by Anna Bennett
“Nash?”
He jumped guiltily and turned to find his sister, Delilah, in the doorway, cinching the sash of her robe. Her thick blond braid draped over her shoulder and her bare feet made her look younger than her eighteen years. She stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
Jesus. The last thing he needed was to draw his sister into this mess. “Why are you still up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She gestured toward the patient. “Who is she?”
Nash winced. “I don’t know. She was injured in the tavern where I was having a drink. No one seemed to know her name, so I brought her here. The doctor is on his way.”
Delilah inched into the room and tilted her head as she stared at the young woman. “She looks as though she could be my age.” Shooting a sideways glance at Nash, she added, “She’s pretty.”
“I suppose so,” he said casually. As if her beauty hadn’t robbed the breath from his body from the moment her cap fell off.
“Why is she dressed like that?”
“Good question,” he said. “I don’t know anything about her.”
Delilah nodded thoughtfully. “Why don’t you have someone send up fresh water and towels? In the meantime, I’ll fetch one of my nightgowns and change her into it.”
Nash found himself oddly reluctant to leave the woman. “You’ll need help.”
Delilah blinked.
“Not mine,” he added quickly. “One of the maid’s, perhaps.”
“Yes.” His sister reached for a dark curl that lay against the stranger’s cheek and tenderly brushed it away from her face. “We’ll remove these clothes, slip a gown over her head, and clean the small wound on her head. Dr. Cupton will be able to properly examine her the moment he arrives.”
Nash returned the coins and hairpins to the young woman’s bag and set it on the nightstand. “Very well. But be careful.” He swallowed, recalling the thug’s huge body slamming into her slight one. “She could have internal injuries.”
Delilah placed her hands on his shoulders and firmly guided him toward the door. “I promise to be gentle.”
* * *
Dr. Cupton moved away from the patient’s bedside and spoke quietly to Nash, who waited by the door. “The poor lass has obviously suffered a nasty blow to the head. She has some bruises too, but I don’t think anything is broken. Hopefully, she’ll stir soon.” He reached for his bag and snapped it shut. “But we’ll know more within a few hours.”
Nash’s gut twisted as he gazed at the still form resting on the bed. The young woman’s lovely dark hair, fanned across the pure white bed linens, gleamed in the candlelight. Dressed in a lacy but modest nightgown, she looked nothing like the urchin he’d seen sitting alone in the tavern. More like a goddess who’d decided to spend an evening in the mortal world. “Is there nothing else to be done for her?”
“Try to make her comfortable. Give her a few sips of water if she’ll drink. Keep the room dark.” The doctor smiled, sympathetic. “And, if you’re so inclined, prayers wouldn’t be amiss.”
The moment the doctor left the room, Delilah joined Nash beside the bed, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry I argued with you before you left tonight. I hate it when we’re at odds. It’s the reason I couldn’t sleep.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Nash squeezed her hand as he inclined his head toward the window and the London skyline beyond, faintly illuminated by moonbeams. “I know I can’t protect you from everything that’s out there. I’m trying to let go. It’s just going to take some time.”
Delilah nodded. The push and pull between them was nothing new. But lately their arguments had become more frequent. More heated. Deep down, he knew he was on the brink of losing her to the unpredictable and often cruel world. And he was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to keep her safe.
“Why don’t you go get some sleep?” she suggested. “I’ll sit with our patient for a while and wake you if she stirs.”
“I’m not tired,” he said flatly. “And it’s my fault she’s injured. She’s my responsibility.”
“You would never hurt someone,” Delilah countered.
“Not intentionally.” He sank into a chair next to the bed, thinking about the thugs who’d tried to rob her. “Unless they deserved it.”
Delilah tilted her head, thoughtful. “I wonder why she disguised herself as a boy.”
He considered this for a moment but didn’t hazard a guess. “Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said. “I appreciate your help tonight, but you should go to bed.”
Delilah nodded reluctantly. “Fetch me if she wakes?”
“I doubt she will. I’ll see you in the morning.” He planted a quick kiss on her forehead and closed the door, hoping that she somehow understood all he wished to say to her—but couldn’t. That despite being orphaned at thirteen and left in his care, she’d grown into a clever, thoughtful young woman. And that he couldn’t be prouder of her.
He pulled his armchair closer to the bed, so he’d hear the woman if she stirred. Her ghostly pallor frightened him far more than fighting a trio of brutes had. He was not inclined to pray, but out of sheer desperation decided to make a deal with whatever deity might be listening.
Don’t let this woman die. If she survives, I swear I’ll stop acting like such an ogre where my sister is concerned and … He forced himself to utter the words aloud. “I won’t argue with Delilah the next time she wants to attend a ball.”
To anyone listening, the offer wouldn’t have seemed like a huge concession, but Nash trusted that any higher power who’d inadvertently heard his plea would know the truth. Would know what a sacrifice he was willing to make.
Oddly comforted, he leaned back in the chair and stared at the young woman’s profile—the smooth sweep of her brow, the perfect line of her nose, and the plumpness of her parted lips. He imagined he could see the subtle rise and fall of her chest, and matched his breaths to hers.
