Moira was happy, content that her child was so close and safe. If she reached through the window, she could touch Rowena’s flowing hair . . . but then the carriage began to rumble forward faster, the beautiful horse falling behind.

Moira tried to lean out the window, but she couldn’t. The scenery sped by faster and faster until it was a blur, Rowena falling farther and farther behind.

Moira wanted to call out, but her voice had frozen. The coach began to rock, lurching wildly side to side. She gripped the edge of her seat, clutching it desperately as it overturned and she sailed through the air and—

She gasped, opening her eyes to a darkened room lit only by a fire in a large, ornate fireplace. She blinked, her heart still pounding. It was just a dream.

Panting, she rested on the mound of pillows, feeling drained and weak. What’s happened to me? Where am I? Where’s Rowena?

Her fingers clutched the thick sheets and she absently noted the fine coverlet, the heavy blue bed curtains. Wherever she was, it was a luxurious bedchamber.

She turned her head, gasping when pain shot through her temple. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead, finding a thick bandage there. My head. What happened? I was . . . I was chasing Robert, trying to get ahead to gain the onyx box and—Oh. Memories of the crash filled her mind, of pain in her head and Robert’s face looking into hers, concern in his deep blue eyes.

And Rowena? Moira desperately searched her memory, biting her lip when she remembered. Rowena is still being held by Aniston.

Tears threatened, but Moira fought them off. Her head ached and her eyes were hot and uncomfortable, and she was so thirsty that her lips and tongue felt swollen.

She lifted her head and saw Robert asleep in a chair beside her bed, his head slumped to one side. He was disheveled and unshaven, several days’ worth of beard upon his face.

It was one of the few times she’d seen Robert less than perfectly attired, too. His coat was slung over the back of the settee, his shirt open at the throat, and his loosened cravat had been tossed aside. As she watched, he stirred but didn’t awaken, his thick lashes resting on his cheeks.

It was a sin for a man to have such lashes, she decided irritably, kicking a little where her night rail was twisted about her legs. She was so hot and uncomfortable and—

“You’re awake.” Robert’s voice startled her as he came to stand beside the bed. His shirt-sleeves had been rolled up to reveal strong, muscular forearms.

“Yes,” she croaked, pressing a hand to her throat. “I’m awake. I’m hot and my head hurts and I’m so very thirsty and—”

He chuckled, and to her surprise, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

The unexpectedly tender gesture made tears well once again. She didn’t know what to say.