The stranger woke to a high-pitched ringing in his ears and a rage so intense that he sat up and shouted into the darkness. He glanced around with alarm, then became aware of the excruciating pain in his side. With a quiet oath through clenched teeth, he eased himself back down onto the pillow.
Agony vibrated through his body with the same relentless peal as the ringing in his ears, and a cold film of sweat covered his skin.
He was alone in an empty room, though he could recall a golden-haired beauty who had been there earlier and tried to explain things to him.
You were washed into a sea cave here on Jersey Island, and that is where I found you. She had also revealed that he was in the care of her brother, Earl Neufeld, in the family’s summer home. The young woman had been sitting on the edge of the bed, and the mere memory of her voice brought him some comfort. He remembered watching her skillful fingers stitch him back together with a needle and thread. He had watched her face, too, and her eyes were tense with concentration.
Lady Chelsea. That was her name.
There had also been a doctor asking him questions he could not answer.
What was his name?
Where did he come from?
How did he arrive in the sea caves?
Placing a hand on his side where the bandage covered his wound, he shut his eyes and tried to remember where he had been before any of this. He tried to picture the place where he lived, but there were no images, no familiar thoughts or memories. It was as if he did not exist in the world before today, which was not possible, of course. He must have been a child once, for now he was a grown man, although he had no idea how old he was.
He looked at his hands, turned them over in front of his face, with nothing but the moonlight streaming in through the window to illuminate them. Twenty-five perhaps? Thirty? Thirty-five? He did not have the slightest idea. He knew nothing, except that he was alive and in the care of a noble family.
The clock on the mantel ticked steadily in the silence, and somewhere in the house another grandfather clock chimed—one, two, three, then four times. All fell quiet again, except for the distant hiss and roar of the sea outside the window. The waves were breaking onto the shore. They did not rest.
He must try to relax and go back to sleep. Perhaps in the morning his memory would return. Perhaps he only needed time to recover and regain his strength, as Lady Chelsea had suggested.
The pain in his side eventually subsided to a dull ache, and before long he drifted back into the deep, black void of slumber.
In the morning the stranger opened his eyes to the distinctive sound of a key turning in a lock. The door creaked open.
The room was awash in sunlight, he discovered groggily, as he blinked up at the scrolled ceiling and then turned his head toward the window. The sky was clear and blue. It was the kind of day that should move a man to leap out of bed and accomplish a great number of tasks, but the only thing he felt at the moment was the same acute panic he had experienced the night before, when all his instincts told him to lash out and swing his fists.
A maid entered the room with a breakfast tray. There was a young man in the doorway as well—a footman, he presumed—standing there with his hand on the knob, watching intently, protectively. Without a word, without even lifting her eyes, the maid set the tray on the bed, turned around and hastened from the room. The footman slammed the door shut behind her, and the key turned quickly in the lock.
The stranger glanced suspiciously at the food, then back at the door. The sound of the servants hurrying down the hall faded to silence. His eyes darted to the window. It was no doubt locked as well.
Am I a prisoner here? he wondered.
Working hard to suppress the urge to get out of bed and pound on the door for answers, he instead inched up against the pillows and headboard. It would do no good to get up too quickly and open his wound again. He must eat.
He reached for the steaming cup of coffee and held it to his lips, breathing in the pleasing aroma. The coffee was black. Did he like it black or with cream? He did not know. He took a sip to find out. It was fine as it was. He decided no cream was needed.
Next, he reached for the toast and devoured it in three large bites. The eggs and sausage... With those, he took his time, savoring each mouthful, while he was disturbingly aware of the thunderous roar outside the window—those relentless and impregnable waves crashing violently onto the rocks.
All at once he experienced a flash memory of waking up in the sea cave with the certain belief that he was dying. He also remembered the frustration of fighting the waves, thrashing about and sucking in water, and the pain of being dashed against the rocks. Other than those disturbing images, however, he could recall nothing.
His gut rolled with nausea, and he found himself unable to finish the breakfast. Quietly, he set down his fork, laid his head back on the pillow, and wished the lady would return.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The door rattled on its hinges.
“Is anyone there?” The stranger pounded his fist against the blue painted door and shouted the question again.
Barely withstanding the pain in his side, he looked down to see if his wound was bleeding, but the bandage was still clean, though it ached like the devil just from getting out of bed and crossing the room.
“I wish to be let out! Open the door!”
Bloody hell. Where in God’s name was everyone?
Feeling dizzy and light-headed, he backed away and tried to calm his breathing. He turned around and made his way carefully to the window, holding onto the foot of the four-poster bed for support as he passed.
When at last he reached the window, he braced one hand on the sill while he cupped his sore side with the other arm. Outside, the rough, white-capped ocean swelled and surged. The white foamy spray burst forth onto the rocks along the coastline.
