The Gallows Bride by Rebecca King

any objection from her
sister.
    Without
further ado, Jemima was swathed in a wonderfully soft nightgown,
and tucked into the huge bed moments before a knock on the door
heralded the arrival of the doctor.

CHAPTER THREE

    Sunlight
was streaming through the open curtains when Jemima awoke the
following morning. She lay for several moments and simply enjoyed
the soft sheets beneath her cheek and the warmth of the morning
sunlight on her face. It had been so long since she had awoken
without thinking about working. She couldn’t remember the last time
she had experienced the luxury of sleeping on such a soft
mattress.
    In the
quiet of the early morning, she slowly became aware of the soft
rumble of a snore not far away. A frown crossed her brow as she lay
perfectly still and listened. She was alone in the bed, of that she
was fairly certain, so where was he?
    A
cursory glance of one side of the room revealed it to be completely
empty. Carefully she rolled over until she was facing the
fireplace.
    There,
lying on the floor, fast asleep, was Peter. His hair was tousled
and his chest bare to the waist as he lay on his back before the
hearth, covered in nothing but a single sheet that did little to
preserve his modesty.
    She knew
she should wake him up and usher him to his own room, but couldn’t
find the heart to wake him.
    Once
again the memory of their last moments in Mr Simpson’s office
returned with startling brutality. The raw emotion, the pain, the
heartbreak, the helplessness all came flooding back. He had been
absolutely devastated by what he had considered his failure to help
her. She was surprised he had found her at all, much less put
everything that was his at risk of social censure in a desperate,
last-ditch attempt to keep her alive.
    Although
she hadn’t been raised in the higher echelons of society, she was
fully aware that, for someone of Peter’s breeding, being connected
to any condemned person, especially a woman, would bring about
immediate social disgrace. Despite the risk to his title, estates
and family name, he had tried to claim her as his bride
anyway.
    But
where did that leave them?
    Her
thoughts turned to the first time she had seen him.
     
     
    She had
loved him from the first time she had seen him sitting around the
dining table in Devon. She had been working as a servant and had
stood at the side of the room beside the footmen, helping serve a
meal. The deep rumble of his cultured voice had held her captive.
She had served him soup and had been startled as his gorgeous eyes
had met and held hers briefly as he murmured his thanks. A thrill
of anticipation had settled low in her belly, and she had been
aware of him watching her as she resumed her position beside the
serving table. As a servant she was supposed to be invisible and
forbidden from conversing with the guests unless they approached
her. But that was fine with Jemima, as long as she could stand in
the dining room and listen to him talk. The silken warmth of his
voice shivered over her, holding her captive to his every
word.
    She knew
he was simply staring because of her outlandish behaviour at the
table. She shouldn’t have looked at him so directly, but didn’t
regret any anger he may have felt toward her. The moment was hers,
and nobody could take it away from her.
    The
following morning she had been sent to light the fires in the
bedrooms before people started to rise. She had entered the room
without realising it was his. Most of the guests slept with their
bed curtains closed, and didn’t know she had even been in the room.
Except Peter, who had left the bed curtains open and himself in
plain view. She had stared openly at the broad expanse of chest
clearly outlined against the stark white sheets. A tiny thrill of
feminine attraction unfurled in her belly until she began to grow
uncomfortable with the warmth stealing through her.
    “ Thank you, Jemima,” his soft rumble had made her freeze with
her hand on the doorknob and