by Anne Gracie
“I never saw you until two days ago, when you fell off your horse outside my house.”
His mouth twisted. “But I thought . . .”
“Thought what?”
He patted the bed. “You slept here, with me.”
Her cheeks heated and she gathered up the things on the tray and jumped off the bed. “Only because you were unconscious—or so I thought—and because the alternative was freezing on the floor. And I put in Hadrian’s Wall to keep us separated, but somebody”—she narrowed her eyes at him—“removed it. Both times.”
“Hadrian’s Wall?”
“It was a wall the Roman Emperor Hadrian built to keep out the wild Scot—”
“I know what Hadrian’s Wall is. But how could you put it in our bed?”
“My bed,” she said instantly. “And this is Hadrian’s Wall.” She gestured to the still rolled-up quilt, then blinked as she took in what he’d just revealed. “You know what Hadrian’s Wall is? And yet you claim you can’t remember your own name?”
“I don’t claim it—it’s true!” He made a frustrated gesture. “And don’t ask me how I can remember a Roman emperor but not who I am or where I was going, because I can’t explain it. I only know that it’s true.”
He sounded both angry and bewildered, and strange as it sounded, Maddy was inclined to believe him. “But I’m certain I know you,” he finished.
“You don’t. We’ve never met before.”
“No. I recognized your scent in the night. Even in the darkness, I knew it was you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t wear scent.”
“I know that. I’m not talking about something out of a bottle. It was you I recognized, your own womanly scent.” The look he gave her scorched her.
She opened her mouth to say something, some withering remark that would put this too-familiar stranger back in his place, but no words would come. Her mouth was open with no sound coming out, like a baby bird whose cheep had dried up.
She turned away, her face—her whole body—burning. Her own womanly scent. How mortifying! She was scrupulous in her bathing habits, washing herself and the children every morning and night. But if he could smell her, well! She obviously needed to take a bath—immediately! With a different kind of soap.
That probably explained his overfamiliarity. He had a wife or a mistress who used the same kind of soap. Maddy made her own soap using beeswax and other ingredients. It would be expensive to buy, but not when you kept bees and could make it yourself.
“And now I’ve made you cross,” he said.
She shot him a narrow glance. “Have you?”
He grinned. “Definitely cross.”
She started washing dishes, hoping he would go back to sleep. She could feel his gaze on her the whole time.
“Can I ask you something?” he said when she’d finished washing and had started to dry.
“What?” she said warily.
“What is your name?”
“It’s Woodford,” she told him. “Miss Madeleine Woodford.”
“Miss Woodford?” He tried to hide his surprise.
“Yes, miss,” she said tersely. “Why?”
“It’s just . . . all those children.”
She laughed, suddenly realizing his train of thought. “You thought they were mine? All five of them? Jane, the oldest, is twelve. How old do you think I am?”
It was a rhetorical question, but he gave her a thoughtful, considering look, from head to toe, and she felt herself flushing under his gaze, instantly self-conscious. Wanting, absurdly, for him to like what he saw.
“I don’t know,” he said. “About . . . twenty-five?”
“Twenty-two,” she said crisply. So she looked older than she was. Wonderful. Every woman’s dream.
“The children are my brothers and sisters, half brothers and sisters, to be precise. They are my father’s children by his second wife. They are—we are orphaned.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle.
“Thank you.” She felt little grief for Papa. The children might, though it was her opinion they grieved more for the idea of Papa. And much more for the loss of their home. “Now, if that’s all . . .”
“Are they my clothes?” He pointed to the hooks beside the bed, which were all she had as a wardrobe these days.
“Yes, but you’re not well enough—”
“I want to check if there’s any identification in them. I don’t suppose you looked.”
“The vicar checked. There is none.”
“Didn’t you look? Weren’t you curious?”
She bit her lip. “I did look, yes, but—”
“But what?”
“I only checked to see if you had money.”
He sank back against the pillow and just looked at her. “I see.”
She felt her cheeks warming. “It’s not what you think—well, it is, but—” She was floundering. “I needed to know if you . . .” She trailed off, knowing how bad it sounded.
“Had money?”
The dry note in his voice flicked her on the raw. “Yes, because you were so badly injured I didn’t think twice about sending for the doctor. Later I wondered how I could pay him—I have no money—so when the vicar sent the portmanteau, I wondered if . . . if you could pay.”
“I see. And did I have money?” His voice was cool, dispassionate. Judging.
She nodded. “Plenty, thank goodness.” A thick roll of crisp, new banknotes.
“And did you pay the doctor?”
“No, he didn’t even mention money. He wasn’t sure you’d live through the night. It’s a very serious injury, you know. You were bleeding an awful lot. And then there was fever.”
He put a hand to his head, feeling the bandage lightly. “So it’s thanks to you I survived the night. Several nights.” He gave her a look, as if he didn’t know what to make of her.
As if he still thought she might be a thief. But there was nothing she could say to convince him, and if she continued to argue the point, it would only sound worse.
“The doctor will be back. I expect he’ll send a bill when he’s finished his treatment.”
“I see.”
