He drew back, using a force of will that could only be exerted with the knowledge that it was temporary, and he lifted her into his arms. A man on a mission, he carried her to his room before the dream faded to light.
Gasping, Quin sat up in bed, his heart pounding. He covered his face with his hands, struggling to regain his wits. Lowering his hands, he focused on the window, then his bed. The light of dawn weakly illuminated the rumpled covers and the fact that he was very much alone.
He had never had such a dream before.
He had the urge to search the covers to make sure he really had dreamed it. It had been so blasted real. He took an irritated snort as he thought back to the dream, then froze. He’d been so startled that it hadn’t been real—that he hadn’t truly considered what he’d been doing.
Or with whom.
Bloody hell, he’d been kissing Catherine. And not in a casual fashion. He’d possessed her…yet been captive as well. The tension, passion, and love—there could be no other name for it—was so real and strangely comfortable, as if it were not the first kiss but the millionth.
And instinctively, he knew that the ten-millionth kiss would be just as powerful as the first.
He didn’t regret any part, and the dream had been so authentic. Which was worse. Wouldn’t an honorable man experience guilt over such a provoking dream about an innocent? Perhaps he wasn’t as honorable as he perceived himself to be, which was equally disturbing.
Heavens, it had felt more real than the last kiss he could remember.
If that was even possible.
She’d said his name, though of course it washisdream. He supposed that the dreamer had such powers, to make people do impossible things. She could have bloody well flown if he’d wished it in his dream. But it unnerved him how normal their actions had felt in his dream.
As if it was usual, that kind of earth-shattering passion, that kind of love.
He couldn’t go there. Not with her. Anyone but her. He resolved to push it from his mind and rose from his bed. For once, rather than fighting the reasons to visit her, he was thrilled to be leaving London. He couldn’t face her, not yet. Not when the dream had been so real. Not when he wanted it so badly. Did she dream at night about his brother?
Quin’s blood ran cold, a stark, frigid chill that iced his veins compared to the way his blood had boiled only moments ago. In all the years of his brother’s life, he had never been jealous. Not of his title, his honor, his bride.
Till now.
And it terrified him. Because how could one compete with the dead? It was impossible. Not that he was going to enter into any competition for Catherine’s heart. It was preposterous. But that dream… It haunted him.
As he readied himself for the day, broke his fast, and then called for his carriage, the dream lingered, whispering memories to him of what had never actually happened. But felt like it had. His body still tingled. His lips still felt hers. And he bloody well remembered the way his name sounded on her lips. He wanted to hear it again.
Desperately.
With enough power that he fled in the opposite direction, to Cambridge. With each village he passed, he released some tension. But it was only a temporary fix. Because he’d return to London. And he’d see her. He wasn’t sure he could prepare for such a thing. To be unchanged. And for her to be blissfully unaware. But she had to be. It couldn’t change, the friendship. So with a cold grip on his emotions, he forced them into submission as he put distance between him and London. Praying that seven days could cool a body as fevered as his. And a heart that clearly had no scruples for what was honorable. Perspective, he would drink it in. Remind himself that he might not be the one who roamed her dreams.
Time passed quickly, and though it would be a long day in the carriage if he were to travel from London to Cambridge in one day, he was more than happy to gain the distance needed for a clear head.
The coach stopped at a small inn near Hertford, the halfway point. The stay was shortened by the opening of the skies, and not wanting to travel longer than necessary on an excessively muddy road, Quin had ordered his coachman to leave directly.
The rain pelted the carriage roof and blurred the windows of the vehicle, leaving Quin without distraction. The final three and a half hours passed slowly, his thoughts plaguing him.
When the carriage came to a final halt before his Cambridge lodgings, he nearly sang with relief. His body was coiled with tension like a spring tightened far too much. He stepped from the carriage and released the pent-up breath that had been building in his chest.
Quin studied the large stone building, which was simpler than his London home. It was an older one that carried on for the length of an entire block. Every few feet, a new set of steps reached for another door, another home for one of his neighbors. The stone was a cold gray, not nearly as charcoal black as the edifices in London, but then again the coal smoke wasn’t as thick in Cambridge so the buildings weren’t nearly as stained.
He had a fleeting thought that reminded him of the red-colored stone buildings in Edinburgh, Scotland. One year he had given a guest lecture at the University of Edinburgh, and he’d noted the crimson structures. Because Edinburgh had used the red stone for its buildings, the coal smoke had been far more noticeable, and entire buildings were streaked with black with only the lower levels the reddish hue that they had originally held.
Avoiding his thoughts, he strode up to his front door, taking the five steps in quick succession. Before he reached the door, it was opened by his butler in Cambridge.
“Your Grace.” The man bowed, opening the door wide.
Quin nodded, then handed him his hat. Drinking in the sight of his Cambridge residence, Quin felt a sense of peace rest on his tense spirit like a balm. While London was his childhood home, Cambridge was where he had found himself. Where he’d grown from a boy to a man, and there was a sense of pride and strength that came from that. The fears, the tension and uncertainty that had followed him from London held no power here and, as if sensing it, melted away.
He took the hall down to his study.
“Shall I have tea brought in?” the butler inquired.