by Alexa Aston
“You are lucky, indeed, my lady,” Kit said softly.
She turned to him. “Why?”
“You were brought up in a magical place. You have parents that not only love you and your siblings, but they adore one another.”
Alys watched her parents dance around the maypole with abandon and nodded. “I am fortunate.” Her eyes met his. “Mayhap you, too, came from such a family.”
“Nay.” His flat tone caused her to wonder if he had remembered who he was. She could not recollect ever seeing his mother at court, while her vague impression of his father was not that of a loving man as her own father was.
She knew now was the time to tell him of his origins.
“Alys!”
She turned and saw her cousin, Elysande, coming her way, little Tucker in tow. Her husband, Michael, followed closely behind, as did Aunt Mary.
“Elysande!” She ran to greet the woman, embracing her cousin tightly. “I am so happy to see you.”
“Alys,” a voice closer to the ground demanded.
“Good day to you, sweet Tucker,” she told the boy, sweeping him up into her arms and kissing his nose. “I have missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” he said.
Michael came up and wrapped her in a hug and kissed her cheek. “And how is my favorite de Montfort?”
“Oh, Mother is doing well,” Alys retorted. She nodded in the direction of the maypole. “She and Father just finished beating the bounds and are celebrating.”
Tucker began squirming, so she released him and greeted her aunt. “Aunt Mary, I am delighted you could come. Father will be so pleased to see you.”
“And I him.”
Alys looked around. “Didn’t Sir Charles accompany you?”
“Charles saw Gilbert and stopped to visit with him. He will be along in a moment.” Mary looked at her intently. “How have you been, my child? I think I see something different about you.”
“I am well, thank you,” she said. “Kinwick thrives, so I am happy.” Alys looked over her shoulder and motioned for Kit to join them. “But we have a guest I would like you to meet.”
As Kit made his way toward them, Alys turned. Before she could say a word, she saw recognition on Michael’s face.
“Emory? What brings you to Kinwick?” Michael asked.
Emory?
The image of a smiling, older woman with mischief in her eyes flashed before him. Then another quickly joined her, a man with gray hair and a beard. Both appeared so real that he reached out to touch them—but they dissipated.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, his stomach churning. “You know me?”
“I made your acquaintance at King Edward’s court less than a month ago. I am Michael Devereux. I was with my brother-in-law, Kenric Fairfax, the Earl of Shadowfaire.” Michael frowned. “Surely, you could not have forgotten us so soon after we met.”
Panic escalated within him. “We were at court. A month ago,” he repeated.
“Aye. Kenric and I waited for Lord Geoffrey and Lord Raynor to conclude their report to the king regarding the newly-signed truce. We spoke briefly.” Michael stopped and studied him intently. “You shared you were Kit Emory, son to Lord Godwin Emory, the Baron of Brentley and adviser to the king.”
The same image of the bearded, gray-haired man flashed quickly before his eyes and vanished.
His heart beat wildly in his chest. He had trouble breathing. He looked at Devereux—and experienced no recognition of him.
Nor did the name Kit Emory stir any memories, other than the brief glimpse of the man and woman flickering in his mind.
“Excuse me, my lord. My ladies.” He turned and abruptly stormed away from the crowd and noise. He would leave it to Lady Alys to make his excuses. He was certain she would tell them of his accident and his memory loss. Let her have at it. He was tired. Tired of not knowing who he was—even if he now had his name—one that meant nothing to him.
Anger poured through him, and his strides grew in length. He needed to get away from everything. Everyone. The music. The happiness. The love. He wanted to give in and sulk like a small child.
He left the meadow and entered the woods. Each step that took him deeper into them seemed to add to the hot flame that burned in his chest. He started to run, but it caused his ribs to ache. Still, he pressed on, rage permeating through every pore. Finally, he dropped to his knees and howled in frustration.
Then hot tears came. He could not remember the last time he had cried—or if he ever had. He was so weary of not knowing anything about himself.
A hand gently touched his head. He inhaled and knew Alys de Montfort stood by him. Today she smelled of lavender soap.
“I wish you had not sought me out, my lady.”
Her hand continued to stroke his head. His hair. He closed his eyes and gave in to the feelings the simple gesture created. Gradually, the anger washed away. His body, once coiled tightly, relaxed.
She cupped his face in both her hands. Not soft hands, but callused hands that worked. Hands that tended the garden and prepared her herbs. Hands that sewed and cooked and delivered babes. Hands that brought a sweet sensation to him.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her, slowing rising to his feet. Tears caused her brilliant sapphire eyes to glitter.
“Please. Give it more time,” she begged.
“I have given it nothing but time,” he said gruffly.
“At least you have a name now. The rest will come. I promise.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Who knows if—or when—my memory will return? But what this experience has taught me is that I could die tomorrow and never have kissed you.”
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
His fingers clutched her shoulders. “Who knows? I may have a wife and children. I may be the first son who inherits a vast estate and esteemed title or a fifth son with nothing. But I do know that I can no longer ignore what my heart has cried out to me ever since I first saw you.”
