Scandalous (5 page)

He was sleeping, his arms flung out over the cot, and the blanket lay over him almost up to his arms. He was still, and for one horrible instant she thought he was dead. Then she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest, and she realized that, though his face was still tinged with a flush, he was sleeping peacefully. She jumped to her feet and hurried over to lay her hand on his forehead. It was warmer than normal, but far less so than it had been during the night. His fever had broken.

Priscilla let out an enormous sigh of relief and sank down onto the floor. Her knees suddenly felt like rubber.
She leaned her forehead against the cot, weak with relief. In the aftermath of tension, her muscles began to tremble, and she realized, amazed, that there were tears spilling out of her eyes.

A hand touched her head, gliding softly over her hair. Priscilla raised her head, startled, and found herself staring straight into a clear green gaze.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, and his hand once more stroked her hair. During the night's struggles with him, her hair had once again fallen out of its pins and come loose from her braid until it lay softly over her shoulders, and she had given up trying to keep it back. She knew it was far too intimate to wear it this way around a man. Yet he did not seem at all uncomfortable with it; his hand caressed it naturally, as one might run one's fingers over a lovely sculpture or piece of porcelain.

“Yes,” Priscilla replied, trying to smile at her foolishness. She quickly brushed her fingers across her cheek to rid them of the tears. “I'm sorry. I—it was relief. You have been out of your head all night, and when I saw that your fever had broken, well…”

“I see.” He smiled faintly. He let her hair sift through his fingers, watching it. “You are very beautiful.”

Priscilla felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “Thank you.”

He frowned a little. Finally he asked, his voice puzzled, “Do I know you?”

Priscilla looked at him oddly. “No.”

His words seemed to recall her to propriety, and she stood up, sweeping her hair back. “Don't you remember coming to our door last night?”

He frowned and shook his head. “I— Things are
foggy.” He sat up slowly, and the blanket slid down, revealing his bare chest. He looked down, and a peculiar look crossed his face. “I haven't— Where are my clothes?”

“I don't know.” Priscilla's blush intensified. “That's the way you arrived on our doorstep.”

“Naked?” he asked in astonishment. “Are you joking?”

“No. I have no idea why. I don't even know who you are.”

“Who I am?” he repeated vaguely.

Priscilla nodded. “Yes. That would be somewhere to start. What is your name?”

He looked back at her blankly. “I—I'm not sure.” She could see panic touch his eyes. “I don't know. I don't know who I am!”

P
RISCILLA STARED
.
“You don't know who you are?”

He shook his head. “I don't know my name. I—” He looked around the room, as if that would somehow give him the answer he wanted. He raised a hand to his head, saying, “Ow…my head hurts. I feel so strange. And dizzy.”

“You have a large knot on your head, and it bled, as well. I would say someone gave you a nasty crack. You've also been running a high temperature, and it isn't back to normal yet. You passed the crisis point within the last hour or so.”

The man eased back down onto the bed with a groan. “Does that make you lose your mind?”

“I don't know that you've lost your mind. Only your memory.” Priscilla tried to sound heartening, though her own heart had sunk at his words. How could someone forget who he was or what had happened to him? “Perhaps it is a result of the fever or the knock on the head. I suggest that you go back to sleep. Get some rest, and probably when you wake up you will remember everything. You know how it is when you're sick sometimes. Things get hazy and strange.”

“Not this strange,” he muttered, but he did close his eyes. A few moments later, he had slid back into the escape of sleep.

Priscilla sat watching him, hoping that she was right. It sounded sensible. She remembered how once, when she was little, she had had a fever and imagined all sorts of strange things, even that there were little elves up in one corner of her room, where the walls met the ceiling, building a little house. It had been very disorienting and confusing; surely it wouldn't be all that strange to forget who one was. Once the fever was gone, and he was feeling better, he would remember.

On that optimistic note, she went into the kitchen to prepare a small breakfast and eat it. She thought about making something for her patient to eat, but she decided it would be better to let him sleep. A few minutes later Miss Pennybaker came downstairs, a worried frown on her face. Every hair was in place in a tight bun atop her head, as always, and she looked as neat and tidy as ever in her severe brown dress. However, it was obvious from her manner that inside she was a mass of nerves.

“Are you all right? Oh, my dear, I had the worst night. I tossed and turned all night. I don't think I slept a wink. I kept thinking about you. Worrying that something would happen to you. What happened?” She came to a halt breathlessly, her eyes huge and her hands twisting together in front of her breast.

“Well, he was in a state of delirium most of the night,” Priscilla replied practically. “He had a high fever and chills, but the fever broke not long ago, and now he is sleeping peacefully.”

Raising her finger to her lips in a gesture calling for quiet, Priscilla led her former governess to the door of the small bedroom and showed her their patient, sleeping like a child on the cot. Looking at him in the light, with his dark lashes shadowing his cheek and his face
relaxed in the vulnerability of sleep, Priscilla realized all over again how attractive the stranger was. He did not, perhaps, have the handsome perfection of an Adonis, but his sharp cheekbones and square jawline were powerful and intriguing, even with the dark stubble of several days' growth of beard.

