by C. J. Archer
Shouts coming from outside made him jerk his head around. It took him a moment to realize most of the shouting came from his mother. Nick saw her through the window, running at the trees, a knife in her hand. Carter emerged from the forest into the clearing and easily caught her wrist and wrenched the knife from her. She screamed in pain and shouted a torrent of words in her native tongue.
Nick dropped the bowl and ran out of the cottage. He'd left his knife in his pack, but he had his fists. He would have used them to beat Carter to a pulp if it hadn't been for his father and the two servants. They tore out of the wood and tackled Nick to the ground. He fought them off and got in a few good punches before his father slapped him across the face.
"Did you learn nothing from the last time?" he shouted. He sat on Nick's legs, but Nick punched him in the jaw, almost dislodging him. The two servants scrambled to hold his arms, pinning him to the ground.
"You cur!" Nick growled. "You kept her here the whole time! She's our mother, your wife, and you kept her prisoner."
He did not see the fist coming until it was too late.
The blow hit him in the side of the head, then another and another rained down on him until his father was foaming at the mouth. With his arms held, Nick couldn't defend himself. He blacked out.
He must have lost consciousness for only a few moments because when he came to, he found he was still on the ground. At least his father had stopped hitting him. Nick's head ached liked the devil and his stomach ached. He was going to throw up.
"You do not question my decisions," his father said. His nostrils flared and a bruise shadowed his jaw. "Understand? Never, ever disobey me again, or you will suffer a worse fate. Fool." This he muttered as he got up. "Always the fool. There's too much of her in you, that's the problem."
Nick tried to rise, but his stomach cramped, the pain like a sword ramming through his belly. He rolled over and vomited into the dirt.
"Get up," his father ordered.
But Nick couldn't stand. All he could do was turn his aching head to look at his mother, struggling against Carter. She suddenly stopped fighting and smiled gently. Her eyes filled with what Nick assumed was love. No one had ever looked at him with quite so much depth of feeling.
"My sweet baby boy," she said, her voice soothing. "Do not fear. I will take care of you."
Another wave of nausea hit him, and he vomited again, right before he blacked out.
***
Nick awoke with a thumping headache but no nausea, thank goodness. That had been entirely in his dream. He sat up and went to rub his head, only to come into contact with the bandage. Sometimes he forgot it was there. The bruises, on the other hand, he rarely forgot about. They made every move hurt, especially around his ribs and stomach. He could swallow the pain to a certain extent, however, especially in Lucy's presence. He didn't want her to see how much it hurt, didn't want her pity. It was the only thing he didn’t want from her.
That almost made him smile. The look on her face as his fingers had worked her into a state of bliss… she'd never looked so beautiful. And she was indeed a beauty. He might not remember much of the past eleven years, but he knew deep inside that no woman had hair quite that shade of red, or freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like flecks of gold. She was unique. She was his.
He wasn't sure how he was going to give her up when the time came.
A keen ache gripped him. The nausea he thought confined to his dreams knotted his gut and weighed down his limbs. How could he ever bring himself to do it? He wanted her, not only in his bed, but his life. The thought of being without her was so alien, so wrong, he couldn't stand to even entertain it. It had hovered on the edge of his consciousness ever since Orlando told Nick he was an assassin for Lord Oxley. It had grown worse when the two men from Larkham arrived, and the dream only hammered it home. Now that he knew how furious he'd been with his father, Nick could almost believe that he was a killer. Almost.
But there was still a spark of hope that kept him at Cowdrey Farm and Lucy's side. Orlando Holt could be wrong or lying. Nick may not have killed the alderman from Larkham.
He might not have taken out his anger on his father in the most brutal way imaginable.
He got up and put on his breeches and jerkin, and went out to the landing. Lucy's room was empty, and he realized it wasn't so late, despite the darkness. Voices drifted up the stairs, the lighter one of Lucy's and other masculine ones he recognized as Henry and the two Larkham strangers.
