The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Edgar made the introductions. The men shook Logan’s hand or nodded deferentially. All made appropriate noises when he mentioned his lack of memory. John, a tall, weedy, lugubrious soul, was, Logan learned, the man-of-all-work about the house, while Vincent, a grizzled veteran, was the head stableman. Bright, not as old as the other three, was the gardener. The two lads—Matt and Young Henry—worked under Vincent, caring for various horses and carts; they were about to depart for the nearest village with cabbages for the market.

  Logan asked the two lads to keep their ears open for any word about the wrecked ship. Touching their caps, they vowed they would, then they crossed the yard, clambered up into the cart, and sent the heavy horses lumbering out, onto a track that wended away across a relatively flat plateau.

  From the moment Logan had walked into the yard, the older men had been measuring, weighing, and assessing him, a fact of which he was well aware. Now, as if agreeing, for the moment at least, to accept him as they found him, they all nodded and returned to their chores, leaving Will and Brandon to lead him on.

  “It’s not far.” Brandon pointed to a narrow path leading away from the main yard.

  Flanked by the boys, Logan trudged along, juggling impressions against what he thought should have been, what he thought he should have encountered from the older men.

  Mostly buried under a mound of piled earth, in this season the icehouse was empty, yet decidedly chilly. Later in winter, the stocks of ice would be replenished, but for now there was plenty of space for the two bodies laid out on old farm gates balanced on trestles.

  The bodies proved uninformative; Logan had no recollection of either man.

  The boys had halted in the doorway. They shifted, perhaps uncomfortable with the taint of death.

  It was a smell Logan realized he knew well.

  What that meant … he couldn’t tell.

  Glancing back at the boys, he let his lips curve. “Why don’t you two head back to your chores. I know the way back.”

  Brandon flashed him a grin. “You could hardly miss it.”

  Smile widening, Logan inclined his head. Both boys raised their hands in waves … salutes? Logan didn’t frown until they’d disappeared, but, again, the instant he tried to pin the memory down, it fled.

  Turning back to the dead sailors, he studied their faces, their clothes, but felt not the smallest stirring of recognition. “Poor souls,” he eventually murmured. “What happens to you next, I wonder?”

  “I can answer that.”

  Logan swung to see a man—a gentleman from his dress—silhouetted in the doorway. As the man stepped inside, Logan saw the white collar around his neck.

  “Hello.” Brown-haired, brown-eyed, and of medium height, the man smiled and offered his hand. “You must be our survivor.”

  Logan gripped the man’s hand firmly. “Logan. I’m afraid I can’t remember more at present.” He indicated his bandaged, head. “I took a crack over the head, but I’ve been assured my memories will eventually return.”

  “Oh, I see.” Behind his overt cheeriness, the vicar, as Edgar and company before him, was measuring Logan. “Geoffrey Montrose, Vicar of Torteval Parish.”

  Logan shifted his gaze to the dead men. “So these are now yours.”

  “Sadly, yes. I came to say what prayers I can for them.” He looked more closely at the men, then grimaced. “Although I suspect my prayers will be the wrong sort.”

  “I’m not sure they’re Spanish—they could be Portuguese, in which case your prayers might be appropriate.” How he knew that, Logan had no idea, but he knew it was so.

  Apparently Montrose knew it, too, for he nodded. “True—very true.” He glanced at Logan. “Do you know who they are?”

  Logan shook his head. “I don’t know that I ever knew.”

  Montrose drew his vicar’s embroidered scarf from his pocket and draped it about his neck. He looked at Logan. “Will you stay?”

  Logan considered the men. “They were on the same ship. They died, I didn’t. The least I can do is be here to note their passing.”

  Montrose nodded. In a solemn, cultured voice, he commenced a prayer.

  Head bowed, Logan followed the words, but although they were familiar, the cadences more so, they stirred no major memories.

  After Montrose had performed the rites he thought fitting, Logan followed him back into the weak sunshine.

  “Are you heading back to the house?” Montrose asked.

