Two things caught his attention. She’d called him boorish, so she knew him. And her eyes were wet. She’d been laughing, but she’d been crying, too. A funny sort of a thing for a damsel to do.
But everything seemed odd today. His body, which usually performed as he required, throbbed with pain. His face hurt when he spoke. And his leg . . . what had he done to his leg to make it hurt like this? He could scarcely lift his hand, and when he did, he stared at it. Skeletal. Wasted. The precariousness of his physical condition became more and more clear, and it infuriated him. Infuriated him almost as much as this vast blankness. He turned his gaze on the lass and found her watching him, her eyes grave. “I’ve got little mind to wait for this master,” he said. “You know who I am. Tell me.”
Without hesitation, she told him, “You’re Stephen MacLean of the Isle of Mull.” She stopped there, waiting while he tasted the name on his tongue.
“Stephen MacLean.” Were the syllables familiar? Were the sounds a compilation of him? He shook his head. “I dinna ken.”
She chuckled, but her laughter wobbled with emotion. “You have been sick, if you’re speaking a bit of the Scot. You had nothing but scorn for Scotland before.”
“The best place on earth,” he said, and frowned. He had no memory of ever saying those words before, but he spoke them with involuntary fervor. “Who are you?”
She stared at him as if weighing his strength.
How dare she even consider that she had the right to make decisions about his well-being? He, who was the . . . who was he? Spacing the words like a slow, measured threat, he said, “You will tell me who you are at once.”
With a scornful smile and a toss of her pretty head, she announced, “I am your wife.”
Never taking his gaze off the woman, MacLean ignored the pain in his body and gradually lifted himself onto his elbows. “Liar.”
Her eyebrows lifted. Her mouth opened slightly. She stared at him, then threw back her head and burst into laughter.
If he could have stood, he would have strangled her.
But she stopped laughing almost at once. “Well, I’ve imagined this scene many a time, but I never imagined that response.” Drawing nearer in a slow, cautious pace, she asked, “Why do you think I’m a liar?”
“I don’t remember you.”
“You claim you don’t remember anything at all.”
This woman, this female, this liar did not believe his assertion that he had lost his memory. No one ever doubted his word, because . . . he didn’t know why, but he knew he was the pillar of honesty and integrity. He was.
White with fury, he demanded, “You dare . . . doubt me?”
“So we’re even.”
His gaze measured her from top to toe. She wore a dark green cotton gown almost military in its severity and buttoned up to the neck. Her waist was trim, and if her petticoats hid the curve of her hips, well, he had an imagination and he used it now. A fine-looking woman. A little too thin, but she’d done something right in her childhood to grow into such a fine lass.
If his appraisal perturbed her, she showed no sign. Nor did she show earthy enthusiasm or spicy interest. She stood with her hands clasped at her waist, looking at him with calm interest, waiting for his verdict.
His wife? Not likely. His wife, if he looked her over with frankly carnal attention, would damned well respond with a smile and a flutter of sooty eyelashes.
He sank back on the pillows. Married. No. Not to her.
Without a qualm, he said, “You’re not my wife. No man would forget making love to you.”
She didn’t blush or stir, and her voice contained all of the chill of the wind off the North Sea. “Apparently you have.”
So they were at quits, and at odds.
Why did she lie to him? Why was he here? A faint unease crawled up his spine as he tried once more to remember . . . remember . . . what? Something bad, something perilous. His instincts warned him of danger, and he always trusted his instincts.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Enid MacLean.”
“Enid.” A good name. He liked it, even as he wondered if she lied about that, too. “Where am I?”
“In Suffolk, in England.”
She answered him readily enough. “What happened to me?”
“You were visiting the Crimea.”
In his most neutral voice, he questioned, “Without you?” He detected a moment of hesitation in her.
Then, “Yes. There was an explosion. You were hurt, another man killed.”
The Crimea. He didn’t remember such a trip, although he well knew the Crimea was a bit of soil and sand sticking out into the Black Sea.