Before long, his eyelids grew heavy and he nodded off.
Only to be plagued by dreams of a dark-haired woman flashing a dazzling smile.
* * *
One hundred canons exploded inside her skull, firing in rapid succession. Each blast radiated down her neck and spine. Echoed back to her head. If she were able, she’d have tucked her knees to her chest and curled into a ball. But her head was a slab of marble, her body a pile of bricks, both too heavy to command.
She tried to pierce the curtain of pain with her voice, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a low, pitiful moan.
A large, warm hand covered hers. A man’s deep voice floated above her and settled over her like a thick blanket. “You’re safe,” it said. “I’ll stay with you.”
Even in her fevered state, the voice comforted her. Grounded her. Her head still throbbed, but she didn’t feel quite so alone.
Suddenly, it seemed very important to see who the voice belonged to. To lay eyes on the man who was her lifeline. Summoning all her strength, she opened her eyes and tried to bring the blurry face into focus.
She saw the shadow of a rough beard peppering a jaw chiseled from stone. A nose that bent a little to the side, giving him a rugged, dangerous look. Full, slightly parted lips that appeared capable of everything from the wickedest grin to the warmest smile. Thick, light brown hair that her fingers inexplicably itched to touch. And dark, slashing brows that framed arresting eyes … eyes glowing like a tiger’s in the night.
She didn’t know who he was, but it didn’t matter. The image of his face was forever burned into her mind. Her instincts told her she could trust him. The handsome man with the golden eyes had said he was going to stay with her, and she believed him.
She held his promise close as her eyelids fluttered shut.
* * *
The next morning Delilah breezed into the guest bedchamber wearing a cheery pink morning gown that provided the perfect foil to Nash’s current mood. Her forehead creased in concern as she looked at t
he pale figure on the bed. “Any change?”
He shook his head soberly. “No.” He neglected to mention that brief moment in the wee hours in the morning when the woman had stirred and looked at him—truly looked at him, as though she saw the very essence of him.
Silly maybe, but it felt too intensely personal to share. “I was able to get her to swallow a little water, but she’s been like this all night. Dr. Cupton said he’d return this afternoon to check on her.”
“I wish we knew who her family was.” Delilah wrung her hands. “If she had loved ones here, perhaps they’d help bring her out of this stupor. At the very least, I wish we knew her name. It feels odd that we cannot properly address her.”
“I’m guessing that’s the least of her worries,” Nash mused. Surely, she should have woken by now. The fact that she hadn’t didn’t bode well.
His sister rolled her eyes. “I only meant that her chances for recovery might improve if she heard us call her by name. If she was aware that someone who knew and cared for her was by her side.”
Nash rubbed the stubble on his chin. He’d promised to stay with the woman, but maybe his bedside manner left something to be desired. “You could be right.”
Perhaps if he returned to the scene of last night’s skirmish and made some inquiries, he could learn who she was. But he wanted to remain with her, just in case she awoke. Because he’d promised her he’d stay.
“I’m going down to breakfast,” Delilah added. “Will you join me?”
He gave his sister an apologetic glance. “I don’t want to leave her.”
“It’s just as well.” She shot him a too-sweet smile. “I was reading old issues of The Debutante’s Revenge last night and would have been tempted to quote it to you over coffee.”
“Glad I dodged that bullet,” he said dryly, shaking his head as she left the room.
He turned around and squinted at the mysterious woman lying on the bed. Perhaps his lack of sleep was to blame, but it almost seemed that her lips moved.
“Where…” she said in a raspy voice. Her eyes—green as a spring lawn—fluttered open and narrowed as she peered at his face. “Where am I?”
Jesus. He moved a bit closer and spoke softly. “My town house, in Mayfair. You were injured last night, and I brought you home with me so a doctor could tend to you. You’re safe here. You’ve nothing to fear.”
Her gaze flicked around the room, from the seafoam-green walls to the mahogany bureau to the pair of towering posters at the foot of the bed. “Who are you?”
“Nash,” he replied without thinking. Not the Duke of Stonebridge or even Stonebridge. What the hell was wrong with him? “I … I happen to be a duke.”
“A duke,” she repeated in a tone that suggested she was either disbelieving or unimpressed.
“Yes.” Gathering his wits about him, he uttered the question that had plagued him for the last twelve hours. “Who are you?”
Chapter 4
“Your fantasies are just for you. And every girl should be permitted a few secrets.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
The man—Nash, he’d said—sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her, the harsh lines of his face somewhat softened by the concern in his extraordinary eyes.
“Who are you?” he repeated in a deep, low voice that seeped beneath her skin and vibrated through her body.
She opened her mouth to reply and stopped, confused. It was a simple question. The simplest of them all, actually. Why on earth, then, was she incapable of answering?
Perhaps she was not yet completely awake. She bit her bottom lip to see if she felt the pinch and quickly ruled out dreaming.