Miss Pennybaker, beside her, shivered. “How could you have stayed alone with him all night? Weren't you afraid?”

Priscilla glanced at her in surprise, wondering how the woman's only reaction to his masculine beauty could be fear. “It was rather…exciting,” Priscilla answered honestly. “I mean, I was a little frightened once or twice, but when I was nursing him through his fever, it was like a battle, me against the fever.” She smiled. “And I won.”

“You do say the oddest things. Well, you can go up to bed now. I shall watch him.” With a determined set to her chin, Miss Pennybaker picked up a chair from the kitchen table and set it down in the middle of the doorway, just outside the bedroom. With some amusement, Priscilla thought she looked more like a jailer than a nurse, but she did not comment. No doubt the woman believed herself to be facing down lions for Priscilla's sake.

Priscilla smiled to herself and went upstairs. She realized as she walked into her room how deadly tired she was. She slipped out of her clothes and fell into bed wearing her chemise and slip, not bothering with putting on her nightgown, a fact that she was sure would scandalize Miss Pennybaker if she knew it. Within moments she was asleep.

By the time she woke up, it was midday. The sun was
streaming into the room, and she blinked, disoriented for a moment. Then the events of the night before came back to her, and she hopped out of bed and began to dress. She was eager to return to her patient and find out what had happened in the hours she had been asleep, so she made quick work of getting dressed and putting up her hair.

She found Miss Pennybaker and her patient in the same positions in which she had left them, though Miss Pennybaker had been joined in the kitchen by Mrs. Smithson, who came in with her daughter daily to cook and clean for them. Mrs. Smithson was bustling about in front of the stove, where several pots were simmering, and a delicious aroma floated in the air.

Priscilla drew a deep breath. “Mm…Mrs. Smithson, it smells as if you've outdone yourself.”

The cook, a short, no-nonsense woman with graying hair, turned to her with a smile. “Ah, Miss Priscilla, there ye are. I been wondering what was happening, with him in there, and herself sitting here.” She turned toward Miss Pennybaker with a disdainful sniff. “Not saying a word to anybody, as if I would be going telling the whole village your business. I'm not a gossip, Miss, and you know that.”

“Of course I do, Mrs. Smithson.” Priscilla wanted to soothe the other woman's ruffled feathers. The cook, who had helped look after Priscilla when she was a baby, had always regarded the governess as an interloper and one who held herself above her station.
Love,
she was fond of saying with a dark look at Miss Pennybaker,
was what was important, not reading and writing and such fanciness.
“I know you would never dream of spreading
gossip. But the fact is, Miss Pennybaker and I know little more than you do.”

Quickly she explained how the stranger had appeared on their doorstep the night before and the subsequent appearance of the two ruffians. Mrs. Smithson listened raptly, now and then interjecting an “Ooh” or an “Ah” or a “Bless me.” The two of them moved over to where Miss Pennybaker sat and looked in on the patient. He was lying with his eyes closed.

“Oh, but he's a handsome one, isn't he?” Miss Smithson whispered.

Miss Pennybaker shot her a look of disgust. Priscilla hastened to intervene. “I wonder where he's from. And what he's doing here.”

“Maybe when he wakes up, he'll tell you,” the cook offered.

Priscilla shrugged. She had not yet told either woman about the man's strange words last night, or his apparent lack of memory. She was hopeful that when he awoke today, his mind would no longer be muddled from the fever, and he would remember everything.

“Has he awakened yet, Penny?” she asked.

“Twice. He just looked at me. Once he asked for some water, so I gave it to him.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He asked about you. He wanted to know where the other lady was. I told him you were getting your well-deserved rest, since you'd been up all night looking after him.”

Priscilla smiled faintly at her loyal friend's words. Trust Miss Pennybaker to cast her as an angel in any scene. All three women looked at the man on the cot again.

As if sensing their stares, he opened his eyes. He gazed at each one of them for a moment, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Finally he said, his voice rusty, “Who are you?”

Priscilla stepped into the room and walked over to his bed, leaving the other two women eagerly watching the scene before them. “I am Priscilla Hamilton. Don't you remember my telling you that last night? And this is Evermere Cottage, our home.”

He nodded, sitting up slowly, seemingly unmindful of the blanket sliding down to reveal his bare torso. “Yes. I remember.” He looked at the two women by the door. “Who are they?”

“Miss Pennybaker and Mrs. Smithson. Miss Pennybaker helped me take care of you, and Mrs. Smithson is our cook.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “It smells as if she's a good one.”

Mrs. Smithson beamed. “I'm thinking you'd enjoy some nice soup right about now, wouldn't you?”

He nodded, offering her an easy, charming smile. “You would be right about that. I feel very empty.”

