by Anne Gracie
She smiled to herself as she struggled to strip the skin from the first hare. She’d thought him a thief because of the handkerchief. Who was she to point her finger, Ellie Carmichael, proud possessor of two fat illegal hares…?
He had slept like the dead now, for a night and a day. Ellie stared at his shape and wished she could do something. She wanted him awake. She wanted him up and out of her bed. She wanted him gone. It was unsettling, having him there, asleep in her bedclothes. It was not so difficult to get used to it during the day, to assume he was harmless, to allow her daughter to sit beside him, treating an unconscious man—a complete stranger—as if he was one of her playthings. During the day he didn’t seem so intimidating. Now…
She hugged her wrapper tighter around her, trying to summon the courage to climb into the bed beside him once more. In the shadows of the night he seemed to grow bigger, darker, more menacing, the virile-looking body sprawled relaxed in her bed more threatening.
But he hadn’t stirred for a night and a day. Another night of sharing would do no harm, surely. Besides, she didn’t have any choice… No, she’d made a choice, her conscience corrected her. She could have called for help. He would have been taken “on the parish.” But he wouldn’t have received proper care—not with the poor clothing he wore. An injured gentleman, yes, the doctor or even the squire would see to his care. But there were too many poor and injured men in England since the war against Napoleon had been won. They’d returned as brief heroes. Now, months later, as they searched for work or begged in the streets, they’d come to be regarded as a blighon the land. It wouldn’t matter if one more died.
There were too many indigent widows and little girls, too.
She could not abandon him. Somehow, with no exchange of words between them, she had made herself responsible for this man—stranger or not, thief or not. He was helpless and in need. Ellie knew what it felt like to be helpless and in need. And she would help him.
Without further debate, Ellie wrapped herself in her separate sheet—she hadn’t lost all sense of propriety—and slipped into the bed beside him. She sighed with pleasure. He was better than a hot brick on a cold winter’s night.
This time there was little sense of strangeness. She was used to his masculine smell, she even found it appealing. The sag of the bed felt right, and she didn’t struggle too hard against it. After all, if there was too much of a gap between them, icy drafts would get in. But recalling the immodest position she had woken in, she determinedly turned her back to him. It was not so intimate, having one’s back against a stranger, she thought sleepily, as she snuggled her backside against his hip.
And once again, in the warmth of his body heat and the calm steady rhythm of his deep, even breathing, Ellie forgot her fears of the stranger and went to sleep. And her toes reached out and curled contentedly against his calves…
Ellie came awake slowly to a delicious sense of…pleasure. She had been having the most delectable dream. She kept her eyes closed, prolonging the delightful sensation of being…loved. Hart was caressing her in the way she had always dreamed of… His big, warm hands smoothing, kneading, loving her skin. She felt beautiful, loved, desired in a way she had never before felt. Warm, sleepy, smiling, she stretched and moved sensually, squirming pleasurably in the grip of the marvellous dream. Her skin felt alive as his hands moved over, across, around, between…sending delicious shivers through her body, shivers which had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with…desire.
Hands slipped up her thighs and caressed her hips and she moved restlessly, her legs trembling. She felt a big, warm hand cup one breast, felt her flesh move silkily against the rougher skin of his hand. Her breasts seemed to swell under the caress and when she felt warm breath against her naked skin she clenched her eyes shut and felt her body arch with pleasure. A hot mouth closed over her breast and his tongue rubbed gently back and forth across her turgid nipple. She shuddered uncontrollably, waves of pleasure and excitement juddering through her with a force she had never experienced. He sucked, hard, and she almost came off the bed in shock as hot spears of ecstasy drove though her body. She could barely think, only feel. Her hands gripped his shoulders and gloried in the feel of his power and the smooth, naked skin under her palms.
Still creating those glorious sensations at her breast, she felt a large, calloused hand smooth down over her belly, caressing, smoothing, exciting… Her legs fell apart, trembling with need.
His mouth came down over hers, softly, tenderly, possessively, nipping gently at her lips. “Open,” he murmured huskily, and their mouths merged as his tongue tasted her, learned her, possessed her, and she tasted him and learned him in response.
And froze…
It wasn’t Hart! Ellie jerked her head back and opened her eyes. It wasn’t Hart!
He smiled at her early morning bewilderment. “Morning, love.”
It was the stranger! It hadn’t been a harmless, delicious dream of her husband. She had been lying with a stranger! Allowing him intimacies even her husband had never taken. Her breast still throbbed with want. And his hand was still creating the most incredible sensations between her—With a small scream, Ellie shoved him away from her and shot out of bed. There was a thud as his head connected with a bedpost and he swore. She stood shivering in the middle of the room, staring at him, outraged, dragging her nightgown down over her flushed and trembling nakedness.
“Who are you? How—how dare you! Get out—get out of my bed!”
“You didn’t need to shove so hard,” he grumbled. “My head was bad enough when I woke. Now it feels like—”
“I don’t care what your head feels like! I said, get out!” Ellie almost screeched it.
