by Candace Camp
“Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “Give me that pistol you were brandishing last night, and I’ll stand firm against them.”
“Doubtful. It hadn’t any shot in it, you see. It’s one of a pair of my great-grandfather’s, and Papa only keeps them for sentimental reasons. I doubt they would fire, and we haven’t any balls and powder for them, anyway.”
“So you bluffed me.” Again a smile played about his lips.
Priscilla shrugged. “I didn’t think you intended to harm me, anyway.”
“Still, I was a stranger, and out of my head. What if I had called your bluff?”
Thinking of what he had done while he was out of his head, Priscilla had to blush. His eyes went to her cheeks, and color tinged his face, too. She wondered, wretchedly, if he remembered kissing her.
She glanced quickly away. There was a long, awkward silence, and finally, he began, “I—I hope I did nothing untoward last night in my fever. I—My memories are blurred, you see. I am not sure what I dreamed and what happened.”
“Nothing happened,” Priscilla assured him hurriedly, and hoped that he believed her. “You were out of your head and said a few things. Most of them I couldn’t even understand.”
“That’s all?” His voice sounded doubtful.
“Of course. What else could there be?” Priscilla gave him a brief, impersonal smile to back up her words. Let him think it was all a dream. That would be the easiest way to deal with it.
He smoothed a hand across his face in a weary way. “Good. I wasn’t sure. The dreams were so vivid….”
“’Tis often that way in a fever, I think. Now, I think you should go back to sleep. You are looking rather tired.”
“Yes, perhaps I will.” His slight smile was tinged with embarrassment. “I feel a perfect fool—worn out by a few minutes of talking.”
“You will be better soon, I imagine.”
“Why don’t you wait until I am? Before you go visiting, I mean. Then, at least, you’d have some protection.”
Priscilla gave him a pointed glance. “The same protection you had?”
He flushed. “Damn, but you’ve a wicked tongue on you. No, it would not be the same. Obviously I was not prepared for anything to happen before. This time I would be. I’m not a bad man in a fight.”
Looking at his sculpted chest and arms, Priscilla felt sure that he was right. “Be that as it may,” she said, “I have no wish to find myself in a fight, and since you are the man they are searching for, I would think that having you with me would be the surest way to bring those two ruffians down on me. I will be much less noticeable by myself.”
“You have an answer for everything.”
“I try to.” Priscilla grinned. There was something quite enjoyable about verbally sparring with this man. She rarely had anyone upon whom she could sharpen her wit, now that her brothers were gone. Her father, intelligent though he was, was usually too much in his own world of thought to trade quips, and Miss Pennybaker was far too easily hurt.
As she turned to leave the room, she heard the sound of her father’s voice. “I say, Mrs. Smithson, have you a jar, oh, about this tall and this wide? Has to be wide at the mouth, as well.”
“I might could find you something, Mr. Hamilton, providing you sit down and eat your luncheon first. It’s been waiting for you this half hour or more.”
“Is it that time already?” Florian advanced farther into the kitchen, until he was visible in the doorway. He was looking at his pocket watch in some amazement, as though unable to understand what had happened to the hours. “I suppose I am a bit hungry. Why don’t you fix me a tray, and I’ll take it out to the laboratory with me?”
Mrs. Smithson was obviously accustomed to this argument, for she folded her arms across her chest and shook her head firmly. “I know what happens then, sir. I go out later and find half the food still on the tray, ‘cause you’ve gotten all wrapped up in them heathen experiments of yours and forgotten all about your food. If you was in charge of your food, you’d be dead within a week, and that’s God’s truth.”
“No doubt you’re right,” Florian agreed pleasantly. He turned and caught sight of his daughter in the smaller side room. “Priscilla! There you are. I’d been wondering where you were. What are you doing in here?”
He advanced farther into the room, looking faintly puzzled. His hair was sticking up here and there all over his head, as usual, and there were strange yellowish smears across the front of his shirt. His fingers, too, were stained yellow, along with a few orange and black marks. His waistcoat hung unbuttoned, exposing the smudged shirtfront, and a half-tied ascot dangled loosely over one shoulder.
