by C. J. Archer
"Oh," she said, "it's you."
He blinked at her, fanning the longest, blackest lashes she'd ever seen. Such a waste on a man. "We've met? My apologies, madam, but I don't recall the encounter."
"Perhaps if you'd removed your hat and looked at me, you would recognize me now."
"My hat? Where is it?"
She pointed at the hedgerow. "It must have fallen off."
"That's not mine."
She sat back on her haunches and stared at him. He was handsome, even with blood matting his dark hair and crusting the side of his face. "You don't recall our meeting earlier, do you?"
He shook his head then, groaning, went quite pale.
She touched the back of his neck. "Draw your knees up and rest your forehead on them for a moment. Do you feel ill?"
"A little." He did as he was told and sucked in a deep breath, but that merely produced another groan. His ribs must be sore too.
She fetched his hat and pack. The latter appeared untouched, suggesting no thieves had set upon him. "You didn't tell me what happened to you," she said, inspecting the gash again. She had salves and bandages back at the farm. The sooner she could tend it, the better.
"I can't remember," he said, lifting his head. His eyes fluttered closed, and she worried he'd faint. Fortunately, he seemed to rally and opened them again. They were clearer, their dark brown depths warm as he focused on her face for a very long time, particularly her nose where her freckles were more prominent.
He pressed his lips together, and his gaze connected with hers, briefly, before he turned away as if embarrassed to be caught looking. Lucy's face heated. She wasn't used to having such a handsome man study her with intensity.
It was important to not let his handsomeness blind her, however. He'd been rude on their first meeting. She shouldn't soften toward him just because he'd received a blow to the head.
"What do you mean you can't remember what happened? Did you fall?"
"I don't know. I… " He rubbed his temples and looked around at the hedgerow, the trees. "Where am I? This place doesn't look familiar."
"You're on my brother's land. Actually, it's my father's, but Henry manages it and will inherit one day." She snapped her mouth shut. There was no need to tell him anything. Indeed, it was probably best if she didn't. But something about him unsettled her and when she felt nervous, she tended to talk overmuch.
"Oh," he said, frowning. "Are you related to the Whitcombs?"
"No."
His frown deepened. "I must have wandered further than I thought. Father will be furious. You won't tell him, will you?"
Why would this big, strong man be worried what his father thought? Odder and odder.
"We'd better take you home," she said. "Is it far?"
"I told you, I don't recognize this land."
She crossed her arms, studied him. "What's your name?"
"Nicholas Coleclough. What's yours?"
"Lucy Cowdrey. Where are you from, Mr. Coleclough?"
One corner of his mouth lifted in the most impish smile. "Coleclough Hall."
"I don't know it, and I know all the manors hereabouts. Is it in this part of Hampshire?"
He screwed up his nose. "Kent. Why do you mention Hampshire?"
Lucy waited, but he didn't laugh, and the small smile he'd sported vanished altogether. He wasn't jesting. "Because that's where we are," she said quietly.
Confusion flickered in his eyes. "No, this is Kent." But even as he said it, he looked around again with a mystified frown. "I live in Kent," he muttered. "Coleclough Hall. It's been in my family for generations." He turned back to her, and she was shocked to see him stripped of all cockiness. There wasn't a shred of the man she'd met earlier. He'd been bold and rude then, oozing confidence and power. The fellow sitting before her, bloodied and bruised, was confused, humble. It did not make sense.
"What am I doing in Hampshire?" he asked.
"That must have been quite a bump on your head. I'll take you to the farm for now until we can sort out the mystery of how you came to be so far from home. Perhaps someone in the village knows where you're from. I'll ask tomorrow. In the meantime, you can recuperate in our spare bedchamber."
"That's very kind of you, madam, but please, I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not. I'm glad to help." It suddenly struck her that he might be lying. This could all be a ruse with the aim of robbing her, or worse.