“He also said he won’t know if that ankle is broken or not—we brought the swelling down a bit, but you need to be conscious for him to know for sure. See if you can wiggle your toes. Things like that.”
He shifted uncomfortably “I wondered about that. It aches like the very dev—a lot.”
“Yes, your horse stood on it. But in the meantime, you’re not to move or try to get out of bed.”
She lifted his clothes from the nail, laid them on the bed, then pulled a small leather portmanteau out from under the bed. “The vicar sent this with the boys; it was strapped to your horse. Look through it yourself. Maybe something will jog your memory. And you can check the—” She stopped, realizing that if he couldn’t remember who he was, he’d certainly not remember what was in his case. Or how much.
“It’s all there,” she said stiffly. “We may be poor, but I haven’t touched a penny. I wouldn’t.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I’m an ass. It’s just—”
“That you don’t know me. And I don’t know you. Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She flicked the bed curtains closed and a moment later he heard the cottage door shut behind her.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to upset her like that. He didn’t know her—didn’t know himself for that matter—and people robbed travelers all the time. But they didn’t usually drag them in out of a storm and put them to bed in their own beds.
It was strange how he knew some things quite well but couldn’t even remember his own blasted name.
But he knew she hadn’t tried to steal or seduce money out of him; hadn’t tried to seduce him at all, more’s the pity. He would have been very happy to cooperate. She was lovely.
Not beautiful in the classic sense, but she was luscious, almost edible, with that silken creamy skin s
o soft and fragrant and inviting. He wanted to touch, taste, explore her from top to dainty, feminine toe.
Lord, he sounded like every bad love poem he’d ever read. Not that he could remember a single one at the moment. He gave a spurt of ironic laughter—and was instantly punished for it. He waited for the pounding of hammers in his head to subside, then reached for his things.
His coat pockets disgorged a handful of coins, a large roll of crisp, new banknotes, and a small piece of paper which had once had writing on it, perhaps an address. He unfolded it, but it was completely illegible, the ink having run.
His breeches contained a few more coins and a handkerchief embroidered with the initial R.
R: What could it stand for? A first name or a surname? Richard? Robert? Rupert? Rafe? He frowned. Rafe . . . There was an echo . . . but no. He felt no more like a Rafe than a Rupert or a Roger. Or even a Rollo.
A surname then? Roberts? Rogers? Reynolds? Richards? He ran through them, dredging up more and more possibilities. Robinson?
Rose? Russell? It was ridiculous. Raleigh? Rowe?
He went through his portmanteau. As she’d said, there were no obvious means of identification. Apart from a small, businesslike pistol, loaded, but with only the maker’s mark on it, and clothing—the bare minimum: a change of underwear, a spare shirt, a pair of stockings, a neckcloth—there was nothing else except toiletries and a razor.
The razor was a welcome sight. He ran a hand over his stubble. He had no liking for a rough beard and he was certain ladies didn’t, either. He’d wash and shave later.
He sifted through his belongings a second time. Nothing caused a single bell in his beleaguered brain to ring.
He appeared to be a man of some means: his belongings were of the best quality. But there was no crest or even gold initials stamped on his portmanteau or toiletries case, so he was probably not from one of the better families.
And it was odd that he was, apparently, traveling alone, without a groom or valet, and on horseback, something few gentlemen did unless for a short, informal day trip. But nobody around here seemed to know him or notice his absence, so it seemed he was unknown in this locality.
Was he running away?
The complete lack of any form of identification, no papers, no letters, nothing except the large wad of banknotes—new notes—seemed odd. Peculiar. Even a little suspicious.
Was he, could he possibly be, some kind of shady character? He didn’t feel shady, he didn’t much like the idea, but then, he clearly wasn’t in his usual mind.
Yet he was in her bed, and she’d shared it with him, stranger or no. That had to mean something.
Troubled by unanswerable questions and aching all over, he pushed his belongings aside, closed his eyes, and eventually, slept.
Dr. Thompson inspected his head wounds with approving noises. “Outside seems to be healing well, but they tell me you can’t even remember your own name, eh?”
“It’s very frustrating. I can remember all sorts of odd things—facts and quotes and such—but nothing about myself or the events leading up to the accident.”
“Fascinating.” The doctor fixed him with shrewd gaze and fired a string of questions at him: Who was the prime minister? When was the Battle of Waterloo? Where did he grow up? What was the sum of 241 and 398? What was his father’s name? What were the Punic Wars? Who wrote The Merchant of Venice?
He answered them as best he could, answering some without even having to think twice and drawing a blank on others.
At the end of the inquisition, the doctor nodded. “Your brain seems working well enough, it’s just your memory that’s at fault.”
He already knew that. “The question is, when will it return?”
“No telling,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Man has circumnavigated the world hundreds of times, but we still have very little idea of what’s in here.” He tapped his temple lightly. “Or how it works. In some cases, the patient never recovers their memory. Or even their brain.” Apparently oblivious of his patient’s appalled expression, he added cheerfully, “Now, let’s have a look at this ankle.”
