by Anne Gracie
“You mean—? Oh…” She sank back down on the bed. “That explains a good deal.” She turned to him and said slowly, “Amy’s papa, my husband, Hartley Carmichael, died a year ago. She was just a little girl and she doesn’t quite remember him…” It was too difficult to explain, she realised. She finished lamely, “You have blue eyes, like her papa. And her.”
“That doesn’t explain how you and I came to bsharing a b—”
She knew what he was thinking and interrupted, “I never saw you before in my life until two nights ago when you arrived at my door, bleeding and frozen half-solid.”
“What!”
She stood up and added in a wooden little voice, “There is only one bed big enough for an adult. It was a bitter night, one of the coldest I can recall. You were hurt and in danger of freezing to death. I could not leave you on the floor.” She was unable to meet his eyes. “And as I did not want to freeze to death myself, I shared my bed with a stranger.”
She flushed, recalling how the stranger had found her in his bed this morning. She had responded wantonly to his caresses. She did not blame him for thinking her a fallen woman. Her voice shook. She did not expect him to believe her, but forced herself to add, “You are the only man I have ever shared a bed with. Except for my husband, of course.”
She could stay in the room no longer, with those eyes boring into her. She couldn’t meet their icy blaze, couldn’t bear to see the look in them. She snatched up the bowl and ran downstairs.
He watched her go, his head splitting, his mind a whirl. They were strangers? Then why would he feel this ease in her company, this sense of belonging? She didn’t feel like a stranger. He’d never felt so right, so much at home as he had in bed that morning, bringing Ellie to sweet, sensual wakefulness…as if she were a part of him.
Unanswered questions gnawed at his vitals like rats. What the devil was his name? It seemed to be floating somewhere just beyond him…hovering there, on the tip of his tongue…but each time he tried for it, it drifted out of reach. He tried some names, hoping one would leap out at him, bringing the rest of his identity tumbling with him. Abraham…Allan…Adam… Was he an Adam, perhaps? He tasted it on his tongue. Familiar, yet also strange.
Bruce…David…Daniel… Was he trapped in the lion’s den? He smiled and wriggled lower in the bed. His Ellie could be a little lioness when roused… She’d certainly roused him. Edward…Gilbert…James… He pulled the bedclothes around him. He could smell Ellie on them. He inhaled deeply and felt his body respond instantly. Walter…William… He dozed.
“Hello, Papa.” A little voice pulled him back from the brink of sleep. He opened his eyes. A pair of big blue eyes regarded him seriously across an old cheese box.
“Hello, Amy.” He sat up, drawing the sheets up with him, across his chest.
“Does your head hurt a lot?”
The headache had dwindled to a dull thump. “No, it feels a lot better, thank you.”
“Mama says you don’t know who you are.”
He grimaced ruefully. “That’s right. I can’t even remember my name. I don’t suppose you know my name, do you?” He tensed when the child unexpectedly nodded her head. Had Ellie not told him the truth after all? He’d had a feeling she hisiding something.
The little girl carefully put the cheese box on to the bed and then climbed up after it. She sat cross-legged and regarded him solemnly. “I think your name might be…” Her big blue eyes skimmed his chin, the top of his chest and along his arms.
He had not the faintest notion of what she found so interesting.
“Your name is…” She leaned forward and hesitantly touched his jaw and giggled. She sat back, her eyes full of mischief and said, “I think your name is…Mr. Bruin.”
“Mr. Bruin?” He frowned. Bruin meant bear. “Mr. Bear?”
“Yes, because you are big and even your face is hairy.” The little girl chortled in glee. “Just like a bear!”
He had to laugh at her neat trick. So, he looked like a big hairy bear to a little girl, did he? He ran a hand over his jaw. Maybe she was right. He did need a shave.
“If you think I’m a bear, then why did you call me Papa?”
She glanced guilty at the doorway. “Mama says I’m not s’posed to call you that. You won’t tell, will you?”