Why did he remember that?
An explosion. He tried to sit up and look down at himself, but he had exhausted his strength in his earlier, feeble struggles. And that enraged him yet again. “Are all my parts intact?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
He didn’t believe her. He wiggled his toes. Painfully moved his legs and his arms. Told her, “Turn your back if you have any modesty.”
She did, but when he’d got done groping himself, finding the important parts were indeed still there, he noted a fiery blush climbing the back of her neck. “I can’t believe you’re embarrassed, lass. You’ve got me in nothing but a pair of trousers cut off at the knee, and drafty it is.”
“It was easier for us to tend your wounds,” she defended herself stiffly.
“You can turn around now.”
Cautiously she peeked around, and when she saw his hands on top of the covers, she faced him again.
“If you were really my wife, you would be glad I still possess the wherewithal to bring you to bliss.”
“If you were much of a husband, I would be.”
“If I could rise from this bed, you wouldn’t say that to my face.”
“You don’t know me at all.” If she had any affection for him, any feeling at all, she hid it behind those expressionless features, schooling herself like some military sergeant in charge of supplies.
More proof she was not his wife. “When was the explosion?”
“Six, almost seven weeks ago.”
He snorted. “Come, miss, you don’t expect me to believe that. In six weeks, I’d be dead.”
“You should be dead.”
She didn’t look deceitful, but he’d met beautiful liars before . . . where? And suspicion haunted him because . . . why? What made him watch her so cynically, when everything about her shouted sincerity?
“You want something to drink.” Hurrying to the pitcher, she poured him a mug of water.
“Aye, that I do.” His stomach rumbled, and he realized the demands of his body had overridden the demands of his mind. “And eat!” Craftily, he inquired, “Have I been in prison? Was I starved?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Coming to his side, she eased her hip onto the bed and slid her arm behind his shoulders to lift him. He tried to take the mug; she held it up out of his reach. “You’ll drop it.”
“A mug?”
“What do you think?”
He thought he liked snuggling up against her bosom. He thought he’d been here before. He recognized the faint scent of gardenias that clung to her. Intimacy . . . familiar intimacy.
Letting her bring the mug to his lips, he drank greedily, the taste pristine in its purity.
Was it possible that he was wrong? That he had forgotten making love to her, that she was his wife?
No. By God, he couldn’t have forgotten that.
“Mr. Throckmorton has had water brought in for you from a spring in Yorkshire,” she told him. “You’ve come to consciousness occasionally, long enough to let us fill you with water and broth, but you didn’t talk and you didn’t seem to hear us.” Her hand shook, and the mug clattered against his teeth. “Do you remember now? Are the memories coming back?”
He gasped as he finished drinking—even that bit of activity exhausted him. “No.” Making t
he effort, he grasped her wrist to keep her in place. “Who’s Mr. Throckmorton?”
“He’s the master of Blythe Hall, the one Mrs. Brown went to fetch. He’s . . . your friend?”
She was implying a question. Do you remember him? MacLean shook his head in answer.
“Mr. Throckmorton owns this estate, where you have been recuperating.” She disengaged herself from his hold. “Let me get you something to eat.”
She walked toward the stairway, leaving him incensed that she had eluded him with so little trouble, desolate from the loss of her touch, and resentful that he depended so much on a female, even a female who claimed to be his wife. “What do you mean, boorish?” he demanded.
Swinging to face him, she shook her head as if confused. “What?”
“You said I was as boorish as ever.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the stairway as if longing for escape, then took a slow step back toward him. “You and I are estranged.”
“Nonsense.” He spoke without thinking. “I would never be estranged from my own wife.”
“Again you call me a liar. As I said—boorish.” With a flounce, she walked to the stairway and called to someone below, “I need a cup of broth. Don’t dally!”
As she returned to his side, he saw the flame in her burning so brightly that she brought a memory back. The night. The lightning. The weight of her breast in his hand. The sharp sense of possession, of rightness.
