Chapter 2 #2
It could be a man—a fellow traveler, a fellow drinker, collapsed with him. He risked movement, stretching out an inquiring hand.
Female surely. He picked up the faint scent of flowers that had spoken to his instincts. In a nightgown. Strange, that. He couldn’t remember ever enjoying a woman and leaving her nightclothes on.
Perhaps she was excessively modest, but that wasn’t his type either.
Who was she?
He had no idea.
No idea even of possibilities.
’Struth, what a mess!
He must have drunk a barrelful to have a head like this, and to not remember the woman. What was he going to say to her in the morning?
Where had he drunk so much? He should know that. He should remember starting to drink. He scrabbled for a place, a name, a picture—
And fell into a terrifying void. Where his memory should be, lay only emptiness.
Panicked, he clung to a fact he did feel sure of. He didn’t drink to excess. He hadn’t been truly sozzled since that time in Italy on his Grand Tour. He’d been sixteen and he’d thought the effects had cured him of overdrinking for life.
Was he in Italy now, sozzled on fine wine in a palazzo in Venice?
No. Years had passed since then.
Many years.
He was in England.
Yes, he was sure he was in England, and a grown man. He slid a hand down to his chin, feeling the strong bones and the roughness of stubble. A fact presented itself. His twenty-ninth birthday was not long past.
Why were some things so certain and others lost?
He knew he was in England, but not where.
He knew his age, but little of what he’d done with over ten years.
Perdition! He started to shake his head and stopped with a hiss of agony.
His brain felt both scrambled and faded, as if heavy veils hung between himself and the fragments of his life.
What did he remember? What?
Taking farewell of his family in London.
He had a family—brothers and sisters. He could even see faces, but when he asked for names he got only nonsense. An elf? A bright elf? A sinful elf … ?
He couldn’t stand this. He tried to sit up, then stopped, frozen by pain. Oh God. Oh God—
He slowly eased his tormenting head back on the pillow, went back to lying very, very still. His head shrieked with every breath.
Perhaps he was gravely ill. But then, who was the woman in his bed? His nurse?
Hardly.
Who was she?
Who was he?
That simple question sprang into life, then fell tangling into that ominous void, stiffening him with terror. Terror of following the question into that deep, black hole where he wouldn’t exist at all. He reached out for something real. Anything. Her cotton nightgown.
“Oh. You’re awake.”
The woman had moved, and now she took his trembling hand in hers. He clutched at her, ready to weep with gratitude.
“Where am I?” he whispered, afraid of the pain of speaking louder.
Silence. Had he imagined her? He gripped her soft hand tighter….
“Gillsett! Please. You’re hurting me.”
Immediately, he relaxed his grip. “I’m sorry. I … I can’t see.”
Her other hand brushed his forehead, a gentle touch that seemed blessedly familiar. Was this his wife? Surely he’d remember if he were married. It was not unpleasant, though, to think of being familiar with that warm voice and soft, caring hand.
But no. Her gentle touch merely reminded him of his mother, dead many years ago. Her soft voice would soothe him in fevered nights. Speaking in French, however. Was he French … ?
No, surely not.
“It’s just dark, sir,” the woman said, definitely in English. “It’s the middle of the night.”
He was making a fool of himself. Here he was, doubtless in an inn with a doxy, suffering the hell of a drunkard’s head, and acting as if demons were after him. The pain, however, was real, and his stomach still churned ominously.
“I seem to have drunk too much.”
“Do you not remember, sir?”
Oh, hell. Could he avoid letting her know that he didn’t remember her or the merry bedgames they’d doubtless shared? “I’m sorry. My head … It hurts.”
“It’s all right.” She touched him again in that tender, devastating way, sliding her cool hands over his and easing them down off his head. “Try to go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Is that a promise?” He even found a bit of humor for the comment, and that felt in character. But then the foulness bit at his throat and he rolled sharply away from her despite the agony in his head. “Going to be sick!” he choked out.
He fought it, and by some miracle she was round the bed and had the chamber pot ready by the time his stomach overwhelmed his will.
At least the racking, burning vomit seemed to take some of the agony with it. When he collapsed back onto the pillow, blades no longer stabbed through his skull. Only mallets hammered it.
The stink fouled the air, however. This was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had happened to him in his adult life. “I do beg your pardon….”
“It’s all right.” He heard humor and groaned. Quite the figure of fun he must be. Doubtless he’d been smooth enough last night when he’d coaxed her into his bed, and now here he was like a puling, sickly child.
A damp cloth wiped his face. Then she raised his head slightly and cool glass pressed near his lips.
“More,” he said, when he’d drained the water.
He heard a chink, and the promising gurgle. He was grateful she was working in the dark, for the thought of bright light made him wince. In moments she presented another full glass, and he drank it, then sank gratefully back onto the pillows.
Down pillows.
Inns didn’t have down pillows.
“Where am I?” he asked again. She’d answered before, hadn’t she? He’d forgotten.
“Gillsett.”
That didn’t sound like an inn. It sounded like a residence. A farm. Even a gentleman’s house …
“What is your name, sir? Should we notify anyone?”
At least he didn’t have to tell her he didn’t know. He was sliding back down into that annihilating void.