Danice Allen

by Remember Me

  “You invited me to kiss you, not the other way around,” he reminded her.

  “I don’t remember inviting you to do anything!” she insisted stubbornly, though she knew better.

  John grinned. “If that wasn’t an invitation, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  “You should have controlled yourself,” she sniffed.

  “I daresay you’re quite right. I should have controlled myself,” was his generous reply.

  “And … and if I did invite you to kiss me, you can be sure I’ll never do so again!” she further informed him.

  “Very wise of you, Amanda,” he said dryly. “Now I suppose you understand what I meant when I said it is sometimes disastrous to impulsively act upon one’s feelings, eh?”

  “Don’t remind me of things I said while under the influence of a fermented beverage,” she replied angrily. “And don’t call me Amanda!”

  “All right, darling,” he said with a debonair grin.

  “Oh, you insufferable man!” Amanda exclaimed, grasping her skirts in her fists and turning to stride quickly up the hill. “It would serve you right if I left you here to fend for yourself,” she flung at him over her shoulder, then stomped away in great indignation.

  Jack watched Amanda’s black skirt swish behind her as she disappeared over the rise of the hill, her slim hips swaying tantalizingly. The minute she was gone, his suave smile fell away. Far from feeling roguish and urbane, he was shaken to the very center of his being. Even though he couldn’t remember his name, who his family was, what he was doing last week or last year, he knew he’d remember if he’d ever been so stirred by a kiss. And he was very sure he never had….

  Jack was intrigued and entranced by Amanda Darlington. She was a mystery—prim and prickly one moment, wanton and full of innocent wiles the next. She was strong and willful, yet touchingly vulnerable at the same time. He wanted to take her to bed … and he wanted to protect her. He wanted to be her lover … and her friend. These impulses seemed distressingly at odds with one another. He was confused.

  One thing he did understand about the situation was that things would be much clearer, his mind much less a muddle, if he knew the real reason why Miss Darlington was traveling alone and why she was in such a tizzy to get to some remote island with the unprepossessing name of Thorney.

  Quite obviously she’d much rather not have him and his amnesia around to worry about in the interim, but fate had flung them together. And if he could allow himself to give in to a little vanity, he was convinced that she was just as attracted to him as he was to her. She’d said so, hadn’t she? And why else would she allow him to kiss her?

  But then Jack’s brows furrowed in a frown. She had also confided that she liked him for his “anonymity.” It would be lowering to be liked simply because one was temporarily a nonperson … but he couldn’t help but think there was something more to the attraction than that.

  Taking a deep breath, Jack uncrossed his arms and trudged up the hill. It had taken all his self-command to cool the ardor he felt for Miss Darlington, and he knew it only required one glance, one touch to send his senses reeling again. If Theo hadn’t interrupted them, he’d have made love to her right there in the grass, regardless of who might have chanced upon them. He’d been that lost to passion.

  Walking through the graveyard, crossing the street, greeting wedding guests who were starting to mill and stagger about town, and braving Theo’s scorching look of warning, however, stripped him of the last bit of carnal lust he still harbored as he entered the grove and approached the carriage parked snugly under the trees.

  The horses were already harnessed, Joe was sitting in his usual station beside Theo, and Harley was perched on the rumble.

  “Where’s Mr. Clarke?” Jack inquired.

  “T’ mistress ’as already paid ’im,” Theo replied stiffly, pulling back slightly on the reigns and making the lead horse rear his head and snort restlessly.

  Jack took the hint. He threw Theo a bland look of innocence and climbed aboard. As he expected, Miss Darlington was conscientiously staring out the opposite window. Her hair was pulled into its usual tight coil at the nape of her lovely neck, with no wisps or waves daring to escape.

  “Too bad Clarke didn’t stick around to say goodbye,” said Jack, testing the waters with the conversational comment. “I thought him a very pleasant man.”