He blinked at her in puzzlement, rubbing his head absently. “What’s the matter, love?”
“As if you don’t know, you—you ravisher! Get out of my bed!”
He frowned in vague confusion, then shrugged, climbed out and walked towards her. Stark naked. Acres of naked masculine skin, bared to her shocked gaze. With not a shred of shame.
“Stop! Get back!” She felt her whole body blushing in response.
He gave her a very male look, as if to say, make up your mind, but he stopped his movement towards her and sat back down on the bed, rubbing his head. Still naked. Making no attempt to cover himself. Even though he was still shamefully, powerfully aroused.
As, even more shamefully, was she. Her knees trembled, so she sat on the stool, half-turned away from the beautiful, shocking sight of him. “Cover yourself!” Ellie snapped.
She heard a slither of fabric, and turning back to face him, she felt herself blush again. He had picked up one of her stockings and draped it carefully across himself. Across the part which had most shocked her. The rest of him sat there in shameless naked glory. His body was glorious, too. She tried not to notice how much.
His blue, blue eyes were twinkling roguishly. “Is that better, love?”
“Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “And cover yourself properly. My daughter could come in at any moment.”
At her words he glanced towards the door and drew one of the blankets around his shoulders, covering his chest and torso and…the rest. It didn’t seem to make him any less naked. His long legs, bare, brawny and boldly masculine, were braced apart on the edge of the bed. She tried not to think about what the blanket concealed.
“You’ll have to leave,” Ellie said firmly. “I shall go downstairs and make you some breakfawhile you dress yourself. And then you will have to leave.”
He frowned. “Where do you want me to go?”
Ellie stared in astonishment. “Where do I want you to go? Go wherever you want. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Are you so angry with me, then?” His voice was soft, deep and filled with concern.
Ellie recalled the shocking things he had done to her. It seemed even worse that she had enjoyed them so much. “Of course I am angry. What did you expect when you attacked me in
that appalling way?”
His brow furrowed. “Attacked?” His brow cleared after a minute and he looked incredulous. “You mean just now, in bed? But you were enjoying it as much as I was.”
Ellie went scarlet. “Oh, you are shameless! I want you out of my house this instant!” As she spoke, his stomach rumbled. “As soon as you have eaten,” she amended gruffly, feeling foolish. It was ridiculous to care whether he was hungry or not. She had taken in a stranger and cared for him for several days and how had he repaid her? With near-ravishment, that’s how! The scoundrel! She wanted him out!
There was a short silence. “Did we have a quarrel, love?”
“Quarrel!” Ellie said wrathfully. “I’ll give you quarrel! And I told you not to call me that!”
“Call you what?” He frowned. “Love?”
Ellie flushed and nodded curtly.
He rubbed his head and then said in an embarrassed voice. “I’m sorry if it makes you cross, but the truth is, I have the devil of a head on me and cannot seem to recall your name.”
“It is Ellie. Mrs. Ellie Carmichael,” she added for emphasis. Better he think she was married, not a widow. He might leave faster if he thought she expected a husband home any minute. It was Lady Carmichael, in truth, but it seemed ludicrous for a pauper to be titled.
“Ellie,” he said softly. “I like it…Carmichael, eh?” He frowned, as if suddenly confused. “Then—”
“What you think of my name is immaterial to me.” Ellie tossed him his clothes. “Have the goodness to dress yourself at once and leave this house!”
“Why do you want me to leave?”
Ellie narrowed her eyes at him. “Because this is my home and I say who can stay here! And you, sir, have outstayed your welcome!”
He looked at her seriously. “And have I no rights?”
She gasped at his audacity. “Rights! And what rights, pray, do you think you may have here, sirrah!” Did he think a few stolen caresses gave him rights? She was no doxy!
He hesitated, looking oddly uncertain. “Is this property not in my name?”
“Your name? Why should it be?” Ellie glared at him, but could not help feeling suddenly frightened at this talk of rights. What if the squire had sold the cottage without telling her? He had threatened to do so, often enough. Nor would she be surprised to learn he would imply that Ellie was part of the sale. The squire was a vindictive man.
“Women do not commonly own property. It is generally held in the husband’s name.”
The squire had sold the cottage. And this man had bought it for his wife and himself. And had been set upon by thieves while on his way to inspect his new property. Fear wrapped itself around Ellie’s throat but she drew herself up proudly. “I am not for sale. My daughter and I will leave this place as soon as possible. You will give us a week or two, I presume, out of simple decency.”
“Dammit, woman, you don’t have to go anywhere!” he roared. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“I have not the slightest idea,” said Ellie frostily. “Nor do I care. But I am not for sale!”
“Who the devil suggested you were, for heaven’s sake!” he said, exasperated, and clutched his head again. “Blast this head of mine. What the deuce is the matter with it?”
“Someone hit you,” said Ellie. He gave her a look, which she ignored. “I do not know what the squire told you, but I am a virtuous woman and I will not be bought! Not by the squire, not by you or any other man, no matter what straits of desperation you try to bring me to.” Her voice quavered a little and broke.
