The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [51]
In the dead of night Douglas awoke with sweat thick and clammy on his forehead. He held himself perfectly still. He’d heard a sound. He waited, completely awake and alert. He heard the strange noise again. It sounded like a woman. She was crying, low and soft, yet he heard her distinctly. No, it wasn’t crying, rather deep moaning, hurt and raw. He knew that she was moaning because of a great pain. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he did. He frowned into the darkness toward the adjoining room. This was absurd.
It was Alexandra, crying because he’d put her properly in her place. She was sulking; she had failed to get her way, and she was trying to draw pity from him. Crocodile tears, nothing more. That was it. He was a man, but he wouldn’t be swayed by a girl’s tears, sham tears because she hadn’t managed to make him lose his head. But it wasn’t crying . . . it was moaning, it was a deep, deep pain. He cursed and flung back the bed covers.
He walked naked to the adjoining door and quietly opened it. He knew it had to be Alexandra. It had to be, but still he was quiet, and the door made no noise as it opened.
He walked into the bedchamber. There was a narrow beam of moonlight coming through the window, slicing over the center of the bed. The bed was empty. No, wait, there she was, standing on the other side of the bed, staring down at it, and she was moaning softly, very softly, only he would swear that her mouth didn’t move, that she was making no sound at all. But he heard the crying, the moaning, he heard it clearly in his head. It was so quiet he couldn’t imagine how he had heard her in his bedchamber. She was hugging her arms around her, and then she looked up and saw him.
She was still now. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. In the next instant, she was gone, fading slowly like a soft white shadow into that thin beam of moonlight.
“No,” Douglas said, loudly and firmly. “No, dammit! I will not accept this!”
He ran to the other side of the bed. Alexandra wasn’t there. Damnation, he’d dreamed it, all of it. He felt guilty and he was having strange visions because of his guilt.
Where was Alexandra? She was fast in hiding herself, he’d give her that, the damned twit. There weren’t many places to search. He looked in her armoire. He even got on his knees and looked under the bed.
She wasn’t here. She wasn’t anywhere. It was the middle of the night.
Where the hell was she?
He saw her face then, clear in his mind. He saw her pallor, the humiliation in her eyes as his words had struck her, hard and remorseless, words that wounded deeply. And he’d even thrown her sister at her while she’d stood there standing still and solitary between his parted legs, naked and vulnerable and terribly, terribly alone. And she’d run from him, stripped of every shred of dignity, deeply wounded, but still he’d let her go.
Well, hell.
It wasn’t, thank God, as late as he’d first thought. It was just past midnight. Not many minutes after he’d fallen asleep then awakened so abruptly. He dressed quickly and made his way quietly downstairs. He didn’t light a lamp, he didn’t need one. He knew every foot of Northcliffe. She didn’t. There were a million places to hide but she didn’t know of them. No, she wouldn’t want to remain here.
He didn’t question how he knew this. He unlocked the massive front doors and slipped into the cold dark night. The sliver of moonlight was gone, covered now with dense gray clouds. It would rain soon, a thick cold rain. The air was damp and heavy.
He hadn’t thought of the cold and now he shivered from his thoughtlessness. He was wearing only a shirt, tight buckskin breeches, and boots. The wind was rising, the storm was coming closer.
“Alexandra!”
The wind rustled through the leaves. A shutter banged against an upper-story window. He felt sudden urgency. He ran toward the stables. They appeared deserted, naturally, all the stable lads in bed. He walked more quietly as he neared Fanny’s stall. Then he stopped completely. Quietly,