Chapter 5
He stood in the small room for what seemed an eternity. The chamber was easily one quarter the size of Caro’s room, which had already felt terribly cramped for a man of his size. And for a man who had been kept on one side of the door for far too long.
But here, in this space that was undeniably Caro’s territory in a way her chamber was not, he felt even more like a great, lumbering beast. His head nearly scraped the beams of the ceiling. His arms were too long, his fists too large, his shoulders too wide. After attempting to mop up her spilled ink, he had proceeded to knock a tidy pile of books to the floor with his bleeding elbow.
The spine of one of the books had cracked.
He would have to see it restored for her. If indeed he could ever earn the funds to do so or find a goddamn bookbinder. The restrictions of not just his size but his lack of memory weighed heavily upon him in these charged minutes after he had kissed her senseless. His body was still aflame from her response. His attire was yet marked by the ink-stained hands that had caressed him and attempted to undo the pathetic knot he had tied in his cravat.
The cravat felt deuced odd.
He didn’t suppose himself the sort of cove who would have often worn one. Seemed too restrictive on his thick neck. Like a noose, ready to choke a man. The darkness of his mind disturbed him. He wondered, once more, who he was. What he had done. Was he a violent man? A criminal, perhaps?
Hell, until he knew, he had no right to touch Caro. No right to kiss her.
Regardless of how much he wanted to, and despite the inconceivable way his mouth on hers had affected him. His cockstand had been rigid and ready, despite the sudden appearance of her sister, which should have been the equivalent of a pail of cold water being poured over his head.
Instead, he was awaiting Caro like a good dog, pacing the length of her little room in five increasingly frustrated strides. Bumping into the bloody table with his hip and emitting a howl of pain. Too big for this room. Too empty-minded to know anything.
Utterly lost and adrift.
He didn’t know his name. Didn’t know a damned thing about himself. He felt as if he had been a passenger on a ship that had taken on water and sunk to the bottom of the sea, leaving him behind, clinging to the flotsam. And the flotsam was Caro.
He ground his jaw, used his good hand to rake his fingers through his hair, and stalked to the door. Where was she? What was taking so bloody long? And why did she insist upon keeping him from her brothers?
Ignoring the twinge of conscience that told him he had no reason to distrust her, he opened the door slowly, quietly. Caro was down the hall, in heated discussion with her sister. He heard the same familiar word her sister had uttered upon her earlier disruption.
Winter.
The season of snow and ice.
Why should it feel so familiar? Why should it make an ache begin deep in his gut, as if it called to him in a deeper way? As if he should remember it?
Caro seemed to say something, and he strained to hear it but could not. Then her sister spoke.
What shall I call him, then?
The patient, Caro said.
Guilt hit him. He was eavesdropping upon her, when she had only been an utter angel to him. She had nursed him back to health, had stitched his flesh together, and tended him through infection. Yet how did he repay his beautiful butterfly? By catching her, kissing her, and then distrusting her.
He stepped back, allowing the door to quietly close once more. She was entitled to her privacy. Caro was doing everything in her power to keep him safe. Humility joined the guilt. Who was he, to deserve her concern and consideration?
Who was he at all, damn it?
Would he ever remember?
He returned to pacing this small room, taking greater note of his surroundings for the first time. Initially, Caro had been all he could see. Then, he had been too caught up in a maelstrom of emotions to be observant. However, now, he took note of all the jars, carefully labeled, the neat penmanship. The journal filled with her concise script. Measurements, he noticed, and then he unintentionally slammed his wounded arm into the wall.
Pain seared him, and for a moment he feared he’d torn open his wound anew. But as the discomfort subsided, the door finally opened, revealing a flushed-looking Caro. He rubbed his arm lightly, trying to hide his grimace.
But she had seen it.
Of course she had.
She came rushing to him. “I heard a thump. What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself?”
What a fool he felt. “I am too damned big.”
