her. She had no more chances. Her next infraction would be dealt with far more sternly than the last.
Surely this was all but a dream. A nightmare from which she would wake. Southwick had traveled to purchase an Arabian mare to build his stables. He would not have returned so soon. She closed her eyes, her hand tightening on the supple leaves of the monarda as if it could save her. A bee buzzed about her head, seeking flowers.
“Speak, damn you.”
The guttural command proved to her this was no dream. No nightmare save the one she lived each day.
“I—I—I am t-tending plants,” she stammered, still clutching the bee balm. The leaves were macerated in her hand now, crushed in her palm. The scent rose in the air, mingling with the tang of her own perspiration and fear.
“Look at me, you little whore.”
The sting of his words, as always, was as potent as a whip. Yet on her knees, Hyacinth turned her head toward him, opening her eyes. Southwick loomed over her, his cold, blue eyes hard as flint. His graying hair glinted in the sunlight behind him, the effect nearly blinding.
The day was so clear. So calm.
Until now.
Until this.
Why had he returned? How had he found her? She instantly thought of her new lady’s maid, the one who had suddenly replaced her trusted Edgars. Hyacinth had been suspicious at the time, disbelieving of Southwick’s claim that her loyal lady’s maid had found a better position and left in the night.
“Speak, slattern.” He knocked the bonnet from her head and grabbed a handful of her chignon, forcing her head back until she was certain her spine would snap in two. And still, he hovered over her in the brightness of the summer day. A villain marring the otherwise flawless perfection and peace.
How she hated him. But Will would suffer for this, if Southwick discovered the gardener was complicit. She could not bear that.
“I snuck into the g-gardens,” she lied. “I-I missed you, my lord. I needed something to occupy m-me.”
“I have told you,” he spat, “that you are never to lower yourself to the dirt. Lady Southwick does not toil in the mud like some common doxy, even if that is what you are. You will be punished for disobeying me now, my lady.”
“No,” she cried out, begging, pleading. “P-please. No!”
Hyacinth’s plaintive cries split the darkness of the night in two. Tom bolted upright in bed, terrified something ill had befallen her. He reached for her, his hands meeting with warm, feminine curves, and relief replaced the fear.
Clarity intruded upon slumber.
She was having a nightmare.
They had been spending most nights together for the last week, and she had slept like a babe on each occasion when they had finally fallen into the arms of Queen Mab, sated and spent. But this—it was undeniable—some unknown terror held her in its grip.
“No! P-please. No!” she begged, whimpering.
Terror lent a new, heretofore unheard tone to her low, husky voice. Her breaths hitched. In his arms, she trembled, then began struggling. She pushed at his chest with surprising strength for such a petite woman.
“No!” she cried out again, her palms shoving.
“Hush, darling,” he said soothingly, attempting to calm her. “It is Tom. You are having a nightmare.”
But she remained wrapped up in the horror of her dreams, struggling against his hold. “Let me go! Do not hit me!”
Anger sliced through him at this further evidence that Hyacinth’s husband had abused her. He kissed her crown, ran tender strokes up and down her back. “You are safe now, Hyacinth. Hush. It is only me holding you. It is only Tom.”
“Tom?” She ceased her fight and took a deep, shuddering breath.
He held her tighter, tucking her face to his chest. “You were having a nightmare, sweet.”
The arms that had been skirmishing with him now clutched him instead. “Forgive me for waking you. I…I had not had one in some time.”
He pressed a kiss to her warm, smooth cheek, inhaling deeply of her sweet scent. “There is nothing for which you need apologize.”
She felt so small and defenseless in his arms, and he could not bear to think of her facing her monster of a husband alone. Could not bear to think of what could cause such terror in her sleep with the man dead and buried. His gut clenched, but his anger was not for her, and it would do neither of them any good in this moment. He needed to remain calm and collected.