When she heard the door shut, she flipped back the cover, slid out of bed, and peeked underneath it. Thank goodness, a chamber pot. She relieved herself, exhaling a relieved breath, more so because she was alone.
So what now? She got back into bed and placed her head in her hands, careful not to touch the bruise. She curled up, hugging the pillow. Vacant sleep was all she wanted. With any luck, she’d wake up in her own century.
A chilling thought crept up her spine, and she tried to shut it out. The curator had told her about Hugh’s alleged treason, and—oh, God. The drowning of Matilda, his wife.
He kept referring to Leah as his wife…
Desperate as she was for sleep, it wouldn’t come. And without sleep, she had no chance of getting back home. She was stuck here—with her murderer.
She h
