her hand, seemed to hesitate a moment then smiled. "I guess it is a way of insuring you won't wake up the rest of my guests with any more outbursts."
"Indeed. That's one way of looking at it," Fletcher said wryly.
Miss Jurrell bit her lip. "Do you have these nightmares often? Wherever you were seemed a frightful place."
With his finger, Fletcher drew a desultory pattern on the cover, hesitant to divulge any information. "It's something from my youth—of no consequence really. It comes on me mostly when I'm overtired and apparently when I indulge myself with wine as I did tonight." He looked up at her and was immediately warmed by her presence. "However, the evening with you was well worth the loss of a good night's sleep."
She mulled over his statement, her eyes serious and searching his as if for some hidden truth. "I'll take the compliment, Mr. Brown, but not the excuse. Your face belies your words. You seem to forget I was here. I saw and heard you." She ran the back of her cool fingers along his forehead, touched the jagged scar under his eye and her face softened. "Whatever it was you struggled with, it was no child's dragon in the dark. But I'll not press you further as you seem to be still shaken."
"I most humbly thank you for your kindness." He shuddered and tried to stop the trembling with a deep breath. "And as long as you're in my bedroom, sitting on my bed in the middle of the night, with me in a state of total undress—" He eased his face into a lop-sided grin. "—perhaps it would be best if we were on a first name basis?"
She giggled and put her hand over her eyes as if chagrined at the truth of his statement. "I do see your point, sir. Well, mister.—" She rose quickly from the side of the bed.
"First names, remember? Call me Zachary."
"As you wish...Zachary. Is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps some frothy milk? Or might I entice you to take an infusion of special plants that might relieve your anxiety and help you sleep?" She clasped her hands in front of her.
"Are you an herbalist?"
"My father taught me much of it when he was alive."
Fletcher pulled himself to a sitting position at the head of the bed and propped against the pillows, careful to draw the covers with him. He was glad he was hidden in the shadows, the moonlight falling on Miss Jurrell—Sage—instead. He was afraid his numerous scars would offend the vision who had rescued him.
She was lovely, standing there waiting for his answer. Her hair was braided demurely, distinctly different from the array of curls it had been at supper. The rose of her dressing gown complemented the color in her cheeks, and the way she stood there expectantly, created a picture of a young girl waiting for direction.
"If you must know the truth, I'd prefer a swig of whiskey."
"But you just finished explaining how your nightmare returns when you indulge," she chided him. "How about a simple glass of water? It would seem safe enough under the circumstances."
"If that is the strongest brew you'll consider, I gratefully accept."
Sage brought it for him. "Anything else before I go?"
Please don't go, Sage, he wanted to shout out loud. "No...thanks."
"Well then, if you're sure you're going to be all right."
I'm not all right. Stay with me. "Yes...thanks. Sleep well."
His chest tightened as he saw her hand on the doorknob. He drew a sharp breath. "Sage?"
She turned back to him. "Yes?"
"I...I know it's
