Chapter Three
“You what ?”
The room was unbearably hot, her thoughts intolerably muddled, and the pain in her skull as sharp as a knife. And she had no earthly idea what was happening or where she was.
Or who she was.
“I do not know,” she forced out again. She could barely make out any of the features of the room or hear anything over the dull roar in her head.
“You don’t know your own name?” The voice that reached through the haze of pain was incredulous. Angry even. She couldn’t see clearly enough to make out its owner. Where were her bloody spectacles?
“Jasper—” another voice warned, this one kinder.
“You mean to tell me you have no memory of your own self? Who has ever heard of such a thing?”
The kinder voice became firmer. “Jasper, Dr. Ramsay said she would awaken confused. He was also adamant that she not be distressed, and I must say, the tone you’re taking is distressing.”
There was an exasperated sigh from the man’s direction.
A warm hand found hers. “You must be feeling terrible; we should let you rest. But first you should have some water.”
The weight of her confusion hit her like a solid wall. Her heartbeat quickened and a sickly heat bloomed over her skin. “I should know who I am, shouldn’t I?” she asked in the direction of the kind voice.
“Well, let’s start with some facts, shall we?” said another voice, this one raspier and somewhat mischievous. “My name is Isobel Maycott. The nursemaid holding your hand is my angelic sister Helena, and the stern bastard—”
“Isobel!” cried Helena.
“Well, if she can’t remember her own name it stands to reason she won’t remember any of this,” muttered Isobel. “As I was saying, the stern bastard is my brother Jasper.”
She ventured a question, one that felt more manageable than queries about her own identity. “Where am I?”
“Mulgrave Hall, home of the Earl of Belhaven.”
The name tickled in her mind, like the memory she sought was buried under miles of muck, but still present, if only she could reach it. She tried to sift for it, but the strain made her dizzy.
Isobel continued her patient explanation. “As we said before, you were in an accident, but you’re safe now. We had our physician take a look at you and he doesn’t suspect there will be any lasting damage—”
“He didn’t say anything about memory problems,” grumbled Jasper.
“In any event, you’ll need to stay here until you recover—either physically or mentally.”
She could hardly make anything out, and yet the room seemed to shrink around her. Something was wrong, something beyond her lack of memory or current predicament. It was as though her bones knew it even when her mind did not. A primal instinct told her she was not safe in the least, though she also knew this fear had nothing to do with the three people surrounding her bed.
Jasper stepped closer. “Anything yet? A name? A location?”
His question was a test, she surmised. One she would fail. “Nothing,” she admitted. “It is as though there is a veil upon my mind I cannot penetrate.” The room ceased its shrinking and began to spin instead. She let out an involuntary moan, causing Jasper to step even closer, tugged toward her as though against his will.
“Is everything all right?” he began, his tone sharp. “Are you well?” he added, the sharpness somewhat dulled this time. It seemed even in his frustration the man did not forget his manners.
He was close enough now for her to make out his features. Stern bastard was right—disapproval radiated off of him like a punishing heat, made evident by the firm line of his mouth and his dark, sharp gaze. She felt herself flush under the intensity of it, and only then, as concern creased his brow and his eyes softened, could she see a hint of what lay under his mask. She knew at once there was a good man beneath the austerity. It was the first thing she could see clearly since waking.
He bent close enough for her to smell him. Clean linen and sweat, like he had recently exerted himself. It was not displeasing, she noted, feeling a pull toward him. His steely facade continued to crumble, much like how the rest of the room faded from her knowledge, until the only thing that remained was the hot press of his hand on hers. His touch sparked, his skin rougher than she expected for the son of a nobleman. “My lady?”
The form of address stuck in her mind. Not right , came a persistent thought. And then the room rushed back in stark relief. She felt the heat of a bedwarmer upon her legs, the drip of sweat on the back of her neck, the pain that seemed woven into her very bones.
