“What are you talking about?” Cecilia asked. He turned, jaw clenched, and almost leaped out of the window to see her standing close by him. She smelled of wine and roses, and a little of sweat that made him think as vehemently as possible of Lady Armitage throwing ice-cold water at him. Her breath stirred beneath her fine lawn chemise, stirring him as well. Lady Armitage put down the water buckets and shrugged.

“What?” he said stupidly, trying not to stare.

“Never mind.” Slipping past him, she leaned on the windowsill, inhaling the dark air. “Night is like the underskin of a poem, don’t you think, Mr. Lightbourne?”

“Captain,” he answered, for want of anything more sensible.

She sighed, and her face softened, and as Ned watched anxiously, tears filled her eyes.

“You need to go to bed,” he reiterated, for if there was one thing that truly terrified him, it was a crying woman. He had not thought this one capable of it.

“I love a horizon,” she said, leaning farther out the window. “That feeling of longing, of mystery and distant magic, pulls always on my soul. I suppose that’s where my mother must be. Roaming through the afterlight, stealing heaven . . .”

She lifted a hand as if to reach for Cilla, and Ned caught her before she tumbled out.

“Come on,” he said, guiding her firmly away from the longing horizon toward the solid, safe bed. When they got there, she crawled over the quilt and burrowed in like a child.

“Will you be comfortable sleeping on the floor?” she asked, looking at him with big eyes. But her gaze was unfocused and he knew she didn’t quite see him.

“Of course,” he lied. “Go to sleep. I’ll turn the lights down.”

“Not yet.” She shook her head, and her eyes seemed to go on swerving even after she stopped. “I can’t sleep without reading first.”

“Darling, I don’t think you’re going to have that problem tonight.” He walked around the bed, feeling braver now, for she was more like a lost girl than a beautiful half-dressed woman, and his only desire was to ensure she went to sleep without vomiting all over the sheets. He arranged the blankets around her. Finally she closed her eyes—then flung them open again. He smiled in sheer self-defense.

“You said you’d assassinate me in my bedchamber,” she recalled. “How will you do it? Will you suffocate me with the pillow?”

“Maybe,” he said, drawing a loose strand of hair away from her face. “What do you think, would that be all right?”

“Tiring,” she said. “It apparently takes more effort than you’d think. What about a knife to the heart?”

“No, too messy. This is a very nice quilt and I wouldn’t want to ruin it. Poison?”

“Do you have any with you?”

He shook his head. She was so lovely, “pale as the dustiest lily’s leaf.” He rather thought his heart beat sighs, not blood, looking down upon her.