Now she wanted more—at least a little more.
Logan could give her that.
In front of the stable, Geoffrey turned to her while Vincent went to fetch his horse. “Your latest stray—you will be careful, won’t you? I know he seems perfectly gentlemanly, but he’s … well, you only have to look at him to know he’s …”
Linnet let her lips curve. “Dangerous?”
“Well, not necessarily that … I was thinking more of him not being meek and mild. I have to say it’s difficult to judge a man when he doesn’t know who he is, but, well, you know what I mean.”
“I do, Geoffrey dear, and you know better than to worry.”
“You could send him to St. Peter Port, to the castle.”
“No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.”
Geoffrey sighed. “I know you won’t worry over what others may think, or say—how it will look that he’s staying in the house, but—”
“Geoffrey, answer me this—who is there to see? Who will ever know where he slept?”
Geoffrey frowned at her. “What you mean is that no one anywhere around here will argue with whatever you decree.”
“Exactly.” Smiling, Linnet stretched up and bussed his cheek. “Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you next time I get to church.”
Vincent appeared with Geoffrey’s mount. Linnet stepped back as, capitulating, Geoffrey swung up to the saddle. After waving him off, she remained in the yard, watching him ride away.
Then she turned and strolled back to the house. Clearing the line of screening trees, she paused and looked up. And saw Logan in the window of her bedroom looking down at her.
Brazenly, she gazed back at him, drinking in the sight of his broad shoulders, his height, the sense of innate virility in his powerful frame, then, unhurriedly, she resumed her journey to the house.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t, send Logan on his way—not until he remembered who he was. And if that gave her time to experience more of the singular pleasure he could show her … so be it.
After luncheon, she suggested he should rest. Logan thought otherwise. “I’ll come with you and the girls.” He held her gaze. “Montrose mentioned you tended animals, but he didn’t say what sort.”
“All sorts!” Gaily, Gilly grabbed his hand. “Lots of sorts. You can help us—we’ll show you how.”
Getting to his feet, Logan smiled—as innocently as he could—at Linnet.
She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue further. They donned coats and cloaks, then, with Jen, she followed him and Gilly from the house.
“The pens are this way.” Turning left from the back door, Gilly towed him along a path running along the back of the house and on toward another line of trees. Glancing around, Logan noted that the house was more or less encircled by trees, all old and gnarled, but affording excellent protection from the prevailing winds. The path led them through an, archway formed by living branches, out onto a wider, more open expanse—pastures and enclosures protected by more trees.
“We have to feed the babies.” Gilly tugged him to a large wooden bin with a slanting wooden lid. Releasing his hand, she looked up at him expectantly. “You have to open it.”
He smiled and did, remembering at the last minute to push up with his right arm and not lift his left.
“Careful of your stitches.” Linnet was suddenly beside him, helping to set back the lid. When he raised his brows at her, faintly amused, she waspishly informed him, “Muriel and I spent more than an hour sewing you up—I don’t want our handiwork damaged.”
“Ah.” He continued to smile, continued to be tickled by her irritation; he’d noticed that none of the others dared bait her temper.
Then again, she had red hair.
And gorgeous green eyes, which she narrowed at him, then she reached into the bin, lifted a sack, and thrust it at him. “You and Gilly can feed the baby goats.”
Taking the sack, he turned to find Gilly jigging with impatience. With a grin, she whirled and dashed off. He followed her to one of the further enclosures and consented to be instructed in how to feed young goats.
By the time they’d done the rounds of all the pens, feeding calves, donkeys, fawns, even a few foals as well as the rambunctious kids, he’d realized what the vicar had meant about Linnet’s strays. Strays, orphans—those without family. She took them all in, and did her best to care for them.
With daylight waning before what looked to be a storm blowing in, they returned the sacks of grains, carrots, and turnips to the bin, then between them, he and Linnet lowered the lid and secured it. They’d exchanged barely a word since beginning the feeding. Falling into step alongside her, behind Jen and Gilly, who skipped ahead comparing notes on their favorite “pets,” he glanced at Linnet’s face, smiled, and looked ahead.
Deciding she was unlikely to do more than wither him for his presumption, he murmured, “You’re not exactly the usual run of gently bred female.”
He felt the green glance she sent him.
“Do you know so many gently bred females, then?”
He considered the question. “I suppose I must, given my comment.”
She made a scoffing sound. “If you can’t remember details, how can you know what gently bred females are like—what the limits of behavior are?”
“I know they wouldn’t share a bed with a stranger—not under any circumstances.” He caught her eyes—her wide green eyes—as she glanced at him. “I remember that much.”
How much did he remember?
He could see the question in her eyes—and could think of only one reason it would be there. His pulse leapt, but before he could press further and wring an admission from her, she looked forward and said, “Thank you for helping—you’re very good with children. Perhaps you’ve spent time with others at some point—can you remember? Perhaps you have some of your own?”
The idea rocked him. But … “No—I don’t think so.” But he couldn’t be sure. The notion left him with a hollow feeling; the idea he might have children and had forgotten them, however temporarily, chilled him—and in some stirring corner of his brain, he knew there was a reason for the feeling.