But who would beat themselves almost to death, lie in a meadow hoping to be stumbled upon, then put on an elaborate act, all for the chance to rob someone? Not even the comedies performed by the traveling players were as ridiculous.
"Can you stand?"
"Of course." He tried to get up but had to sit again and rest his forehead on his knees. A few moments later, breathing shallowly, he tried once more and managed to stand. He took one fumbling step and would have fallen, but Lucy slipped in beside him and circled an arm around his waist. He sucked air between his teeth but did not ask her to let go. She tried to hold him gingerly so as not to put more pressure on his bruises.
"All right?" she asked.
"I think so."
She picked up his pack and slung it over one shoulder, then carried both his hat and hers in the same hand. "Put your arm around me," she said.
He hesitated.
"Go on. I don't mind."
"I don't want to hurt you. You're very small and delicate."
She chuckled. "Actually, it is you who are large. If you're going to fall, just do it in the other direction."
He laughed but stopped abruptly with a hiss of pain. "I'll accept your offer after all." He reached across her back and rested his hand on her shoulder.
Something long and hard inside his sleeve pressed into her. A knife, she supposed. It wasn't unusual for a traveler to have an extra weapon tucked away to protect himself.
They walked off, slowly because he limped heavily. He felt tense against her, every muscle taut. And there was a lot of muscle.
"Thank you, Mistress Cowdrey," he said. "This is very kind of you. My father will compensate you for your troubles."
"It's no trouble, and I don't want compensation. Some answers to my questions will do."
"I don't understand what happened. Who would do this to me? Why? My pack appears to be full, so it wasn't thieves."
So he'd noticed that too. "Your memory of the event must have been destroyed," she said. "I've heard of that happening when there is an injury to the head."
She concentrated on where they set each foot and not looking up at him, but she could feel his gaze upon her nevertheless. His fingers relaxed on her shoulder but didn't let go. His thumb stroked her through her layers of clothing. She glanced up and despite his brown skin, she saw him blush.
He let go. "I'm sorry."
She caught his hand and put it around her waist. "We can't have you stumbling, can we?"
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"Stop apologizing."
"I'm s—" They both laughed, but his was short lived. "Ah, that hurts."
"Your ribs?"
"Yes. My stomach too. And my voice… "
"Your throat hurts?"
"No, my voice sounds different. Rougher."
"Not to me. That first time I met you, it was just like it is now. Although… "
"What?"
"Your accent has changed." And your demeanor.
"My accent?"
"It's more refined now. You described your voice as rough, but your accent was rougher before too. Very odd."
"Yes," he said, mystified. "There seems to be quite a few odd things about me."
They hobbled back through the fields and paddocks, along uneven tracks trodden by hooves, until the farmhouse finally came into sight. Lucy felt a rush of relief. Despite her continued assurances that he wasn't too heavy, she had begun to feel the strain some time ago. He was a solid man, but he could not have walked on his own all that way, not with his injuries. As it was, his face w
as as pale as the moon and glistened with sweat.
He made it as far as the henhouse before he collapsed, sending the pecking hens into a flutter. Lucy called out, and two stable boys came running, Brutus too, his ears flopping with each bound.
"Are you able to carry him inside?" she asked.
The scrawny lads exchanged looks. "He's too big. I'll fetch the master," one of them said and ran off.
Lucy asked the remaining groom to tell the maids to make up the guest bedchamber, and he too departed. Brutus sniffed Coleclough and licked his face, but still the stranger didn't wake. The hound cocked his head to the side and sat on his haunches. Lucy knelt beside him and swept a lock of hair off Coleclough's forehead. With his eyes closed and his face stark against the black hair, he didn't seem as formidable as when she'd first met him. He was so different. That the change had resulted from the beating didn't bear thinking about. She abhorred brutality of any kind, even against men as big and arrogant as this fellow.
He was very handsome though. Not beautiful like Orlando Holt with his boyish face, but stronger, coarser, like he'd been hewn from hard rock that resisted polishing. A slender white scar cut through his right eyebrow, and another followed the line of his jaw. It looked smooth against the stubble, and without thinking, she touched her fingertip to it to see just how smooth.