  Miss Darlington turned and glared at him. “I told him I would relay his best wishes to you, etcetera … so consider it done.”

  Brrrr. The waters were decidedly cold. Jack was quite sure Mr. Clarke’s best wishes would not have given him such a chill had they been relayed by the gentleman himself.

  He sighed, resigned to a view of Miss Darlington’s chipped-in-ice profile till they reached Chichester. Then she’d thaw just long enough to hand him over to the authorities. Or try to. He had no intention of being detained by some local constable or dragged off to London like a prisoner. And he likewise had no intention of abandoning Miss Darlington until he was quite sure she was going to be safe for the duration of her mysterious journey. As long as his memory eluded him, he didn’t think she’d abandon him, either … not even to the constabulary.

  Theo handily maneuvered the carriage onto the road, and since many people strolled about—most of them probably full of elderberry wine—he was basically walking the horses till they were clear of the village. People waved and shouted good-bye as the carriage drove slowly past.

  Miss Darlington bestirred herself to smile and wave through the window, and Jack did, too. He’d had as good a time at the wedding feast and dance as Miss Darlington had. He liked and admired the simple, honest goodwill of the people of Patching very much.

  They were driving past the church, and Jack observed that the bride and groom, for some reason, had wandered back to the sacred building in which they’d taken their vows. They were standing side by side in front of the arched door, their heads bent together as they no doubt murmured sentimental claptrap to each other. It was a touching tableau and would have warmed the heart of anyone not so averse to the matrimonial state as Jack was.

  He was about to look away and sit back in his seat when something amazing happened. Right before his startled eyes, the bride’s appearance changed! She was transformed by his imagination, or some other mismanagement of his recently knocked-about brain, from blond, plump, and rosy to pale, elegant, and auburn-haired! Jack was beginning to suspect the elderberry wine of having traces of opium, or else why would he be having such a strange hallucination?

  He rubbed his eyes and stared again, but the auburn-haired female was still there. He didn’t recognize the woman, couldn’t put a name to her, but he had the distinct impression that he knew her exceedingly well. Then—horror of horrors—the gawky country boy next to her suddenly changed faces, too. And the face he changed into was his very own!

  The imagined transformation became dismantled and clouded as they drove farther and farther away from the church. Jack’s last sight of the couple was a rather blurred view of their former selves.

  Jack jerked his gaze away from the couple and slumped in his seat. He closed his eyes. He was breathing hard and sweating as though he’d been running alongside the carriage instead of riding quite comfortably inside.

  The nightmares he’d been having since the accident took on the hideous form of reality. It was true, then. He was married … or destined to be. But to whom?

  The name came to him like a distant echo. Charlotte. Charlotte Batsford.

  Another echo, much louder and clearer, revealed his own name. Jackson Montgomery, Viscount Durham.

  Then the echoes turned to shouts and trumpets and a fanfare fit to welcome royalty … but all the fuss and folderol was simply the return of his errant memory. It came back in a huge rush. He went from remembering nothing to remembering everything in the time it took to blink. And accompanying his memory came a monstrous weight that crushed his very spirit.

  Gone was the del
ightful sensation of freedom he’d enjoyed over the past two days. He’d never be free again. He was betrothed to wed Charlotte Batsford, and if he’d not been nearly run down by Miss Darlington’s carriage, he’d be married and on his honeymoon this very instant. What a dismal thought, indeed.

  Jack was roused from his melancholia by a gentle nudge of his arm. He looked up from a dazed contemplation of his hands—clenched into fists and resting on his knees—and discovered Miss Darlington peering with a grave and anxious expression into his face.

  “Are you all right, John?” she inquired, her anger apparently forgotten for the moment by her concern for him. “You look distressed. I’ve spoken to you several times, but you’ve seemed in a trance. Don’t you feel well? Has anything happened? Have you remembered something?”