When he continued silent, keeping pace beside her, cloak pushed back, his hands in his breeches pockets, head bent, a frown tangling his black brows, Linnet tried to congratulate herself on having so successfully deflected him, but his continued silence nagged at her. Almost as if she’d landed a low blow.
She suspected she had.
She’d noticed how well he interacted with the boys; they’d only known him a day, yet they’d instantly taken to him. That wasn’t, perhaps, surprising; even bandaged, he cut a, dashing figure with his peculiar aura of danger hanging about him almost as tangibly as her father’s old cloak. But the girls were usually much more reserved, yet even quiet Jen had smiled and chatted to him as if she’d known him for months, if not years.
He’d been attentive, responsive, engaged, yet utterly dictatorial. He’d stopped Gilly from climbing too high on a fence with the simple words, “No—get down.”
The order had been utterly absolute; he’d expected to be obeyed—and he had been.
That moment, above all, had bothered her; she knew all there was to know about command, and she liked, indeed insisted on, being the one who wielded it.
Logan—whoever he was—was a born leader; now she’d started looking, she could see the telltale signs. And all her instincts were telling her it wasn’t his size or his strength she should be wary of. In personality and character they were very much alike. Giving him any reason to consider her one of those it was his duty, indeed, his right, to protect—and to therefore issue orders to, ones he would expect to be obeyed—would only result in battles, battles he wouldn’t win, but she didn’t need those sort of clashes in her life.
She didn’t need, didn’t want, a man who expected to control her, to bend her to his will, anywhere near.
Especially not if he might succeed.
Her s
aner side had come to the fore. Despite her brazen self still wanting to spend as many nights as possible in his arms, self-protection trumped her newfound desire for sexual satisfaction.
Which had resulted in her instinctive, and it seemed perfectly gauged, deflection.
She glanced at him, saw him still brooding, and inwardly grimaced. Felt a touch guilty.
But at least she’d had time to slow her heartbeat. He’d evoked a moment of uncharacteristic panic, but she was over that now. No matter how much he might suspect, no matter how much he might hint, he couldn’t actually know—not, for certain. Unless she told him, or in some way gave herself away, he couldn’t be sure he truly had made her sob and moan last night.
They entered the house in the girls’ wake. When they paused to hang up their cloaks in the hall, she glanced at him again.
He was still looking inward, his expression shuttered.
She grasped the moment to look—to study him again, and let her senses inform her mind of all they could detect.
What she saw made her shiver.
Abruptly turning, she led the way to the parlor.
He, whoever he was, was too much—too large, too strong, too powerful, too virile, altogether too commanding. And while there was, undeniably, a challenge in the prospect of engaging in a wild liaison with such a man, a wise woman would keep her distance.
She could, when so moved, be very, very wise.
Three
With the exception of the other men, who were continuing with their duties about the estate, the household gathered about the dining table for afternoon tea—for scones, raspberrry jam, and clotted cream.
“I know I like scones and jam,” Logan said in reply to Muriel’s query, “but for some reason …” After a moment, he grimaced. “I don’t think I’ve had any for a considerable time.”
“Well, have another.” Buttons passed him the tray. “There’s plenty.”
Linnet watched as he helped himself to two more, yet while the children chatted and Buttons and Muriel swapped local gossip, once again, although physically present, Logan became so still that he seemed no longer there.
He was wrestling with his memory again. She longed to tell him that no good would come of it, that bludgeoning his brain wasn’t going to help.
She hadn’t helped with her comment about children.
She studied his face. His color was good, his eyes clear. She would have liked to check the wound in his side, but didn’t want to lift the dressings yet—tomorrow, maybe. Meanwhile … his physical condition had improved considerably, and he’d shown no sign of developing a fever. Perhaps it was time to risk prodding his memory.
Rising, she went into the parlor, to the drawer in the sideboard where she’d placed the three items he’d had on him when they’d found him. Her hand hovered over the saber, but in the end she picked up the dirk and carried it back to the table.
Logan blinked back to the world when Linnet appeared by his side and placed a dirk on the white cloth before him.
“You had this when we found you—you were clutching it so tightly I had to pry your fingers from the hilt. Presumably it’s important to you.”
She said nothing more, simply slipped into her chair at the head of the table to his left.
He picked up the dirk.
He knew it was a dirk. Knew it was his. Holding it in his left hand, he stroked the fingers of his right over the ornately wrought hilt, over the polished stone embedded in it.…
And remembered.
He closed his eyes as the years flooded back.
His childhood. Glenluce. The little cottage above the town. His mother, sweet-faced and gentle. His uncle, her brother, who had raised him, taught him, counseled him so wisely. His father … oh, yes, his father.
“Monteith.” Opening his eyes, he met Linnet’s. “My name is Logan Monteith.” The chatter about the table ceased. Into the ensuing silence, he recited the bare facts—that he’d been born and raised in Glenluce, in Galloway, a small country town on the river, The Water of Luce, just above where it ran into Luce Bay.