Priscilla glanced over at their visitor and found him eyeing her father with great curiosity.
“Oh, it’s you!” Florian exclaimed, delighted at finding their late-night visitor suddenly before him. “I had forgotten you were here. Feeling better, I hope.”
“Yes,” the man on the cot answered, somewhat warily. “At least I’m conscious now.”
“I knew Priscilla would set you to rights. She’s good at that sort of thing. Always knows what to do.”
“So I’ve found.” The visitor cast a sardonic look at Priscilla.
“I am Florian Hamilton,” Priscilla’s father went on in a friendly manner, stepping forward to shake the other man’s hand.
The stranger propped himself up on his elbow and returned the handshake, saying, “I only wish I could return the favor and tell you my name.”
Florian looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Is it a secret?”
Priscilla chuckled. “No, Papa. What he means is, he doesn’t know what his name is. He can’t remember anything, including who he is.”
Florian’s face brightened. “Amnesia?” He looked back at the patient with something close to glee in his expression. “Are you serious?”
When the stranger nodded, Florian beamed. “Fascinating. I’ve read about it, of course, but I’ve never actually met anyone who suffered from it.” Eagerly he pulled the chair up to the edge of the bed and sat down. “Have you no memory whatsoever?”
The stranger looked somewhat taken aback by Florian’s enthusiasm. Priscilla explained, “Papa is a scientist. He is interested in all sorts of phenomena.”
“Oh, yes,” Florian agreed. “Right now I’m concentrating on chemical reactions. But the human brain is always fascinating. Now, is there anything you do remember?” He patted his pockets and finally pulled out a sheet of folded paper, then a pen.
“Nothing before a few days ago,” Priscilla said crisply, and went over to put her hand on her father’s arm. “For pity’s sake, Papa, put away your notes. The poor man is tired, can’t you see? Let him go to sleep now. He’s had a very rough night. Later you can ask him all your questions.”
Florian looked pained, but he stood up, reluctantly. “Very well, if you insist, my dear.” He turned away, saying to Priscilla, “But what do you think caused the amnesia, Pris? The fever?”
“Wait!” Their visitor spoke up, and they turned back to look at him. “I do have one thing I would like to discuss with you, sir.”
“Really?” Florian looked pleased and started back toward the chair, reaching in his pocket again for his notes. “About your condition?”
“No.” He smothered a smile as Florian’s face fell. “It’s about your daughter.”
“Priscilla?” Florian looked perplexed. “Well, you had best speak to her about that, wouldn’t you think?”
“No. I mean, I have already talked to her about it, and she refuses to listen to reason.”
Florian’s face cleared. “Oh. That. Well, I’m afraid you’ll find that Priscilla always knows her own mind. Not much use trying to change it.”
It was the other man’s turn to look taken aback, but he continued gamely, “But, sir, you can’t allow her to walk into danger!”
“Danger!” Florian turned toward his daughter. “Priscilla, what’s he talking about? What danger?”
“There is none, Papa,” Priscilla began soothingly.
The man on the cot snorted derisively. “Two men bashed me on the head, stole all my possessions and held me prisoner for days, and you say there’s no danger?”
Florian’s eyes widened. “All that happened to you?”
“Yes. That is the sum total of my memory—being held captive by two scoundrels, until I finally escaped. Miss Hamilton says they came here looking for me.”
“Indeed they did,” Florian replied. “My, I am certainly glad we decided not to tell them anything about you. Aren’t you, Priscilla?”
“Yes, I am. Now, Papa, why don’t we leave and let our visitor rest?”
“Wait. You haven’t answered my question,” Florian protested. “Why should Priscilla be in danger?”
“Because she is planning on charging out there asking questions, that’s why.”
“Asking questions of whom?” Florian asked. “Priscilla, do you mean to try to find those two men and question them? I must say, I do agree that that would be foolhardy.”