He crushed her to him and brought his mouth to hers. Frantic at first. He wanted to gobble her whole. He couldn’t get enough of her as sensations rippled through him. She clung to him, her knees buckling, her fingers digging into his shoulders. His arms tightened about her.
In that moment, his eyes closed, familiarity poured through him, as if he had embraced her in a similar fashion before, long ago. A sweet memory of him holding her. Comforting her.
Then other emotions took over as need coursed through him. The faint memory dissolved as he gentled the kiss and began leisurely exploring her mouth. His tongue playfully danced around in her mouth, stroking hers. He pulled her closer as shudders ran through her. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He feared she would hear it and ask what drummer accompanied them.
He broke the kiss, drawing fresh air deeply into his lungs as he moved his lips to her ear. Her jaw. Her cheek. Her fingers ran through his hair, causing a racing heat to rush through him, tightening, extending through his arms and legs till his body vibrated as hers did.
He returned to her mouth. Their kiss grew more heated than before. His core seemed to melt as easily as candle wax. She had the power to mold him in any way she liked.
His hand dropped to cup her breast. It began to swell and fit his palm as he rubbed a thumb across her nipple, which pebbled in need. She cried out, small whimpers that caused his manhood to swell. Her hands ran down his chest, her fingertips dancing across his hard muscles.
Then they dropped lower to his member. As it pressed against her belly, her hand touched it. Stroked it. He groaned and captured her hands in his. His mouth remained on hers a moment longer, drinking in her sweetness, before he pulled away. Immediately, he missed the heat of her lips, her body pressed against his.
He rested his forehead against hers. “We cannot,” he choked out, though his fingers remained entwined with hers. “Not till I know more about who I am and what commitments I have.”
He raised his lips and tou
ched them against her cheek, savoring the last touch of her silky skin before he released her.
Alys stood rooted to the spot, her lips swollen with their love play. “Kit?” she said hoarsely.
Hearing his name on her lips jolted him. He still did not recognize it as his, but he liked the way she said it.
“We must talk.”
“Alys? Where are you?”
“It’s your sister,” he said quietly. “You should rejoin her.”
“But I have much to tell you.”
“Let it wait.”
She gazed at him with a naked longing that she was too inexperienced to hide.
He took her chin in his hand. “Go to Nan. I will follow later. We will talk after the feast tonight. I promise.”
Alys nodded reluctantly. “We have much to discuss.” She turned and hurried away. As she did, she called out, “Nan! I am coming!”
He watched her depart. Loneliness crawled inside him with her absence. He sat down on a felled log and sighed.
“So my name is Kit Emory,” he told himself, willing any memory to return.
Chapter 12
Kit entered the great hall amidst a buzz of activity. He had spent most of the day in the forest, alone, not wanting to join in the bevy of events surrounding the celebration of May Day. Only when his grumbling stomach continued to gurgle did he force himself to his feet and return to the keep.
He spied young Tucker Devereux riding on his father’s shoulders, squealing in delight as the nobleman raced around. Near the dais stood Lady Elysande, a look of joy on her face as she watched the pair.
It was like a punch to his gut, seeing the happiness that the noblewoman radiated. He wanted a share of that happiness. He wanted a woman to share his life with.
And he wanted Alys de Montfort to be that woman.
He made his way to Lady Elysande. “I must apologize for my rude behavior,” he said.
“Totally unnecessary,” Devereux said as he stepped to his wife’s side. He lifted his son from his shoulders and placed him on the ground. Tucker ran off.
“Merryn explained the situation to us,” the nobleman continued. “I would have approached you differently if I had but known.”
“Could you tell me about our conversation?” Kit asked. “Though I now have learned my name, I know nothing else of myself. Any clue you could provide might help restore my memory.”
Devereux grew thoughtful. “Our discussion was brief,” he began. “Kenric and I—and you, I gathered—had just returned from the fighting on the continent.” He paused in thought. “We spoke of the truce. The ports England had retained. And the health of the king and the Black Prince.”
Kit drew a blank at the information the nobleman related to him.
“Oh. We spoke briefly about Alys.”
“We spoke of . . . Lady Alys?”
Devereux nodded. “Aye. I remember now. Somehow Lord Geoffrey’s name was mentioned. You asked if he might be related to Alys. I gathered you had met her at court once many years ago.” He thought a moment. “You mentioned something about the queen’s death.”
“Well, you could not have known Alys for long,” Lady Elysande pointed out. “She left court immediately after Queen Philippa passed. She was quite upset by her death.”
So he had known Alys. Years ago.
And yet she had said nothing to him.
Lady Elysande must have read his thoughts. “People change in appearance as they age, my lord. I’m sure Alys did not recognize you. Especially if you only met briefly.” She paused. “Let me think. Alys returned home about six years ago. I am sure of it, for that was when David broke his arm. Remember, Michael?”
Her husband nodded his head. “Aye. He was only three at the time. We came to Kinwick to try and cheer Alys up after the queen’s death. David broke his arm here, and Alys took such good care of him.”
“Alys has always loved children,” Lady Elysande explained. “Why, she was only a young girl herself at the time, mayhap ten and two. I know her well, but I don’t think I would have recognized her if six years passed between times I saw her.”
