Wherefore Art Thou.

by Melanie Thurlow

  Lord Thornton sat back on his haunches and then, in one fluid motion, came to stand at his full height as a mountain directly above her. He did not, however, apologize.

  What sort of gentleman was he? What sort of gentleman laid hands on a lady without first having the decency to ask if she required his aid? She didn’t need his assistance, or his presence. And yet he insisted upon playing the hero. But he was no hero. He was the villain. He was the reason they were in this mess. He had hit her with his carriage, and that was the fact she was willing to focus upon. This was all his fault. Her distress was because of him. She needed a real hero, not his poor substitute.

  She crossed her left arm over her right, still properly contained in its sling, and squared her jaw in frustration.

  “Honestly, I cannot stay in that bed forever, my lord.”

  Lord Thornton’s head tilted arrogantly to the side, and he said, in a hard, mocking tone, “It won’t be forever. You have four more days to remember who you are and, if you don’t, then we’ll find your family and they will remember for you.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” she mumbled through bared teeth, resisting the urge to scream her irritation.

  Perhaps the cause of her aversion to him was that he was forever stating and restating the terms of their arrangement. As though she possibly could have forgotten. She wasn’t an imbecile. She might have forgotten who she was, but she had not forgotten the game she was now unwillingly playing, and she didn’t need to be reminded of the rules that seemed to be pitted against her—the rules she had created.

  She had been given one week—only four more days!—to remember who she was, and she clearly wasn’t going to remember from her place in bed.

  Though, if she were honest with herself, the truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to find her family. Or rather, she didn’t want them to find her. She didn’t remember why she had left, but she could only assume it was for a good reason, and for that reason alone she needed to give herself the benefit of the doubt and not return to a life she had clearly meant to leave. Not until she found some answers.

  Her teeth ground against each other as she placed her forehead in her hands, the physical and emotional torments making her muscles shake in frustration.

  All Lord Thornton wanted was to rid her from his life. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to be rid of her, but she wished there was someone with whom she could speak, someone who would understand.

  Instead, he believed she wanted to find her family. He thought she wanted to go home, that she was actively trying to remember so that she could do just that. That was the only reason he’d agreed to continue on with this farce of a marriage, to postpone the search for her family. Because it was safer for her to remember who her family was, than for her to be actually kidnapped by imposters.

  He was convinced that she wanted to remember, to go home.

  But she didn’t know what she wanted.

  “You must get back in bed,” he said gruffly.

  Ignoring her shocked look of anger, Lord Thornton bent down and scooped her up into his arms, her weight seemingly that of a feather encircled in his arms. And in his arms, her wrath melted to hopeless dejection.

  “Please,” she pleaded, as he began to turn and take her back to the lumpy mattress that had been dubbed her bed. “Can I look out the window? For merely a moment?”

  She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes as the tears tried desperately to escape.

  Lord Thornton looked at her in a mildly dubious sort of fashion, so she elaborated with, “I was hoping that it might help restore my memory.”

  He let a slow, restrained, breath out his nose, then looked away from her and said, in his always-crisp manner that made her eyes narrow, blood boil, and teeth clench, “You need to be in bed.”

  She deflated briefly in his arms. Her emotions were taxing. But then, with a sudden burst of energy, she wrenched her body backwards. Ignoring the screaming pain coming from her shoulder, she twisted in an attempt to at least catch a glimpse of the outdoors through the window. She belatedly realized that, when she turned, she pulled the arm presently wrapped around his neck with her, thus twisting his neck with her movement.

  “Ahh!” he winced through clenched teeth, his arms loosening their grip on her for the barest of a moment and then tightening, before setting her down roughly on the bed.

  “Ever so sorry, my lord,” she lied unconvincingly.

  He apparently did not miss the sarcasm in the words because, as he rubbed his neck, he stared at her with a hard look that made her want to shrink back. Not that she believed he would do anything untoward—brute he may be, but he was a gentleman nonetheless, right?

  No, he wouldn’t hurt her, or else he wouldn’t have bothered going through all this trouble for her.

  Still, she felt the need to cower away.

  Not that she did.

  She didn’t cower. She wasn’t that sort of person. Of that, she was certain. Maybe it was a characteristic of hers, or perhaps it was just temporary boldness born out of necessity considering the situation she found herself in. But the why was of no matter. What was important was that she didn’t.

  She forced herself to stare back at him, matching his hardness with her own determination.

  She felt as though she were at war. They were standing on opposites sides of a field, muskets raised to their shoulders, taking aim. It was a duel in which negotiation was pointless because neither opponent would relent.

  Oh, it was not as though she were boring holes into the man. She merely made certain her eyes made clear that, as he would not back down, neither would she.

  His eyes narrowed on hers. Then he turned and strode to the door connecting his room to hers and left without uttering another word, not a single syllable of farewell piercing the taut air.

  She punched her left arm against the pillows, holding back the scream she would not give Lord Thornton the satisfaction of hearing through the wall.

