Julia's eyes fluttered open, slowly, reluctantly. A soft, hazy light filtered through the heavy curtains, painting the room in muted shades of grey and silver. The air was cool against her skin, the scent of lavender and old wood faint in her nostrils. For a terrifying moment, the image of the gleaming knife, the crimson spray, the sound of Alistair's choked gasp, flashed behind her eyelids. Her breath hitched.
She sat up abruptly, her heart leaping into her throat. Her gaze darted frantically around the familiar bedchamber. Then she saw him. Alistair.
He was seated in the armchair by the window, precisely where Silas had sat hours before. Sunlight, now a brighter, warmer hue, illuminated his dark hair, giving it an almost ethereal sheen. His head was tilted back, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. He was alive. Entirely, undeniably alive. A wave of dizzying relief washed over Julia, so potent it left her weak.
The terror of the night before, the horrifying vision in the garden, began to recede, twisting into something unreal, something born of fevered imagination. Had it truly been a dream? A vivid, terrifying nightmare? The memory of it was so sharp, so visceral, yet here was Alistair, whole and unharmed.
A soft groan escaped her lips. Alistair's eyes snapped open. They were still tinged with weariness, but the piercing blue was clear, focused. He rose instantly, moving to the bedside with a swift, easy grace.
"Julia," he murmured, his voice gentle, laced with concern. He reached out, his cool hand resting against her forehead. "How are you feeling? You gave me quite a fright last night."
Julia swallowed, her throat dry. "Alistair," she whispered, her voice rough. "I… I had a terrible dream. Or… or a vision. I thought… I thought Finch…" She trailed off, glancing towards the closed door, a fresh shiver of unease passing through her.
Alistair's brow furrowed. "Finch?" he questioned, his gaze searching. "What about Finch?"
"I saw him," Julia whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "In the Lady Garden. He had a knife. And he… he slit your throat. The blood, Alistair, there was so much blood." She shuddered, pressing a trembling hand to her lips, as if to quell the rising nausea.
Alistair's hand moved from her forehead to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking gently. "My dearest Julia, that was merely a nightmare. A very vivid one, I imagine. You fainted, quite suddenly, after suffering a dreadful migraine. And you had a nosebleed. A rather bad one, I confess." His gaze was unwavering, reassuring. "I carried you back here. You were quite feverish. Finch was nowhere near us. He had retired hours before."
Julia's eyes widened, a knot of doubt tightening in her stomach. A nosebleed? She looked down at herself. Her nightgown, the one she had been wearing in the garden, was indeed stained. A dark, rusty mark spread across the front, unmistakable against the pale fabric. But it was so much. Too much, surely, for a mere nosebleed. It was thick, a viscous crimson, dried and crusty. It looked… exactly like the torrent of blood she remembered.
"A nosebleed?" Julia repeated, her voice thin. "But… it's so much." Her fingers tentatively brushed the stiff fabric. Her mind rebelled against his easy explanation. This wasn't just a nosebleed. This was a deluge. Had she truly imagined it all? Or was he… lying?
A new, chilling fear began to coil in her gut. She looked up at him, her gaze troubled. "Alistair, I am afraid of Finch. I… I think he might be involved. In Marian's death." She hesitated, then pressed on, her voice barely a whisper. "I also… I fear he might be… be drugging me. What if my fainting spells, my migraines… what if he is causing them?"
Alistair's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. He withdrew his hand from her cheek, his posture subtly stiffening. "Julia, you must not speak such nonsense. Finch has been with the Blackwood family since before my parents passed. He is the most loyal, most honorable man I know. He would never harm me. And he would certainly never poison a guest in my home." His voice was laced with a chilling certainty, a fierce, unwavering loyalty that brooked no argument.
"But what if he is involved with Marian's death?" Julia pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. "He was always so… so protective of her. And he always seemed to know so much. He tried to stop me from looking into things. He threatened me, Alistair, when I went to the Lady Garden. He told me to stop digging, or I would meet the same end!" The words spilled out, raw and uncontrolled.
Alistair's blue eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He looked at her, truly looked at her, his gaze intense, searching. The absolute conviction in her voice, the tremor in her hands, the undeniable fear in her eyes.
"He threatened you?" he repeated, his voice low, almost dangerous. "And you believe he is drugging you? And that this is connected to Marian?" He paused, a long, heavy silence stretching between them. "Are you certain, Julia? Absolutely certain?"
