“Eh, give it some time. You’re a good stone less than when he first dragged you in here.” Mirela nodded a head toward the wagon door as if he stood out there somewhere. Owen. The man she knew so little about. Except that he had saved her.
It had been almost a week since she woke in the middle of the night to find Owen Crawford sleeping beside her bed. A week since they’d spoken and she claimed memory loss. Since then, he’d kept his distance and talked not at all. He continued to sleep in the wagon with her every night, only entering the confines after she had fallen asleep. And he was always gone before she awoke.
“Who is he?” she asked Mirela, realizing if she wanted to know anything about the elusive man, the old woman might be her best source.
Mirela looked up at her sharply. “You ask me? He’s the one who brought you here.”
“I was out of my head with fever—”
“And you’ve been awake for several days now. Why don’t you ask him your questions?” She waved a hand in the air. “You are his now. I told him as much. It is right that you know who he is.”
Her cheeks burned with scalding heat. “I am not his!” What utter rot. “You did not tell him that, did you?”
The elderly woman nodded as if it were of no account and not a mortifying revelation. “Not that he put much store by it.”
“Of course he didn’t! It’s utter nonsense.” Annalise pressed a hand to her burning face.
“He saved your life. Without him, you would be dead.” She held her hands out in front of her and laced her fingers together, interlocking them. “Your lives are woven together now. Threads in a tapestry.”
Annalise stared at those gnarled hands, the locked fingers. A heaviness built in her chest. It was not true. The woman possessed antiquated principles. She owed Mr. Crawford her gratitude. Nothing more. He certainly wanted no long-standing connection between them. He scarcely spoke to her.
If she was bound to anyone, tragically, it was Bloodsworth. As much as she was loath to admit it, in the eyes of the law and before God she had bound herself to the evil man. Immediately, she felt his weight bearing down on her, smelled his brandy-laden breath . . . heard the echo of his words. Little cow, I’m thinking you’ll sink straight to the bottom.
She sucked in a deep breath. Her fist knotted in the blanket covering her lap as if she could crush the reminder in her grip. Her breakfast of porridge and milk threaten to rise up on her.
She belonged to no man. Not her social-climbing father who wanted nothing more than to wed her to the highest bidder—she saw that now. Not her husband. And not some stranger who scraped her up off the banks of the river. She was her own independent woman and would be solely that from now on. She would recover, heal, and carve a new life for herself somewhere far from all of them.
Mirela watched her with interest, one gray eyebrow lifted in silent inquiry. Annalise, shaking her head slightly, forced a tremulous smile and turned her attention to the portrait of a long-ago family member set within the cupboard.
She held silent as Mirela went about gathering the wet linens used for her sponge bath earlier in the day. After a few moments she found her voice to ask, “When do you think I can get out of this bed?”
“Hmm. Perhaps another four . . . five weeks.”
She felt her eyes bulge in her face. “Five weeks?”
“You broke your leg . . .”
“Last time I didn’t stay in bed nearly so long.” She had already confessed to the childhood memory of breaking her leg when she fell from a tree. She thought that could be important for Mirela to know as she went about nursing her. After all, just because she remembered something that happened to her at fourteen did not mean she could remember the traumatic event from a week ago.
“And you had a limp, no?”
Annalise nodded again.
“That is why. You did not give it time to heal properly.” Mirela looked at her in accusation. As if she was to blame for her limp.
Not that she’d had much of a choice in the matter. Mrs. Danvers demanded her up and moving about within a week, helping her mother with the smaller children in the nursery. Her mother’s employer did not care one whit about allowing her time to recuperate.
Mirela lifted the bowl of soapy water. “This time, we will let it heal.” She stabbed one gnarled finger toward Annalise. “You will not move from that bed.”
Her face flushed both hot and cold as the reality of her life for the next five weeks settled over her.
She would remain in this bed, in this wagon, with a strange man sleeping a foot away from her every night? It wasn’t to be borne.
A path of sunlight tunneled into the wagon as Mirela opened the door and descended the steps. Annalise leaned forward, eager and aching for its warmth, for the vast openness of the outdoors. Just as quickly the light was gone. The door shut with a click and she was all alone in a space that felt like it was shrinking by the moment. She slumped back in the bed, quite convinced she would go stark raving mad stuck here for several more weeks.
Owen looked up from where he stacked an armful of kindling he had gathered from the nearby woods. Mirela stood in front of him, the rare afternoon sunlight glinting off her many brilliant gold necklaces.
“Mirela,” he greeted, marveling how this elderly, slow-moving woman managed to move with such stealth. He never heard her approach.
“What do you think you are doing?”
He glanced down at the kindling and bit off the sarcastic reply rising to his lips. “Helping . . .” He let the word hang, more question than statement. From the irritated way she glared at him, he did not think she approved of his activity.
Several of the men had gone into the village to speak with townsmen regarding tomorrow’s fair, and Owen had taken it upon himself to gather the day’s kindling. It was something to do rather than sit idle and wonder what precisely he was doing here with a band of Gypsies and an invalid female.
She pointed to the wagon. “That girl needs some attention.”