He towered above it all, there on the second floor of the earl’s summer home, which stood on a steep cliff overlooking the sea. Just below, there was a green lawn enclosed by a thick hedge of bright pink roses that whipped in the wind—to keep one from falling over the edge, he supposed.
He was truly cut off from the world, trapped on this remote island where no one would ever find him if they were looking.
If he even mattered to anyone. He did not know.
His frustration mounted to new heights, and he returned to the door. Bang, bang, bang.
“For pity’s sake, open the door! Can anyone hear me? Dammit!”
He continued to pound, cursing to himself until his fist was numb. Tipping his head forward against the oak panels, weary with defeat, he closed his eyes and rested a moment.
Then a key slipped into the lock and he stepped back.
The lock clicked, the knob turned, and the door pushed open.
The golden-haired beauty—Lady Chelsea—stepped into the room. She wore a blue floral day dress with no jewelry or adornments, and her hair was pulled up into a simple, braided knot. Her lips were full and moist, a rich red color, her skin the color of cream, and he could barely think through his fascination and his relief that it was she who had answered his call, and no one else.
“I must ask you to control your language, sir,” she said. “It is Sunday, after all.”
“Why wouldn’t anyone come?” he asked impatiently. “I’ve been pounding on that door for an hour. For that matter, why am I locked in here like a prisoner?”
“You are not a prisoner,” she explained. “No one came because they are all attending the Sunday service. I am the only one here besides a few servants. And the door is locked because my mother learned of your conduct with the candlestick last night and she has insisted upon it for our safety.”
“The candlestick.” He paused a moment and frowned. “I forgot. I’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately, it seems. Did I apologize to you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Nevertheless, I shall apologize again. It was unspeakably rude of me to threaten the life of such a lovely woman.”
She seemed taken aback by the compliment and glanced uneasily out into the corridor.
“I am not a danger to you,” he assured her, stepping forward, sensing that she wished to leave. “I don’t even know why I behaved that way.”
He did not want her to go. He did not want to be left alone. He could not bear the stillness, the sense of nothingness.
“That may be true,” she replied, “but surely you understand why we must be cautious. You are a stranger to us, and you presented yourself somewhat violently.”
She was far too reasonable to squabble with, even though he felt very much like arguing. He was restless and agitated. He had so many questions that no one could answer. He had rather enjoyed pounding on the door just now.
Lady Chelsea glanced down at his side. “How are you feeling this morning? Better, I presume, since you are out of bed and on your feet?”
“I am not as well as I appear. I simply couldn’t stand the boredom.” He turned and hobbled back to the bed.
Lady Chelsea remained in the doorway with her hand on the knob, just as the footman had.
“You’re quite safe,” he told her, drawing up the covers. “Surely you can see I am in no condition to attack anyone.”
“Yet you managed to attack the door quite impressively. I’m surprised you didn’t punch a hole in it.”
He sat up against the thick pillows, looking at her fathomless blue eyes while she stared back at him with equal measure. The surf exploded like thunder onto the cliffs outside.
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?” he said, curious about the details of her daily life.
She tilted her head to the side and frowned. “How would you know that? Did someone tell you?”
“No. No one mentioned it.”
“Then how would you know?”
“You have that look about you,” he replied. “It’s in your eyes. There are all sorts of things going on inside your mind that you don’t share with anyone.”
Her hand fell away from the doorknob and she strolled into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed, looking at him curiously.
“I didn’t realize I was such an open book,” she said.
For the longest time he could do nothing but admire her beauty—the soft curves of her face, her clear, dewy skin, and her charming, inquisitive expression. But after a time, he could not bring himself to keep up the charade.
“I am toying with you,” he confessed. “The evidence is right there on your right hand. I don’t recall ever seeing a lady’s fingers stained with quite so much ink.” He glanced at the window and chuckled somewhat bitterly. “That is a good sign, I suppose. At least I remember what I do not recall.”
She laughed as well, very softly, while she lowered her gaze. It was an attractive mannerism. He found her very appealing, especially when he felt so incredibly alone.
“Why are you not at church?” he asked, curious all of a sudden.
“I worship at home.” Then she lowered her eyes again in that adorably shy manner, which somehow eased the pain in his side. “I just realized how odd that must sound.”
“It is rather unconventional,” he said. “Why wouldn’t you be welcome there?”
Lady Chelsea stood with her hands behind her back, looking at the window, pondering her answer, then turned her eyes toward him again. The shyness was gone now. She appeared almost confrontational. Devilish and daring.
“Because I have a reputation,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am a notoriously wicked woman.”
His head drew back. “Indeed.”
She chuckled softly. “No need to hide the fact, I suppose. It is no secret. I am almost famous. Maybe you’ve even heard of me. Before.”
