Her eyes traveled down the length of his body. She could see the outline of his firm torso and long legs, and remembered again his naked form in the cave. Her belly swirled with fascination and arousal, which shamed her for a moment, until she remembered that she was a flesh and blood woman—a woman who had once known passion and desire for a brief time before this seven-year exile. There was a time she’d wanted nothing more than to know a man’s body, and to be made love to by someone she adored.
Suddenly, without warning, the man’s arm snapped up. He grabbed her wrist.
Panic flared in her stomach. She gasped, but before she could even comprehend the pain in her arm, he was scrambling out of the bed like a wild animal, coming at her with raging fury in his eyes.
She screamed as he threw her to the floor. Her head hit the rug and she squeezed her eyes shut. All the air sailed out of her lungs.
The man pinned her down, tossed a leg over her hips and straddled her. When she opened her eyes, he was sitting on top of her, holding a brass candlestick over his head. It gleamed in the firelight, just like the ferocity in his wild blue eyes.
“Aaah!” he yelled as he drew the weapon back and swung.
Chapter 3
Chelsea held out her hands to deflect the blow. “No!” she cried. She braced herself and uttered a frantic prayer.
Nothing happened for a few seconds, so she cautiously opened her eyes. The man was still brandishing the candlestick over his head. He glared down at her with fire in his eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“I’m Lady Chelsea Campion,” she said breathlessly.
His brow furrowed with tension, and he drew his arm back again as if he had changed his mind and was going to bludgeon her to death after all.
“No! Please!” she cried. “I’m not your enemy!”
Again he hesitated.
Chelsea’s frightened gaze dropped to his midsection. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down. He seemed to discover, only in that instant, that he was injured. Dropping the candlestick to the floor with a noisy clang, he doubled over in pain and covered his wound with both hands.
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
He toppled over and landed on the floor beside her. Lying on his side, he brought his knees to his chest.
She scrambled to her feet. “I’ll get someone. The doctor.”
She made a dash for the bellpull.
“You’re hurt,” she tried to explain as she tugged hard on the velvet rope.
“Who did this to me?” He spoke through gritted teeth, with a deep, enraged snarl, glaring at her with loathing. “Was it you?”
“No. I don’t know who did it.”
He grimaced in pain.
Chelsea returned to his side, knelt down and touched his shoulder. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his face contorted in agony while he struggled to breathe.
“Try to calm down,” she said. “Someone will be here soon.” His blood was dripping onto the carpet. “You shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.”
“Bed?” he repeated, as if the word were completely foreign to him. He looked around in a panic. “Where am I? What am I doing here?”
“You were washed into a sea cave here on Jersey Island, and that is where I found you,” she explained. “You were hurt. We brought you here.”
“Where’s here? Who’s we?”
Just then someone knocked on the door. “Come in!” Chelsea shouted. “Hurry!”
But it was only Mary, the youngest maid. She took one look at the man writhing in pain on the floor and her eyes flew open in horror, wide as saucers.
“Go and send for the doctor,” Chelsea instructed. “And tell Lord Neufeld to come quickly!”
Mary dashed back out into the corridor.
As soon as she was gone, the man grabbed Chelsea by the throat and pulled her down. She fought for breath while he lifted his head off the floor and squeezed her neck in a viselike grip. Anger burned in his eyes like the flames of hell.
“Who am I?”
She gazed at him with confusion and fright. “I don’t know,” she rasped.
His hand fell away from her throat and he lowered his head to the floor.
Coughing and sputtering, her heart pounding with terror, Chelsea rolled over onto her back, while he blinked up at the ceiling in a daze.
“I don’t know either,” he said.
Then his hellish eyes fell closed and oblivion claimed him once more.
Sebastian, dressed in formal black and white dinner attire, came running into the room. “What the devil happened?”
Only then did Chelsea realize how badly she was shaking. Carefully, she rose to her feet. “He woke up and attacked me.”
“Attacked you?” Her brother rushed forward and looked down at the man on the floor.
“He seemed confused and delirious,” she tried to explain. “He thought I stabbed him. I think he was trying to defend himself.”
Sebastian knelt down and placed two fingers on the man’s neck. “My God, he’s barely alive. He must have lost a great deal of blood.”
“I assure you,” she said, “he was quite alive and hot-blooded a few minutes ago. There was no shortage of fire racing through those veins.”
Sebastian slipped both hands under the man’s arms. “Help me get him back up on the bed. Take his ankles.”
“Be careful,” she said, struggling to help her brother lift him. “He might wake up again.”
“I hope he does,” Sebastian replied. “Because I’d like to knock his bloody block off for scaring you like that.”
They maneuvered him back onto the bed.
Chelsea leaned over him. “Look how he’s bleeding. He must have opened the wound.”
“The doctor has been sent for.”
“But we can’t just sit here and wait.” She climbed onto the wide bed, knelt beside the man and laid her hands upon his stomach where the blood had seeped through the nightshirt.
“Chel,” Sebastian said with a warning tone. “What are you doing?”
She felt for the dressing. “I’m going to press on the wound to slow the bleeding until the doctor gets here.”
