by Jo Beverley
Panicked, he clung to a fact he did feel sure of. He didn’t drink to excess. He hadn’t been truly sozzled since that time in Italy on his Grand Tour. He’d been sixteen and he’d thought the effects had cured him of overdrinking for life.
Was he in Italy now, sozzled on fine wine in a palazzo in Venice?
No. Years had passed since then.
Many years.
He was in England.
Yes, he was sure he was in England, and a grown man. He slid a hand down to his chin, feeling the strong bones and the roughness of stubble. A fact presented itself. His twenty-ninth birthday was not long past.
Why were some things so certain and others lost? He knew he was in England, but not where. He knew his age, but little of what he’d done with over ten years. Perdition! He started to shake his head and stopped with a hiss of agony. His brain felt both scrambled and faded, as if heavy veils hung between himself and the fragments of his life.
What did he remember? What?
Taking farewell of his family in London.
He had a family—brothers and sisters. He could even see faces, but when he asked for names he got only nonsense. An elf? A bright elf? A sinful elf…?
He couldn’t stand this. He tried to sit up, then stopped, frozen by pain. Oh God. Oh God—
He slowly eased his tormenting head back on the pillow, went back to lying very, very still. His head shrieked with every breath.
Perhaps he was gravely ill. But then, who was the woman in his bed? His nurse?
Hardly.
Who was she?
Who was he?
That simple question sprang into life, then fell tangling into that ominous void, stiffening him with terror. Terror of following the question into that deep, black hole where he wouldn’t exist at all. He reached out for something real. Anything. Her cotton nightgown.
“Oh. You’re awake.”
The woman had moved, and now she took his trembling hand in hers. He clutched at her, ready to weep with gratitude.
“Where am I?” he whispered, afraid of the pain of speaking louder.
Silence. Had he imagined her? He gripped her soft hand tighter…
“Gillsett! Please. You’re hurting me.”
Immediately, he relaxed his grip. “I’m sorry. I… I can’t see.”
Her other hand brushed his forehead, a gentle touch that seemed blessedly familiar. Was this his wife? Surely he’d remember if he were married. It was not unpleasant, though, to think of being familiar with that warm voice and soft, caring hand.
But no. Her gentle touch merely reminded him of his mother, dead many years ago. Her soft voice would soothe him in fevered nights. Speaking in French, however. Was he French…?
No, surely not.
“It’s just dark, sir,” the woman said, definitely in English. “It’s the middle of the night.”
He was making a fool of himself. Here he was, doubtless in an inn with a doxy, suffering the hell of a drunkard’s head, and acting as if demons were after him. The pain, however, was real, and his stomach still churned ominously.
“I seem to have drunk too much.”
“Do you not remember, sir?”
Oh, hell. Could he avoid letting her know that he didn’t remember her or the merry bedgames they’d doubtless shared? “I’m sorry. My head… It hurts.”
“It’s all right.” She touched him again in that tender, devastating way, sliding her cool hands over his and easing them down off his head. “Try to go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Is that a promise?” He even found a bit of humor for the comment, and that felt in character. But then the foulness bit at his throat and he rolled sharply away from her despite the agony in his head. “Going to be sick!” he choked out.
He fought it, and by some miracle she was round the bed and had the chamber pot ready by the time his stomach overwhelmed his will.
At least the racking, burning vomit seemed to take some of the agony with it. When he collapsed back onto the pillow, blades no longer stabbed through his skull. Only mallets hammered it.
The stink fouled the air, however. This was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had happened to him in his adult life. “I do beg your pardon…”
“It’s all right.” He heard humor and groaned. Quite the figure of fun he must be. Doubtless he’d been smooth enough last night when he’d coaxed her into his bed, and now here he was like a puling, sickly child.
A damp cloth wiped his face. Then she raised his head slightly and cool glass pressed near his lips.
“More,” he said, when he’d drained the water.
He heard a chink, and the promising gurgle. He was grateful she was working in the dark, for the thought of bright light made him wince. In moments she presented another full glass, and he drank it, then sank gratefully back onto the pillows.
Down pillows.
Inns didn’t have down pillows.
“Where am I?” he asked again. She’d answered before, hadn’t she? He’d forgotten.
“Gillsett.”
That didn’t sound like an inn. It sounded like a residence. A farm. Even a gentleman’s house…
“What is your name, sir? Should we notify anyone?”
At least he didn’t have to tell her he didn’t know. He was sliding back down into that annihilating void.
Chapter 3
Rosamunde straightened and shook her head. She planned adulterous wickedness and ended up custodian of foul chamber pots. Perhaps her dull life was not the result of her accident, but simply her fate!
But at least she’d carried off the lie about where he was.
She’d never been a convincing liar. She hated deceit, and her stumbling tongue and guilty blushes had given her and Diana away time after time. Tonight, however, she had told her untruth in a calm voice and darkness had hidden her burning cheeks. Perhaps she could carry this wild plan off after all.
But not immediately.
The plan would have to wait until he recovered, so she might as well continue with chamber-pot duty.
