A Kiss To Remember | Herophine

Chapter Twenty Four - The Detective

Hero

I still see your face in my dreams...

His mother was calling him.

Hero sat bolt upright in the bed, trembling all over. He threw back the blankets and slid to the floor. It felt like ice beneath his bare feet as he padded across the chamber and wrestled open the heavy door.

The darkness seemed to rush toward him, but he held his ground, clenching his jaw against a shudder of fear. As the sound came again-plaintive and sweet-hope soared in his heart. His mother wasn't just calling him. She was calling him to come home.

He started down the long corridor at a trot, following the music of her voice. But as the corridor unfurled before him, he became aware of another sound, this one coming out of the shadows behind him. He froze, plastering himself to the well.

At first, he could hear nothing but the harsh rasp of his own breathing. But then it came again-a sound he'd heard a thousand times before, a sound that sent a chill skittering like a spider down his spine.

It was the rhythmic tap of his uncle's walking stick.

Hero shoved himself away from the wall, breaking into a sprint. But no matter how fast he ran, the relentless tap-tapping kept pace with him, swelling until it nearly drowned out the echo of his mother's voice. If only his legs were longer, he might be able to reach her before his uncle caught him. If only the corridor would stop unravelling beneath his feet with each step he took. If only

A bony hand shot out of the darkness behind him, closing around his throat.

Hero sat bolt upright on the chaise, trembling all over.

During his decade in the army, he'd been mercifully free of the nightmares that had plagued him throughout his boyhood. But they'd been crouching in the shadowy corners of Deansbrook Hall all along, just waiting for him to return.

He swung his legs to the floor and dropped his head into his hands. He still couldn't bring himself to sleep in his uncle's bed. It felt too much like a tomb. He was half-afraid that if he sank down into the feather mattress, he might not be able to claw his way back up.

He glanced at the mantel clock. He'd only meant to steal a brief nap before going to Josephine's bedroom, but it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. He rose, jerking a knot in the sash of his dressing gown. If Josephine was already asleep, he vowed to himself as he strode toward her bedroom, he would simply slip into her bed, draw her solid warmth against him, and bury his face in her sweet-smelling hair until the bitter aftertaste of the nightmare had dissipated. He wouldn't even kiss that sensitive spot behind her ear that made her press her rump against him or cup the creamy softness of her breasts in his hands. He shook his head helplessly. The hell he wouldn't.

Hero eased open Josephine's door to find Caliban and Cerebus stretched out on the rug at the foot of her bed like a pair of snoring guardian angels.

"Traitors," he muttered, leaning down to rub their heads.

The exhausted dogs had spent all afternoon chasing Katy's kittens around the hall until a fluffy grey Spitfire had wheeled around and taken a swipe at Caliban's nose. They'd spent the rest of the evening whining and cowering under the kitchen stairs.

Hero's pulse quickened with anticipation as he parted the bed hangings, only to slow to a dull thud when he saw the brown head nestled next to Josephine's light one.

His wife had obviously been waiting for him. Her eyes were bright and unclouded by sleep. "Katy had a bad dream," she whispered, giving him an apologetic look. "I couldn't very well send her away, could I?"