Beloved Stranger (13 page)

Audra ran over to her.

“Tell Mr. Howard that we have visitors.”

Audra ran into the cottage.

Kimbra prayed the Scot would remember everything she had told him. She stood where she was as the two riders approached. Cedric reached her first and leaned down.

“I hear ye have a Howard here.”

“Aye.”

“Ye said nothing about it when I visited you.”

“I found him after your visit.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes soulless. “I want to see him.”

“He is very ill. He should not be disturbed. Even the Charlton thought so.”

“I will see for myself.”

“You have no right.”

“Nay? I have every right. Ye are my cousin’s wife, my responsibility.” He dismounted.

Bear growled.

“No!” she said sharply to the dog, not wanting him hurt again. Bear slunk back, his teeth bared.

“I will see this man,” Cedric repeated, starting toward the door, his brother behind him.

She had no choice but to follow.

A
UDRA burst into his room.

Robert Howard—he kept trying to remind himself that he
was
Robert Howard—had just returned to the bed when the door opened.

“Mater said to tell you that Cedric is here.”

“Cedric?”

Audra’s lips pursed in disapproval. “We do not like him,” she pronounced with the gravity of a magistrate handing down a death sentence.

He recalled the name, remembered the tone with which the Charlton lass had said it a few days earlier. Contempt had been mixed with anger.

He also remembered the words of the Charlton chief. Unless very ill, he could not stay here. He was no longer that ill, only weak.

Memories were flashing through his head. They did not yet make sense, and yet he felt that, given time, they would. But the Charlton lass had said he mumbled words, even names, in his sleep. Although Kimbra had drilled the border accent and words and customs into his head, he could not risk making an unconscious lapse in an enemy camp.

He did not want to think that there was any other reason he wanted to stay, that the woman, despite her often sharp tongue, gave him a sense of belonging, even of peace.

He had to make himself appear more ill than he actually was. Suddenly he knew exactly what to do.
Something remembered.

“Can you go out and distract him?” he asked Audra.

“D’stract?”

“Make him think of something else?”

She gave him a grand smile. “Aye.”

“I will need a wee bit of time.”

She nodded, then sped out of the room, her dog running and barking behind her.

He managed to get to his feet and with the crutch stumbled into the next room. He dared not look out the window for fear of being seen. He could only trust to luck. Howard, he reminded himself. He was Robert Howard.

He thanked God there remained a fire in the hearth. He looked around, saw a cup, and quickly put it among the coals. He waited only several seconds, then picked it up with a piece of cloth. Holding it with one hand and the crutch with another he made it back to the bed, and pressed the wrapped cup against first one side of his face, then the other. The heat burned through the cloth, and he felt it color his face.

He heard voices in the other room, pushed the heated cup under the bedclothes, and feigned unconsciousness.

The door opened.

Kimbra Charlton’s protests were indignant. “He is still ill.”

“’Tis not fitting that he stay with ye.” The voice was angry.

“Thomas Charlton knows he is here.”

“The Charlton is not Will’s cousin. The responsibility is mine,” her visitor countered.

“Nay, but he
is
your chief.”

Robert Howard groaned and opened his eyes. “Hot. Water.”

He was aware of her soft scent as she leaned down over him. She touched his face, and he felt her sudden concern.

“The fever is back.” She turned to the man hovering beside her. “You can see he is still very ill.”

Her visitor was stocky but had the appearance of strength. Muscles bulged under the shirt he wore. His face was heavily bearded, and his eyes were a dark, malevolent brown. “Yer name?” he demanded.

“Robert . . . Howard.” He prayed that her coaching on accents had been sufficient.

“Ye do not have the look of a Howard about ye. And I do not remember ye.”

“I have been . . . on the continent, and at sea.” He desperately tried to remember every word Kimbra had suggested to him. She had said fighting the French. Yet the word
sea
had just popped out.

“I know of no Howard who went to sea.” Suspicion was deep in his visitor’s voice.

“Do you know everything?” Kimbra Charlton interrupted.

The man named Cedric glared at her. “I know enough, Kimbra, and ye have not learned respect. Will was much too lenient with ye.”

“You will say nothing about Will.”

“I will say what I wish to say.”

“You have seen what you came to see,” she said. “I must tend to him.”

“There is a physician at the peel tower.”

“The Charlton came to me for herbs,” Kimbra said doggedly. “The physician did not help
him.
He agreed the stranger should stay until he improves.”

“He is a stranger. He could be dangerous.”

“I think not. A finger would knock him over.”

Cedric studied her face for a moment. “Your lip is bruised.”

“Aye. In his fever, his hand hit me. But it was not his fault,” she hurriedly added. “He did not know what he was doing.”

The words swirled around the man called Howard, as did sudden flashes. They roiled around his head so quickly he couldn’t grab any one of them.
Howard
. He had to think of himself that way. Howard. He felt the heat fading from his face. He groaned again.

“Please go,” she told Cedric. “He needs rest. I assure you that as soon as he is well enough to walk, he will leave.”

“What if he were to strike you again?” Cedric said. “Yer safety is important to me, though he don’t look like much of a soldier to me.”

“It was nothing,” she replied, “and I have managed well enough these two years,” she said sharply. She turned to the door, obviously hoping Cedric would follow.

He did not. Instead, he looked around the room. “He had no weapon with him?”

“Nay.”

Doubt was in his eyes. “Ye had chain mail with you the night of the battle.”

“Aye. It came from a dead Scot.”

Cedric Charlton’s gaze flitted down to the man who called himself Robert Howard.

Howard did not meet his eyes for fear he might see the lie, and anger, in them. Instead he closed them, waited for Kimbra to answer.