  That man was determined to vex her. He was stubborn, wouldn’t allow her any satisfaction, any comfort, or mild joy. Perhaps she had been the orchestrator of the mess they were now in together. She would admit that silently to herself. But did that mean she deserved to be punished for it? Was that the sort of man he was?

  She knit her brow as she came to the conclusion that, yes, Lord Thornton was just that sort of man, the sort that would punish her for her transgressions. Her part in this situation. It was a mild punishment, and perhaps warranted, but she couldn’t help feeling irritated with his passive aggressive anger.

  She knew she shouldn’t come to conclusions that had no definable proof to give them merit. She didn’t know him, after all.

  It could also be said, however, that neither did she know herself. And that was, most certainly, the most troubling to her.

  Chapter 8

  He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart ravaging the walls of his chest as if trying to break free, as if running a marathon in place.

  It had frightened him the first few times it had happened, but Desmond had long since grown used to these spells, as he called them. It was a normal occurrence now, a visitor who called practically every night.

  As he had grown accustomed to these spells, so had he grown accustomed to a certain lack of sleep. For too long with sleep came a fear that he’d never wake up. Terrible things could happen when he wasn’t alert. And now, years later, sleep still brought with it those memories he fought so hard to forget. He told himself that only the weak needed sleep. But he knew in his heart that only the weak avoided it.

  Desmond brushed back his blankets and slid out from between the damp sheets, walking over to the decanter. Pouring himself a glass of cheap scotch, he went to the window, staring out at the vacant courtyard of the inn below that the light of the moon had cast into eerie shadows.

  Some people found this time of night to be unsettling, scary even. Desmond found it oddly comforting. It was one of the few moments when one’s
senses were not overwhelmed with sights and colors. It was at this time that the world was cast into two parts—black and white—and one could breathe because it felt as though every question could be answered simply, every problem could be readily handled, every decision easily made.

  Night was not the enemy. Sleep was.

  The same could not be said by the light of day.

  Daylight made everything complicated.

  Desmond liked the night. He liked the loneliness of it. He liked to be alone. Not so much with his thoughts—most of the time he tried not to think. But when he was alone, he was not forced to converse or act normal. He didn’t have to worry about being polite or keeping up appearances. By the night, he could fall apart and no one would ever be the wiser.

  Not that he would fall apart, of course.

  He couldn’t. Because in the next room a young lady slept, and it was his duty to protect her. For now.

  He was trying to do that. Trying to protect her.

  Desmond scoffed and took another drink.

  Just four days ago he’d met with the man left managing his finances in London. It felt as though it had been longer. He’d waited for so long, longing for his home, only to find an ultimatum waiting upon the shores. He had only months—if that—to find a wife or face destitution. And yet here he was wasting precious moments, involving himself in what could surely become the scandal of the year.

  All he wanted was to be alone and as quickly as possible.

  He lowered his chin to his chest.

  She was right. He couldn’t just shout out to the world that he’d found a young lady who’d lost her memory and hope that an honest family came to pick her up. However, waiting for her to remember who she was for herself was miserable. It forced him to be her protector and he was in no way qualified.

  Desmond was the one whose responsibility it was to keep her from harm and, as he was the one who’d caused her to lose her memory in the first place, he suspected that he was failing rather miserably all around.

  If this afternoon was any indication at all, then his suspicions were confirmed.

  He couldn’t protect anyone. Not even himself.

  All she’d wanted to do was go to the window. What could be the harm in that, right? Perhaps what they said was true—whoever they were—and fresh air was good for the soul. But the doctor had said that she needed to rest, that she needed to remain in bed in order to recover. As far as Desmond was concerned, it was his duty to make sure that she recovered as quickly as possible. There would be no setbacks on his account.

  He’d lost too many in his life. He wasn’t about to lose one more.

  He closed his eyes. Hard. The way one does when they are desperately fighting off a vicious memory they don’t wish to allow entry, but comes nonetheless just as the eyelids slide down over the eyes. Opening them, he tipped back the glass in his hand so that the entirety of the contents sloshed down his throat with not a drop of the burning liquid wasted.

  Pouring himself another glass, knowing that this was a dangerous road he was starting down, he heard it.

  It was muffled, and at first he couldn’t rightly define what the noise was.

  His ears strained, listening, but it didn’t resound. Not until he took another sip out of the glass in his hand. This time, his feet carried him in the direction of the sound, all the way to the door connecting his room to the lady he had saved.

  He wished there was something else by which he could call her, but neither of them knew her name and it seemed somehow wrong to call her anything else, even if just for the time being. Choosing a name felt like giving up.

  And he definitely was not willing to do that just yet. Or ever. Because she would remember. She had to. It was not as though they could continue pretending to be married forever.

  He passed a heavy hand over his face.

  It didn’t just seem wrong that they shared adjoining rooms. It was wrong. They were not married, despite what the entirety of the town believed. This was wholly inappropriate.

  He waited at the door, the barrier, the small shred of propriety he was clinging to.

  Surely, she would ring if she needed assistance.

