Chapter 4
Four
HENRY
Henry awoke feeling right as the rain steadily dripping down the window.
His face felt oddly deflated. The work of the worms, during which he had been blessedly sedated.
He rolled out of bed and availed himself of the cramped closet that had been specially dedicated to house the chamber pot.
Whatever other luxuries the Mermaid’s Rest lacked, it made up for with this thoughtful convenience.
He poured himself more water, listened to the empty gurgle of his stomach, and laid back down, thinking while he stared at the ceiling.
How did he know that this inn, considered the best in Cavalier Cove—not that there was much competition—was a shabby dump compared to his usual accommodations? There was no logical reason for him to hold such a frankly snobbish viewpoint.
Who was he?
Before he could contemplate the question for long, Mrs. Longwood bustled into the room. “You’re awake,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“That’s a good sign.”
He was inclined to agree, but more than that, he was keen to get out of this room. They went down to the common room which was full of morose people in varying stages of drunkenness. Some were cheerful and chatty, while most were lamenting their interrupted travel plans.
“Proper squall,” one man grunted, fondling his pint of beer while rain pelted the glass.
Henry pulled out a chair for Artemisia. She took her seat with an unusually pensive expression pinching her lovely features.
“What ails you?”
“Nothing, yet.” She smiled tightly.
“Two ales, please,” he signaled to the barmaid. She offered him a choice of chicken or fish for his supper. He chose the chicken.
“I am worried that I won’t arrive at my cousin’s in time to see her baby born.”
“Are you a midwife?”
“No.” She smiled fleetingly.
“Then I cannot imagine she needs your assistance with the process of birthing.”
“Fair enough.” Artemisia turned to stare out the window. “I like to feel useful, that’s all. New mothers need all the help they can get.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You don’t have children?” she asked.
“No,” he said firmly. “In fact, I’m fairly certain I was adamantly opposed to the prospect of children. Not making them, per se, but the raising and caring for parts...” He shuddered.
“You realize this isn’t very becoming of you.”
“But you appreciate my honesty.” To his gratification, she laughed. “I do like babies. In theory. I’m sure I don’t have any of my own, and yet I must have given the subject a great deal of thought. Recently.” Henry felt his brow pleat as he tried to summon stubborn memories that refused to surface.
“Another thing that’s on my mind is that I don’t know what to do with you,” Artemisia said.
“I can think of a number of things you could do with me.” He waggled his brows suggestively. She rolled her eyes, but a blush dusted the peaks of her cheekbones.
“Incorrigible,” she muttered.
“You started it.”
“I suppose I did.” She propped her chin on one hand and watched him tuck into his dinner. “I apologize for attempting to peek beneath your blanket yesterday.”
“I took no offense,” he said truthfully. “I was, however, offended that you slept on the floor. You could have killed me by tripping me like that,” he said reproachfully.
“Sharing the room is bad enough,” she said primly. “Sharing the bed was simply a bridge too far.”
He scoffed. “The damage was already done. You should have gotten a good night’s rest.” Reaching across the table to cup her jaw, he said, “You look like you barely rested at all.”
She turned into his palm for the briefest moment before pulling away. “I didn’t. The floor was uncomfortable and the bed was equally uncomfortable, for different reasons.”
The blush was back. Lightning crashed outside, turning the room sickly yellow. She startled.
“It’s only noise,” he said.
“I know. I don’t like storms much. I never have.”
“Do you need me to comfort you? I can be quite a distraction. Besides, I owe you for your generosity.”
“Romantic words every lady wants to hear,” she said dryly. “That she is owed a debt.”
“You’ll have to forgive my lack of finesse. I recently suffered a concussion.” Henry gave her a lopsided grin. The widow chuckled. “You could take me to your cousin’s,” he suggested.
“I don’t think Margaret would appreciate me showing up with a strange man in tow right when she’s birthed her first child.”
“I can see how that might not go over well.” He racked his brain.
What was he going to do if he couldn’t remember who he was and where he hailed from?
He couldn’t ask Artemisia to fund his stay here in Cavalier Cove indefinitely.
He would have to find employment. Which was a difficult proposition considering he had no idea what kind of occupation he was fit to perform.
Smithing was out. He extended his hands, turning them over. No calluses. Only a few fading ink stains on the inside of his right index finger. Perhaps he could be a clerk. He was literate, that much was undeniable. Reading was as effortless as breathing.
Small, pale fingers slid into his. Henry curled his around hers, holding her there.
“What are you thinking about?” the widow asked. “You turned pensive all of a sudden.”
“I was wondering how I might muddle through when you have to leave.”
She sighed. “With this rain, it doesn’t seem like I’ll be traveling on for another day or two at least. The roads will be far too muddy. We would risk breaking an axle or injuring one of the horses.”
Across the room, someone took out a fiddle and began to play a melody.
“Perhaps my memory will come back before then. Shall we dance?” He jerked his head to where people had pushed aside furniture to clear a floor.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Artemisia chided, but she gathered her skirts and rose, still holding one of his hands.
“I have rested. Now I could use a diversion, and seeing as we won’t be going anywhere this evening, why not?”
Henry pulled her into his arms. The scent of lavender water mixed with a softer floral note—gardenia or lily, he thought—wafted from her pinned-up hair.
Last night it had been braided away from her face.
He wanted to see it free from all constraints, slithering across her shoulders.
She carried herself lightly, each step perfectly timed to the music.
“You dance surprisingly well,” she said after an entire minute where he managed not to tread on her toes once.
“As do you.”
“I had many hours of lessons. My instructor never taught us country dances, though.” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I did not expect a man found in a hedgerow to know how to waltz. Moreover, an injured man should not be dancing at all. You are quite spry. I assumed thorns would have left scratches in sensitive places.”
“Is that why you peeked beneath my blanket? To check whether my bits and bobs had been damaged?”
Artemisia flared her eyes wide with mock innocence. “What other reason could an upstanding lady such as myself have for committing an indecent inspection of a total stranger? I was only trying to help.”
“I’m sure your curiosity was perfectly innocent,” he said dryly. “Artemisia, despite your professed principles, you are a woman who clearly likes to have a good time.”
“That I do,” she agreed easily. “Unfortunately I must act dreadfully serious all the time lest people think me a fool, or worse, wicked.”
“Are you wicked?” he asked, his breath skimming past her cheek. He inhaled the scent of her and felt his cock stir with interest. Get down, he scolded it. We are dancing, not that other thing you like to do so much.
The music slowed. Other dancers edged away to take sips of beer while the fiddler considered his next song. Henry rested his palm on the small of her back and didn’t let her pull away. Not that she made any attempt to do so.
The moment stretched awkwardly between them. There was only one way to break the tension. Henry cupped her chin and bent his head.
Artemisia’s breath hitched. She didn’t protest when he brushed a feather-light kiss to her lips.
The light contact was enough to send his blood surging southward.
He angled his head and kissed her again, more firmly.
He shifted his weight forward fractionally to get closer to her soft curves.
Distantly, he registered violin music starting up. A wheezing accordion joined in.
“If you want to be wicked with me tonight, all you have to do is ask,” he said. “One word from you and I am your plaything, or I shall never broach the subject again. Which will it be, Mrs. Longwood?”