She opened the window to freshen the air, then put on her dressing gown and carried the noisome pot away. She could hardly leave it to stink up the corridor, so taking the small nightlamp, she crept downstairs and placed it quietly outside the back door.
She returned to her room, took the clean pot from under her own bed and going to his room, placed it by his side. Should she stay in case he was sick again? Well, she wouldn’t. The wretch had drunk himself ill, and he could puke himself sober without her help!
Thoroughly disgruntled, Rosamunde snuggled into her own bed—which by now was unwelcomingly cold. Her sense of the ridiculous soon returned, however. Why had she imagined that a sick man would awake cured and full of amorous intent?
Such foolishness.
She wished he had, though. Then, it would be over.
She turned, punching her pillow, feeling wretched about something…
Then she remembered. Remembered thinking about her dull life. It was the sort of thought she didn’t normally let out.
She had a lovely life. A kind husband. A comfortable home, and a prosperous estate that provided plenty of useful work. Loving family nearby. Good friends all around.
The accident could have made her a recluse for life, but Digby had rescued her with his kind offer of marriage.
What was a recluse, though? Even someone who lived in a community could be considered a recluse if she never left it. If she was afraid to. The recent trip to Harrogate had been her first venture out of Wensleydale in eight years.
So? She turned and punched her pillow again. Plenty of people were content to stay close to a good home. There were people in Wensleydale who’d never even been to Richmond!
So—the truth was that she wasn’t happy living that way. Instead, she felt barred from the world by her face.
She fingered the scar ridges to the right of her eye. They weren’t the problem. It was the long one
down her cheek that made her hide away, even though her family and Diana kept saying it wasn’t really so bad.
Even Digby, however, preferred to sit to her left.
Dear Digby. As a friend of her father’s and an honorary uncle, she’d loved him all her life. But not, she was coming to realize, as a wife should love a husband. She hadn’t known that at sixteen, however, hadn’t know how wrong it would feel when he claimed his husbandly rights. It had never been terrible, just not something she and Sir Digby Overton should be doing.
She’d been relieved when the activity had ceased and they could be comfortable together again.
Until now.
Now, however, she had to have a child. She owed it to Digby, to Wenscote, to everyone who had been so kind to her these past eight years.
Anyway—and this shamed her—she wanted Wenscote for herself. Without a child, when Digby died, she’d have to leave. Leave her sanctuary. Leave the place where she had powers and responsibilities.
Digby was a fair landlord, but not an adventurous one. It had been Rosamunde who’d started sheep-breeding projects, and growing winter fodder. She’d put the cottage industries—cheese making, spinning, and weaving—on a more orderly footing, and made sure everyone received a fair price. And, her true enthusiasm, she’d started breeding horses.
It had all come about out of boredom, but she knew she’d stumbled upon her life’s purpose. Where was she going to find the like if she lost Wenscote? It wasn’t even considered proper in most circles for women to be directly involved in animal breeding.
So there it was. In the open at last. She wasn’t being a martyr. She was serving her own ends. True, many . people would benefit if she went through with this, but at heart she was being ruthlessly selfish.
So be it. She still had reason enough, and the means.
A stud animal, she thought firmly. She was used to evaluating rams and stallions, and this one was healthy and well-formed. What more did she want? Was she still hoping for a dashing knight on a white charger?
A dashing knight would doubtless be a great deal of trouble. Her drunken wastrel would do his business, like Samuel her best tup, then move on to another ewe without a thought.
She heaved herself onto her back with a wretched sigh, wishing she could get to sleep. Problems were niggling at her, however.
Even she knew young men didn’t leap onto every woman they encountered. A fine state of affairs that would be! She suppressed a chuckle at the thought of a country fair—or even church on Sunday!—with all the men acting like Samuel in a field of fertile ewes.
It wasn’t funny, though. She had to work out what to do. Should she dress provocatively? Would she have to be naked? Should she touch him first? Kiss him first?
Oh, she did wish Diana was here. Though unmarried, Diana met a lot more men and flirted with most of them. She’d even mentioned books on intimate matters. She’d surely know how to encourage a male. Whatever it took, however, Rosamunde was going to do it.
Even if she had to go up to Arradale and raid the library for those mysterious books!
Fear.
He lay still in the darkness, a bitter memory of enemies hovering over him.
Silence.
A foul taste.
Vomit.
‘Struth! Embarrassing memory flooded back. He’d cast up his accounts in front of a woman.
Had she been real?
Tentatively, he reached out and found he was alone. Thank heavens. He’d dreamed it.
But the taste was still there, and the memory of a calm, pleasing voice was devilishly clear.
The touch of a breeze made him turn his head. His much less painful head. In the dark, curtains stirred, giving glimpses of a slightly lighter outside. Someone had opened the window to freshen the air.
So, who was she, and where was he?
Clearly in the country. The air and quiet told him that.
The woman had named the place, but that too eluded. Gill-something? Gillshaw?
He burned with a need for the security of knowledge. Despite comfort and tranquility, he lay tense with fear, under a haunting sense of danger in the shadows.
Was it real?
He didn’t know.
Just as he still didn’t know who he was. That seemed ridiculous, so he pushed and poked at his mind, demanding his identity.
