A dream of a muse

Sweat glistens on the bronze of his skin as he twists and turns in the bed-covers of bleached linen. He mumbles something completely unrecognizable. Suddenly, he sits up with such force that the bed-covers fly off the bed. He breath coming in gulps and rushing pants. He pounds the bed with frustration as his thoughts start to compose.

It was her again. How can this be? Richard James Blackthorn, Earl of Westcliff, cannot be haunted. He struggles to recall the bits and pieces of the dreams to form a single string of memories. The lovely light blonde and auburn hair comes first to his thoughts. When the sun shines upon it,he itched to touch the liquid fire it appeared to be. Next comes the smile of mischief waiting from lips the color of sweet strawberries and clotted cream. Sometimes he sees her laughing with a friend the cliffs of the highlands as their playground. Sometimes she is close enough to touch, to even kiss. Where did that come from? Will I go mad before I find out the name of this woman or see her in the flesh?

He gazes out the window to find the sun is far from rising and raises a hand to stifle a yawn. A smile curves his lips as he relishes the thought of returning to his dream. He rests his tousled head upon the feather pillows. "Come dream I beckon you," he said. His eyes close and his smile now fades to be replaced with a frown of concentration. He falls back in the dream, but this time he wills himself to chase and catch the elusive mysterious muse of his dreams.
Will he catch her? This reader wishes him "Good luck."