He stared from the wagon to the old woman.
“I don’t understand. Are you no longer capable of caring for—”
“I’m not talking of tending her injuries. I speak of her spirit. She is restless, lonely.”
He stared, unsure how to respond to that. He was not a companion for hire. “I’m certain you or one of the other women would be better equipped—”
“Nonsense. She trusts you. You rescued her.”
“That hardly makes me fit company.” He’d taken measures to give Anna her privacy. Rising before she woke and retiring after she slept. Even though she claimed memory loss, she had clearly been through an ordeal, and he had no intention of making her uneasy with his hovering presence. Or perhaps he didn’t want to make himself too comfortable. Either way, he kept his distance.
Mirela pointed to the wagon. “She’s been in that bed two weeks now and you dawdle out here . . .” She waved wildly. “ . . . playing with your sticks.”
He blinked. “What am I to do?” He was still here. He hadn’t left. He was obliged to stay with the woman. At least until they learned her identity and he knew where she belonged. No doubt she had a family waiting for her somewhere, sick with worry. Maybe even a husband. Perhaps she had been traveling with family and was set upon by brigands.
He glanced back at the wagon as though he could see within to its confines, to Anna lying there on the bed. For all he knew, the damage to her leg, the bruise to her ribs, had not been the only injury done to her person. His chest pulled and tightened uncomfortably at the notion. Regaining her memory might be the worst trauma to befall her yet.
Mirela’s agitated voice reclaimed his attention. “Talk to her. Keep her company. Carry her outside so that she might get some fresh air.”
Carry her?
He recoiled at the idea of holding her again . . . touch
ing her.
Since she regained consciousness, he was achingly aware of her as a female. She might be bedridden, but that didn’t stop him from studying her as she slept. Creeping into the wagon at night with only a taper to guide him, the dark fan of lashes on her cheeks fascinated him.
He could not understand why. She was no beauty in the classic standard, but there was something about her. She occupied far too much of his thoughts. In his head, alongside his dark and disturbing recollections, his ugly memories . . . that was no place for her to be. She was injured, vulnerable. He shouldn’t be thinking of her as a man thought of a woman. Even after everything he went through in India, he had clung to his own code, some semblance of honor to get himself through it all, to keep himself sane. When he set forth a rule, he would not break it.
He would not touch her.
In order to uphold that promise to himself, he couldn’t imagine carrying her around for fresh air a very good idea. “I don’t think that would be proper.”
Mirela laughed. “Proper? You sound like such an Englishman . . . all staunch and dignified, but we know you are not that, don’t we?” She tapped the corner of her eye. “We know. I see you.”
He stiffened, wondering what it was she thought she saw in him. “I will not carry her. She’s fine as she is. She stays in bed.” Turning, he strode back into the woods under the pretense of fetching more kindling. He did not emerge for several hours.
That night, Annalise heard him enter the wagon. She held herself still, feigning sleep with her eyes closed, debating how best to approach him. As he did not show himself during the day, if she wanted words with him, this was the only way.
She heard him lower himself to the cot, the rustle of his clothing as he removed his jacket. One boot hit the floor with a soft thud, then the next. She heard a puff of breath and suspected that he just blew out a candle.
Moistening her lips, she spoke into the dark. “How long are we going to stay here?” The moment the question escaped her, she winced. We. When had she decided their fates were entwined? Was this because of the foolish words Mirela had rattled off to her?
There was a long pause and she imagined the strong lines of his face contemplating her question. “And where is it that we should go?” His deep voice floated over her. There was no ring of surprise that she was awake, and she wondered if he had known. She recalled his dark blue eyes, so deep and intense. It was as though they missed nothing. Maybe they could even see to her through the dark.
She hastily sought a reply, regretting her rash words.
“Have you regained your memory?” he asked.
“No.” Silence stretched for several moments before she spoke again. “There is a fair,” she announced, turning and staring in the direction of his voice.
“Yes. There is.”
“I should like to see it.”
“You cannot walk,” he reminded her.
She blew out a gust of breath. “Could I perhaps be . . . carried? Pushed on a cart? Anything? I can’t stay in this wagon for weeks.”
Silence met her request.
She balled her hands at her sides. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes.” He sighed as if it took everything to utter the single word.
She fumed. Talking to him was like pulling one’s teeth.
“The fair?” she prodded.
He did not respond. Clearly he had no wish for her company.
“Why are you even here? Why haven’t you just left?”
He shifted. She thought she identified the outline of him, sitting up beside the bed.
“I found you. You are my responsibility—”
“Oh, indeed?” She snorted lightly. “So you’re a man driven by duty and honor?” She knew she should sound more gracious, thankful even. If he wasn’t that sort of man, she would likely be dead.
His voice stroked the air, low and deep. “You say that like it’s such a bad thing.”
It wasn’t, of course. If not for him, she would doubt such men existed at all anymore. On the heels of her trauma, however, she was still skeptical. “Forgive me. I’m bad-tempered from being cooped up in this wagon.” She took a deep bracing breath, sliding her hands down her face in a slow drag. “Some fresh air for even a short time would improve my mood considerably.” She stared at his shadowy shape, wincing at the plea in her voice.