  John looked at Miss Darlington, at her wide, innocent blue eyes, and quite blatantly told the biggest lie of his life. “I’m quite all right, Miss Darlington.” He smiled gamely and dabbed at his damp forehead with his handkerchief. “I just felt a bit topsy-turvy in my stomach for a moment, that’s all. Unfortunately it had nothing to do with my memory. I still remember nothing … absolutely nothing at all. Terribly sorry. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while longer.”

  Chichester was a fairly populous town with several inns to choose from, leaving Julian no recourse but to spend the afternoon making inquiries at each establishment. He’d driven like the very devil himself to try to overtake the carriage described by Mrs. Beane as the vehicle his brother had departed in that morning, but to no avail. Jack’s party was either driving just as fast as he was, or they’d taken another route and were headed somewhere other than Chichester.

  After receiving no encouraging information from the innkeepers, Julian rented a private parlor in the Charleston Arms, a hostelry located on the main thoroughfare of town. The chief attraction of the first-floor parlor was a window that looked down on the activity of the street below. Julian could refresh himself with a large quantity of strong tea while he kept watch at the window for anyone resembling a well-dressed gypsy with a bandage round his head, accompanied by a woman in black.

  Julian had likewise made arrangements for the comforts of his servants and horses, the first being served refreshment in the kitchen and the second being brushed down, watered, and fed oats in the stable. He’d given orders to “spring ’um!” as they’d left Horsham, eager to put an end to the thousand questions racing through his mind concerning the health and welfare of his ramshackle brother. As a result, the horses had arrived in a steaming lather, and his servants felt “fair pulled t’ pieces,” as Caleb the coachman confided to his master. They’d all been pretty well tossed about in the course of traveling the rutted and rocky country roads.

  Now Julian sat with his booted feet propped on a fringed ottoman, his legs crossed at the ankles, his fourth cup of tea cooling as he held it aloft and gazed intently out the window into the stream of people walking, riding, or driving up and down the street.

  Eventually he set the cup and saucer on the piecrust table by the chair, stood up, and walked to the window. With his hands clasped behind him and his legs slightly spread, he stared broodingly down at the walkway, only vaguely aware now and then of a female gaping up at him or openly flirting.

  The last thing Julian cared about at the moment was whether or not he cut a dashing figure. He was trying to sort out the information he’d received so far concerning Jack’s disappearance and make some sense out of it. He had little to go on. He knew Jack had been injured after he left The Spotted Dog, but how he acquired the injury was pure speculation. Mrs. Beane said he’d fallen and hit his head on a rock, but he could just as easily have been throttled by someone.

  As well, the woman had said he’d lost his memory. If this was true, it was most disconcerting. If Jack had no idea who he was, what defense did he have against people who might wish to use his memory lapse as a means to control him? It all sounded much too melodramatic, of course, but even in civilized England nefarious deeds were done. Julian only hoped that this was not the case with Jack. But why else would he be headed in the opposite direction than where he should be headed?

  If Jack knew who he was, he’d know people would be worried about him, he’d know he was engaged to be married and had virtually left standing at the altar an innocent woman who did not deserve such shabby treatment.

  And who was this mysterious female Jack was traveling with? Why was she dressed all in black? And why were they introducing themselves as Lord and Lady Thornfield? Julian did not believe that his honorable brother was capable of deliberately jilting his betrothed at the last minute and running off with a femme fatale … and, to of all places, Chichester!

  No, none of it made any sense. But then, since all this mystery and confusion was connected to Jack, Julian ought not to be so very surprised. He allowed himself a rueful grin and an infinitesimal shake of his head. Jack was still alive, and that was all that mattered. And since he still breathed the same sweet English air as Julian did, there was every reason to expect that all would be well in the end.

  Julian’s smile fell away and his patrician lips compressed into a grim, determined line. He would make bloody sure that all would be well in the end … or his name was not Julian Fitzwilliam Montgomery the Third, Eighth Marquess of Serling.