“Are ye sure the owner of the chain mail is dead?” Suspicion was in his voice.

“He did not breathe. Neither did many more who fought. Did
you
fight, Cedric?”

The challenge echoed in the room. It was an insult deliberately thrown to take attention away from the man on the bed. He didn’t like her taking the brunt of anger from him. But he feared he would only worsen things if he spoke up.

“Thomas Charlton has already sent a messenger to the Howards,” Cedric said in a tone icy with fury. “We will know soon enough if they are grateful for your saving him, or if he is a Howard at all.”

He left then, but the threat hovered in the air.

Kimbra Charlton did not follow him out but went to the window. After a moment, she turned back. “He is gone.”

“He will be back.”

“Aye, and I will not be able to stop him.”

“You must tell me more of the Howards.”

“They are spread out over the border. I once worked as a maid for a Howard. That is why I chose them. You are from a branch far away, a . . . a bastard who has not been seen in years.” Her eyes locked with his. “You said nothing to me about the sea.”

“It just . . . came out.”

“Are you a sailor then?”

“I . . . see the sea in my mind. I do not know if I sailed, or lived near the sea. I know it, though. That is all . . .”

She went over to him and felt his cheek. “It is not so hot.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did you . . . ?”

He brought out the cup from underneath the bed covering. “I heated it in the flames.”

She regarded him with something like admiration. “How . . . ?”

“I do not know. I just remembered—” He stopped suddenly.

“You remembered . . . ?” she prompted.

“A hot brick. A laugh. That is all.”

“A woman’s laughter?”

“Aye.”

“You do not remember a face? A name?”

“Nay.”

“Could she be your wife?”

“I do not know,” he said, his voice harsh with frustration.

“You have had other memories?”

“A few. But they are phantoms. They do not stay long enough to grab on to.”

Her gray eyes had darkened, and he was reminded again of a frothy sea. He could see that sea now. Why couldn’t he see anything else? Her face looked intent on solving the puzzle of his memory. Strands of black hair escaped the long braid she wore and framed her face. Her cheeks were still pink from the cool air outside.

He longed to hold out his hand to her, but he had no right. Not as long as his past remained a mystery.

“What do you remember of the sea?” she asked.

“The colors. Gray at dawn, like your eyes. The feel of the wind . . .”

“You liked it then?”

“Aye, I think so. I . . .”

He did like it. He knew that. But there had been something else, something that had beckoned to him. He knew longing. He knew grief.

For what? For whom?

Something of his torment must have shone on his face, for she looked as if she was seeing something she shouldn’t see.

“I will keep the cup near the fireplace,” she said.

“Did I d’stract him good enough?” came a small voice from the door. “I asked him a question.”

“What did you ask?”

“Why he was so mean?”

He smiled. “No wonder he was scowling. Did he tell you?”

“He said children should not be heard. He said other things as well but I did not listen.”

“You d’stracted him very well,” he told Audra.

“Bear barked at him.”

“Then I should give my thanks to Bear as well.”

“I stayed with him till Cedric left. Bear does not like him.”

“I did not like him, either,” he confided.

Her lips widened into a grin. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Come with me while I prepare some food,” Kimbra said. “And you, little love, were very brave, but you should not ask people such questions. I want you and Bear to stay away from Cedric.”

“Mr. Howard told me to d’stract him.”

“
I
will d’stract him in the future.”

They left him then. The door did not close, and yet he felt as if another door had closed. He had used a child. He had used a woman. What had he done in the past?

He struggled to sit again. He was wearing the long shirt that covered the private part of him but no more. He found the breeches and pulled those on.

Then he stood, grabbed the crutch Kimbra had made for him, and took several steps. His ribs were still sore, and the pain in his leg intensified, but he made his way into the main room. He had not noticed it before. He had been too ill when he came to the cottage, and too determined to leave when he’d left it several nights ago. And when he was here seeking embers, he’d been too intent on his task to notice anything.

The cottage was obviously well crafted of wood and stone. Solid. He could not miss that. It was full of flowers and greenery and bright window coverings, and that, he knew, was the doing of Kimbra Charlton. There was nothing of defeat in the cottage, only of hope.

I was a maid.
But she spoke well, and she had such a longing for learning. He knew that from her questions, from her wistful comment about reading.

She turned and saw him. “You should not be out here. Someone might come.”

“Your Bear will warn us.”

“If you fall, I cannot lift you.”

“I will not fall.”

“Just as you thought you could walk miles the other night?”

“A bit of overconfidence,” he said ruefully.

She continued to glare at him.

He feared he might have sounded as if he were humoring her, when, in truth, he admired her tremendously. He sat down before he fell.

“You do not follow instructions well,” she accused.

“I do not know whether I do or do not,” he said. “You work hard enough without having to bring food and drink to me, as well.”

“Rather that than try to lift you if you fall.”

“I will not do that again.”

She glared at him.

God’s tooth, but she was pretty when she glared. Those gray eyes smoldered. He wanted to reach over and . . .

Their gazes met. Held. Heat radiated in the core of him. An exquisitely pleasurable type of heat.

Audra broke the spell. “Do you like stories?”

Did he like stories? He did not know.

“I think so,” he said, unwilling to disappoint her.

“Can you tell me one?”

“Mr. Howard does not remember things,” Kimbra broke in.

Kimbra.
He had tried to think of her as a Charlton, the Charlton lass, anything but Kimbra. But he knew now it was hopeless. She was Kimbra. A pretty name for a pretty lass. An English name.

A chill ran through him. She said he was a Scot. Her husband had been slain by a Scot. Most likely, his king and friends had been slain by her people.

They were enemies.

And yet no one ever seemed less like an enemy than this woman who had saved him at the risk of herself and her child.