The shout woke her from a restless sleep.
Her heart thudding in alarm, Eleanor sat up in bed and searched the darkness, wondering what had startled her awake.
The hoarse shout came again from Damon's bedchamber, muffled by the closed door between their rooms. Springing out of bed, Eleanor quickly lit a candle and hurried to unlock their connecting door.
By the time she reached Damon's bedside, his shouts had turned to a low, moaning sound. He was thrashing in his sleep, obviously in the throes of a nightmare.
The tangled covers had lowered to his waist, leaving his torso bare. His skin was damp and chilled with perspiration, Eleanor realized when she put a gentle hand on his shoulder and shook him.
He didn't respond, even when she called his name softly, so she shook him more forcefully. “Damon, wake up!”
At her order, his eyes flew open.
He lay there rigidly, his expression dazed, confused, raw. In the glow of candlelight, she could see his pulse pounding in his throat, could feel the coiled tension in his body beneath her palm.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said in a low voice.
The eyes he turned to her were tortured. He stared at her, looking almost lost. Wild locks of mahogany hair framed his face, while a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.
His shoulders shuddered. Then, brushing off her touch, he sat up and rubbed a hand raggedly down his face.
“What is troubling you, Damon?” Eleanor asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
His tone was harsh, abrupt, dismissive. Just as abruptly, he seemed to notice her attire-that she was standing there in her nightshift and bare feet.
“I am fine,” he added tersely. “Go back to bed, Elle.”
She wasn't proof against his utter vulnerability, though. She ached to smooth away the lines of pain from his features, to hold him until that desolate look had faded from his eyes.
Raising a soothing hand, she cupped the side of his face. “I wish I could help,” she murmured.
At her gentle touch, Damon froze for a handful of heartbeats. Then he pulled back sharply, away from her offer of comfort.
His lashes swept down to hide his eyes, shuttering his expression, shutting her out. “I don't need your help.”
Eleanor hesitated. “Would you at least like me to stay with you a while?”
“No. I don't want you here.”
Lifting his gaze, he stared back at her, his eyes as dark as a moonless midnight. His voice was brittle when he repeated, “Go back to sleep, Eleanor.”
Reluctantly she obeyed at least part of his command; she returned to her own bed. Yet she definitely did not feel like sleeping.
A tightness welled in Eleanor's chest, in part because Damon had professed not to want her, but mainly because his emotional state dismayed and disturbed her.
What was causing him such pain that he suffered nightmares from it?
It was a long, long time before Eleanor felt herself drifting off to sleep. And when finally she did, her last thought was that Damon was not only shutting her out of his heart. He was shutting her out of his life.
Sunday dawned wet and miserable, which dampened the spirits of all the houseguests. Most of the company stayed indoors and played parlor games, and Eleanor made an effort to join in with her usual enthusiasm.
Damon, however, remained aloof and withdrawn the entire day. And on Monday she saw nothing of him at all. He never appeared at breakfast, and when there was no sign of him at luncheon, Eleanor decided to search for him.
When she went upstairs and tapped on the connecting door between their rooms, she discovered his manservant in Damon's bedchamber.
“I believe he is out riding, milady,” Cornby responded in answer to her question about Lord Wrex-ham's whereabouts.
Eleanor glanced out the windows where a steady stream of rain was drizzling down. “In this weather?”
“He prefers to be alone sometimes. Especially today.”
“What is today?”
“The anniversary of his brother's death, my lady.”
That intelligence jolted her. “”Oh,” she said rather inadequately. “I didn't realize.”
“His lordship does not like to speak of it.”
Eleanor frowned as a thought occurred to her. “Cornby, Lord Wrexham had a severe nightmare the other night. Would that have anything to do with his brother's death?”
“I expect so, my lady. He always has bad dreams at this time of year.”
“Dreams of his brother dying?”
“Regrettably, yes.” The valet hesitated before adding with some reluctance, “His lordship usually spends a great deal of time riding, driving himself physically- I believe in order to make himself weary enough to keep away the nightmares. Although that does not always suffice.”
Cornby's revelation greatly dismayed Eleanor. “Did he give you any indication of when he might return?”
“No, my lady. Sometimes it is before dark, but sometimes it is late into the night.”
“So this has happened before?”
“Regularly, my lady. It is a yearly ritual with him.”
Her dismay only increased. Was Damon still punishing himself for being unable to save his brother? Eleanor wondered with a heavy heart.
It was then that Cornby's occupation caught her attention. He had paused respectfully when she entered the room, but now she realized he'd been occupied in tapping a small wooden cask and filling a crystal decanter with a dark amber liquid that looked and smelled like brandy.
“I suppose he plans to drink that when he returns?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. I have standing orders to have a sufficient quantity of brandy on hand each year for the sad occasion.”
It concerned Eleanor that Damon hoped to find solace in an alcoholic stupor, but the reason for his nightmares distressed her more.