  “Yes.” Falling into step beside the vicar, Logan added, “I’m not sure I’m allowed further afield yet.” Lips twisting, he continued, “Truth be told, I’m not sure I wouldn’t lose my way—no telling how damaged my memory is.”

  “Well, you’ve fallen into the right hands if you need to heal and convalesce.” Montrose shot him a sharp glance.

  “Linnet—Miss Trevission—is famous for taking in strays and … I suppose you could say nurturing them back to full health.”

  Logan wasn’t sure he hadn’t been insulted, albeit subtlely, but let the comment slide. He was fairly certain he had a thick skin, and besides, he’d wanted to ask, “The children?”

  “And the men, too. And then there’s the animals.”

  Logan’s lips twitched, but he held to his purpose. “I had thought the children might be relatives.” Not all of them, but Gilly had similar coloring to Linnet … it was possible.

  Montrose blushed faintly, clearly understanding what sort of relationship Logan had imagined. “No—not at all. They’re orphans whose fathers died in the family’s employ. Linnet—Miss Trevission—insists on taking all such in and raising them at Mon Coeur.”

  Logan’s brows rose in sincere surprise. “A laudable undertaking.” As they emerged from the trees, he looked at the house. Definitely of manor house proportions, solid and well-tended. “Especially with no husband.”

  “Indeed.” The single word was sharp. An instant later, Montrose sought to soften it. “We all help as we can. In such a small community, the children would otherwise have to move away, possibly even leave Guernsey.”

  Logan merely nodded. His most urgent questions answered, he paced beside Montrose up the garden path. And continued to dwell on the connundrum posed by Linnet—Miss Trevission. The strangeness of her household derived from her; the entire household was centered on her, anchored by her. Possibly, he was starting to suspect, governed by her.

  From all he’d thus far gleaned, thus far seen, she was a highly eligible, apparently reasonably wealthy, extraordinarily attractive gently bred lady in her midtwenties, and yet, for all that, she remained unwed.

  More, Montrose was a passably handsome gentleman and was, Logan judged, of similar age to the lovely Miss Trevission. The good vicar surely must harbor some hopes in her direction. The population of Guernsey, especially this, remote corner, wouldn’t be large, the eligible females few and far between. Yet although he’d detected a similar degree of male protectiveness in Montrose as he had in the other men—the ones old enough to consider him a potential threat to Miss Trevission’s virtue—from neither Montrose nor the others had he picked up any suggestion that they had any intention of broaching the matter with either Miss Trevission or him.

  Which, in his admittedly possibly erroneous view, seemed odd. Men like Montrose and the others were usually more vocal about who the females they cared about allowed to reside under their roof. Usually more challenging. Indeed, he wouldn’t have been surprised to have received a subtle, or even an unsubtle, warning. Yet although they’d assessed him, not one had made any direct comment—not even Montrose.

  Neither Edgar nor any of the other men slept in the manor house itself, a telling point. At present, he, a complete stranger, was the only adult male in residence at night—and he was occupying Miss Trevission’s bed.

  While that point appeared to be common knowledge—apparently Edgar and John had helped tend him—Logan seriously doubted the associated fact—that Miss Trevission had shared her bed with him—was simila
rly widely known.

  As they neared the back door, he glanced at Montrose, and wondered what the vicar would say if he knew.

  But that reminded him.…

  Waving Montrose ahead, he followed the vicar past the kitchen and dining room, and into the parlor. Mrs. Barclay was there; she welcomed the vicar warmly. They settled to chat about the local church services leading to Christmas. The children, presently with Miss Buttons in the schoolroom, were, Logan gathered, a significant part of the choir.

  He sat quietly in an armchair letting the comments flow over him—they didn’t stir any memories, didn’t seem to connect with him at all. He suspected he was no churchgoer. Given the subject occupying his mind, he was content to, have the vicar distracted while he wrestled with his recollections.