He wondered if he had felt at home in his massive size before. Since everything was new, he could not be sure, but he supposed he would have been accustomed to it, having slowly grown into a larger body over time. However, waking up to find himself a giant was a hell of a realization.
Deuced troubling.
“What do you mean, you are too big?” She frowned as she reached him, her skirts fluttering about her.
“Butterfly,” he said again, for she reminded him of one once more.
She blinked, her dark lashes long and luxurious against the paleness of her face. “I beg your pardon?”
He was not making sense. What must she think of him, this great oaf who had appeared in her life as a bloodied carcass? This man she did not know but whose life she had saved.
“You are a butterfly,” he elaborated, “and I am a beast. I knocked over your books, and I collided with the wall. That was the thump you heard just now.”
“You are not a beast.”
“I am, and I will see your book repaired. The spine of one is damaged. It’s still intact, but the damage is done. It was an older volume, the leather brittle…”
“You needn’t fret over it.”
“Yes, I do need to. I should not have broken it. I ought to have been more careful. I should not be here at all, burdening you as I am. Making difficulties for you with your sister, forcing you to keep secrets from the rest of your family. No more, Caro. We must stop this.”
The color fled from her, and he realized she thought he was referring to the kisses they had just shared.
“The secrecy,” he added, emphasizing the word. “I’ll not be your cross to bear. I am a man, and whilst I don’t know my name, I’ll be damned before I cause you any further trouble. You’ve already done more than I’ll ever be able to repay. You saved my life.”
She shook her head slowly, shadows he did not understand darkening her eyes. “You are not making difficulties for me. Please, do not worry yourself on my behalf.”
“But you were arguing with your sister just now, and over me. Were you not?” he pressed.
She stilled, her gaze searching his. “Were you listening?”
“Aye,” he admitted, feeling like the world’s greatest arse. “I am sorry for doing it, as I know I should not have.”
“What did you hear?” she demanded, a tenseness he could not quite comprehend tingeing her voice.
He wondered at the reason for the change in her demeanor. Was she angry he had been listening? Or was she worrying over what he may have heard? And if so, why? Was there more to his angelic butterfly than a beautiful face and the hands of a healer?
“I heard nothing,” he lied, and he was not sure why. Some instinctive prodding within. Perhaps a hint of the man he once had been wearing through the abyss of his empty mind. “You seemed distraught. I continued pacing and broke your book.”
She nodded, accepting his deception. “I should look at your arm and make certain you did not reopen the wound so soon after the stitches were removed.”
He clenched his jaw at the notion of her touching him after the passionate kisses they had shared. How the hell was he to maintain his composure? To remain unaffected, or at least to pretend that he was?
He swallowed. “Go on, then. Have a peek as you like.”
She approached him warily, as if she feared he would take her in his arms and kiss the breath out of her agai
n. And he wanted to. Lord, how he wanted to. But he was a confused jumble of emotions and sensations. Longing, suspicion, desire, and gratitude had all melded into a sick soup within him.
Caro took his coat in a confident grasp and tugged it down his arms. Her seductive scent settled over him once more, and he could not avoid its resulting effect. Damn it, his prick was stirring to awareness again, all from the mere act of shedding his coat.
The shirt she had given him had been modified with additional buttons below the ordinary three at his neckline, enabling him to don the shirt without the pain of having to overexert himself. Caro had thought of everything, and he was bloody thankful for her prescience. For her healing abilities. For her care and concern.
She removed his cravat, but when he attempted to aid in the buttons on his shirt, she chased his fingers. “Allow me.”
Well.
He did not think he had ever been undressed by another before. If he had, he certainly possessed no recollection of it. But this, Caro, standing in proximity, her small hands brushing over him in quick, efficient movements, her floral perfume coiling around him…it moved him. There was a deeper sense of intimacy involved, mayhap now that they had kissed, but unless he was mistaken, there was something else there. Some nagging sense he was connected to her in a way that went beyond the connection of patient and nurse.