It was agony, and no earthly or heavenly power could have prevented her from emptying the contents of her stomach over the side of the bed, right onto his boots.
…
When she next awoke, she was alone.
Her hand stretched out again out of habit, but the familiar shape of her spectacles was still absent. It was odd to think of anything as familiar, when she lacked a foundation of memory. But perhaps some things were too deeply ingrained to ever be lost. She still knew how to speak, after all, she simply lacked a sense of self. It was disconcerting, but she could function, at least.
The pain was still there, but it had lessened some. She felt the urge to stand, if only to prove she still could, but a cursory wiggle of her legs suggested she was still too weak for that. She recalled blearily making use of a chamber pot sometime in the night, though God knew how she had managed it alone. Instinct, she suspected.
She thought back to what she had been told about her injury. Found in a heap. Thrown from a horse. Alone.
She wished she had the words or evidence to prove how very unlike her that was. Perhaps the conviction that she was not the kind of woman who did things like flee into the night on horseback was as deeply ingrained as her ability to speak. But the fact remained, she had no proof of the contrary, and while she had some idea of the kind of woman she wasn’t , she still had no earthly notion of what kind of woman she was .
The hall beyond her room was quiet, but she knew she must be in a manor of considerable size if it was the residence of an earl. She hoped not to encounter said earl or his countess during her, hopefully, brief stay. She prayed he was a busy man, preferably kept in London, far away from the mess she had unwittingly made. The shame of seeing a man like the Earl of Belhaven in her current state would be enough to kill her.
Morning light poured in from the window, so she did her best to make out her surroundings, blurry as they were. She was in what appeared to be a well-appointed room with sumptuous pastel-colored furniture and lavender floral wallpaper.
No , she thought, squinting. Not lavender. The color erred too closely to violet to be a true representation. It was more like lilac, a shade morose and cold beneath a whimsical name. In any case, it was a fine room.
A fine room she didn’t belong in.
The counterpane that covered her was made of a thick and richly stitched brocade, and she wore a soft frilled nightgown that must have belonged to someone else. She tried not to dwell on thoughts of any of the Maycotts seeing her in a state of undress. They had also seen her vomit on a man’s boots, and that seemed the greater injustice at the moment.
A thick braid lay over her shoulder—someone had tended to her hair. She reached a tentative hand up to the bandage at her temple. The skin around it was swollen and warm, but not hot with infection as far as she could tell. She swallowed, allowing a small amount of relief to blossom in her chest. Her throat was parched. There was a carafe of water on the table to her right, and a full glass before it, demanding she drink it.
As she gulped down the tepid liquid, she noted it was a tranquil space she found herself in. But the peace of the room did nothing to assuage the fear that gripped her by the throat. She still didn’t have the faintest recollection of who she was, nor how she came to be in the care of the Maycotts, but if she knew anything at all, it was that a woman in a predicament such as hers was in danger, even if her surroundings were quite placid.
“Oh, you’re awake,” called a kind and familiar voice from the door.
The figure approached and she made a guess. “I suspect you must be Lady Helena.”
Lady Helena stepped closer to the bed and unfurled another quilt, laying it overtop her already covered body. “What gave me away?”
She nodded toward the blanket. “I believe your sister referred to you as my nursemaid.”
There was a warm smile beaming in her direction. “In truth, I am Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Pembroke. Well, one of them, at least, but we don’t stand on formalities here, so Helena will do.” Helena sat on the edge of the bed and extended a hand toward her. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe I’m feverish but I’m also not the best judge of things right now.”
Helena’s hand was gentle on her skin as she probed for fever. “No, I think you’re quite right about that. What a relief!” She withdrew her hand and settled it on the folds of her skirt. “Now what about your memory?”
She frowned, still feeling lost in the mire of her own unknowable mind. “Still nothing.”
“Please do not feel pressured on my account. Not all of the Maycott siblings insist on a superhuman recovery from our guests.”