His silence seemed to indicate that her words were lost on him.
She tried a different tactic. “The fresh air might even be good for me—speed my recovery.” She plucked at her blanket with her fingers, focusing on a patch of loose threads. “I’ve heard that, you know. Well in spirit is well in body.”
Nothing. He didn’t even stir, and she began to wonder if he had fallen asleep.
She propped herself up on an elbow. “Mr. Crawford? Are you listening?”
Annalise strained for a sound of him below her.
“Mr. Crawford?”
Finally he answered her, “Good night, Anna.”
A slight rustling told her he was settling back down, ignoring her request. No promise to let her out of this wagon. No hope from moving from its increasingly oppressive space.
His dismissal was clear.
Inhaling thinly through her nose, she vowed that she would find a way to alleviate the stretch of monotonous, mind-numbing hours stuck in this bed. Without his help.
Chapter Seven
You there, Englishman. Come. Help us carry these.” Nadia nodded to one of the chests laden with colorful shawls, scarves, and blankets, all wares to be sold at the fair.
He glanced back at the wagon, feeling that inexorable pull—no matter how he tried to deny it. Fortunately for him, Anna had been asleep when he left just before dawn.
He was being unreasonable, he supposed, refusing her request for a bit of fresh air. There was just something about her. She made him uncomfortable. Those velvet eyes . . . they seemed to drink him up. The notion of being in close proximity to her, carrying her against his chest—he couldn’t bring himself to agree to such a thing.
The village was already abuzz with activity. Nadia and three other women led him through the growing press of people to their area of the fair. The men were already there, practicing their dagger throwing skills with enthusiasm. Everyone was garbed flamboyantly in vibrant colors. If their dark coloring didn’t alert the world of their Romani roots, then their wardrobe did.
“You can set that down there,” one of the women said, directing him beneath the striped tent they had erected.
A crowd of children had gathered around the tent, watching in loud approval. He smiled as one of the young Gypsy boys tossed daggers back in forth with his younger brother, a lad of no more than nine years. It was a wonder he didn’t slice off a finger.
Shaking his head, his gaze scanned the rest of the fair. Somewhere nearby a hawker loudly offered roasted chestnuts. The aroma of hot sticky buns filled the air, making his stomach growl. A faint smile brushed his lips as he recalled he and his brothers stuffing themselves sick with sticky buns at their own village fair. Well, it was mostly Brand and himself. Jamie had been too dignified for that.
Paget had been there, too. Eating more than her share. Too much for a girl of her slight frame. He had no idea where she put it, but she matched him bite for bite. She’d always been there. A permanent fixture of his boyhood. Now she belonged to Jamie.
A wave of longing swept through him. Not because he wanted Paget for himself. God, no. He’d released the thought of them, together, from his mind long ago. His first year in India ruined him for any respectable woman. He was glad she and Jamie had found each other. He simply wished for carefree days again.
Days like the ones he spent at his mother’s home in London, quiet evenings reading alongside her in the library or helping her in the garden. His grandfather had spent his final years there. Owen could
still recall his large, callused hand rumpling the hair on his head as he played with his toy soldiers before the fireplace. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the old Scot’s brogue. That’s my fine lad.
Shaking off the nostalgic thoughts, he continued to scan the merrymaking, feeling more isolated than ever. He didn’t belong here any more than he had in India. His mouth flattened in a grim line. Perhaps he was more at home among battle cries, wielding a pistol or a rifle or plunging his blade into an enemy than here. A sad testament to the man he had become.
Although he knew he could never recapture the innocence from his youth again, he longed to return to his mother’s town house in London and find the peace and contentment he had once known there.
Suddenly, something caught his eye. A brown-haired head bobbing amid the fairgoers. The afternoon sunlight cast the hair into burnished mahogany. His gut twisted in annoyance. He knew that hair. A contrast to the other occasions he’d viewed it—a sopping wet mess or cloaked in the dim confines of a wagon. But he knew it. Anna.
What was she doing out of bed? Bewildered, he tracked her in the crowd. Even dressed in a deep red gown with a single blue ribbon pulling back the top half of her hair from her face, she looked fresh and clean. And in Luca’s arms.
He scowled. Before he could consider his actions, he was moving across the fair, elbowing past hawkers dangling their wares before him.
He trained his gaze on her, eyeing with disapproval the way she laughed at something Luca said as he pointed into a pen full of pigs waiting to be auctioned.
He stopped beside the ramshackle pen. “Anna,” he greeted tersely.
She turned her head at the sound of his voice.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Crawford. Fine day for a fair, is it not?”
He ground his teeth, certain he heard snideness in her comment. “What are you doing up and about from bed?”
“Mirela said it was perfectly safe as long as I was carried. Luca here graciously offered to let me see some of the fair and get a bit of fresh air.”
Owen eyed the brute’s hands on her. One of his large paws cupped her beneath the legs, holding her carefully at her splinted leg. The other was wrapped around her back.
How to Lose a Bride in One Night Page 5