“No, I won’t tell.” Again he wondered what Mama was trying to hide.
She beamed at him.
“But if your mama does not like you to call me Papa, maybe you could call me Mr. Bruin instead.” It was better than having no name at all.
Her face screwed in thought, then she nodded. “Yes, that will be a good game. And you can call me Princess Amy. Do you like dolls, Mr. Bruin? I hope you don’t eat them.”
He resigned himself to being a little girl’s playmate for the afternoon. It was better than cudgelling his aching brain for information which would not come, he supposed.
“Oh, no,” he said firmly. “We bears never eat dolls.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “Bears might eat my dolls—my dolls are very special dolls. The type which are delicious to bears.”
He heaved a huge regretful sigh. “Oh, very well, you have caught me there. I solemnly promise never to eat Princess Amy’s Very Special Dolls.”
“Good.” She snuggled closer to him, pulled the box on to his knees and began to introduce her dolls to him.
The cheese box was a home-made dolls’ house, he realised. Everything in it was made by clumsy small fingers or her mother’s neat touch. And some of her dolls were made of acorns, with cradles and all sorts of miniature items made of acorn caps and walnut shells.
He smiled to himself. Delicious to bears, indeed. She was a delightful child. Her eyes were such a bright blue…almost the exact same colour as his. It was a most discomforting thought. He hoped Ellie had not lied about Amy’s parentage. If he had created this charming childth Ellie…and left her to grow up without his name, in what looked to him a lot like poverty…then he didn’t much like himself.
All thoughts led to the same question—who the devil was he? And was he already married?
* * *
“He was so badly hurt he now cannot remember a thing,” explained Ellie to the one person who could be trusted not to tell the squire of her unexpected houseguest.
“It’s an absolute disgrace!” The vicar paced the floor in agitation. “That gang of robbers is getting bolder and bolder and will the squire do a thing about it? No—he is much too indolent to bother! He ought to close down the Angel. I’m sure that den of iniquity is their headquarters. Can your fellow identify any of the miscreants?”
“No, he doesn’t even know his own name, let alone anything that happened.”
The elderly vicar pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And there was nothing on his person to indicate his identity?”
Ellie shook her head. “Nothing. Whoever robbed him had stripped him of even his coat and shoes. I thought you may have heard something.”
“No. No one has made enquiries. Er…he is not causing you any, er, difficulty?”
“No, he has been a gentleman the entire time…” Except for where his hands had roamed this morning, she thought, fighting the blush. The vicar had no idea of the sleeping arrangements at her cottage, otherwise he wouldn’t have countenanced it for a moment.
The vicar frowned suddenly and glanced around. “Where is little Miss Amy?”
“I left her at the cottage. It is very bitter out and she had a bad cold which she has only just recovered from. It…it was only for a few minutes…” Her voice trailed off.
“You left her alone with this stranger?” He sounded incredulous.
Ellie felt suddenly foolish. Criminally foolish. “I didn’t think…I don’t feel as though he would hurt Amy—or me.” She bit her lip in distress. “But… you’re right. He could be a murderer, for all I know.”
The vicar said doubtfully. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. If you’d had doubts about this fe
llow, you’d have brought Amy with you. You have good instincts.”
With every comforting word, Ellie’s doubts grew. As did her anxiety.
He nodded. “You are having second thoughts. Leave this matter in my hands. If a man has gone missing, we shall eventually hear something. Go home, my dear. See to your child.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I will. Thank you for the loan of these items, Vicar.” She lifted the small packet in her hand. “I shall return them shortly.”
Ellie ran most of the way home, her fears growing by the minute. How could she have let her…her feelings, outweigh her common sense! LeavngAmy behind, just because it was cold and damp outside! Taking a man’s word for it that he recalled nothing. Assuming that simply because she liked him—liked him far too much, in fact—that he was therefore trustworthy. For all she knew, he could be the veriest villain!
