The Virtuous Widow (4 page)

E
llie stirred the porridge angrily. The cheek of him!
I am
your husband
. Why would he say such an outlandish thing? To her, of all people! He’d sounded quite sure of it, too, even a little surprised, as if wondering why she had asked him. And then he’d lain back on the bed as if too exhausted to speak any further.

She spooned the thick oatmeal porridge into two bowls and set one before Amy.

“Sugar?” the little girl asked hopefully.

“Sorry, darling. There’s no sugar left.” Ellie poured milk on to her daughter’s bowl, and watched her daughter make islands and oceans out of porridge and milk. Gone were the days of silver dishes on the sideboard, containing every imaginable delicacy.

She picked up the other bowl. “I’ll take this to the man upstairs.” She took a deep breath and mounted the stairs.
I am your husband
. Indeed!

He was awake when she entered the room, his blue eyes sombre.

“How is your head?” She kept her tone brusque, impersonal.

He grimaced.

“I have brought you some porridge. Can you sit up?” She made no move to help him. She would have no truck with his nonsense. He had disturbed her quite enough as it was.

He sat up slowly. She could see from the sharp white lines around his mouth that he was in pain. She said nothing, set the bowl down with something of a snap and helped him to arrange the pillows behind him. She tried to remain indifferent, but it was not possible to avoid touching him. Each time her hand came in contact with his skin, or brushed across his warm, naked torso, she felt it, clear through to the soles of her feet. And in less acceptable regions.

He knew it, too, the devil! He’d looked up at her in such an intimate, knowing way! How dare he embarrass her any further! She ripped a blanket off the bed and flung it around his naked back and chest, then she thrust the bowl and spoon at him. “Eat.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael,” he said in a tone of crushed obedience.

She glanced at him in suspicion. His blue, blue eyes caressed her boldly. She glared at him, then began to tidy the room briskly.

“You’re gorgeous when you’re angry,” he said in a deep, low voice and as her breath hissed in fury, he applied himself in a leisurely manner to the porridge.

By the time she went up again to fetch his empty bowl, her wrath had dissipated. She was now more puzzled than angry. His behaviour made little sense. Why lie to her, when she was the one person in the world who would know it was a lie? And though he was teasing her now, he hadn’t been teasing when he’d claimed to be her husband. It was all very odd. She decided to ask him, straight out.

“What is your name—no nonsense now. I want the truth, if you please.” She took his bowl and stood looking down at him.

There was a long pause. Finally he said, “I don’t know.”

He said it with no inflexion at all. Ellie stared at him, and suddenly she knew he was telling the truth. “You mean you cannot remember who you are?”

“No.”

Ellie was stunned. She sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, quite forgetting her resolve to keep her distance. She had heard tales of people who had lost their memories, but she had never thought to meet one. “You cannot remember
anything
about yourself?”

“No. All morning I have tried and tried, but I cannot think straight. I have no idea what my name is, nor anything about my family, or what I do for a living, or even how I came to be here.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “So you will have to tell me everything.”

“But I don’t know myself!”

He patted her knee and she skittered away. “No, not how I came to be hurt, but the rest. My name and all the rest.”

“If you cannot remember anything, then why did you say you were my husband?”

He frowned at the accusing note in her voice and said teasingly, “Am I not your husband, then?”

“You
know
you are not.”

He blinked at her in amazement. “You cannot mean it! But I thought—”

Ellie shook her head.

He considered her words for a moment and his frown grew. “But if Amy is my daughter…”

“She is no such thing!” Ellie gasped, and jumped up, horrified. “I just said you were not my husband. How dare you suggest—?”

“Then why does she call me Papa?”

“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 fellow, 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.