I sit down beside her on the bed, and she launches herself at me, nearly knocking me over and wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Hey,” I soothe her once I’ve regained my balance, and I hold her, stroking her hair.

“Err?sir?. Shum? err?sir?. Shum? err?sir?,” she whispers over and over as she clings to me, trembling like a newborn foal.

“English. In English.”

“The dark,” she whispers against my neck. “I hate the dark. It is so dark here.”

Oh, thank fuck.

I’d imagined all manner of horrors and was prepared to fight any number of monsters, but I relax at her words. Keeping one arm around her, I lean over and switch on the bedside light.

“That better?” I ask, but she doesn’t let go. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I repeat several times.

After a few minutes, her trembling ceases and her body relaxes. She sits back, and her eyes meet mine.

“I am sorry,” she whispers.

“Hush. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

She glances down at my chest, and a slow flush pinks her cheeks.

“Yeah, I normally sleep naked. Count yourself lucky I put these on,” I quip.

Her mouth softens. “I know,” she says, and peeks up at me through her long lashes.

“You know?”

“Yes. You sleep naked.”

“You’ve seen me?”

“Yes.” Her smile is unexpected.

“Well, I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I’m grateful that she’s back from whatever terror she was facing in the dark, but she continues to glance around the room anxiously.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” she says. “I was frightened.”

“Was it a nightmare?”

She nods. “And when I open my eyes and it is…it is so dark—” She shivers. “I did not know if I was dreaming or awake.”

“I think that would make anyone scream. It’s not like London here. There’s no light pollution in Trevethick. The dark here is…dark.”

“Yes. Like the—” She stops and cringes in revulsion.

“Like?” I whisper. The teasing amusement in her eyes has vanished, replaced by a harrowed, strained expression. Turning her face away, she stares down at her lap.

I rub her back when I’m met with her silence. “Tell me,” I prompt.

“In the—how do you say—kamion…Truck. In the truck,” she says, suddenly inspired.

I swallow. “Truck?”

“Yes. That brought us to England. It was metal. Like a box. And dark. And cold. And the smell…” Her words are barely audible.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath, and fold her in my arms again. She seems a little more reluctant to hug me this time, probably because I’m shirtless but I’m not going to leave her to face these gruesome nightmares on her own. In one swift movement, I stand, cradling her against my chest.

She gasps in surprise.

“I think you should sleep with me.” And without waiting for a response, I carry her into my room, flick on the lights, and deposit her on the floor beside the walk-in wardrobe. Inside I find the pajama shirt and hand it to her. I point to the en suite. “You can go and change in there. You can’t be comfortable sleeping in your jeans and that school sweater.” I grimace at her green woolen pullover.

She blinks rapidly.

Shit. Perhaps I’ve really overstepped the mark.

And suddenly I feel a little self-conscious. “Unless of course you’d rather sleep alone.”

“I have never slept with a man,” she whispers.

Oh.

“I won’t touch you. This is just sleep—so the next time you scream, I’ll be right there.”

Of course, I’d like to make her scream in a different way.

Alessia hesitates, looking from me to the bed, and her lips purse with what I think is resolve. “I want to sleep here, with you,” she whispers and she marches into the en suite, not shutting the door until she’s found the light switch.

Feeling relieved, I stare at the closed bathroom door.

At twenty-three she’s never slept with a man?

I’m not going to think about that right now. It’s after three in the morning, and I’m tired.

* * *

Alessia gazes at her pale face in the mirror. Wide eyes with dark circles beneath them reflect back at her. Taking a deep breath, she shakes off the remnants of her nightmare: she’d been back in the container, but this time without the other girls.

She was alone.

In the dark.

In the cold.

With that smell.

She shivers and strips off her clothes. She’d forgotten where she was until he appeared.

Mister Maxim. Saving her again.

Her own Sk?nderbeu…Albania’s hero.

He’s making a habit of this.

And she’s going to sleep with him.

He’ll keep her nightmares at bay.