Julia nodded, her head aching with the effort. "Yes, Alistair. I believe so. With every fiber of my being." A surge of relief, so powerful it almost brought tears to her eyes, washed over her when she saw the flicker of doubt, the slight softening of his rigid posture. He was listening. He was considering it.
"Then… then we will investigate," Alistair said, his voice quiet, resolute. "If you believe this, Julia, then we will find out the truth."
A fresh wave of warmth, this one welcome, spread through Julia. He believed her. Or at least, he was willing to entertain the possibility. The formidable Lord Blackwood, joining her in her quest for the truth.
It was only then that Julia truly registered Alistair's appearance. He was still in his nightclothes, but the silk shirt he usually wore was missing. He was bare-chested, his broad shoulders and well-defined chest exposed. The fine dark hairs on his chest tapered to a lean line that disappeared beneath the silk of his night trousers. The sight of him, so close, so intimately revealed, made her cheeks flush. A warm prickle spread over her skin.
She quickly averted her gaze, her eyes darting to the wall behind him. The sudden awareness of his proximity, of his unclad form, made her acutely uncomfortable.
"Alistair, your… your shirt," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
He followed her gaze, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. "Ah. Yes. The room was quite warm in the early hours. I merely removed it for comfort. Nothing untoward, I assure you." His tone was light, but his eyes, when they met hers again, held a knowing spark.
Before Julia could stammer out a reply, a sharp, piercing pain lanced through her temple. Her vision swam. Another migraine. It was swift, brutal, stealing her breath. She winced, pressing her fingers against her aching brow.
Alistair's amusement vanished instantly, replaced by a look of grave concern. "Julia! You are ill. This is not normal. We should send for a doctor. Or better yet, I should take you to the hospital. Immediately."
Julia shook her head, clutching her throbbing temples. "No," she gasped, the word painfu. "Not a hospital. Please, Alistair. I… I fear hospitals." The very thought of sterile rooms and cold, probing hands sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her. Besides, she couldn't leave. Not now. Not when Silas was still hidden in the East Wing, relying on her. She had to ensure he was safe, fed. And she couldn't risk Alistair discovering his presence.
An idea, desperate and sudden, blossomed in her mind. "I… I have a tonic," she managed, her voice strained. "A special tonic, made in London. Lady Henswick's Fever Draft. It's the only thing that helps. My aunt always ensured I had a supply." This was it. A way to send him away, to buy herself time.
Alistair looked at her, his brow furrowed in thought. "Lady Henswick's Fever Draft?" he repeated, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "I confess, I am not familiar with it." He paused, then his expression softened, became resolute. "Very well. I will go to London. I will procure it for you. If it eases your pain, I would travel to the ends of the earth."
Julia's cheeks flushed at his fervent declaration, a strange mixture of embarrassment and a giddy satisfaction. It had worked. Her quick thinking had paid off. She chided herself for the warmth that spread through her chest, for the foolish pleasure his words ignited. She just needed him to leave.
"You should rest now, Julia," Alistair said gently, his eyes filled with concern. "No more thoughts of investigations, no more cataloguing the library, no more work for today. Your health is paramount."
Julia stiffened. The words echoed a chilling memory, a time when he had tried to control her, to confine her, after her hand injury. Was this another attempt? Another subtle command masquerading as care?
"Are you… are you ordering me to stay in my room again, Alistair?" she asked, her voice laced with a newfound wariness. "To not go anywhere?"
Alistair leaned closer, his warm fingers brushing a stray tendril of dark hair from her pale face. His gaze was impossibly tender. "No, my dear Julia," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm. "It is not an order. It is a request. Your health, your well-being… it is all that matters to me."
Then, he bent his head, and his lips, warm and soft, pressed a lingering kiss against her forehead. The unexpected intimacy, the raw affection in his touch, sent a tremor through Julia. Her mind spun, caught between the terrifying visions of the night and the undeniable pull of his charm.
Before she could form a protest, before she could process the complicated tangle of emotions swirling within her, a crisp, sharp rap sounded at the door.
"Breakfast, My Lord. Miss Harrow," a cool, precise voice announced.
The door swung open, and Miss Agnes stood framed in the doorway, her stern gaze sweeping over the intimate scene within. Her eyes, sharp and disapproving, lingered for a long, unsettling moment on Alistair's bare chest and the close proximity of their bodies. Julia's breath hitched, her cheeks burning with a sudden, overwhelming mortification.