Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  She moved to help Mrs. Brown raise him on the bed but found herself supplanted by Mr. Throckmorton and Mr. Kinman, both of whom assisted Mrs. Brown effortlessly. Enid watched as Mrs. Brown lifted the mug of broth off the tray, and decided she wasn’t needed. Decided she was glad of it.

  “I’m Throckmorton,” he introduced himself. “This is Kinman, my right-hand man. That’s Harry over by the door, he’s in charge of the gatehouse, and that fellow with the crossed arms is Jackson. I’ve hired him as your valet, to care for you and your clothing, to shave and bathe you as you wish.”

  A valet? Enid looked at Jackson, who moved to the bedside and bowed. Jackson was of medium height and age, with brown hair, slightly stooped shoulders, gold-rimmed glasses, and the most impressive set of side-whiskers she’d ever seen. He might have been innocuous except for his superior air, which many valets considered so much a part of their nature.

  A valet. Enid’s duties were swiftly disappearing.

  Enid moved back toward the stairway, back to Harry’s side. “MacLean’s awake,” she said unnecessarily.

  “He is.” Harry never took his gaze off the bed. “Will he recover?”

  “It’s too early to tell.” She hesitated. “But yes. I think so. If sheer willpower can make it so, he’ll recover.”

  “Willpower.” Harry sounded skeptical. “Does it mean so much?”

  “It means everything. I’ve cared for a great many patients, and it’s their will that keeps them alive past their time. Willpower that drives them to recover. Or a lack of will that brings them to an untimely end.”

  “MacLean has always had the most fortitude of any man I’ve ever met.”

  Fortitude? Stephen MacLean had fortitude?

  “I would never have recognized him.” Harry turned his remarkably large brown eyes on her. “Would you?”

  She didn’t like Harry, she realized. She didn’t like him or trust him at all. He watched too intensely. He dressed in dark clothing. He stood too tall, and with the coiled tautness of a steel spring. His size, his strength, everything that should have made him a good bodyguard instead exuded a faint sense of threat.

  But she didn’t know him. Certainly Mr. Kinman trusted him, and more important, Mr. Throckmorton.

  And she . . . she had suffered too many changes in her life lately. She’d had too little sleep and too much worry. She should remember—she had proved herself to be a poor judge of character. She had married Stephen MacLean. So she contented herself with a mere, “MacLean is greatly changed.”

  “Enid!” MacLean sounded testy. “Come here, Enid. You know I’m too weak to hold this mug by myself.”

  She did, but that he would confess such a weakness filled her with suspicion. She approached. The crowd around his bedside parted. Like an Eastern potentate, he lolled on the pillows. How easily he had moved from a coma to dominating a room full of people. And he was trying to extend his domination to her.

  Her steps slowed. She badly wanted to defy him.

  He scowled at her, commanded her attendance with his gaze.

  Who did he think he was?

  Her husband.

  But no. He’d said she’d lied to him. He’d said he didn’t believe they were married. She knew the truth. He was her husband, Stephen MacLean—reprobate, gambler, knave. Probably he’d perjured himself when he’d said he didn’t remember anything. Stephen MacLean had always been the kind of man who would rather tell a lie when the truth would do. But there was something about him—the brief show of panic, the irrational fury—that made her think that in this matter, at least, he told the truth.

  She owed him nothing except the care for which she was paid to provide—and he did need care. He had just come to consciousness. He might slip away from them at any moment.

  Accepting the mug from Mrs. Brown, Enid sat beside him on the bed. She slid her arm behind his head and lifted the mug to his lips. He drank that as greedily as he’d swallowed the water, and she extended the mug to Mrs. Brown for a refill.

  He glanced up at her, then around at the assemblage. “Now, dear lass, are you going to burp me?”

  The men laughed, relieved from the tension created by seeing one of their own fed like a baby.

  The women exchanged exasperated glances.

  Enid accepted the broth and held it for MacLean. This time he sipped more slowly and with a great deal more caution. She observed him as she had observed him these last weeks, hoping he would keep everything down, praying that this time he would sleep to wake again.