He remembered much more—the light slanting off the water, the wind in his hair. His first pony, the first time he’d gone with his uncle sailing and fishing in Luce Bay. The scent of heather on the moors, the smell of fish by the wharves. The cries of the gulls wheeling high above.
And his father—above all, his father.
He glossed over the fact that his father hadn’t lived with, his mother, had appeared only irregularly in that little cottage above the town. Omitted to mention that his father hadn’t married his mother, and even on her deathbed, his mother hadn’t cared. But he, Logan, had.
Even when he’d been young, too young to truly comprehend the situation, he’d cared enough for them both.
“Later, I went to Hexham Grammar School.” Those memories were vivid—the chill of the stone buildings, the small fires, the echoes of dozens of feet pounding along corridors. The shouts of boys, the roughhousing, the camaraderie. The masters in their black gowns. “I remember my years there. I was a passable student.” Scholastically, he’d done well enough, a sharp eye, native wit, and a ready tongue enough to get him over all the hurdles. “I remember it all, to the last year. When I returned home, I …”
Abruptly, the memories ended. He frowned. Try as he might, he couldn’t see further, couldn’t push further; it was as if he’d reached a black stone wall. He stared unseeing across the table. “I can’t remember anything more.”
Linnet exchanged a swift look with Muriel. “Don’t worry—the fog will clear if you give it time.” She glanced at the dirk, still in his large hands. “Who gave you the dagger?”
He looked down, turned it in his hands. “My father.” After a moment, he went on, “It’s been in his family for centuries.”
“An heirloom, then,” Muriel said.
Slowly, his gaze still on the blade, Logan nodded.
Gently, Linnet asked, “Your mother, your father. Are they alive?”
Logan lifted his head, met her eyes. “Waiting for me to come home?” When she nodded, he stared at her, then frowned. “I don’t think—feel—that they are, but …” After a moment, he shook his head. “I can’t be sure. I can’t remember. They were alive, both of them, when I finished at Hexham.”
Linnet resisted the impulse to tell him to let the matter rest, let his mind rest after the sudden influx of memories, let, it catch its breath, at it were. “Now you’ve started remembering, the rest will surely come.”
“Indeed.” Muriel briskly nodded. “It often comes back like that—in fits and starts.”
The children had been commendably silent, listening and watching, but Brandon couldn’t hold back any longer. “What sort of boat did you sail with your uncle?”
The question pulled Logan from his absorption. Linnet mentally blessed Brandon as Logan, clearly thinking back, answered.
That was the signal for the others to put their questions, peppering him with queries on pets—numerous, siblings—none, and for details of Glenluce and Scottish ways.
The distraction gave Linnet a chance to refine her view of Logan in light of what he’d recalled. Even in Guernsey, they knew of Hexham Grammar School. As Winchester Grammar School was to the south of England, Hexham was to the far north. The boys who attended were gentry, overwhelmingly of the higher orders—the aristocracy and even the nobility. Many noble houses of the Border regions sent their sons to Hexham.
Logan’s ingrained manners, his air of command, and his protectiveness toward those he considered weaker, combined with his having attended such a school, painted a picture of a gentleman very much Linnet’s equal—born to good family, gentry at least, brought up in the country, by the sea.
The children’s questions faded. Logan fell silent, a frown once again knitting his black brows.
Finally, he let the dirk he still held between his hands fall the few inches to the table. Folding his hands atop it, he looked at Linnet. Lips thin, he sh
ook his head. “I still can’t remember anything more.” Frustration etched his face, darkened his eyes. “What did I do next? What did I become?”
She dropped her gaze to his hands, then on impulse reached out and took them in hers.
Memory of a different sort struck.
She nearly jerked at the jolt of remembered sensation.
Of excitement—pure, unadulterated, lancing-sharp—that flashed across her senses. Heat, sensual and potent, unfurled in its wake … mentally gritting her teeth, locking her gaze on his fingers, his palms, she ignored it. Ignored the unprecedented thump-thump of her heart, and focused.
Examined.
Managed to draw enough breath to say, in a level, passably unaffected tone, “You don’t have the right calluses to be a sailor.” She released his hands, resisting the urge to run her fingertips over the calluses that were there.
To her relief, when she glanced up, he was staring at his hands. “I do have calluses, though.”
“Yes, but you didn’t get them sailing.”
He nodded, accepting. “Something else repetitive. Reins?” He looked at her. “Perhaps I was a driver?”
“Or a rider.” She thought of the saber in the sideboard drawer.
She was about to rise and fetch it when he dropped his head in his hands, for an instant gripped, held still, then started massaging his temples. Linnet hesitated, then looked down the table at Muriel.
Concern in her eyes, Muriel shook her head.
Looking back at Logan just as he scrubbed his hands over his face, then rubbed the back of his neck, Linnet had to agree. He might be physically strong, but he looked mentally exhausted. Pushing too hard all at once might not help.
Turning to Will, she asked, “Which way did you go on your ride?”
Later, after dinner, Logan followed the children into the parlor and, sprawling with them on the floor before the fire, taught them a card game he’d remembered from his childhood.
The children were quickly enthralled, calling out, laughing, and crowing triumphantly as they swapped cards and won tricks.
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