  His problem was that he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, whether his recollection of the previous night was a memory or a dream. When he’d woken that morning, he’d assumed he’d had an amazing, richly detailed, highly erotically charged dream, with predictable consequences. He hadn’t had such a dream in decades; the question of why now had at first puzzled him. But then he’d found Linnet asleep beside him and hadn’t known what to think. To imagine. Yet she’d been covered and trussed like a nun, with a bolster of blanket between them. He’d concluded his first thought had been correct—all he recalled had been a dream.

  But then she’d woken. Opened her eyes, looked at him, spoken. From that moment on, he hadn’t been so sure. And the more he learned of her, her strange household, her unusual status, only further made him question whether his increasingly clear recollections were truly a dream, or …

  He was still in two minds when Linnet walked into the room.

  Although Logan didn’t move a muscle, his attention sharpened as his gaze locked on her. Linnet knew it. She didn’t so much as glance his way, yet she felt the weight, the piercing quality of his dark blue gaze.

  Had he remembered? Did he know?

  She’d imagined that, with her usual high-handed authority, she would have no trouble carrying off the pretense that nothing had occurred between them, but to her irritation, her very real chagrin, she discovered herself caught on the horns of a totally unforeseen dilemma.

  If he thought it all a dream, and remained convinced of that, then nothing more would happen. There would be no further interludes, and he and she would part as mere acquaintances once he remembered who he was.

  And she would never again experience what she had last night.

  Therein lay the rub.

  But if he remembered, if he realized that all those heated moments had been real … she could have more. Lots more, for however many nights remained before he recalled who he was, and where he was supposed to be.

  Yet she didn’t want to go down that road, either. It had taken no more than a few exchanges to realize he was a sort of man who didn’t “manage” well. When faced with her natural flair for command, most men fell into line easily enough—but he wouldn’t. The vision of him sitting, mostly naked, on the side of her bed was blazoned on her brain. Easily led he wasn’t, and would never be.

  To hint him toward realizing, or not? That was her dilemma. And while her wise and sensible self voted strongly not to risk tangling with him again, her wild side wanted to embrace the chance, risk or not. As far as her wild side was concerned, risks were for taking—which was what had led her to this point.

  Even as she smiled and gave Geoffrey her hands, she knew Logan was watching, noting, assessing, considering—and she felt the temptation to give him some sign. Quashing it, she asked Geoffrey, “How is Mrs. Corbett? Have you seen her recently?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “She’s improving, but she’s determined to stay in her cottage, and who can blame her? It’s been her home since … before I can remember.”

  “She was there when we were children, but her husband was alive then, and her sons were there, too.” Linnet paused, then said, “I’ll keep an eye on her—I ride past often enough.”

  She sat and continued to talk with Geoffrey about local affairs, about the people on the Trevission estate and matters further afield. Logan listened closely, but said nothing, asked no questions. For such a large, vigorous man, he could sit very still, could make one forget he was there.

  Keeping her gaze locked on Geoffrey, she ignored Logan entirely. Geoffrey noticed, was puzzled by it, but she didn’t want to engage with Logan, not even in outwardly innocent exchanges; she didn’t trust that nothing of the tension, between them would show. And while Geoffrey might not understand it, or recognize it for what it was, he would see enough to grow concerned, and she didn’t need that.

  Especially not if she opted to take a risk—a further risk—with Logan.

  By the time she rose to walk Geoffrey to the stable, she was increasingly inclined to take that risk. Talking to Geoffrey had underscored the reality of her life. Geoffrey was a childhood friend. During her earlier years, those she’d spent mostly on the island, he and she had run wild. She loved him—like a brother.

  Yet he was the only eligible male around. If she traveled to the island’s capital, she might find one or two others, but what use was that to her? Locally, there was no male with whom she could indulge, and while until last night she hadn’t realized what she’d been missing, now she knew.

  Now she wanted more—at least a little more.

  Logan could give her that.

  In front of the stable, Geoffrey turned to her while Vincent went to fetch his horse. “Your latest stray—you will be careful, won’t you? I know he seems perfectly gentlemanly, but he’s … well, you only have to look at him to know he’s …”

  Linnet let her lips curve. “Dangerous?”