  Now he was awake, and she couldn’t seem to cease her vigilance.

  It wasn’t healthy for a man to be the center of anyone’s existence; men already had exaggerated ideas of their own importance.

  Mr. Throckmorton looked around at his minions. “You know this, but I must impress on you the importance of silence. No word of MacLean’s recovery must be allowed to leak out. My wedding is fast approaching. There will be guests aplenty at Blythe Hall. A single mistake could put his life in jeopardy.”

  All faces looked solemn. All heads nodded. All except MacLean’s; he watched Mr. Throckmorton with cynical interest.

  Nor did Enid nod. Instead she again wondered why such a protective net extended over the person of her husband.

  “I will speak to MacLean alone,” Mr. Throckmorton said.

  Sally left first with a bob of a curtsy. Mrs. Brown followed. Jackson bowed again, then descended the stairs. Mr. Kinman headed for the door and paused beside Harry, who stood still, his brown eyes dwelling on MacLean, then on Enid, with sober intensity.

  The way he watched them made her uncomfortable. She realized MacLean’s head rested in the crook of her arm. That she must appear protective and . . . affectionate.

  She tried to remove her arm.

  Catching her hand, MacLean held it firmly in his grasp.

  She could have gotten free, of course. His wasted muscles had no power. But from the little she knew of this MacLean, he wouldn’t give up without a fight. Such a struggle would be undignified.

  Mr. Kinman clapped his hand to Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, man, we’ll go have a drink to celebrate. Then it’s back to work. We’ve got a lot to do in the weeks before the wedding.”

  After a final, measured stare, the gatehouse keeper descended the stairs.

  Enid moved to put the mug down so she could leave, but MacLean squeezed her fingers gently and challenged Mr. Throckmorton with his tone. “Not you, you’re my wife.”

  “Now I’m your wife?” Enid mocked. “Quite a change from an hour ago.”

  “Of course you’re his wife,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “And you should stay.”

  MacLean rubbed his cheek against her hand. “There. We have a ruling from an authority. We are married.”

  Enid wanted to reply smartly, but she became a shadow in the chamber as the two men sized each other up. Their concentration, the sense of power each man exuded astounded Enid. Of course Mr. Throckmorton possessed that indefatigable air of command, but MacLean seemed to possess it, too, and when had that happened?

  “So there’s going to be a wedding here,” MacLean said. “Who’s getting married?”

  “I am.” Going to the hole in the floor, Mr. Throckmorton shut the door on the stairway and the room below. “Mrs. MacLean, I would like you to keep this locked at all times when you are alone with your husband.”

  “Why?” Enid and MacLean demanded together.

  “There will be a great many strangers here for my wedding, and I would rest more easily if I knew you to be undiscovered.”

  Mr. Throckmorton’s answer was no answer at all, but before Enid could question him further, MacLean said, “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I can’t imagine what sort of lass would be so foolish as to tie herself to a morose bastard like you.” MacLean looked startled at his own joking, friendly comment.

  “Wait until you see her,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “Celeste is beautiful. She’s charming. She’s too intelligent for her
own good. You’ll really wonder what she’s thinking then.”

  “You’re rich?”

  Mr. Throckmorton nodded.

  “Is she of like circumstances?”

  “Poor as a church mouse. But she loves me for myself.” Not a hint of sarcasm colored his tone; Mr. Throckmorton was a happy man and didn’t care who knew it.

  MacLean’s mouth turned down. “You believe that?”

  Appalled, Enid chided, “MacLean, how rude!”

  MacLean picked her hand off his shoulder and kissed it. “I’m a rude lad, I think.”

  But Mr. Throckmorton didn’t seem to be offended by MacLean’s insolence. Placing his fists on the mattress, he leaned over MacLean. “Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t care. If I had to bribe her to marry me, I’d do it. I would do anything to have Celeste.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” MacLean said.

  Mr. Throckmorton grinned. “You lied—as a safeguard, no doubt. You do still have your memory.”

  Anticipation gripped Enid. Did MacLean remember?