While she applied pressure to his lower abdomen, near his hipbone, she regarded the man’s face and thought how peaceful he appeared now, compared to the fury she had witnessed a few minutes ago. Whatever happened to him to fill him with such rage?
“It would probably be best if you didn’t tell Mother what I just told you,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” her brother replied. “I know how she gets.”
Chelsea pressed on the dressing for a number of minutes while the man remained asleep, unmoving, his arms splayed out upon the bed.
“I’m going to look at the stitches,” she said. “Pass me that blanket.”
Sebastian tossed the wool coverlet that was folded at the foot of the bed. She covered the man, then lifted his nightshirt to check under the bandage.
“Just as I thought. The stitches have come loose. How long do you think it will be before the doctor gets here? Can we wait?”
“Not if we want him to live, I suppose.”
She sat back on her heels and considered her options, then knew what she had to do. “I’m going to require a needle and thread. Will you go and get that from Mrs. Hubley? And some warm water and a cloth. What else?”
“Brandy.” He made a move to leave. “But you shouldn’t be alone with him.”
“I’ll be fine,” she replied. “I won’t be caught off guard again. Besides, he’s in no shape to do any damage now.”
Sebastian nodded. “All right, but scream if he so much as blinks.” He hastened from the room.
Chelsea reached for a clean section of the bandage and pressed it to the wound while she waited for Sebastian to return. The seconds ticked by on the clock like minutes—relentless and sluggish. Time seemed heavy and suffocating.
She touched the man’s forehead and cheek. At least ther
e was no sign of fever.
A moan escaped him. He turned his head into her palm.
“You’re going to be all right,” she said, holding his face in her hand, hoping to keep him calm. “You’re safe here.”
His eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the ceiling for a second or two, then his body jerked. He rose up on his elbows. Fire shot through her veins again and she stiffened, certain that he was going to leap up and lunge at her. His eyes flashed with panic and distrust.
“Who are you?” he asked for the second time, as if she had no right to be there.
“I am Lady Chelsea. You are in the care of my brother, Earl Neufeld. You were washed ashore here on Jersey Island, and that is where I found you, on the beach. Can you tell me your name and where you come from? Who is your family?”
He struggled to think. “I don’t know. I don’t know any of that.”
“You don’t even know your name?”
“No.”
Chelsea wet her lips and urged him back down onto the pillow. “I am sure it is just the shock of what has happened to you. Give yourself some time. It will all come back.”
He laid his head down and continued to watch her while she checked his wound.
She looked toward the door. Where was her brother? What was keeping him?
The man’s jaw clenched with pain. He seemed to be holding back some colorful language.
“You’ve started to bleed again,” she told him, “and I don’t want to wait for the doctor. If he is on another call, it could be hours before he arrives, so I am going to stitch you up myself.”
He looked down at her hands and spoke through clenched teeth. “All right.”
Her gaze flicked up. Judging by the paleness of his face, she decided it would be best if she could keep him talking and distracted from his pain. “Are you always so agreeable? When you’re not brandishing a candlestick, that is.”
“I have no idea if I am or not.” His eyes rolled back in his head and he writhed on the bed. “I attacked you before. Why did I do that?”
She was uncomfortably aware of the strength and power of his body. He was large and muscular, not like any gentleman she’d ever met before. “I don’t know. You gave no warning. You just opened your eyes and threw me down.”
He grunted. “My apologies, Lady Chelsea.”
How strange if felt to be conversing with him this way. Was this really happening? “Apology accepted.”
He lay still for a moment, focusing intently on one spot on the ceiling. “Do you have any brandy? Wine? Anything will do. Anything at all.”
“My brother is on his way up with a bottle. He should be here any time now.” She glanced impatiently at the door again. Where was he?
The man closed his eyes and nodded, while Chelsea sat beside him, looking at his dark lashes and the strong line of his jaw. He had a perfect face—well-proportioned and balanced, as if he’d been sculpted by an artist.
Aside from the scraped knuckles, his hands were well-groomed. He was a gentleman, and a very appealing one, there was no question of it. His speech and accent were impeccable, his tone of voice polite, especially when he’d apologized to her just now. There was something immensely confident and dignified about him, now that he was no longer trying to snuff the life out of her.
Heavy footsteps came marching down the hall. Her brother entered the room at a brisk pace, a bottle and glass in one hand, a needle—already threaded—in the other. “I have everything,” he said, “and a maid is on her way up with a pitcher of water and more bandages.”
The stranger opened his eyes. “Are you the earl?”
“Yes.” Sebastian glanced curiously at Chelsea.
“Pass me the needle,” she said, ignoring her brother’s distress over her safety.
Sebastian hesitated. “Maybe I should do it.”
“No. I know what to do, and besides, my hands are already covered in blood. Just give it to me.”
With barely enough strength to blink, the gentleman turned his head toward her brother. “I think you had better do what the lady says. She seems very determined.”
Sebastian passed the needle across the bed. Chelsea took hold of it between two blood-soaked fingers.
“Are you ready?”