He opened his eyes and looked directly at her. She pulled her hand back. "You fainted."
He pushed himself up on his elbows, groaned, and slumped down again.
"Lucy?" Henry ran toward her, and Brutus jumped up to greet him. "Are you all right? Who have you got there?"
Coleclough struggled to sit again, and Lucy helped him. He was extremely pale, but he met Henry's gaze with a steady one of his own. "My name is Nicholas Coleclough," he said. "From Coleclough Hall. In Kent."
"Kent? Then you're a long way from home." Henry indicated the wound on the side of Coleclough's head. "What happened?"
" I–I don't know."
"I found him in the low meadow like this," Lucy said. "He needs to rest and have his wound cleaned and bandaged. We'll put him in the guest bedchamber."
Henry squatted beside him and studied the wound. "Aye. He's in no condition to go anywhere further than that today."
"For quite a few days," she said.
Henry's gaze slid to her. "Appointed yourself as his physician, have you?"
"Do you see anyone else here?"
Henry sighed and beckoned the tallest groom. "Take his other side." They helped Coleclough to stand. Then, between them, they half supported, half carried him inside.
The guest bedchamber was upstairs, and by the time they reached it, Coleclough was looking deathly pale again. They made it to the bed, but as soon as he lay on it, he fell into unconsciousness. His breathing became heavy, fitful, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow.
"Fetch water and linen, Matilda," Lucy said to the maid. The grooms left with her.
"It seems you've found yourself another mission," Henry said.
"Mission? Whatever do you mean?" Lucy sat on the edge of the bed and undid the buttons on Coleclough's jerkin.
"An assignment. Somebody to fuss over. I'm sure Mistress Holt will be pleased."
She shot him a withering look. "This isn't a jest, Henry. This man has been severely hurt. Some parts of his memory appear to be missing as well. He can't recall the event, or indeed how he got to be in Hampshire. He thought he was in Kent when I found him."
"It must have been quite a shock to find himself so far away from home with a freckly red-head leaning over him."
She finished undoing the buttons on his jerkin and started on the laces of his shirt. "Very amusing. And my hair is not red. Remove his boots, will you."
"I think you should remove his boots, and I or one of the men should remove the rest of his clothes while you are out of the room."
"You're not going to go all prudish on me, are you? If I am to treat him properly, I'll have to see parts of his body."
"Not all parts, my inquisitive little sister."
"Henry." She was about to remind him that she'd seen Edmund Mallam rolling naked in the grass but thought better of it. There were some things she couldn't discuss with him, no matter how dear he was to her. Nor did she want to think about Edmund, naked or otherwise.
"Don't force me to get all big brotherly and forbid you," he said.
"Just take his boots off. I promise I'll only tend to those wounds from his waist up. Anything below that he can tend himself."
"And you can only come in here if you're accompanied by one of the maids," Henry said, tugging off the left boot. "Good lord!" Strapped to Coleclough's ankle was a small knife about the length of a middle finger.
Lucy parted the edges of his shirt, revealing fine black hair and more scars on his chest.
"Do you accept my conditions?" Henry asked. "If you cannot, we'll have him transported to Stoneleigh."
"Oh. Yes. Of course." She couldn't take her eyes off that scarred patch of skin. What did the rest of him look like? Did he have hair everywhere?
Coleclough's eyelids fluttered open. "Mistress Cowdrey." He swallowed heavily. "Sir," he said to Henry. " I–I 'm sorry… "
"Shhh," she whispered, resting her hand on his brow. It was hot and damp. "Rest. There's no need to talk and certainly no need to apologize."
He gave her a weak smile and settled into the pillow.
Matilda entered carrying a basin and ewer. Linens hung over her arm. Jane the scullery maid followed, carrying a tray with jug, cups, bread and cheese.