He held still as she pulled the shirt open to reveal his wounded arm. The cool kiss of her fingertips ran over his flesh in a gentle examination that only served to heighten his already painful state of awareness. His breath seemed to freeze, his heart thudding hard and fast in his chest.
“You did not do any further damage, thank heavens,” she murmured. “But you must consider your wound as you move about. The skin is newly healed and sensitive. I’ll not have you undoing all my efforts.”
He made the mistake of looking down at her. Their gazes clashed and held. Her lips parted.
He wanted to kiss her again.
“I promise to take more care,” he managed, his voice husky.
“See that you do.” Her tone was practical. Almost polite. And yet, she did not move away. Nor did she make any effort to cease touching him.
Her fingers trailed lower, to the skin below his wound. “You have an inking.”
He glanced down, watching as her touch traced the letters he had discovered had been etched into his skin. They would not be washed away. “A tattoo,” he agreed. “I do not know what it means.”
He wished he did. He wished he remembered everything. But then, none of that seemed as important when Caro was near enough to kiss. When Caro was caressing him. He wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.
“It must bear some significance,” she said softly. “DDBGD.”
“Aye.” He knew the letters, had memorized them. Had searched his empty, frustrated mind for any hint as to what they may mean. “I wish I knew.”
“Do they represent names, I wonder?” Her gaze lowered, following the progression of her touch as she closed the last D. “Did it hurt?”
She wasn’t asking him, she was asking the man he had once been, and that man was a stranger to him now. The man he had woken up as didn’t have the answers. So he said nothing. Instead, he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips for a kiss.
Her swift inhalation was sharp in the quiet of the small room. Her eyes were back on his once more. “I’m sorry for any argument I caused between you and your sister, Caro, but I ain’t sorry I kissed you. Are you?”
She swallowed, drawing his attention to the creamy elegance of her throat. “We mustn’t do that again.”
“Why not?”
Her tongue darted over her lower lip. He stifled a groan.
“It isn’t wise,” she murmured, tugging her hand free to trail it over his chest.
“Caro.” Her name was a growl, leaving him. He caught her wrist, flattening her palm over his heart. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes.”
“You make it beat so.”
“Oh.” She took his hand in hers and guided it over her linen bodice, where her heart was thumping steadily. Quickly. “You do the same to me.”
Curse it all, what was it about this woman that made him want to take her up in his arms and keep her there forever? But he knew he could not. He had no right. Moreover, he needed to set some matters straight. He had not forgotten his initial reason for interrupting her here at her work.
“I need to speak with your brothers, Caro. No more secrets.”
“But—”
“It is the right thing to do,” he countered, removing his hand with the greatest of reluctance so he could button his shirt.
She nodded and stepped back. “As you wish.”
There was something familiar about Jasper Sutton. He was tall also, dark-haired, and possessed a lethal air that could not be feigned.
He also looked as if he had recently been dragged from bed.
His hair was ruffled, his attire rumpled, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. He had the look of a man who had spent the evening before in dissolution. Fucking and drinking, unless Gavin was wrong. He did not think he was. There were some things he simply knew.
If only his name and his past were one of them.
“You wanted to speak with me,” Caro’s brother said. “Blue ruin?”
Sutton stalked to a sideboard in his office and poured two glasses of gin without waiting for an answer.
He cast a curious glance at Caro, who stood at his side. She sent him a small, apologetic smile. Her brother was a strange chap indeed. She was toying with her skirts, twisting the muslin in her agile fingers, a habit he had noted on more than one occasion. When a man could not recall his past, he had no choice but to notice everything.
“I don’t know if I like blue ruin,” he said, thinking he wanted a lucid mind for the discussion ahead.
“Everyone likes gin,” Sutton countered, pressing a filled glass into his hand. “Drink it up. ’Tis excellent stores, and I don’t waste it on everyone.”
Tentatively, he sniffed the glass. He wondered if the man he had been before cared for spirits. But then, he realized it didn’t matter. All that mattered in this moment was the man he was now, such as he was.