  “According to Theo, the best inn in Chichester is the Charleston Arms. You look as though you are accustomed to demanding the finest accommodations when you travel, so I don’t understand your disinclination to stop there!” Amanda stared at John with a look of puzzled irritation.

  “I just think we should be a little more discreet, Miss Darlington,” John replied.

  “Discreet? I should think you’d want to be recognized. How else are you going to get your memory and your life back?” John shrugged noncommittally, and Amanda heaved an exasperated sigh. “Sometimes I think you don’t want your life back, John!”

  “Maybe I don’t,” he mumbled, turning to look broodingly through the window at the outlying farms and growing congestion of buildings on their approach to Chichester.

  Amanda couldn’t pretend not to know what John meant. There was some question about the amiability of the life he’d led prior to stepping into the path of her coach-and-four. Although he was well dressed and educated … obviously upper-crust … that certainly didn’t guarantee that he’d been happy before.

  And even if he had been leading a happy life, Amanda had begun to understand how he might feel some reluctance to regain his memory. There was a certain charm to not knowing who you were. In a burst of candor, she’d told John she was attracted to him partially because of his anonymity. Perhaps she was also envious of his anonymity.

  Yes, it would be lovely not to remember the heartaches, the mistakes, and the disillusionments of the past. And it would be quite exhilarating to feel that you could choose your path in life without the encumbrances of prejudices and reservations instilled in your youth.

  Of course Amanda was thinking of her parents and the life she’d led up till then because she’d slavishly followed their example. And in the final reckoning, their example proved to be false and their way of life nothing like what she wanted.

  Today at Patching, dancing and socializing with people who worked hard and played hard, Amanda was beguiled by elderberry wine and a fierce desperation to throw off all the restraints she’d been shackled with for the whole of her three-and-twenty years. And the result had been that she’d thrown herself into John’s arms and demanded a kiss.

  Even now, hours after their encounter by the stream, Amanda was warmed and stirred by the memory of their kisses and of John’s hands on her body. She glanced at him and was relieved to see him still gazing steadfastly out the window. She didn’t want him to see her face kindle with heat at the mere thought of their intimacies.

  In the course of their afternoon’s journey, John had apologized three separate times for kissing her. And while she had privately forgiven him, sh
e had been too stubborn and too afraid to acknowledge that forgiveness out loud. She feared that if she relented and honestly took her considerable share of the blame for what had happened between them, something might happen again. Sitting in such a small enclosure for such a length of time had sorely taxed her powers of resistance already. Every moment she’d wanted to reach out and touch him.

  John had warned her that acting on one’s impulses could be disastrous, but while he held her and kissed her Amanda had felt nothing but sheer bliss. She wasn’t sure anymore what was right or wrong. She used to think moral decisions were as clear as black and white, but now she knew there were dangerous, delightful shades of gray.

  One thing she did know for sure was that she intended to leave John with the constables in Chichester. She couldn’t allow him to continue on with her to Thorney Island and discover her family secret. And with her conscience in a muddle, the sooner John was out of her life and back in his, the better it would be for everyone concerned. No matter what she felt for him, after tonight John would be out of her life forever.

  Amanda had never felt so depressed.

  “So you still want to go to the Charleston Arms, eh?” inquired John, turning from the window. He looked oddly wistful, and Amanda’s heart twisted in her chest. It was almost as though he knew she was going to desert him in Chichester and was just as reluctant to part company as she was.

  Then she firmly told herself that she was behaving like a mooncalf and indulging in wishful thinking. John was a lady’s man and was used to women swooning in his arms. Their intimacies that afternoon had meant nothing to him. If they’d made love, she’d have been just another notch in his figurative bedpost.

  But making love with John would have meant something to Amanda, something very special indeed. And it would have given her something to remember throughout her lonely spinster’s life.

  Amanda shook her head, trying to dislodge the delicious images of her and John lying naked on a bed of sweet grass, their arms wrapped around each other….