“Before...” He squinted at her, searching for understanding. “Before I lost my memories, you mean.”
“Yes. If you reside in London, you look to be about the right age of someone who would have heard the gossip when the scandal broke.”
“And what age do I look to you?”
She studied his face. Her luminous eyes traveled down the length of his body, which was concealed under the heavy covers, thank God, for he felt himself becoming aroused just by the movement of her eyes.
“You are roughly the same age as I am,” she said. “I would estimate twenty-five.”
He nodded. “Good to know. And what was the scandal, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I eloped with a fortune hunter,” she promptly answered, “and made it across the border to Scotland before my father overtook our carriage and dragged me home in tears.”
“You never married the man?”
“No, but we were gone long enough for the world to presume that the damage was done.”
“And was it?” he boldly asked.
“Absolutely.” She shrugged a shoulder. “As I told you before, I am ruined—and lavishly famous for it.”
He chuckled and glanced at the door. “Well, now that we have that out in the open...”
“As I said, it is no secret. You would have heard it eventually from someone.”
Suddenly she jumped, as if she just remembered something of vital importance. “Oh, I have an item that might belong to you.” She reached into her pocket. “I found this on the beach shortly before I found you in the cave.” She moved around the bed and handed him a shiny gold watch on a chain. It was set to the correct time and ticking steadily. “Does it look familiar?”
He examined it carefully—it was very fine—then turned it over and noticed the initials engraved on the back: B.H.S.
He shook his head and held it out to her. “No, I don’t recognize it. But that doesn’t really mean anything.”
“You should keep it,” she said, returning to the foot of the bed. “It’s probably yours, and when you remember who you are, you might be glad to have it. Perhaps it has some sentimental value.”
They said nothing for a moment or two, then his lovely nursemaid wandered casually to the window and looked out at the water. “Can I get you anything? A book? Something to eat or drink?”
“Your enchanting company is all I require at the moment.”
She did not seem the least bit fazed by his flirtatious tone. “You know, when you attacked me last night,” she said, “I thought you were going to kill me. You looked angry enough to do it.”
“I wish I could explain why. All I know is that I was angry enough to kill. I still am, for some reason.”
She faced him. “How do you mean?”
“I woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to fight someone, and just now, pounding on the door...I feel rather like a stick of dynamite, ready to blow. It’s like my insides are bound up with ropes and something in me is thrashing around, trying to get loose.”
“That’s strange.” She moved closer. “Do you think it’s because of what happened to you? Perhaps you were fighting with someone before you ended up in the ocean. Do you think someone tied you up?”
“I don’t know.”
She walked to the bed, rested her temple on the ornately carved post and spoke wistfully. “I am very sorry that you were hurt, and that you feel so out of sorts.”
“I appreciate your sympathy.”
“It’s strange,” she continued. “I am in full possession of my memories, yet sometimes I feel like a stick of dynamite myself. It’s a general day-to-day frustration, I suppose.”
“With what?”
“My life. Someone suggested recently that I am living in a prison here, and though I have always loved this house and the beach and I enjoy myself most of the time—because I’ve always been free to do as I please and write what I want—I can’t help wondering if it is true in many ways that I am not f
ree, because of the geography of this place. I walk to the edge of the cliff and cannot go any farther. Sometimes I do become bored. And now, my family wants me to do my duty for them...” She accentuated the word with an indication of spite. “So, the freedom I once knew will soon be gone.”
“What duty?” he asked, frowning. An unexpected aversion poured through him at the mere mention of the word.
He heard a commotion downstairs then, and Chelsea stepped back. “They have returned. I must go.” She hurried to the door but turned to him before she walked out. “If you don’t mind, keep this visit to yourself. My mother doesn’t need to know I was here. She tends to worry over things.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
Lady Chelsea hurried out and shut the door behind her. The key slipped into the lock and turned with a profound click, and then he was alone again, listening to the sound of the lady’s footsteps tapping down the hall.
A hush fell upon the room—until another wave crashed upon the rocks outside the window and caused him to jump. Willing his heart to slow down, he settled back onto the soft bed and wondered how it was possible that while he was as good as a prisoner on this island, all he could do was marvel at the beauty of the woman who was keeping him locked up, and wonder when she might return.
Chapter 5
Chelsea did not return to the gentleman’s bedchamber that day, for her mother insisted that she spend time with Melissa outdoors, and after lunch her mother sent her on a long errand to deliver bread to two different neighbors who lived quite a distance apart from each other in opposite directions. Clearly it was a scheme to keep Chelsea occupied, so that she would not sit at the mysterious stranger’s bedside all day, because he was, according to her mother, a crazy person.
When a Stranger Loves Me (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 3) Page 4