Come Midnight by Veronica Sattler

bed of a high-priced whore.
    Frightened, Caitlin shrank against the bookshelves as he drew near. But it was fear of the darkness she sensed more than a fear of the man himself. He looked angry, aye, but....
    She gathered her courage and met his gaze ... and felt her breathing still. His eyes. Someone had said the eyes were windows to the soul. And if that were so, Lord Lightfoot was a soul in torment. Sweet Mary, she'd never seen such pain. Faith, and what on God's good green earth had put it there?
    Licking lips suddenly gone dry, Caitlin stiffened her spine and raised her chin. Swallowing past her fear, she forced herself to retain his gaze and take a step toward him. More than ever, she sensed a need to help this man, and she would. God help her, if she could find a way, she would.
    "I... I couldn't sleep, milord," she said with a calm she reached for and found, though she couldn't say how. "And I came here for somethin' t' read. 'Tis sorry I am t' be intrudin' where I oughtn't."
    She paused, gave a small shrug. " 'Tis just that I"— she didn't know why she was telling him, but the words tumbled out, almost of their own accord—"I have disturbin' dreams sometimes. 'Tis often difficult t' return t' sleep."
    "Disturbing dreams...," Adam murmured. He knew about such things. Nightmares filled with maimed bodies and the screams of dying men ... the stench of death everywhere. And blood, so much blood, all the rivers of the world couldn't begin to wash it away.
    And then, of course, there was that other nightmare. The one that had come at the stroke of twelve on a night when he'd bartered his—
    He yanked his thoughts back to the girl. What could she know to disturb her rest? She was an innocent, barely more than a child. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps her dreams were merely the stuff of childish fears. Like one he recollected Andrew having when he was three or four and a thunderstorm had frightened him. Yes, that had to be the case ... a child's nightmares, nothing more.
    Yet when he looked into those huge green eyes, as now, what he saw wasn't childlike. She was young, yes, but the eyes that met his gaze were strangely calm, and somehow ... reassuring.
    Adam gave himself a mental shake, wondering if the brandy had him hallucinating. But as he continued to probe, he knew he wasn't. There was enormous strength in that green-eyed gaze; it was filled with a resolve no child would have.
    Slowly, half afraid she'd disappear if he moved too quickly, Adam cupped her face with his palm. "Who are you, Caitlin O'Brien?" he whispered. "Why are you here?"
    Caitlin's pulse took a leap as his hand met her cheek. His touch was gentle, yet she burned with it. Not in a way that was painful, but—dear God! 'Twas like a current passing straight through her!
    Swallowing past a thickness in her throat, she concentrated on what he'd asked... on the plea of desperation in his words. "I ... I am a healer, milord. Just ... a healer."
    The blue eyes shone hard and brittle as glass in the candlelight. "And do you think you can heal me, Caitlin O'Brien? Do you really think you can do such a thing?"
    "I ... I can try, milord ... if ye'll tell me what's hurtin'."
    Adam gave a harsh laugh and dropped his hand. "Don't be so ready to accept such a burden, little Caitlin," he said bitterly. "You might find you'd bitten off far more than you can chew!"
    "I ... don't understand, milord." Yet Caitlin all at once thought perhaps she did. 'Twas the darkness, and he didn't want to speak of it. He didn't think she could bear it.
    Perhaps I can't, she thought as an image of cloven hooves and great, hovering wings seized her. Perhaps I'm mad even to try.
    "Excellent," Adam said, reaching for her chamberstick and placing it in her hand. "I suggest you find your bed before I decide to enlighten you."
    "But—"
    "Go to bed, Caitlin." Adam turned his back to her, a gesture of dismissal. "And be glad it's only dreams disturb your rest."
    ***
    "Good mornin', Andrew," Caitlin