Kit understood Lady Elysande’s reasoning. He knew how faces matured. How bodies filled out. Still, it troubled him.
“Again, I offer my apologies to you.” Kit gave a curt nod and left their company. The boisterous noise in the massive room bothered him. He decided to leave the great hall and retire to his bedchamber.
As he made his way to the arched doorway, Alys and her parents appeared and headed toward him. He halted, not knowing how he could avoid them.
“I hear that Michael helped identify who you are, Kit Emory. It was a stroke of luck that he made your brief acquaintance in London.”
Kit deliberately avoided looking at Alys as he responded to her father. “Yes, my lord, though hearing my name has not jarred any memories. I think if I return to my home and am in familiar surroundings, I will have a better chance at recovering them.”
He saw Lady Merryn’s eyes cut to her daughter’s. He didn’t wish to know what passed between them and looked away.
“An excellent idea,” Lord Geoffrey declared. “I will provide a guard to accompany you back to Brentwood.”
Brentwood. It was the first time he had heard that name and assumed it to be his home.
“You know where Brentwood lies?” he asked.
“Aye. To the north and west of London,” Lord Geoffrey confirmed. “But we can save this discussion for tomorrow. Come and see me after mass. I will make the arrangements for you to return home.”
Kit decided to push the matter. “I would like to leave now, my lord,” he said firmly.
Lord Geoffrey grew thoughtful. “I see.” He motioned their steward over. “Diggory, please find Gilbert for me. I need to see him at once.”
“Of course, my lord.” The steward left in search of the Kinwick captain of the guard.
“I will arrange the journey,” the nobleman promised him. “But you must come and eat first. Cook has spent the past three days preparing our feast.”
Kit allowed the three of them to pass, keeping his eyes to the ground as he followed. When they reached the dais, he took the seat on the end. Alys sat next to him.
Course after course came from the kitchens. Though they shared a trencher, no conversation occurred between them. Only an awkward silence hung in the air.
After several courses, Tucker grew restless. Nan took her young cousin by the hand and played with him in front of the long table from which they supped. She took a few apples and started juggling them. Kit thought Nan quite good. Tucker tried to imitate her, throwing one apple in the air at a time, trying to catch it as it came crashing down to the ground. He laughed every time he missed catching the fruit and even harder when it landed upon his head.
Kit glanced around the great hall. Whatever he returned to at Brentwood, it would not be like this. He looked to Tucker’s parents who watched the children play with satisfied smiles on their faces. Further down from him, Lord Geoffrey fed a morsel to Lady Merryn. Love for her husband shone on her face. All around the room, people ate and drank and spoke, happiness abounding.
“It’s the last course!” Nan proclaimed, grabbing Tucker’s hand and returning them to their seats. “The best. I promise. Cook made two sweets. I want some of each.”
A servant approached them with a tray, and Kit took both sweets offered. He recognized the ryschewys, a fried fig pastry. But the second sweet caught his eye. The name of it was on the tip of his tongue. He knew before he bit into it that the cake was a favorite of his.
Suddenly, Alys said, “May we speak after you finish eating, my lord? Alone?”
Kit didn’t want it to be only the two of them, with no others present. He did not trust himself to keep his hands off her. Reluctantly, he met her eyes.
A different Alys looked back at him. Not one full of curiosity and mischief. Not the woman who was interested in the world about her. This Alys was stoic, as if she steeled herself fo
r something unpleasant.
“If it pleases you, my lady.”
He looked back at the sweet before him. “What is this?” he asked.
“It’s called a cryspe,” she replied. “A funnel cake coated in sugar.”
He bit into the cryspe. As it melted on his tongue, a flood of memories exploded within him, as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
Kit could recall eating this treat, his mother laughing how she spoiled him with it too often. He could see the great hall at Brentwood—and other halls. Places he had fostered. Too many of them to count. He heard his father berating him for being careless.
“I am running out of places to send you, Christopher,” he admonished. “You have no respect and run wild no matter where you go to foster. You are an embarrassment to me. Think of my position!”
“He will remain with me. For now,” his mother interrupted. “I will train him.”
That was how he knew about farming and estate matters. He remembered riding around Brentwood as his mother poured all of her knowledge into him.
Then a rush of noises invaded his mind. The battlefield. He’d been reckless. Led a charge that failed. He could see his horse falling beneath him. Ralf, his friend, stumbling to the ground. He scooped Ralf up in his arms, the blood pouring from a chest wound and bubbling up, oozing from Ralf’s lips. Fighting went on all about them as his friend died in his arms.
And it had been his fault.
He was not a methodical man. He was one who acted before he thought. Admired for his reputation of bravery, dashing into dangerous situations, expecting soldiers to follow him without question. He had no regard for his life or others. He spoke his mind, consequences be damned.
These memories brought him great shame.
Suddenly, Kit was struck with a rainbow of emotions, as the floodgates to other recollections emerged. Anger. Sorrow. Despair. Pain.
He leapt to his feet and raced from the room. He had to escape the gaiety. The noise. The laughter.