He crept downstairs, not wanting to join them and risk being recognized, but wanting to be nearby in case Lucy needed him. It wasn't fair that she should shoulder the burdens of his recent past without him.
"He wasn't well liked," one of the men said. It sounded like Sawyer, the younger, more sensible visitor.
"He weren't so bad," Upfield said. "And it don't mean he should've been allowed to die like that. Slit his throat clean across, that fellow did. Blood splattered everywhere."
"All right," Henry said. "Not in front of my sister."
"Our apologies," said Sawyer. He sounded like he was talking under strain, perhaps through a tight jaw. "Upfield isn't used to tempering his words around ladies."
"It's not that," snapped Upfield. "Renny was well known. He may not have been well liked by all, but he got things done."
"Aye, that he did," Sawyer said. "If you were his friend."
"His wife and sons don't deserve to be left on their own."
"It's a sad business," Henry said. "I hope you find the man who did it. He was brown-haired, you say?"
"Aye, and his skin was pale as milk," Sawyer said. "Saw him with my own eyes. If it weren't for that, I'd have thought your guest had something to do with it, big as he is and considering he only arrived three days ago."
"It can't have been him," Lucy said. "He's too dark, and he's a good friend of Orlando Holt. A very good friend."
Upfield grunted. "Holt's word means naught to us Larkham folk."
"We'll keep hunting until we've exhausted the immediate area," Sawyer said. "We can't have a man like that walking about. He's too dangerous. The look in his eyes… Dead, they were. Killer's eyes. That man has no soul."
"Lucy, are you all right?" Henry asked. "You've gone quite pale."
There was a silence that seemed to stretch forever. Nick wanted to burst through the door and see if she was indeed all right, but then she spoke. "The thought of someone like that being nearby. It's horrible, Henry, just awful. I don't want that for our friends, not after…"
Nick pressed a palm flat to the oak door. The sorrow in her voice tugged at him. She still felt guilt for what her cousins had done to the Holts. It wasn't fair, but he knew it was a burden she carried with her, even though she rarely let it show.
The rustle of skirts signaled that Lucy had stood. She bid the men good night, and they each bid her a good eve in turn. Nick took the stairs two at a time and returned to his room. He didn't want Lucy to know he'd been eavesdropping, and he especially didn't want the Larkham men to see him again. It wouldn't be long before one of them realized he'd worn a disguise when he slit Renny's throat. After all, they only had to look into his eyes properly, and they'd recognize him again.
Killer's eyes.
The more Nick's dream sank into his consciousness, the more he thought that perhaps Sawyer had described him perfectly. Nick may not have liked the idea of killing when he was young, but after being caught at his mother's cottage, he was quite certain everything had changed.
Including, and perhaps most of all, him.
***
Nick opened the door upon Lucy's first knock. The light from her candle reflected in his eyes and highlighted his cheeks, making them look as sharp as cut stone.
"Did I wake you?" she asked.
"No."
She waited, but he didn't open the door wider or step aside to let her in. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes."
"Can I come in?"
He p
aused then opened the door for her.
She pressed her hand to his chest as she moved past him into the room. "Nick, I'm worried about you."
"Why?"
"You seem to only be able to speak in single word sentences."
He chuckled, and the tension that she'd felt in him dissolved. "I'm merely worried that someone will see you enter."
"There's nobody about up here." She stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. He caught her face in his hands and held her tenderly, as if she were a piece of delicate glass. She could have pulled away, but she didn't want to. The kiss triggered a deep yearning inside her, a longing to be possessed thoroughly and completely by this man who'd captured her heart and soul in only a few short days. It was madness, but she didn’t care. All she knew was that she wanted to be with Nick, always and in the most basic, primal sense.
"Take me," she whispered, against his mouth.