Mrs. Smithson bustled off happily to ladle him up a bowl of soup. Priscilla reached down and felt his forehead. It was quite a bit cooler than it had been the night before. His fever was almost gone.

“You seem to be feeling better.”

He nodded. “Still weak as a kitten, though.”

He turned a little and leaned back against the wall. He looked at Priscilla, then cast a wary glance toward the doorway, where Miss Pennybaker still sat, hands folded in her lap, stoically watching him. Priscilla, following his gaze, had to suppress a smile.

The man shifted a little, uncomfortably, and turned back to Priscilla. “Why does she sit there?” he asked. “And when I asked for some water, she stood as far away as she could to hand it to me. Do I have something contagious?”

Priscilla did smile this time. “I'm not sure. But I don't think that's the reason. You see, Miss Pennybaker is sitting there because she rather suspects that you are a ruffian.”

“A ruffian?” He looked surprised. “Me? Nonsense.”

“Are you so certain?” Priscilla raised a quizzical eyebrow.

His face shifted subtly. “Well, I…ah, I suppose you're right. I don't know whether I am or not. Strange feeling. Still, I don't feel as if I'm a ruffian.”

“Then I take it you still do not remember?”

He shook his head, and his gaze turned inward, as if he were searching for something. He sighed and shook his head again. “No. Nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” Miss Pennybaker stood up and took a few automatic steps forward. “Don't remember what?”

The man turned toward her. “Anything, Miss Pennybaker. I am afraid I do not know where I am from, where I am, or even what my name is.”

The governess's jaw dropped. “You don't know your own name?” She looked at Priscilla. “Is that possible?”

Priscilla shrugged. “I have no idea. I suppose so. I remember that Aunt Celeste's father-in-law lost all notion of who he was—or of who anyone else in the family was, either.”

“Yes, but he was eighty-four years old,” Miss Pennybaker pointed out. She turned and looked narrowly at the man on the cot. “You, sir, are not.”

“You have me there.” He grinned at the older woman, and her cheeks pinkened. Priscilla, watching, thought that the man definitely knew how to charm. Miss Pennybaker might be suspicious now, but Priscilla doubted that it would take the man too long to have her highly romantic friend eating out of his hand. “I know it seems odd, ma'am, but it is the truth.”

Mrs. Smithson came bustling in at that moment with a large bowl of soup for the patient. She set the tray down on his lap, and the man dived in eagerly. Mrs. Smithson smiled benignly at him as he ate, and even Miss Pennybaker seemed to soften at this sign of his obvious hunger. When he was through, and Mrs. Smithson had taken the tray back into the kitchen, Priscilla gently suggested that Miss Pennybaker join the cook, pointing out that it was past time for lunch. Miss Pennybaker was obviously reluctant to go, and Priscilla regretted the flash of hurt that passed briefly across her face. But she was determined to talk to their visitor alone, without Miss Pennybaker's questions, exclamations and opinions.

When the two women had left, Priscilla sat down on the chair close to the bed, where she had sat through her night watch. The man sank back into a prone position. For a moment the two of them simply studied each other. Finally Priscilla began, “Is there nothing you remember?”

“Nothing past the last few days, and those are hazy at best.” He sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. “The first thing I remember is waking up in a hut. It
had no windows. And I was naked. I'm not sure why.” He frowned. “I was tied up, too, and it was damned uncomfortable.”

“What hut? Where?”

“I have no idea. I saw the inside, mostly. The only time I saw the outside was when I escaped, and that was at night. It was simply a shack—wooden, unpainted—in the midst of some woods.”

“How did you get out?”

“I managed to cut through my bonds. It took some time, but I was able to saw them upon some rough wood in the hut. It cost me a little flesh, but finally my hands were free. Then it was just a matter of untying the cord around my ankles and waiting for my guard.”

“Your guard?”

“Yes. Someone came to check up on me regularly, just glanced in and looked me over to make sure I was still bound. There were two different men, actually. They seemed to take turns doing it. The short one was the one I bounced on his head.”

“Honestly?” Priscilla was impressed. It sounded like the sort of daring escape her heroes were apt to make—but she had never met anyone in real life who had done such a thing.

He looked at her oddly. “Yes, of course, honestly. Why would I make up something like that?”

“I don't know. It just seems so…bizarre.”

“It was. I have no idea who those men were or why they were holding me. They didn't do anything to me, just arrived periodically and looked in to make sure I was still tied up. They were not very bright. They didn't check any too closely.”

“You remember nothing of how you got there?”

He shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“It is certainly a mystery.” Priscilla wrinkled her brow in thought. “If they had meant to kill you, I would think they would have done so immediately. And they had obviously already robbed you of whatever you had. Why keep you bound up and come in to check on you periodically? And why take your clothes?” She paused, then brightened. “Perhaps you were wearing some sort of uniform, something that would make you easily identifiable.”