For the longest time she lay immobilized in that peculiar position, half hoping, half terrified that she was trapped under a dead man. When her nerves finally settled down enough for her to function again in a rational manner, she realized he was still alive. At least she could hear the rasp of his breath in her hair. She made an attempt to slide her hand out from under his hip bone. He gave a low warning growl in his throat.
The weak pulse of his heart beat against her crushed breasts, a counterpoint to the blood rushing through her veins. His fingers were still tangled in her hair. Her body was pressed into the bed. Even if he was half dead, she could feel the latent strength in the muscular torso and thighs that imprisoned her.
"Please get off of me," she whispered, swallowing over the knot that swelled in her throat.
She gave his tentative push, only to prod him into rising up with a restrained roar of pain. Observing his reaction, she felt a temporary swell of pity overcome her own fear. He reared back and rolled onto his side, cradling his left arm in a protective gesture.
She stared disbelieving at her hand, up at his wrinkled linen shirt, back down again at the shiny smear of dark crimson blood on the bed where he had collapsed.
"Oh, dear God," she said, so appalled at the sight that she forgot the danger to herself. "You're hurt. I'll fetch help. . . ." Yes, help. An excuse to escape, to think how to handle this. Helping him perhaps to save herself. With any luck he'd jump out the window before she returned.
"Don't you dare."
He caught the sleeve of her robe and hauled her back roughly between his legs, growling, "Don't you breathe a word to anyone that I am here. Or that you've even seen me."
She felt a little sick, shuddering at the menace in his voice, aware of his breath burning against her neck, the hard, unyielding body that imprisoned her. Was this the same man who had kissed her in the rain? Who had teased and gently tormented her, leaving her aching to meet him again? "But—why must my seeing you be a secret?"
"Because I am dead, my dear, and have no desire to rejoin the living yet."
She drew a breath. He sounded chillingly calm, deliberate, rational even, although his behavior was not "Well, I have no desire for you to be here, dead or not, " she burst out. "What are you doing in my room?"
He hesitated, his deep voice Stark in the darkness. "I was chased here. Chased through the woods?"
"Chased?" It didn't make sense to her. He was supposed to be dead. He'd hinted that no one knew he had survived the vicious attack. It dawned on her suddenly that there was far more to his murder than anyone in Chistlebury had realized. And now she was caught in his deadly mystery.
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