  “No.” MacLean looked him right in the eyes. “I don’t.”

  Hope faded again, and Enid sighed.

  A silence fell on the chamber. Not a silence such as had wrapped them ’round for the last fortnight, but a thoughtful silence. A guarded silence.

  Enid watched the two men, wondering how Mr. Throckmorton would take the disappointment, seeing how MacLean waited, apparently relaxed, while waiting for the reaction.

  Straightening, Mr. Throckmorton said, “You’re a suspicious sort. You always have been. That’s one of your qualities that first attracted my attention.”

  “Am I? I don’t remember.”

  “You say you don’t remember, yet you always were pessimistic about marriage.”

  “I still am, although I can’t tell you why.” MacLean glanced up at Enid. “Especially when I’ve taken such a bonny lass to wife.”

  Mr. Throckmorton’s gaze flicked from one to the other.

  “Of course, she tells me we’ve been estranged.”

  “I . . . yes, you were.” Mr. Throckmorton paced away.

  “Perhaps that’s the reason for my cynicism.” MacLean closed his eyes for a moment as if the excitement had tired him.

  In a tone so noncommittal as to be dry, Mr. Throckmorton said, “I had to bring Mrs. MacLean here in the hopes you would revive for her sake.”

  “As I have. It was her sweet voice that guided me to consciousness.” MacLean’s thin face creased as he smiled at her with an edge so sharp it cut her like a razor. “But not to memory.”

  Mr. Throckmorton paced back to the foot of the bed and grasped the rails between his fingers. “I will tell you the truth, MacLean. I can’t shake the suspicion that you remember everything but fear I may have betrayed you. Yet if I’d had anything to do with the explosion, you’d be dead now. You’re on my land; it would have been no problem at all to have had your life snuffed out.”

  “I may have information you need,” MacLean said flatly.

  “You do.”

  Enid shrank from their intensity.

  Mr. Throckmorton said, “We believe—we hope—you have some knowledge of who set that bomb, killed our man and injured you. If I didn’t want that information known, I could have had you killed. Knowing this, I have to ask you again—is it true you remember nothing?”

  Enid found herself holding her breath.

  “Nothing,” he whispered, as if grieved, and his eyelids drooped. “I remember nothing.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “I believe you. I have no choice.”

  “Where . . .” MacLean seemed to be struggling to stay awake. “Where are my things?”

  Enid was startled. “Your things?”

  “I must have something that is mine. If I could see and touch and smell the pieces of my past, perhaps I could remember . . .”

  “You came away from the bombing with only your kilt and your sporran.”

  “My sporran. Yes. I want my sporran.” As quickly as MacLean had awoken, he slumped on the pillows.

  In a panic, Enid leaned close to his face. His breath dusted her cheek. She placed her fingers on the pulse of his neck. His heart beat strongly beneath her touch. Easing away, she answered Mr. Throckmorton’s unasked question. “He’s fine. Just exhausted.”

  “He’ll wake again?”

  “There are no absolutes in human health—but yes, I think so.”

  Mr. Throckmorton sighed. Walking to the window, he stared out at the garden. “How long will this loss of memory last?”

  “I don’t know. I have no experience with riddles of the mind.” She put the mug on the tray and noted that her hand trembled. “I’ve heard of patients claiming they didn’t remember anything, but I always thought it was silly, a story concocted by the guilty or the insane.”

  Mr. Throckmorton faced her. In a voice of displeasure, he said, “MacLean has no reason to feel guilty.”

  “I hope not.” No recent reason, anyway.

  “And he’s not insane.”

  “Heavens, no!” She shook her head with a little more calm. “No, he is not.”

  “All right.” Mr. Throckmorton took her hands. “Feed him. Make him better. When his body is healthy, his mind will heal, too.”

  “I hope so.” Although she liked this enfeebled husband better than the physically whole one she’d had before. “I think so.”

  “I’ll send Mrs. Brown to you.” Mr. Throckmorton went to the trapdoor and opened it. “Lock this behind me, and open it only to one you know.”