He stirred only dreamlike memories, but snatched at them greedily.
Riding a country lane on a sweet summer’s day.
When?
An old stone house with ivy-covered walls.
Where?
Birds singing in the trees. A blue coat spoiled by a brush against wet paint.
Had he cared?
Swaying in a good, solid coach, applying himself to paperwork. He paused on that. It showed a hardworking, conscientious fellow, and that felt true. Not this drunkard in a whore’s bed…
Silver plate on a laden table, glowing in candlelight———
He sucked in deep breaths, forcing himself to break off the frantic struggle to weave these scraps into whole cloth. He knew with eerie certainty that they weren’t connected.
Who was he?
What was his name, dammit?
The veils parted and his name popped out like an impish child saying, “Were you looking for me?”
Brand Malloren.
He groaned with exquisite relief.
He was Brand Malloren. The knowledge settled in his mind, carrying dancing ribbons of detail. He was Brand Malloren, third son of the Marquess of Rothgar. The old marquess. His oldest brother held the title now.
That rich dinner had been his last meal at Malloren House in London before heading north. As the ribbons wove into a complete story, he grasped each detail, desperate for more of himself.
He could see the dining room as clearly as if he were sitting in it. Silver dishes of excellent food, all bathed in warm candlelight though, it being summer, fading sunlight lightened the room as well. His oldest brother the marquess sat at the head of the table, Cyn and Cyn’s wife, Chastity, at either side, Elf opposite. That was the ‘elf’ he’d thought of before. His sister Elfled. Cyn not ”sin,“ Bryght, not ”bright“—Arcenbryght, his other brother.
How long ago had that been? Had Bryght’s wife had her child? Had all gone well? She was a small woman for childbearing…
He struggled to remember something else, but everything between that pleasant meal and this dark, mysterious room lay blank, as if it had never existed.
But he remembered talking at that dinner about a trip north.
Was he now in the north? He thought he remembered a touch of it in the woman’s voice, though she’d spoken like a lady. So, he was likely in Yorkshire or Northumberland. But where? And who was his nurse? And what the devil had happened to him?
He forced himself to sit up and after a moment, found the pain in his head bearable. Massaging the dull ache, he still struggled with the idea that he’d drunk himself insensible.
If he couldn’t change the damnable darkness in his mind, he could surely light that around him. Groping, he found a table, and searched with his fingers for the candle and tinderbox that should be there. Nothing. He stretched further. He felt the brushing chill of glass a moment too late, and cursed as it shattered on the floor.
His fingers scrabbled over the smooth table for something else. Something he could use as a weapon. The door creaked open and a pale figure appeared, backlit by a weak night-light in the hall.
“Are you awake, sir?”
At the soft, remembered voice, he almost wept with relief.
Why this mad panic? What had happened to him?
“Sir?” She was coming over and he realized he hadn’t answered.
“Yes, I’m awake. Don’t come closer. There’s glass on the floor to the right of the bed.”
She stopped, only a gray shape now, for she’d closed the door. He reviewed matters with a suppressed groan. First he’d thrown up. Now he’d created a dangerous mess. He’
d better crawl away from here as soon as possible and never return.
“Are you feeling sick again?” she asked. “The chamber pot’s down there.”
He tested the idea, and was pleased to be able to say, “No. I must thank you for your care of me.”
“It’s no trouble. Did you need something?”
My mind back. He could hardly say that. “Perhaps a light?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
How could he say he was suddenly afraid of the dark? “I’m sorry for disturbing you.” He wished he could remember her name, remember what they were to each other. Anything.
She came closer, round to the left of the bed. He watched the ghostly paleness of her hand and arm reach out so she could lay a hand on his forehead, and remembered the pleasure of her earlier touch.
“I’m much better,” he said. A smooth hand. A lady’s hand, though many doxies had soft hands, too.
“Certainly you have no fever.”
“Where did you say this is?”
“Gillsett.”
Gillsett. He repeated it to himself a time or two, determined not to lose it this time. “And where is Gillsett?”
“Arkengarthdale.”
One of the more remote Yorkshire dales. Mostly sheep country. Strange to know geography and land use, but not where he had been recently and why. He felt strangely certain that he had no business reason to be in Arkengarthdale.
He had to ask the obvious question. “And you are… ?”
“Miss Gillsett.”
He must certainly have dreamed the business of having this composed, well-bred lady in his bed. Miss Gillsett of Gillsett was doubtless a kind-hearted lady of sensible years and impeccable virtue. She’d likely faint if she learned he’d imagined her in his bed.
“Have you remembered your name, sir?” she asked.
From embarrassment and a dislike of being fawned on, he’d rather not say. But he had no choice. “Malloren.” When she didn’t react, he relaxed and added his first name. “Brand Malloren.”
“Do you have family or friends who will be worrying, Mr. Malloren?”
He was actually Lord Brand Malloren, but certainly didn’t mind being thought a simple mister in this embarrassing situation. The question was an interesting one, however. If his family knew he was sick they certainly would worry. They were far away, however, and he’d left his entourage in Thirsk. With luck, neither family nor staff would ever find out about this debacle.