It was all very well for the vicar to talk of her instincts being sound, but he didn’t know of the mess she had made of her life. She trusted her instincts and her feelings as far as she could throw them. Which was not at all! Dear Lord, she had left her daughter with a complete stranger! If anything happened to Amy, she couldn’t bear it.
She raced to the cottage and flung open the door. The downstairs room was empty. No sign of her daughter. She heard voices above her. She could not make out what was being said. Then she heard a small anxious squeak.
“No, no! Stop that!” Amy shrieked.
Ellie raced up the steep stairs, taking them two at a time, almost tripping on her skirts as she did. She hurtled into the room and stood there, gasping for breath, staring at the sight which greeted her.
The murderer she had left her daughter with was sitting in her bed where she had left him. He had found his shirt, thank goodness, and wore it now, covering that broad, disturbing chest. He was also wearing one of her shawls and her best bonnet, albeit crookedly, its ribbons tied in a clumsy bow across his stubble-roughened jaw. His arms were full of dolls. Across his lap, over the bedclothes, a tea towel had been laid and on it, a diminutive tea party was set out, with pretend food and drink in acorn-cap bowls.
He met Ellie’s gaze rather sheepishly, his blue eyes twinkling in wry humour.
“Oh, Mama, Mr. Bruin keeps moving and spilling my dolls’ picnic. Look!” Amy crossly displayed several tipped-over bowls. “Bad Mr. Bruin!” the little girl said severely.
“I’m sorry, PrincessAmy, but I did warn you that we bears are great clumsy beasts and not fit company for a picnic with ladies,” responded Ellie’s murderer apologetically.
Ellie burst into tears.
There was a shocked silence. “Mama, what is it? What’s the matter?” Amy scrambled off the bed and threw her arms around her mother’s legs tightly.
Ellie sat down on the stool, pulled Amy into her arms and hugged her tightly, tucking the child into her body, rocking her. The sobs kept coming. Hard, painful, from deep in her chest. She couldn’t stop them.
She heard movement from the direction of the bed, but the weeping had taken hold of her. She could do nothing but hold her daughter and let the tears come. She knew it was weak, knew it was spineless of her, that she was supposed to be strong and look after Amy…Amy, who was now sobbing in fright because she had never seen her mother cry before…
But Ellie could not control the harsh sobs. They came from somewhere deep inside her, wrenching painfully out of her body, almost choking her. She had never cried like this before. It was terrifying.
In a vague way, she sensed him standing beside her. She thought she felt a few awkward pats on her shoulder and back, but she couldn’t be sure. Suddenly she felt powerful arms scoop her up. He lifted both her and Amy and carried them back to the bed and sat down, holding them on his lap, in the circle of his arms, hard against his big, warm chest. Ellie tried to resist, but feebly and after a moment or two, something inside her, some barrier, just…dissolved and she relaxed against him, letting herself be held in a way she had never in her life been held. The sobs came even harder then.
He asked no questions, just held them, nuzzling Ellie’s hair with his jaw and cheek, making soothing sounds. Amy stopped crying almost immediately. After a moment, Ellie heard him whisper to her daughter to go and wash her face, that Mama would be all right soon, that she was just tired. She felt her daughter slip out of her grasp. Amy leaned against his knee and waited anxiously, patting and stroking her mother’s heaving shoulders.
Ellie forced herself to smile in a way she hoped would reassure the little girl. She tried desperately to get control of her emotions, but she couldn’t yet speak—she was breathing in jerky gasps, gulping and snuffling in an ugly fashion. Sobs welled up intermittently; dry, painful shuddery eruptions. She heard Amy tiptoe downstairs.
Finally, the last of the frightful, frightening outburst passed. Ellie was exhausted, with as much energy as a wet rag—and feeling about as attractive.
“I…I’m sorry about that,” she said gruffly. “I…I don’t know what came over me.”
“Hush, now. It doesn’t matter.” His arms were warm and steady around her. He smoothed a damp curl back from her face.