He took a sip. The stuff was wretched. He spat it back into the glass, sputtering as the small amount he had managed to swallow burned down his throat.
“Christ.” Disgust colored Sutton’s voice as he frowned. “Everyone always loves a flash of lightning.”
He coughed, catching his breath as Caro moved nearer and patted him gently on the back, as if to ease his suffering.
“Seems I don’t,” he croaked.
“Ain’t surprising.” Sutton’s lip curled as he reclaimed the glass. “I’d drink it myself, but your spittle is swimming in it.”
His bloody throat was still burning. “Apologies.”
That was a decisive answer. The man he was now did not like gin. No more of that swill, thank you.
Sutton returned the glass to the sideboard before turning back to them, taking a sip of his own drink and swallowing it with a calm that bespoke a man who was more than familiar with the drink. “Now, then. You’ve a lot to answer for. Best get around to it as I don’t ’ave all day. My sister tells me she’s been keeping you in her chamber.”
He noted that, like Caro, Jasper Sutton seemed to have an interesting pattern of speech. Part smooth, part rough, East End. The accent was familiar. So, too, the streets. He felt certain he was no stranger to the rookeries.
“She has not been staying with me,” he hastened to reassure Jasper Sutton. “She selflessly surrendered her bed when she found me bleeding and ready to cock up my toes in the street. I owe her my life.”
“So she’s told me as well.” Sutton scowled. “Caro is our healer. Soft heart, that one. Any man who dares crush it will be crushed by me.”
Damnation. Thoughts of the kisses they had shared earlier rose in his mind, and he had no doubt Jasper Sutton could r
ead the guilt etched on his face. Even now, as they faced her brother together, Caro at his side, the desire he felt for her was burning steady and bright within him. It could neither be tamed nor doused.
It was the only thing he did feel which he knew was true.
The rest, these fragments of memory which could have been dreams or pieces of his past…he knew not what they meant. Truth and falsehood had blended. The past ceased to exist. All he had was here. Now.
Her.
“I’ll not crush it,” he said roughly, meaning every word.
Caro was an angel. His angel. She had saved him. Nothing she could do would lessen his opinion of her.
Sutton eyed him, as if he did not dare trust him. “See that you don’t, sir. Now, our Caro has saved you and kept you a secret as she nursed you back to health. But she tells me you aren’t happy being treated like a king. Is that true?”
There was undeniable menace lacing the man’s words.
“Jasper,” Caro chastised. “I never said that, and you know it.”
Sutton drained the rest of his glass and stared at them both, unrepentant. “Might as well’ve done.”
“I want to earn my keep for staying here, and I would like to leave Caro’s chamber so it is restored to her. Do you have a room I might rent?” he asked.
“Earn your keep?” Sutton laughed grimly. “Caro, is it? Sister, I’ll thank you to keep your distance from ’im like a lady.”
Caro stiffened and took a hasty step away. He mourned the loss of her touch and nearness both.
“Jasper, he wants to work for The Sinner’s Palace. He’ll do anything.”
“He’ll do nothing,” her brother countered, unsmiling, before pinning a glare back upon him. “See ’ere, sir. Someone wanted you dead. More than one someone, if the injuries you had are an indication. I’ve been keeping you in my hell. What do you suppose that means for me, when your enemies find out Jasper Sutton’s been hiding you?”
The man’s question sank its claws into him.
What did it mean, indeed? All this time, he had been so consumed by trying to remember the man he had been, by regaining his strength and healing, and by thoughts of Caro, that he had spent precious little of his efforts on fretting over the reason he had been attacked. He had told himself it was likely a footpad. But Jasper Sutton’s words had him wondering anew. If someone had been truly trying to kill him, and if that someone discovered he had not died in the attack, it stood to reason that the unknown foe would return. And that danger would follow.
Winter's Warrior (The Wicked Winters Book 13) Page 6