"Cook thought ye both might be thirsty after yer ordeal, mistress," Jane said.
"Thank you, and thank Cook for me. Matilda, get bandages and see if we have any Solomon's Seal ointment." Both maids left. Henry remained. "Help Mr. Coleclough to sit up," she told her brother.
She gathered the other cushions and propped them behind him, then poured ale into the cup and handed it to her patient. He took it in both hands and drained it. She filled it again, but he didn't drink.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"No, thank you." He seemed surprised by that. "I'm almost always hungry. The maids tell me I eat more than anyone they've ever known. Perhaps I ate just before… " He looked down at the cup then set it on the table near the bed.
"Perhaps you did," she said quietly. She dipped the linen in the basin she'd filled with water from the ewer and cleaned around the head wound. He grunted but said nothing. "Tell me if it hurts too much, and I'll stop."
He didn't speak as she gently washed away the blood, but he did wince often, and once she heard his teeth grinding. By the time she'd finished, the water in the basin was red. Matilda returned with the bandages and a small jar then left again. Lucy dabbed some of the ointment on a clean square of linen and gently applied it to the wound.
Coleclough tensed and hissed through his teeth.
"I know it stings," she said, "but it'll help seal the wound." She folded a small cloth and placed it against the wound and directed him to hold it as she wrapped a bandage around his head.
"Thank you," he said, when she stood back to admire her handiwork.
He was certainly a polite man. She'd give him that. Not at all ill-mannered like he'd been on their first meeting. "Mr. Coleclough, do you mind if we, uh, remove your jerkin and shirt. I need to see your other injuries."
He glanced at Henry who had sat down on the chair near the table, his elbows on his knees, watching. "I don't know if you ought to…"
"I need to see," she said.
He blushed. Surely he couldn't be embarrassed? Such a man would have revealed much more than his bare chest to a woman before.
"Better do as she says," Henry said. "She may look meek, but she likes to get her own way."
"Henry," she snapped.
Her brother laughed. Coleclough's blush deepened. She helped him out of his jerkin and when it came to his shirt, she wished she'd got him to remove it before she'd put the bandage on his head, but they mana
ged to get it off without too much difficulty.
"Oh," she murmured, his shirt bunched up in her hands. "Oh my." She didn't know where to look. He was covered in bruises. No cuts, thankfully, but the purple blemishes were everywhere—on his chest, shoulders, stomach. "You poor man," she whispered.
Henry swore softly, shook his head.
Coleclough seemed surprised too. He looked down and studied himself.
"Are your, er, legs sore? Do you think they're bruised?"
"They feel fine." He spoke absently, as if his mind were elsewhere. He was gingerly inspecting the bruises on his chest, or so Lucy thought until he said, "Where did all these scars come from?"
Lucy peered closer. So did Henry. "They look old to me," Henry said, sitting back in the chair again. "I'd say they've been there for years."
"Years?" Coleclough shook his head. "Impossible. The only scars I have are on my back from… " He cleared his throat but didn't finish the sentence. He glanced up at Lucy through his thick lashes and pressed his lips together.
"From what, Mr. Coleclough?" She laid a hand on his arm. "I think you'd better tell us. It may shed some light on the mystery of what happened to you."
"I doubt it." He sighed and sat forward. "Take a look on my back. There should be four scars there from when my father's man beat me once." He frowned. "It was my fault," he added quickly. "I disobeyed him."
Lucy moved to where she could see his back. She gasped then covered her mouth with her hand. Her stomach rolled and bile rose to her throat. She caught hold of the bedpost and turned away, closed her eyes, only to open them when she felt Henry move up beside her. He rubbed his hand through his hair and his gaze locked with hers. He looked as sick as she felt.
Beneath the fresh bruises was a web of scars, all a similar length and width, as if the same long, narrow object had inflicted them, and the same hand. They were white and smooth and must have been there a long time.
"Your father's servant did that to you?" Lucy whispered. How could a parent be so cruel as to order such a thing?
