Her heart pounding, she fought her way free of a dream in which she again swung that urn at Lord Bucksden. She stared into the darkness, lost for an instant in the deep shadows and silvery half light around her. Embers snapped and popped, the wind howled. Rain rattled at window panes. The dwelling creaked and groaned in the stillness of night. And she was utterly nude beneath her bedclothes. The day rushed back over her, the toppled coach, Eliza’s departure on horseback, Lucien and her supposedly missing memory. Missing memory, indeed. The only thing Cassie couldn’t remember was falling asleep in this bed. She recalled washing, then Maggie taking away her muddy clothing, promising to bring up Cassie’s nightgown when Jamie returned with her belongings. Cassie had then yawned her way into the meal Maggie brought, dining upright in bed, coddling her leg. After that, there was nothing, including anyone taking away her dinner tray. Sighing, she slid deeper into her bedclothes. Her knee twinged, but not as badly as it had earlier.