A low groan rose from the depths of his chest, and he broke the kiss and spun away. He pressed a hand to the doorframe and bowed his head. "We shouldn't, Lucy." His voice was barely above a whisper, but she heard it as clearly as if he'd shouted.
Her eyes stung, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stop the tears. She wanted to ask him what had happened to change his mind, but she didn't think her voice would work.
It was probably the straining silence that made him turn to look at her. He gently removed the candlestick from her shaking hand and set it down on a nearby table. She'd forgotten she'd been holding it.
"Say something," he muttered. "Rail against me, curse me. Anything but coldness."
She wanted to lift his chin and make him look at her, but she feared his reaction to her touch. One rejection was enough. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest to ward off the chill creeping through her. "What's changed?" she managed to ask. "What have you remembered?"
"Nothing I fully understand yet. There are no other women in my past as far as I know, if that's what you're thinking."
It was a relief to hear, but only partly. "Then what? Tell me."
He shook his head and lowered his gaze.
So he couldn't face her, couldn't even give her a proper excuse. There may not be another woman, but there was certainly something. It was like facing Edmund Mallam all over again. "What's wrong?" she pressed. "What's wrong with me?"
His head snapped up. "Nothing's wrong with you! Christ." He gripped her shoulders, and dipped his head to meet her gaze. "Don't think any of this is your fault, Lucy, because it's not. I need to wait until my memories return. There are events in my past that I need to clear up first before we… before I let you into my life. Do you understand?"
God's blood, she did not. How could she when he'd told her nothing? "Did you have another nightmare? Did it reveal something bad?"
He let her go. "Don't ask. Not yet." He turned away and rested his hand on the doorknob. "I need to discover the answers on my own. I must find out who I am, so I can be the man you deserve."
She moved to stand before him and placed her hand over his on the doorknob. "Don't shut me out, Nick. We can find the answers together."
"No. It's better for you this way."
"That's absurd!" She pushed him in the chest but he barely moved. "I won't let you do this alone. Let me help you. Let me love you."
She was so close to him she could make out the ripple of shock across his face and the shine in his eyes as he stared at her. "Ah, Lucy," he murmured. "My bright, little light. I can't help myself around you." He pressed both hands against the door on either side of her head and leaned in.
The kiss was achingly gentle. It sucked the air from her chest and made her feel like she was floating away. Her whole body caught fire as if he'd touched her everywhere, but his hands remained on the door, trapping her within his arms, yet not. It was a kiss to set her heart soaring, to chase away the doubts and fears.
Unless…
She crashed back down to earth with a sickening thud.
It wasn't a kiss to reassure her of his affection. It was a goodbye kiss.
CHAPTER 12
The Larkham men left early, thank goodness. For some reason, their presence disturbed Lucy. Perhaps it was all their talk of murder, or perhaps it was simply her melancholic mood, but she was glad to see the dust kicked up by their horses' hooves as they rode off. Let them continue their search for their alderman's killer elsewhere. Cowdrey Farm was well rid of them.
She shivered and hugged herself as she turned to walk back inside. She met Nick near the kitchen entrance.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded. Her throat was too tight to talk. She hadn't expected to see him this morning, not after their strange liaison the night before. What should she say? Why did you kiss me as if it were the last one?
He too seemed suddenly awkward. His gaze didn't quite meet hers, and he scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. "I'm going to help the lads in the barn," he said.
"You can't! Your injuries."
The corners of his mouth quirked then flattened, as if he'd liked hearing her protest but didn't want to show it. "I'll do light duties only."
"What about the lad who wandered in yesterday? Surely you're not needed as well as him."
"Your brother took him into the fields, and the other two grooms don't know much about the plow. It's not working as well as it should and I told Henry I'd take a look at it." He shrugged. "I seem to have some knowledge of farm equipment, so we'll see how far my instincts extend."
"Will that require you to do anything strenuous?"
"I doubt it."
"Ensure that it doesn't. I won't patch that thick head of yours again if you insist on undoing all my work."
He grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
She narrowed her eyes at him but was relieved his good humor had returned. She couldn't abide the awkwardness. They may not be able to return to the intimacy she so desperately wanted just yet, but at least they could remain friends until then.
"You don't need to do this," she said.
He gazed over her head to the barn. "I have to earn my keep somehow."
"You don't owe us, Nick."
He nodded once. "It's not only that." The smile he gave her was filled with the same melancholy that encased her heart. She understood—he needed to keep himself occupied, somewhere away from her.
She too needed to take her mind off him, or she'd go mad wondering what it was his dream had revealed. It must have been something unpleasant enough that he wanted to protect her from it. She only hoped it could be resolved quickly so that he would return once more to where he belonged—with her.
***
Nick knew Lucy was in the bakehouse helping to sift the flour. He knew because he'd looked up from the plow he was inspecting just as she'd gone inside the bakehouse. He always knew when she was near. Instincts again. He seemed to have a few well-honed ones.
With the Larkham men gone, Nick could breathe easier. They hadn't recognized him, although there'd been a spark of suspicion thanks to Nick's size and the timing of his arrival at Cowdrey. Hopefully the spark wouldn't ignite into a blaze.
He worked all morning on the plow, directing the older stable lad since he had little experience. It must have been something Nick was used to doing before he lost his memory because, like whittling, he didn't have to think about it, he just knew what to do.
It was almost midday when he heard horses' hooves on the gravel drive. His heart lurched. If the Larkham men were back, it could only mean one thing: they suspected Nick.
He wiped his hands on his leather apron and went to meet them. No more hiding. It was time to learn how deep their suspicions ran.
But it wasn't the Larkham men on the two magnificent stallions prancing restlessly near the stable door. Two gentlemen dismounted and handed the reins to the younger of the grooms who led the horses away. One wore a ludicrous hat with a long peacock feather shooting from the tall crown and a yellow doublet that skimmed his thighs. Hi
s fashion was in contrast to his companion who wore all black with a single row of silver buttons down his doublet. Both men stared at Nick as if he had three heads.
"May I help you?" Nick asked.
The gentlemen exchanged brief but worried glances. "Orlando was right," said the one dressed all in black.
Orlando. So these men knew Holt. That meant one of them was likely to be Lord Oxley since Orlando had sent a man to fetch the earl. Nick waited for them to reveal themselves.
"You truly don't recognize us?" the dandy asked.
Which one was the earl? Both wore tailored clothes of silk, yet only the dandy's was an impractical color for the country. It must be he.
"No," Nick said. "Should I?"
The dandy's gaze drifted idly past Nick's shoulder to where one of the grooms brushed the white horse within earshot. He removed his hat and bowed, causing the feather to skim the dirt. He clicked his tongue and flicked dust off it with his fingertips. Nick thought he heard the other man sigh, but his face remained blank. He merely nodded a greeting.
"My name is Monk," the man dressed in black said. "This is Lord Oxley."
"Coleclough," Nick said, extending his arm. Monk gripped it, holding it a little longer than polite. His gray gaze briefly softened, then he too glanced over Nick's shoulder at the groom.
"You truly don't remember us?" Monk asked.
"No."
"Not even me?" Oxley pouted. "I cannot believe I'm that easy to forget. Everyone tells me I'm rather memorable." He turned his face to the left. "What about now? This is my best side."
This was the Hughe that Orlando Holt claimed was the leader of a band of assassins? How could anyone respect such a foppish, ridiculous figure? Nick certainly couldn't and he doubted he ever had. Holt must have been mistaken.
"I don't recognize either of you," he said. "Your name is a little familiar to me, but not your faces."
Oxley huffed out a breath. "Well. I am deeply offended. We've been friends for years."
"Then you should be able to tell me a little about myself." He had to be careful. Clearly the men didn't want to say much around the servants. "Let me clean up, and we'll go inside."
