So many fears of possible treachery from within or imminent attack from without. And, not the least, fears for Francis's safety. What could be holding him at Leintwardine for so long? During the day she could keep the fear at bay, distract her mind, immerse herself in defensive preparations with Foxton, discussions of stores and preserving methods with Mistress Brierly—or simply in gossip with Mary. But the nights brought their own terrors with dark claws to scratch and tear. If he was injured—or dead—she would have been informed by now. Surely she would know. Or that is what she told herself when the waiting grew too much to bear. Eventually she fell into a troubled sleep, tossing restlessly as Morrighan twitched and snuffled from her position at the side of the bed. Only to wake, tense, with eyes wide, senses straining in the silence. Something had woken her, she was certain, although she could hear nothing. It was late, but the remains of the fire still glowed on the hearth. She turned her head carefully on the pillow to pick up the glint of Morrighan's eyes.