All right. It was possible. She could be his wife. A lying Jezebel kind of a wife, but if he had wed her, he had tamed her before. He would tame her again.
“Come here,” he said softly, wrapping her in a blanket of command.
If she was impressed, she hid it well. With her hands on her hips, she inquired, “What do you want?”
He didn’t think she’d be easily manipulated, but this weakness prevented him from going after her, so he had to try. “You’re afraid of me. A big, strong lass like you, and you’re afraid of me.”
“I am not!”
“Then come here. It’s not as if you can’t leave whenever you wish.”
“Oh, for heaven’s—” She knelt beside the bed, taking the same position she’d been in when he’d awoken. “What?”
Ah, she was a girl with no experience of a man’s guile. A girl he could play like a little silver fish on a hook. Rolling onto his side, he caught her face in his hands.
She pulled back.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
“Why? I’m not your wife. I’m a liar.”
“Sarcastic lass!” He caressed the curve of her cheek. “And you say I’m a liar, too, who remembers and doesn’t admit to it. A couple of right suspicious sorts we are. But the truth is, I don’t remember anything. Not my name, not my place, not why I’m in pain or how it happened. So I’m searching for a memory, and if you’re my wife, you are the key. The only thing here in Suffolk in England that is familiar to me. So grant me the kiss I want, because I need to know who I am, and I’m too weak to hold you.”
Guilt purchased him what force could not. She bit her lip, then sighed with extravagant petulance, closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
He laughed softly and tilted her head to his. Ah, the touch of her tender mouth against his! No matter that she was unwilling or exasperated. Just as he knew where the Crimea was located, that he was a warrior and a Scot, and that he had reason to be suspicious of his circumstances, so he knew how to gentle an unwilling woman with kisses.
He kissed Enid over and over, small, gentle, swift busses that landed on the corner of her mouth, on her lower lip, even on the tip of her nose. Her cherished pucker of disdain relaxed as she tried to keep up, to understand his strategy. That’s when he pressed his mouth exactly on hers. He learned the contours of her lips, their plush texture, that sweet indent at the top, the width that made a man plot erotic joys. All the while, she caught her breath repeatedly as if startled by his every advance. For a moment he thought of pulling back and asking how long they’d been estranged. Then he diagnosed such a deed as insanity and slid his fingers around to cup her head.
She noticed at once he’d imprisoned her. She tried to draw back, but he wasn’t as feeble as she would have liked. At least not when he had good and rightful reason to use his strength. He held her, coaxed her, coerced her . . . deepened the kiss. Her mouth opened under his, and she jolted him with her sweet wetness, the taste of spice and the warmth of wonder. She withheld her tongue, so he went seeking it, little forays into the depths of her mouth, searching for and finding all her secrets, and showing her how well he could use those secrets against her. She responded tentatively at first, then as he got her used to him and his wickedness, she brought her hands up and cupped his face just as he cupped hers.
Held captive by a female. By a female who claimed to be his wife and, even if she weren’t, would soon thrash beneath him in delight.
The world held no greater pleasure than coaxing an unwilling woman.
He wanted to laugh aloud when his body—aching, wounded, weak—stirred to life. He could scarcely lift his head, his leg burned, and as far as he could tell, he’d been near death. But his pecker, valiant, aggressive, none-too-bright, still reared its impudent head and demanded to be serviced. Ah, it was good to be a man, to be alive on this sunshiny day . . . to be kissing this bonny lass who gave him such incentive to thrive.
But not now. Anything he tried now would end in ignominious collapse. Besides . . .
Withdrawing by degrees, he brought the kiss to an end. He kissed her wrist, smoothed her hair back from her face, and waited until she opened her eyes. Her heavy lids and dazed expression fueled his masculine pride, and for a moment he almost returned to the chase. But he hadn’t the strength, and so instead he said, “Dearling, we have company.”
Chapter 6
Gasping, Enid came to her feet in a rush and covered her hot cheeks with her hands.