If her father found out, he would kill her. And her mother…she visualizes her mother fainting at the news that Alessia is sleeping with a man. A man who is not her husband.

Don’t think about Baba and Mama.

Her dear, dear mother had sent Alessia to England thinking she was saving her.

She was wrong. So wrong.

Oh, Mama.

For now she is safe with Mister Maxim. She struggles into the pj top, which is too big. She undoes her braid, shakes out her hair, then tries to tame it with her fingers but gives up. Gathering her clothes under one arm, she opens the door.

Mister Maxim’s room is larger and airier than the other bedroom. It’s also off-white, but here the furniture is polished wood, matching the sleigh bed that dominates the room. He is standing on the far side of the bed, and his eyes widen as he studies her. “There you are,” he says, his voice husky. “I was wondering if I should send a search party.”

Her gaze drifts from his startling green eyes to the tattoo on his arm. She has only glimpsed parts of it before, but even from across the room she can see the design.

A two-headed eagle.

Albania.

“What?” He follows her stare and looks down at his tattoo. “Oh. This,” he says. “It’s a folly of youth.” He sounds a little embarrassed, and he frowns, seemingly puzzled by her keen interest. She can’t take her eyes off the ink as she walks toward him. He raises his elbow so she can have a better look.

Inscribed across his biceps is a black shield bearing the image of an ivory two-headed eagle hovering over five yellow circles that are in the shape of an inverted V. Alessia places her clothes on the footstool at the end of the bed and raises her hand to touch his arm, glancing at Maxim for permission.

* * *

I hold my breath as she traces the outline of my tattoo, her finger skirting across my skin, her light touch echoing through my body, toward my groin, and I suppress a groan.

“This is the symbol for my country,” she whispers. “The two-headed eagle is on the Albanian flag.”

What are the odds?

I grit my teeth. I’m not sure how long I can bear her touch without reciprocating.

“But not these yellow circles,” she adds.

“There’re called bezants.” I sound really hoarse.

“Bezant.”

“Yes. It represents a coin.”

“In Albanian, we have the same word. Why do you have this tattoo? What does it mean?” Alluring eyes peer up at me.

What can I say?

This is the shield from my family’s coat of arms.

I don’t want to explain my family’s heraldry at three o’clock in the morning. And the truth is, I had the tattoo done to piss off my mother. She hates them…but of the family coat of arms? How could she complain?

“Like I said, a youthful folly.” My eyes stray from her eyes to her lips. I swallow. “It’s too late to discuss this now. Let’s sleep.” I toss back the quilt on the bed and step aside so that she can climb in. She obliges, revealing long, slender legs beneath the pajama shirt that is way too big for her.

This is torture.

“What is this word ‘folly’?” she asks as I walk around the bed. She’s propped herself up on her elbow, and her glorious dark hair falls in a riot of loose waves over her shoulders, past the contour of her breasts, and onto the bedding. She looks gorgeous, and I’m going to have to keep my hands off her.

“?‘Folly’ in this case means a foolish action,” I say as I join her in bed. I almost snort at the irony of my word definition.

If sleeping next to this beautiful girl isn’t folly, I don’t know what is.

“Folly,” she whispers as she lays her head on the pillow. I dim the bedside light so it glows in the darkness, but I don’t switch it off, just in case she wakes again.

“Yes. Folly.” I lie down and close my eyes. “Go to sleep.”

“Good night,” she whispers, her voice soft and sweet. “And thank you.”

I groan. This is going to be torture. I turn on my side, away from her, and start counting sheep.

    I’m lying on the lawn near the towering stone wall that surrounds the kitchen garden at Tresyllian Hall.

The summer sun warms my skin.

The scent from the lavender that rings the lawn and the sweet fragrance of the roses that climb the wall waft over me.

I’m warm.

I’m happy.

I’m home.

A girlish laugh catches my attention.

I turn my head, drawn to the sound, but I’m blinded by the sun and can see her only in outline. Her long, raven hair blows in the breeze, and she’s swathed in a translucent blue housecoat. It billows out around her slim silhouetted figure.