The stranger nodded.
But she wasn’t ready.
She paused. “Do you need something to bite down on?”
He shook his head. “No. Just do it.”
Digging deep for courage and grit, she inched forward and began stitching him up. He watched the entire procedure in silence, without uttering a single oath, and for some reason she could not explain, his cold control unnerved her almost as much as the violence of his awakening.
Chapter 4
“You mean to tell me he doesn’t know who he is? He doesn’t even know his own name?”
Chelsea sat down in the drawing room, her head still spinning from the day’s extraordinary events. “That’s right, Mother.”
The doctor had arrived an hour after she stitched the gentleman up, took one look at the wound and told her she’d just saved his life. He was now conducting a more thorough examination.
“Do you think perhaps he is an idiot?” her mother asked. “That he escaped from an asylum somewhere? That would certainly explain why he was naked. Maybe he thought he was in the bathtub.”
Chelsea glanced at Melissa, who was seated across from her mother. “No, I don’t believe he is from an asylum, although I suppose anything is possible. My feeling is that he suffered a blow to the head when he was washed up onto the rocks, and that it has dislodged his memory somehow.”
“Dislodged his memory?” her mother said incredulously. “How absolutely ridiculous. I’ve never heard of any such thing.”
“Well, either way,” Chelsea continued, “the fact of the matter is—he doesn’t know who he is, and I should think he must be feeling very lost, to say the least.”
“Lost, indeed,” Melissa added thoughtfully. “To not know who you are or where you come from, or whether or not you have a family…It would be most distressing. It would be a complete loss of your identity and all that you have become.”
Chelsea nodded. “Exactly, which is why I believe that we must make him feel welcome and do all we can to help him.”
“For how long?” her mother asked indignantly.
“Until he recovers his memory, I suppose,” Chelsea replied, “or until someone comes to claim him.”
“But no one knows he is here.”
“We can inform the local magistrate,” Melissa suggested helpfully, “as well as the London authorities and newspapers.”
Chelsea gestured toward her sister-in-law with a hand. “Yes, that is an excellent idea, and if he comes from a good family, someone should be looking for him.”
“What makes you think he comes from a good family?” her mother asked. “As I said before, he could just as easily have escaped from a madhouse.”
Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mother. He is well spoken and well groomed.”
Melissa reached for her teacup. “For all we know, he could be a missing duke or even a prince. That’s what Sebastian suggested.”
“A missing duke indeed,” her mother scoffed.
Sebastian entered the room and presented the doctor. “Dr. Melville, if you would be so kind as to share with the ladies your prognosis.”
He took a seat across from Chelsea.
“Is our patient feeling any better?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but his vitals are strong—his heart, his breathing, and so on. You did a fine job with your stitching, Lady Chelsea. The wound looks as though it will heal nicely, as long as there is no infection looming on the horizon.” His eyes smiled and he spoke with a touch of humor. “And providing he does not leap out of bed and attack you again. My word, you were lucky to have escaped with your life. Clearly he was not in his right mind, and I suspect that whatever brought him here was an or
deal of the very worst kind.”
Though she did not turn and look at her mother, Chelsea could feel her shocked gaze boring into the side of her head.
“You exaggerate, Doctor. It wasn’t nearly as bad as that. He was just a bit disoriented when he woke. He didn’t know where he was.”
“He tore his wound wide open and threw you to the floor,” the doctor argued. “I’d hardly call that a mere state of confusion. It was a most violent awakening, which is why I think—”
“He threw you to the floor?” her mother asked. “Why did you not tell me this before?”
Chelsea sighed. “Because I knew it would upset you.”
“It certainly has upset me. Good heavens…I think my nerves are failing. I cannot breathe.” She placed her hand on her chest.
The doctor rose from his chair, picked up a book from the table and began to fan her face. “Perhaps a little brandy for your nerves, my lady.”
Sebastian stood. “I’ll get it.” He left the room in a state of perfect calm, for he had fetched brandy for his mother more than a few times over the years, whenever her nerves decided to act up.
“Chelsea, you are not to go into that room again,” her mother insisted. “Do you understand me? Clearly the man is insane.”
“He is not insane.” She wasn’t exactly sure why she was defending him, however, when he had tried to brain her a few short hours ago. She looked at the doctor. “You don’t think he’s insane, do you?”
Dr. Melville glanced uneasily from Chelsea to her mother, who was pursing her lips at him. “Well,” he stammered, “it is difficult to say…”
Sebastian returned with a glass of brandy and handed it to their mother.
She took a sip and moaned. “How shall I survive this? Sometimes, Chelsea, I am certain it is your goal in life to put me in an early grave, though why you should wish that, I’ve no idea.”
“I wish for no such thing, Mother.”
The doctor was still fanning her with the book. She flopped back against the sofa cushions. “Oh, yes, Dr. Melville, that is most helpful. You are such a fine medical man.” She relaxed for a moment, then sat up abruptly and turned her attention back to Chelsea. “You are not to go in there again,” she said. “Your brother will see to his needs, not you.”
When a Stranger Loves Me Page 3