There was a long silence in the upstairs room. The wind whistled around the eaves, rattling the window panes. Ellie sat on the hard stool, her shawl wrapped around her defensively, staring defiantly across the room at him. She swallowed. She had no idea of what she might be forced to do to keep Amy safe, but she had not reached that point. Yet.
He stared back at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally he spoke. “I have no idea what this conversation is about… I think whoever hit me over the head—was it you?”
She shook her head.
“That’s a relief, then,” he said wryly. “But whoever it was made a good job of it. My brain is quite scrambled. I have no idea what you are talking of. I cannot think straight at all. And my head feels as if it’s about to split open.” He stood and made to take a step, then swayed and went suddenly pale.
Without thinking she jumped up and hurried to help. “Put your head down between your knees.” She pushed him gently into position. “It will help the dizziness.”
After a few moments he recovered enough to lie back on the bed. He was still as pale as paper. Ellie tucked blankets around him, all thought of throwing him out forgotten. Whether he owned the cottage or not, whether he thought her a doxy or not, she could not push a sick man out into such weather. She could, however, send for his relatives.
“Who are you?” she said when he was settled against the pillows. “What’s your name?”
He looked blank for a then his eyes narrowed. “You tell me,” he said slowly. “I told you my brain was all scrambled.”
“Don’t be silly. Who are you?” She leaned forward intently, awaiting his reply.
He stared at her, his blue eyes dark and intense against his stark white pallor. There was a long silence as his gaze bored into her. And then he answered.
“I am your husband.”
Chapter Two
Ellie stirred the porridge angrily. The cheek of him! I am your husband. Why would he say such an outlandish thing? To her, of all people! He’d sounded quite sure of it, too, even a little surprised, as if wondering why she had asked him. And then he’d lain back on the bed as if too exhausted to speak any further.
She spooned the thick oatmeal porridge into two bowls and set one before Amy.
“Sugar?” the little girl asked hopefully.
“Sorry, darling. There’s no sugar left.” Ellie poured milk on to her daughter’s bowl, and watched her daughter make islands and oceans out of porridge and milk. Gone were the days of silver dishes on the sideboard, containing every imaginable delicacy.
She picked up the other bowl. “I’ll take this to the man upstairs.” She took a deep breath and mounted the stairs. I am your husband. Indeed!
He was awake when she entered the room, his blue eyes sombre.
“How is your head?” She kept her tone brusque, impersonal.
He grimaced.
“I have brought you some porridge. Can you sit up?” She made no move to help him. She would have no truck with his nonsense. He had disturbed her quite enough as it was.
He sat up slowly. She could see from the sharp white lines around his mouth that he was in pain. She said nothing, set the bowl down with something of a snap and helped him to arrange the pillows behind him. She tried to remain indifferent, but it was not possible to avoid touching him. Each time her hand came in contact with his skin, or brushed across his warm, naked torso, she felt it, clear through to the soles of her feet. And in less acceptable regions.
He knew it, too, the devil! He’d looked up at her in such an intimate, knowing way! How dare he embarrass her any further! She ripped a blanket off the bed and flung it around his naked back and chest, then she thrust the bowl and spoon at him. “Eat.”
“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael,” he said in a tone of crushed obedience.
She glanced at him in suspicion. His blue, blue eyes caressed her boldly. She glared at him, then began to tidy the room briskly.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re angry,” he said in a deep, low voice and as her breath hissed in fury, he applied himself in a leisurely manner to the porridge.
By the time she went up again to fetch his empty bowl, her wrath had dissipated. She was now more puzzled than angry. His behaviour made little sense. Why lie to her, when she was the one person in the world who would know it was a lie? And though he was teasing her now, he hadn’t been teasing when he’d claimed to be her husband. It
was all very odd. She decided to ask him, straight out.
“What is your name—no nonsense now. I want the truth, if you please.” She took his bowl and stood looking down at him.
There was a long pause. Finally he said, “I don’t know.”
He said it with no inflexion at all. Ellie stared at him, and suddenly she knew he was telling the truth. “You mean you cannot remember who you are?”
“No.”
Ellie was stunned. She sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, quite forgetting her resolve to keep her distance. She had heard tales of people who had lost their memories, but she had never thought to meet one. “You cannot remember anything about yourself?”
“No. All morning I have tried and tried, but I cannot think straight. I have no idea what my name is, nor anything about my family, or what I do for a living, or even how I came to be here.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “So you will have to tell me everything.”
“But I don’t know myself!”
He patted her knee and she skittered away. “No, not how I came to be hurt, but the rest. My name and all the rest.”
“If you cannot remember anything, then why did you say you were my husband?”
He frowned at the accusing note in her voice and said teasingly, “Am I not your husband, then?”
“You know you are not.”
He blinked at her in amazement. “You cannot mean it! But I thought—”
Ellie shook her head.
He considered her words for a moment and his frown grew. “But if Amy is my daughter…”
“She is no such thing!” Ellie gasped, and jumped up, horrified. “I just said you were not my husband. How dare you suggest—?”
“Then why does she call me Papa?”