“Indeed it would, but I have no plans to do anything of the sort. Mr.—oh, bother, it is so absurd not being able to call you anything. We really need to come up with some sort of name for you, until you can remember your real one.”
“Mr. Smith?” Florian suggested.
“No. Much too common. What about Wolfe?”
Florian tilted his head, considering. “Yes. That isn’t terribly ordinary. But not uncommon, either. What about a first name?”
“Oh, something plain, I should think. So we won’t forget it or slip up.”
“What about George?”
Priscilla shook her head. “I’ve never liked that name.”
“Well, then, John.”
“All right.” Priscilla nodded. “John Wolfe.”
“I think that sounds quite believable.”
“Could we forget about my name and get back to the subject at hand?” their newly christened patient snapped. “Namely the danger in which you’re about to place yourself?”
“As I was saying, Mr. Wolfe is concerned about nothing. I am merely planning to go to the village and visit with Mrs. Whiting. Within the hour, I’ll know all about Mr. Wolfe, if anyone saw him or is expecting him.”
“Oh, yes, that’s true,” Florian told the other man. “The vicar’s wife knows everything that goes on in the area. That makes me think, Priscilla, perhaps we ought to tell the vicar about Mr. Wolfe and his problem. He is a most intelligent man. And Dr. Hightower, of course. He’d know much more about amnesia than I.”
“I don’t know.” Priscilla looked doubtful. “Somehow I feel that the fewer people who know about Mr. Wolfe, the safer he will be. I had not planned to tell Mrs. Whiting anything about him. It would be all over the village before supper. And if we tell the vicar, it’s as good as telling his wife.”
“Would you two stop discussing me as if I were not here?” the newly named John Wolfe said irritably. “And we were talking about you putting yourself in danger, not me. If those two men see you walking away from this house, they could follow you, attack you.”
“To what purpose?” Priscilla pointed out reasonably. “As I told you, if they think you are in here, they are much more likely to break in. Papa, be sure to keep all the doors locked. Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t go out to your laboratory this afternoon.”
Florian looked shocked. “You’re not serious. Not go to my laboratory? No one is going to attack me in broad daylight in my own backyard.”
Their visitor groaned. “Those two would have no hesitation about attacking anyone anywhere, as long as they thought they could get away with it. And if they want me, it would be far easier to seize you, Miss Hamilton, while you’re tripping along some rural path, than to try to break into a house and take me. Once they had you, they would know I would have to give myself up to them.”
He was right, of course; it was precisely what one of her own heroes would do.
“They don’t know that you are in here. They could only suspect.”
“They would find out if they seized you.”
“Yes, but at rather a large risk. I would have seen them and could identify them. And whether they got you to give yourself up to them or not, they would know that I would go straight to the constable and tell him all about them.”
Wolfe raised an eyebrow. “A dead person would not be going straight anywhere.”
A chill ran through Priscilla at his words, but she stifled the frisson of fear and replied coolly, “Rather extreme measures, don’t you think? Especially considering the fact that they merely held you prisoner. They had ample opportunity to murder you, and they did not. Why would they risk murdering me?”
“Why would you risk the chance that they might?” he countered coolly.
Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “You are a most infuriating man.”
“You are only saying that because you know I am right.”
“He probably is,” Florian agreed. He wore the resigned look of a man about to sacrifice his afternoon. “I shall escort you to the vicarage. Just let me put away a few things in my laboratory.”
“No, Papa, there is no need for you to do that. I am positive that Mr. Wolfe is simply feverish. It is Mr. Wolfe and our house that are vulnerable, if there is any attacking to be done.” She sighed. “I shall take Penny with me when I call on Mrs. Whiting. Surely they will not risk attacking two women. After all, Mrs. Smithson and her daughter reached our house safely this morning, and will doubtless return home this afternoon, as well.”
Florian brightened. “Excellent plan, my dear. I was certain you would come up with the right thing to do.”
“You think that Miss Pennybaker is ample protection?” their visitor asked, his voice rising in disbelief.