  But of course, she wouldn’t, because there was nothing wrong. This was all in his imagination, his memories. The lady in question was fine.

  He crossed back to the other side of the room, digging through a drawer, hoping to find a book to distract his mind. It was then that a whimper sounded from the other side of the door, the sound very much like that of a kicked dog—somewhere between a whimper and a yelp.

  Desmond was back at the door in three long strides, not pausing. He knocked once, lightly. She didn’t answer.

  And as if sharing a door was not inappropriate enough, actually entering her room—especially at night—was even worse. As the whole point of this charade was to protect her and her reputation, he didn’t relish at the idea of making the scandal any greater than it already would be.

  But who else would assist her? And who would ever know?

  He turned the handle and opened the door, just enough to pop his head in and survey the room. The curtains were drawn and only a small shaft of light slid into the room from his open door. He widened the gap until the dull moonlight found its place on the bed and the restless figure there.

  Even in the pale light of the moon, Desmond could see she was in distress. Her eyes were closed and her hair disheveled. She looked beautiful, but she also looked haunted. The space around her eyes looked hollow, her brow furrowed, lips pinched, head tossing from one side to side as she whimpered the word “No” again and again.

  “My lady?” he said from the door. Then he came to stand beside her bed when no answer was received. “My lady?” he said, this time louder, hoping to rouse her from sleep.

  Still, she did not wake. Instead, she thrashed more, as though she were attempting to run away but with nowhere to go.

  “No,” she said, louder this time. “No! NO! Don’t go! You cannot leave me!”

  Desmond watched as she wrenched and twisted in her bed. He fell to his knees at the side of the bed and he held her still, telling himself that he was concerned only for her well-being—she could easily tear her joints back out of their sockets if she were not careful.

  But, inside, it was something more primitive that called for him to touch her.

  He didn’t understand it. Yes, she was beautiful, with radiant blonde hair that was unlike any shade he had ever seen, and porcelain skin to compete. And yes, she was a woman—those were details that any man would be a fool for. But she was innocent. It wasn’t merely that she was young—nearly two decades younger than he, if he had to guess. It was that she had no memory. He couldn’t take advantage of a girl in that sort of state. And he shouldn’t want to.

  Instead, he told himself he didn’t want to, that it wasn’t attraction that drew him in, but concern. And he was concerned.

  But she was still beautiful and still a woman, and he was not so good of a man as to not notice that and for that to not affect him.

  So, yes, Desmond did understand why he was so affected. But he wished he didn’t. He wished that he could turn a switch and ignore everything but the predicament they were in, focus on nothing but restoring her memory. But he found that this was one problem that the night could not solve.

  This was not so black and white.

  “My lady,” he nearly shouted to be heard over her, desperate to wake from the nightmare he was presently living in, desperate to change the course of his thoughts, or to at least change something, even if it was merely her consciousness.

  At which, of course, she snapped awake, her eyes opening and rounding as those of a terrified animal. She gasped, that squeaky sort of sharp inhale he had heard her draw a number of times in the past days.

  With that sound, Desmond felt his chest grow heavy and his stomach sink, it was as though he had swallowed a lead ball. The regret was instant as he regarded her panic-streaked face, realizing
suddenly that he hadn’t merely woken her from a nightmare, but had brought her to life in a new one.

  “What—” she started, before regarding the room, her face etched with lines, proof of her alarm. Her breathless voice quavering, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  He had seen fear before. He had seen the knowledge of imminent death written on countless faces. He had seen the unimaginable. He couldn’t blink without reliving those nightmares known as memories. And somehow, looking into her liquid depths that seemed to go on for miles, he saw it all in her too. Her eyes were like a mirror of his soul.

  Who was this woman?

  Desmond rose to his feet and stumbled backwards until his back met with the wall, the terror and knowledge in her eyes frightening him. He blinked and forced composure to his voice, which came out rougher than expected. “You were having a nightmare,” he said, tearing his eyes from hers. He could look at her no longer. He felt as though he were drowning, suffocating under the weight of her light, soft, haunted irises.

  “Oh,” she said, and he found his eyes being drawn up to those perfectly pouting lips. “Did I—” she paused, her throat seeming to work. “Did I say anything?” Maybe it was merely the darkness of the room, the shadows cast by the moon playing tricks on his mind, but she looked rather concerned, like she was hoping that she hadn’t.

  Desmond shook it off. His imagination was stealing away from him again.

  “Nothing of sustenance, I’m afraid,” he barely whispered as his eyes were caught up in hers once more, a spell preventing his release.

  Her face drooped with resignation, her voice following as her eyes dropped to her lap. “Right.”

  Desmond took advantage of the moment to move his gaze firmly away from her face. “Right,” he mimicked, because he had to say something. Then, “Well, since you’re all right, I bid you goodnight.”

  “Of course I’m not all right.” It wasn’t that her voice had a whine to it—Desmond would not have tolerated that. It was the pain in it. Not the self-centered woe-is-me sort of despair over discomfort, but instead raw, unfettered pain.