He unwrapped the injured ankle, probed and manipulated it, and eventually pronounced it a sprain. “Though it might be a cracked bone. I’ll strap it up again on the off chance. Don’t put any weight on it for at least a week. If it hurts, don’t use it.” He closed his bag. “Not unless you want to be a cripple for the rest of your life, ha-ha.”
Cheery bloody bastard, he thought as the doctor left. The doctor’s manipulations had left him exhausted. And frustrated.
“He’s a very good doctor,” Maddy said defensively. “He’s not one to be groundlessly optimistic—”
“Oh, yes, I noticed his optimism. I’m to count myself lucky to have a brain at all, never mind if I never find out who I am. And if I move I’ll be a cripple for life. And it’s all so fascinating !”
She laughed. “It’s good advice. You’re looking rather gray around the gills, so why don’t you have a sleep?”
There was nothing he wanted more, but he hated appearing so weak and helpless in front of her. “I’m perfectly all right—” he began, but she twitched the curtains shut and he was left alone.
“I’m not normally so feeble,” he told the curtain. “I’m a fine, energetic figure of a man, actually.”
She laughed and called back, “How would you know?” A moment later the outside door closed and he could hear her telling the children to play a little farther away from the cottage so the man could sleep.
How would he know, indeed?
“The man,” that was his name. That or “you” or “sir,” depending on who was speaking. It wasn’t acceptable. He needed to think, needed to remember . . .
“You’re not supposed to go there, he’s asleep!” A hoarse whisper woke him.
“But he’s been sleeping for days!” Another loud whisper.
“That’s because he hurt his head. And Maddy said we weren’t to distu—John!”
The curtain was drawn back and the oldest boy peered in at him. “See, he is awake!” John exclaimed triumphantly. He lowered his voice and added in an unnaturally flat, calm voice, “Besides, I’m not disturbing him; I’m just talking to him. Very quietly. Aren’t I, sir?”
“You woke him! And Maddy’s going to be cross.” The oldest girl looked in. “I’m so sorry, sir. I told John—”
“It’s all right—Jane, is it?” She nodded and flushed with pleasure at him remembering her name. Other people’s names were easy.
“I was awake,” he lied. Keeping his head as steady as he could, he propped himself up on one elbow. “Now, John, how can I help you?”
“Well, it’s your horse,” the boy began.
“He’s not injured, is he? I thought—”
“No, no, sir, he’s perfectly splendid. It’s just—”
“He hasn’t got a name,” declared a gruff little voice. There was a thumping and bumping as a stool was put in place, and Lucy’s face appeared.
“You see, sir, we—”
“We being me and John,” Henry joined in. “And we’re the ones looking after him, so—”
“We want to call him Lightning, because he looks like a regular goer, and he has that blaze,” John continued. “But the girls—”
“But it doesn’t look like lightning! The blaze is a star, and so I think he should be called Star,” Jane finished.
“Stella is prettier than Star,” Susan declared, wiggling in between Jane and Henry. “And Stella means star.”
“Stella’s a girl’s name and he’s a stallion!” Henry said in disgust.
“And Star sounds girly, too, so we thought we’d ask you, sir,” John finished. “Maddy said you’ve lost your memory, so we know it won’t be his real name, but still, we have to call him something, so we thought we’d ask you to choose.”
“I see.” He looked at the five faces ranged along the side of the bed. “And do you have an opinion on what we should call my horse, Mis
s Lucy? Everyone else has shared theirs.”
“Peggy,” she said firmly.
They all laughed. “You can’t call him Peggy, Lucy; he’s a boy,” Henry told her.
“I don’t care,” she insisted. “Peggy, after Pegasus.”
“And he hasn’t got wings—” Henry began but was hushed by his brother.
“Sir?” They all waited.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They’re all very fine names.” He was tempted to tell them his horse would respond equally to any name, but he could see that, to them, this was no small matter. Something was bubbling over the fire, something spicy and delicious. “Pepper,” he said on a whim. “His name is Pepper.”
“Did you remember it, sir?” John said, clearly pleased.
“I did,” he lied. He didn’t care what the horse had been called before; from now on it would be Pepper.
“And do you remember your own name, too?” Jane asked him.
“No, I’m sorry.”
The children looked crestfallen.
“You have to have a name,” Lucy told him worriedly. “Everybody has to have a name.”
“Would you like to choose a name for me to use in the meantime?” he suggested. “I can’t go on being ‘sir’ or ‘hey you’ or ‘man,’ can I?” He showed them the handkerchief. “Perhaps something beginning with R.”
The children immediately went through the same litany of names he’d been driving himself crazy with, and even hearing them in different voices, none rang a bell.
They settled on Robert. “But it’s disrespectful to call an adult by his first name,” Jane objected. “He needs a surname.”
“He might have a title,” John suggested. “And then we could call him by his title; Wellington, for instance.”
“Rider,” Lucy said. “Mr. Rider. Cause he rided here on his horse and then he fell off.”
“Excellent,” said the newly named Robert Rider, ignoring the “fell off” part. “Mr. Rider it is, then.”
“Maddy’s coming,” Susan hissed. “And we weren’t supposed to disturb the man.”
“Not ‘the man.’ Mr. Rider,” Jane corrected her as the children headed hastily for the back door.