All three of them turned to look at the woman in question, who was visible at the end of the kitchen table, daintily eating her soup. She looked like a small wren in her plain brown dress. Her hair, a mousy brown streaked with gray, was pulled back severely from her face and fastened into a no-nonsense bun at the back of her head. She was at least three inches shorter than Priscilla, and quite thin. She looked as if a strong wind might blow her away.
“It is not that I think her physically capable of protecting me,” Priscilla explained testily. “It is simply her presence. There is safety in numbers.”
“You think they can’t seize two people?”
“I’m sure they can. The question is whether they will. Miss Pennybaker and I will be perfectly safe. There is no need for you to set Papa to worrying.”
“You are the most exasperating woman I know,” her patient said through clenched teeth.
Priscilla smiled. “Since you cannot remember past three days ago, I would say that that means very little.”
She linked her arm through her father’s and led him toward the door. “Come, Papa, let’s go eat our luncheon before Mrs. Smithson becomes thoroughly upset with us.”
With a last triumphant glance back at “Mr. Wolfe,” she swept out of the room.
CHAPTER FOUR
HE LAY LOOKING AFTER PRISCILLA and her father as they left the room, wavering between cursing and breaking into a smile. She was irritating; he did not need to remember his whole lifetime to know that she was more irritating and headstrong than most women. She was foolishly refusing to listen to reason—and the fact that she could make him want to laugh at the same time somehow added to his annoyance.
Well, there were two things he did know about himself. This episode had shown them to him. One was that he was used to being in command. His surprise at having his opinion ignored told him that, as well as the frustration and nasty sense of helplessness he felt. He was also certain that most women were more pliable than his benefactress.
He wondered whether that knowledge came from his being married. The thought brought him up short. He tried to conjure up the image of a wife or a home, but he could not. He certainly hoped he was no
t married. Because a third thing that he suddenly knew about himself was that he was intensely attracted to this maddening woman.
There was something about her independent air that was quite alluring. It was challenging; it made a man want to prove that he could turn that prickly attitude into a womanly softness. At the same time, it spoke of an inner passion, a wellspring of emotion far stronger than the usual feminine gentleness. He also felt a definite response to the soft curve of her breasts and hips beneath her ordinary dress. Last night, he was sure, there had been a time when she was leaning over his bed, and her hair was down, falling in a luxuriant chestnut mass over her shoulders, almost to her waist. Even in his weakened state, the sight of it had stirred him.
He closed his eyes, remembering the hot, sensual dreams of the night before. For a time, he had thought he was in a brothel in China. How had he known the place? Another bit of mystery. He had been pulsing with desire; he could almost taste the fevered kisses he had given…someone. He could not remember her face or form, could not remember anything except the honeyed taste of her mouth, the heat and hunger that had consumed him. Had it been a memory? Or merely the delusion of a fevered mind? Somehow, mixed up in the dream, there was Priscilla Hamilton, smelling faintly of roses and leaning over his bed, putting a cool cloth on his head and murmuring to him.
He groaned, wondered what he might have said or done in her presence. Had she guessed the import of his dreams? Had he spoken of the desire that gripped him?
He told himself he could not have, or she would not have spoken to him so straightforwardly this morning. She was, after all, a proper lady—a proper British lady, which he knew meant even greater gentility. She would have been far too shocked and outraged to even speak to him again, he thought, if he had been talking of brothels and prostitutes and passions.
With a groan, he turned over onto his side. Just thinking about such things, especially in connection with Priscilla Hamilton, was beginning to heat his blood.
It was absurd. He was sick, he could remember nothing of his life—yet the uppermost thing in his mind was a woman who stirred his desire. It would make far more sense to try to remember who he was and what in his life might have brought about his capture by those two men. And what was he going to do? He had no clothes, no money, no identity. Even once he was feeling better, he hadn’t the slightest idea what he would do or where he would go. Obviously, he could not continue to impose on Priscilla Hamilton and her father forever.