Heat colored her cheeks at the mere thought of Helena’s brother and his penetrating gaze. She had to get a grip on herself. “Where is the stern bastard, then?”
Helena cleared her throat lightly. “After the incident , he decided to go out and search for your spectacles in daylight, surmising that as you were likely wearing them when you fell from your horse, they can’t have gone far.”
The heat on her cheeks deepened. “Did I truly vomit on his boots?” She knew she had, but with her mind so empty of other memories, that particular one stood out all the more in terms of clarity and agonizing precision.
Helena was as charitable as she was kind. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“And I presume he’s the kind of man who would take great offense at that sort of transgression?” She was a stranger in his home with a mind so addled she could not even tell him her own name. And she’d gotten sick on his boots. He must hate her. But his hatred paled next to her shame, which coiled around her like a great serpent, threatening to suffocate her.
“You needn’t worry; my brother is not as stern as he would have you believe.” She patted the bed with a start. “Now, are you hungry? I’ll have a plate sent up to you.”
The query was intolerably simple, but it smarted when she was forced to reckon with how well the Maycotts were treating her, a stranger. She couldn’t help but ask the question that had been needling at her since waking. “Why are you being so kind to me? I’m a nuisance.”
“You were injured on our land. It is our duty to see you well.”
She wrung her hands together against the soft linens. “I might not have my memories, but I know enough to know I’m an imposition.”
“Please don’t think of it like that. We couldn’t possibly send you on your way in your current state.” She scooted a bit closer. “If I’m being honest, you’ve given us a welcome distraction from what would normally be a particularly somber time of year.”
The words were meant as a kindness, even if they did contain a hint of mystery. She didn’t feel comfortable asking for elaboration, not after they’d asked so little of her.
“Well, please do not hesitate to send me on my way should I become a burden.” Never mind that she had no earthly idea where she would go. “I cannot begin to imagine what the Earl of Belhaven would think of all this.”
She didn’t need her spectacles to see that Lady Helena was giving her a puzzled look. “Why, you don’t have to imagine—”
A knock at the door surprised them both, and Lord Jasper entered the room. Helena shot to her feet as he strode unerringly toward the bed and deposited something in her lap.
She looked down to see he had retrieved her spectacles.
“How did you find them?” she asked while hurriedly placing them upon the bridge of her nose. The clarity of her vision came as a shock after straining miserably. There was Helena, her auburn hair tied up neatly, exposing the graceful line of her neck. She was beautiful, with porcelain skin marked by one long scar that spanned from her temple to her jaw, and bright blue eyes that held within them a gleam of sadness.
“They weren’t that far from where we found you,” came his stern voice. She was almost afraid to look at him. But she was a guest in his family’s home. She could not ignore the son of an earl for much longer.
She turned and felt the full intensity of his gaze like a blaze of heat. He was terribly handsome, the kind of man who could hold a room in his thrall with naught but a glance. His golden brown hair was a touch long to be considered fashionable, as though such matters were beneath him, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to tuck a soft curl behind his ear. His cheeks were deeply red from the cold, and his warm brown eyes glowed like embers as they grazed her skin. She had never seen a man’s jaw so finely carved, nor shoulders so artfully broad. She wanted to touch him. No, she wanted him to touch her .
She swallowed thickly and cast her eyes downward, hoping he could not sense her indecent thoughts. “I must thank you, my lord.” Did he notice her voice catch? She peeked back up at him, finding his expression unreadable. “I fear my debt to you has only grown.”
He looked surprised by her words. “There is no debt,” he said gruffly, as though he spent every morning searching through snow for a woman’s errant spectacles.
“Surely, I owe you at least one pair of boots, my lord.”
The look he gave her then was icier than the Arctic, and yet it warmed her as well as any fire.
Her mind was distressingly empty, but she did know one thing: Lord Jasper and his beguiling eyes were trouble, indeed.