Mr. Throckmorton. Mr. Kinman. Mrs. Brown. Sally, one of the scullery maids who had so often come bearing a meal. That gatehouse keeper with the hard face—what was his name? Harry. And a strange man she had never met before. All lined up staring as if they’d never seen a man kiss a woman.
Mr. Kinman’s jaw dropped.
How long had everyone been standing there—and why had she not heard them walking up the stairs?
As if she didn’t know.
Because she’d been experiencing the most delicious, exotic, erotic kiss she’d had in years.
All right. Ever.
Even now her hands trembled, her breath caught, and the heat in her face was not solely from mortification. MacLean had set her ablaze, and if they’d been alone and he’d been healthy, she would have . . . and really, how healthy did a man have to be to perform between the sheets? Lady Halifax claimed that men were capable of every kind of licentious behavior regardless of their age, intelligence or vigor.
Dropping a curtsy, Enid stammered, “Mr. . . . Mr. Throckmorton! Excuse me. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“I’ll say you didn’t,” Mrs. Brown muttered.
“No, please, Mrs. MacLean, excuse us.” Mr. Throckmorton proved his discretion when he bowed and without so much as a sly wink, said, “We thoughtlessly interrupted a long-awaited reunion.”
No, you didn’t, Enid wanted to say. I haven’t been waiting for MacLean at all.
She saw no graceful way out of this embarrassment, and when she heard an indulgent chuckle from the bed behind her, she wanted to turn and land MacLean a blow. Perhaps he’d forgotten how many pugilistic skills she’d learned at the orphanage . . . well, of course he had if he didn’t remember anything, but she’d be glad to jog his memory.
“MacLean.” Mr. Throckmorton strode to the bed, took MacLean’s emaciated hand gently in his and shook it. “You had us worried.”
“I would imagine.” MacLean didn’t appear gratified to have a man of such importance drop everything to attend him. Instead he watched Mr. Throckmorton coolly, taking his measure
before bestowing his confidence.
MacLean had his nerve . . . but Enid had already discovered that.
Mr. Kinman shambled over next, a big, overgrown man who stood looking down at MacLean with a grin on his face. “ ’Bout time you woke up,” he said.
Perhaps MacLean didn’t remember him, but such was Mr. Kinman’s unadulterated delight that MacLean returned the smile. “Lazy as an old yellow dog, that’s me.”
Mr. Kinman hit him gingerly on the shoulder. “That’s you,” he echoed in a rumbling voice choked with emotion.
Enid’s stomach tightened on seeing MacLean’s importance to these men. These last few weeks, everything in her mind and soul had been concentrated on MacLean. Ill, unconscious, wounded as he had been, he had been hers. Now he was awake, he spoke, he listened, he looked at everyone else. She had been demoted to the role of caretaker. Which is, of course, what she was. She preferred the part.
At least he didn’t kiss the others, she thought, and promptly blushed at her own foolishness.
“How do you feel?” Mr. Throckmorton asked him.
“As if I’ve been beaten and starved.” MacLean gestured to the maid. “Is that food on that tray?”
“Aye, sir.” Mrs. Brown hurried to him, Sally in her wake. “Let me slide another pillow beneath yer shoulders and we’ll get some broth into ye.”
MacLean’s eyes narrowed. “Broth! I don’t want broth, I want real food.”
He had come awake with a vengeance.
“Mrs. MacLean has the final say on yer care.” Mrs. Brown courteously turned to Enid. “Mrs. MacLean, what have ye to say to that?”
“Hm?” Enid wrenched her mind away from the turmoil of her emotions and back to the business at hand. “Oh! Broth now, and once we see if he holds it down we’ll start him on soft foods.”
He groaned. “I have a taste for peaches.”
“Tomorrow,” she promised, but she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at him. Smug, self-satisfied. When had he learned to kiss like that? And with whom? And why was she jealous of some faceless woman now when for eight years all she’d asked of fate was that MacLean stay far, far away from her?
Lost in Your Arms Page 5