  “Well, not necessarily that … I was thinking more of him not being meek and mild. I have to say it’s difficult to judge a man when he doesn’t know who he is, but, well, you know what I mean.”

  “I do, Geoffrey dear, and you know better than to worry.”

  “You could send him to St. Peter Port, to the castle.”

  “No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.”

  Geoffrey sighed. “I know you won’t worry over what others may think, or say—how it will look that he’s staying in the house, but—”

  “Geoffrey, answer me this—who is there to see? Who will ever know where he slept?”

  Geoffrey frowned at her. “What you mean is that no one anywhere around here will argue with whatever you decree.”

  “Exactly.” Smiling, Linnet stretched up and bussed his cheek. “Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you next time I get to church.”

  Vincent appeared with Geoffrey’s mount. Linnet stepped back as, capitulating, Geoffrey swung up to the saddle. After waving him off, she remained in the yard, watching him ride away.

  Then she turned and strolled back to the house. Clearing the line of screening trees, she paused and looked up. And saw Logan in the window of her bedroom looking down at her.

  Brazenly, she gazed back at him, drinking in the sight of his broad shoulders, his height, the sense of innate virility in his powerful frame, then, unhurriedly, she resumed her journey to the house.

  She wouldn’t, couldn’t, send Logan on his way—not until he remembered who he was. And if that gave her time to experience more of the singular pleasure he could show her … so be it.

  After luncheon, she suggested he should rest. Logan thought otherwise. “I’ll come with you and the girls.” He held her gaze. “Montrose mentioned you tended animals, but he didn’t say what sort.”

  “All sorts!” Gaily, Gilly grabbed his hand. “Lots of sorts. You can help us—we’ll show you how.”

  Getting to his feet, Logan smiled—as innocently as he could—at Linnet.

  She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue further. They donned coats and cloaks, then, with Jen, she followed him and Gilly from the house.

  “The pens are this way.” Turning left from the back door, Gilly towed him along a path running along the back o
f the house and on toward another line of trees. Glancing around, Logan noted that the house was more or less encircled by trees, all old and gnarled, but affording excellent protection from the prevailing winds. The path led them through an, archway formed by living branches, out onto a wider, more open expanse—pastures and enclosures protected by more trees.

  “We have to feed the babies.” Gilly tugged him to a large wooden bin with a slanting wooden lid. Releasing his hand, she looked up at him expectantly. “You have to open it.”

  He smiled and did, remembering at the last minute to push up with his right arm and not lift his left.

  “Careful of your stitches.” Linnet was suddenly beside him, helping to set back the lid. When he raised his brows at her, faintly amused, she waspishly informed him, “Muriel and I spent more than an hour sewing you up—I don’t want our handiwork damaged.”

  “Ah.” He continued to smile, continued to be tickled by her irritation; he’d noticed that none of the others dared bait her temper.

  Then again, she had red hair.

  And gorgeous green eyes, which she narrowed at him, then she reached into the bin, lifted a sack, and thrust it at him. “You and Gilly can feed the baby goats.”

  Taking the sack, he turned to find Gilly jigging with impatience. With a grin, she whirled and dashed off. He followed her to one of the further enclosures and consented to be instructed in how to feed young goats.

  By the time they’d done the rounds of all the pens, feeding calves, donkeys, fawns, even a few foals as well as the rambunctious kids, he’d realized what the vicar had meant about Linnet’s strays. Strays, orphans—those without family. She took them all in, and did her best to care for them.

  With daylight waning before what looked to be a storm blowing in, they returned the sacks of grains, carrots, and turnips to the bin, then between them, he and Linnet lowered the lid and secured it. They’d exchanged barely a word since beginning the feeding. Falling into step alongside her, behind Jen and Gilly, who skipped ahead comparing notes on their favorite “pets,” he glanced at Linnet’s face, smiled, and looked ahead.