“I’m not usually such a dreadful watering pot, really I’m not.”
“I know.” His voice was deep and soft in her ear.
“It was just…I suddenly got the idea—I mean, I thought…” How could she tell him what she’d thought? What could she say? I thought you were going to hurt my daughter and when I found you hadn’t, I burst into tears all over you instead. How ridiculous was that? He would think she belonged in Bedlam. She wasn’t sure herself that she didn’t belong there!
“I’ve never cried like that in my life. Not even when my husband died.”
“Then you were well overdue for it. Don’t refine too much on it,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “No doubt you were at the end of your tether and things had built up inside you until there was no bearing it. When that happens, you have to let it out somehow.”
She made a small gesture of repudiation of his words and he went on, “Women cry, men usually get into a fight, or—” she felt the smile in his voice “—take to the bedchamber. But I have seen men weep and weep, just like you did when things have got too much to bear. There is no shame in it.”
There was a small silence. “Have you wept like that?”
She felt him tense. He said nothing for a long moment and then shook his head. “No, blast it! I still cannot recall. Iw could sh had it for a minute.” He sighed and she felt his warm breath in her hair. “It is so frustrating, as if it’s all there, waiting. Like something half glimpsed in the corner of my eye and when I turn my head to look at it directly, it is gone…”
She laid her hand on his. “It will come soon, I am certain of it.”
“That’s as may be. Now, do you want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
He turned her in his arms so that she could see his face properly. “Don’t prevaricate. What was it that so upset you? Tell me. I might not be able to remember anything, but I’ll help you in any way I can. Did someone try to hurt you?” His voice was deep and sincere.
Ellie couldn’t bring herself to confess the ugly suspicion that had crept over her at the vicarage. She looked at him, trying to think of how she could explain…
Her face must have shown more than she realised.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” he said softly. “I’m your problem.”
She said nothing for a moment, but he knew it anyway. His hands dropped away and suddenly she felt cold. He gently lifted her off his lap and placed her on the bed beside him.
“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “It’s—there are so many problems and difficulties, but I don’t want to burden—”
“Just tell me this—I…I need to know it.” His voice was a little hoarse. “Do you truly not know me, or do you know me and…and fear me for some reason?”
There was a short silence, then he reached down beneath the mattress and drew out the fryi
ng pan she had placed there on the first night.
Ellie reddened. She didn’t know where to look.
“I found it this morning, as I was getting dressed. This was for me, wasn’t it? In case I attacked you in the night.”
Ellie nodded, embarrassed.
“And when you came rushing in here just now, having run a mile or more…I was the reason. You were worried about Amy, weren’t you? About leaving her alone with me. And when you found her safe and…untouched, you burst into tears of relief…”
Ellie was miserably silent.
His fist curled into a knot of tension at her unspoken confirmation of his theory. “I cannot blame you for it. We neither of us have any notion of the sort of man I am. I do not believe I would harm a child…but until I get my memory back, I cannot know what sort of man I am…or have been.” Frustration and distress were evident in his voice.
Ellie tried to think of what to say. He was a good man, she felt it in her bones. But he was right. They didn’t know anything about him.
“I suppose I made the situation worse, grabbing you like that,” he said bitterly. “I didn’t know what to do. I just needed to hold you… I see now it was presumptuous of me.”
Ellie wanted to cry out, No! She wanted to tell him that he had done exactly the right thing, that she had derived such comfort from being held that it was too embarrassing to admit. She couldn’t explain how in his embrace she had discovered the release of being weak for once…even for a short while. All her life she had had to be the strong one.
She wanted to tell him how wonderful it had been to be held by a strong man as if she were precious, as if he cherished her…despite her weakness.
But she could not expose such vulnerability to him. Men exploited a woman’s vulnerability. And God help her, she was coming to care for him—much more than was reasonable—a nameless stranger she had known two nights and two days, and most of that with him insensible. She could not let him know that about her.
“And for this morning…in bed…I also apologise.”