Dreaming of You Read Free Page A

dirt. As she cleaned his eyes and cheeks, the water revived him, and he made a hoarse sound. His thick lashes lifted. Sara paused in her task as she found herself looking into intense green eyes, the color of grass on a cool spring morning. There was a strange sensation in her chest. Pinned in place by his gaze, she couldn’t move or speak.
    He raised his hand, touching one of the locks of hair that had fallen from her pins. His voice was hoarse. “Your name…again.”
    “Sara,” she whispered.
    Just then two men entered the room, one of them small and bespectacled, the other elderly and tall. “Mr. Craven,” the smaller one said soberly. “I’ve brought Dr. Hindley.”
    “Whiskey,” Derek croaked. “I’ve ’ad the piss knocked out ow me.”
    “You were in a fight?” Worthy bent over him, his mild face wreathed in surprise. “Oh, no. Your face.” Hestared disapprovingly at Sara, who stood by wringing her hands. “I hope this young woman was worth it, Mr. Craven.”
    “I wasn’t fighting ower ’er,” Derek said, before Sara could intervene. “It was Jenner’s men, I think. Two ow ’em armed wiv a neddy jumped me in the street. This little mouse…pulls out a pistol an’ shoots one ow the bastards.”
    “Well.” Worthy regarded Sara with a much warmer expression. “Thank you, miss. It was very brave of you.”
    “I wasn’t brave at all,” Sara said earnestly. “I didn’t stop to think. It happened very quickly.”
    “In any case, we owe you our gratitude.” Worthy hesitated before adding, “I am employed by Mr. Craven to deal with disturbances on the floor, as well as”—he glanced at Craven’s bloodstained body and finished lamely—“any other matters that require my attention.”
    Sara smiled at him. Worthy was a very nice-looking man, with small, neat features, thinning hair on top; and gleaming spectacles perched on his pointed nose. There was an air of patience about him that she guessed would not be easily shaken. Together he and the doctor bent over the bed, removing Craven’s shoes and clothes. Sara turned away, modestly averting her gaze. She began to walk from the room, but Craven said something gruffly, and Worthy stopped her. “I think it would be best if you didn’t leave yet, Miss—”
    “Fielding,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Sara Fielding.”
    The name seemed to awaken his interest. “Any relation to S. R. Fielding, the novelist?”
    “Sara Rose,” she said. “I use my initials for the sake of anonymity.”
    The doctor looked up from the bed with an expression of startled delight. “ You are S. R. Fielding?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The news seemed to animate him. “What an honor this is! Mathilda is one of my favorite novels.”
    “It was my most successful work,” Sara admitted modestly.
    “My wife and I have spent many an evening discussing our theories on the ending of the novel. Did Mathilda cast herself from the bridge to end her misery, or did she choose to seek atonement for her sins—”
    “Excuse me,” said an icy voice from the bed. “I’m frigging bleeding to death. Mathilda can go tip a pike.”
    Sara frowned contritely. “Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Hindley, please see to Mr. Craven at once.” She turned her gaze to Worthy. “Where would you like me to wait?”
    “In the next room, if you please. You’re welcome to ring for tea and refreshments.”
    “Thank you.” As Sara went to the drawing room, she wondered what it was about Mathilda that always inspired such interest. The book’s popularity never failed to amaze her. There had even been a recent stage production of the story. People tended to discuss the character of Mathilda as if she were a real person, seeming to enjoy endless debates concerning the novel’s conclusion. After writing the story of a girl who had run away from the country and fallen into the sinful ways of prostitution, Sara had deliberately left a question as to the ending. On the last page,