  Enid stared after him, then hurried to obey him. The sturdy bolt slid into place with a click. The quagmire in which she found herself grew deeper and more perilous by the moment. She feared she would be sucked below the surface. More than that, she feared, despite Mr. Throckmorton’s assurances, that MacLean might be in danger, and she knew herself only too well. While he was helpless, she would do anything, even risk her own life, to save him.

  She would do the same for any patient, she assured herself. She would; nothing about MacLean and that kiss could remove the sting of eight years of poverty and debt.

  “What is your impression of Throckmorton?”

  At the gravelly sound of MacLean’s voice, Enid almost jumped out of her skin. She faced him and saw how he struggled to keep his eyes open, how his skin had bleached to the shade of parchment, how he remained awake only through the exercise of his will. “You need sleep,” she said. “You haven’t the strength for this kind of exertion.”

  “What do you think of Throckmorton?”

  Weak as a lamb, stubborn as a mule! MacLean wouldn’t stop asking until she’d given her opinion, and so she said, “I like him.”

  MacLean wheezed with laughter. “But is he telling the truth?”

  “Yes. I mean, I think so. He has given me no reason to think otherwise.” She came to MacLean’s side, lifted his head and gave him another drink of water. “He’s right. He could have had you killed at any time.”

  “If I’ve discovered information he wants, and the information exists only within my mind, then Throckmorton would wish to keep me alive until I’ve given up that information. When he has the information, then he can kill me.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t thought of it that way. “I never excelled at logic.”

  “That’s what you have me for.” MacLean’s eyelids drooped and his voice became slurred. “Throckmorton might not be an ally. He might well be my executioner.”

  “So you really don’t remember.”

  Smiling, he shook his head.

  But she began to comprehend the labyrinth of distrust and skepticism through which they wandered. “But I work for Mr. Throckmorton, and you don’t remember that I’m your wife.”

  “Not so awful at logic, after all.” He smiled at her with that cruel, sharp smile. “You could be my executioner, too.” His eyelids slid shut. “And there isn’t a damn thing I could do about it.” He was asleep.

  She stood l
ooking down at him. The swelling on his face had subsided, leaving the harsh bone structure unsoftened by a padding of healthy flesh. Instead his skin was slashed and scarred, his blade of a nose hooked where it had been broken, his beard was scraggly and colored blond and auburn with sprinkles of gray. His lips . . . when she’d first come, they’d been cracked with fever. She’d rubbed them with ointment, bringing them to a state of wide, pale smoothness. Truth to tell, she’d fallen a little in love with his lips. Not that she’d gone so far as to imagine another kiss, but she had found pleasure in their shape, their velvety texture, the way they might feel if they brushed her neck, her chest, her . . . well, she found pleasure in their velvety texture.

  She still didn’t recognize Stephen MacLean, but as each day passed and she concentrated solely on the man in the bed, the old memories faded. He would never again resemble the man she’d married, but perhaps that was a good thing, for he gave every appearance of wanting . . . things she wasn’t ready to give.

  He’d kissed her. More important, she’d kissed him back. That kiss had succeeded because MacLean had caught her by surprise. Yes, that was it. He’d caught her unawares, and her response had been a reaction more to years of deprivation than to real passion. She needed to remember who he was. What he had done. To her. To others, too. Stephen MacLean had never been too concerned with telling the truth or allowing others to retain what was theirs. They’d fought about that, and many a time he’d taunted her, called her an orphan who didn’t understand how her betters lived.

  When this man’s memory returned, his old, feckless personality would return. She knew it. No man changed as MacLean had changed. She needed to remember that because . . . because if he stayed the man he had been for this brief hour, she could develop a passion for him.

  She’d suffered through infatuation once, and the results had almost brought her to her knees. The thought of springing that trap again frightened her as she hadn’t been frightened for eight long years. Her gaze fixed on the unconscious man, she freed her fingers from his and retreated from the bed.

  Plagued by sleep terrors, he jumped. He groaned. His eyes fluttered open and glanced wildly about him. His gaze found her, and he sighed. “Stay with me.”