No matter. The monstrous headache of the previous night was no doubt to blame for her current fog. Surely if she started the sentence, the rest would fall out of her mouth from pure habit. “I am…” she began. When the next words failed her, she cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m…”
The handsome man—a duke, if her ears had not failed her—arched a brow expectantly. Encouragingly. The last thing she wished was for him to think her daft, but maybe she was. Because for the life of her, she could not recall her own name. Panic bubbled in her chest. Her fingers tingled with fear. Something was very, very wrong with her.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit confused at the moment.” She lifted an arm, unusually stiff, and pressed a palm to her forehead.
“Does it hurt?”
She blinked. “Hmm?”
“Your head,” he said gruffly. “Does it ache?”
“Like the devil,” she admitted. To be precise, it throbbed like the worst hangover of her life, which, unsurprisingly, she could not recall. She was aware, however, that proper young ladies did not drink to excess or suffer from hangovers or utter mild curses in the presence of a duke.
“You received quite a blow last night.”
Ah, not a hangover, thank goodness. “I did?”
A slight frown marred the duke’s strikingly handsome face. “You don’t remember what transpired? In the tavern?”
She closed her eyes, hoping that an image of the place would pop into her head. That she’d recall some familiar detail. One small clue to who she was. But her mind was frighteningly blank—a bone-chilling void.
“No. I believe I … I’m still rather tired, is all.” Surely, that was the problem. Fatigue must be to blame for her fogginess. Even now, while she swam in a toxic whirlpool of pain and fear, her eyelids grew heavy and her body demanded the solace of sleep.
“Forgive me.” Nash pressed his lips together then exhaled. “This wasn’t meant to be an inquisition. Rest some more. By the time the doctor returns to check on you, I’m sure you’ll be feeling much more like yourself.”
“I suspect you’re right,” she said, praying it was true, because the alternative … well, the alternative was downright terrifying.
* * *
Delilah swooped into Nash’s study the moment Dr. Cupton took his leave. “What did he say? Will she recover?”
Nash leaned back in his chair, watching as his sister paced the length of the room, from his desk to the tall mullioned windows, and back. “She’ll live—which is more than the doctor could assure me last night. But her memory loss is concerning, to say the least.”
Delilah stopped in her tracks and faced him. “But she’ll remember eventually, won’t she?”
“Cupton’s hopeful, but not entirely confident. He’s only seen one other case like this—a man who washed up on the beach, presumably after a shipwreck, with no recollection of who he was.”
“What happened to him?” Delilah asked.
Nash rounded his desk, sat on the edge, and folded his arms. “He made a new life for himself. Became a blacksmith, married, and is quite happy, by all accounts. But he never remembered who he was.”
Delilah frowned. “There must be something we can do to help her remember. I imagine her family is frantic with worry. They’re probably scouring the streets of London searching for her as we speak.”
Nash snorted, skeptical. A young woman who frequented seedy taverns dressed as a boy was not likely under the close supervision of her family. She was probably accustomed to fending for herself. Granted, she hadn’t done a smashing job of it the previous night, but she had seemed independent. And she’d shown uncommon spunk, stomping the foot of a man twice her size.
No, Nash sincerely doubted that there were an earl and countess in a drawing room somewhere wringing their hands over their missing daughter. “Cupton recommended that we refrain from asking her questions or pressing her in any way—at least for the next few days.”
“Of course,” Delilah agreed quickly. “We wouldn’t want to distress her. How shall we respond if she asks us questions?”
“Answer as simply as possible, so as not to overwhelm her with information,” Nash replied. “But tell her the truth.”
Delilah’s golden curls bounced as she nodded emphatically. “Very good. I shall entertain her by re
ading to her or teaching her to play chess. Perhaps she already knows how.”
“Be careful. Do not grow too attached to her,” he cautioned his sister. Maybe he was warning himself as well.
Delilah’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “You make her sound like a lost puppy.”
“She could regain her memory and leave this afternoon,” he said.
“Or she could remain with us for weeks.”
“That is highly improbable.” Nash hated to dim his sister’s enthusiasm, but it was the truth. Somewhere outside the walls of his house, the woman had a home, a family—maybe even a husband. Once she recalled her past life, she’d be eager to return to it. “Whether it’s a day or a few weeks, her stay with us is temporary. Besides, considering I found her in a tavern, I think it’s safe to assume she doesn’t move in the same circles you do.”
Delilah sniffed. “That’s because my circles are incredibly small and the only people you permit in them are either spinsters or saints.”
Her jab—admittedly well-deserved—reminded him of the deal he’d made last night. The woman had survived, and now he owed Delilah a ball. Damn it, he should have bargained his soul like any self-respecting duke—it would have been infinitely easier.
“I know you’re eager to attend more social events and meet more people.” It was a constant source of tension between them. He wanted her to enjoy all London had to offer, but the prospect scared him too. She seemed determined to experience the kind of romance she read about in that column she loved. The same sort of dangerous, head-over-heels passion that had led Emily to elope. But he’d made a promise, and he had to keep it. “You’re right. You should.”
