How to Lose a Bride in One Night

by Sophie Jordan

  “Pardon me?”

  Even in the gloom, he detected the flood of color in her cheeks. It didn’t give him pause. “You should also be getting plenty of rest. Not walking the halls at night. What if you lose your balance? What if your leg gives out?” He took a step closer, looming over her.

  She backed up and wobbled a bit—proving his point. She wasn’t as steady on her feet as she thought. Or as she would like him to think. He instinctively reached out and grasped her elbow to help balance her. A mistake. Immediately, heat flared between them, centering on where his hand connected with her.

  “I’m fine,” she bit out.

  “Is this what you’ve been doing at night? Walking alone? I’m certain Mrs. Kirkpatrick is unaware—”

  “Of no doubt. She would have reported back to you if she knew.” The accusation rang clear in her voice. He wasn’t around. Not as she had expected him to be.

  Determined not to rise to the bait, he growled, “If you’re so determined to regain your strength—”

  “I’m not attempting to merely regain my strength,” she hissed, the color still high in her cheeks. It only made her look more fetching. More like the innocent young girl he had no business associating with. Despite the other night when she had practically offered herself to him, he knew her to be innocent. It dripped from her every pore. It was in her speech, her manner, the way her face reddened around him.

  “I want to be stronger than ever. Better. I want to protect myself, and you promised to help me do that.” She waved a hand wildly. Her breath fell harshly on the air. “Instead you’re off cavorting and forgetting my existence.”

  He felt her words more than he heard them. They gouged deeply. He inhaled a large gulp of breath. She glared at him, the gleaming brown glinting angrily. He understood about survival. About staying alive, staying one step ahead of forces that threatened to pull you under. Even though she claimed no memory of events, she remembered something. Enough. Enough to feel unsafe, vulnerable and desperate. He understood her fear. Her need. That was why he had agreed to help her in the first place. He had forgotten that and pushed it aside for his own selfish reasons.

  “I have not forgotten your existence.” Hardly.

  Her gaze scoured his face, searching for more from him. She just did not realize. He had nothing more to give. Not to anyone. He couldn’t be anyone’s hero or salvation. He couldn’t even be there for himself.

  He motioned to her door again. “You need to go back to your bedchamber.”

  Her breathing evened, the rise and fall of her chest slowing. The anger in her eyes, however, did not lessen.

  Her face captivated him. The rounded features, the thrust of her chin. Her mouth was shaped like a heart—the top lip dipping deeply in the middle, the bottom full and kissable. And her eyes. Even in the dark the lushness of her lashes beckoned him. He yearned to just stroke a finger against those lashes, test their softness. Moments passed and still she did move from her position in the corridor.

  He dropped his hand from her arm and waved in the direction of her door again. “Go to bed. Before you hurt yourself. Before . . .”

  Before he lost his will and touched her again. Everything about her looked so soft and inviting. Her freshness, her innocence, lured him. He couldn’t surrender to it—to her.

  He couldn’t do that to this woman in his care. He couldn’t corrupt her with him.

  As the moments crawled by, she returned his scrutiny. Her gaze roamed his face before stopping to fix on his mouth, and his gut tightened.

  Still watching his mouth, she replied, “I’ll retire in good time.”

  His hands curled into fists at his sides. Stubborn chit. She was determined to thwart him.

  She blinked those wide eyes of hers. “I think I’ll take another pass down the—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, he swept her up in his arms. She released a little squeak.

  He clenched his jaw and strode to her door. She felt like a familiar bundle against his chest. It took everything in him not to pull her closer and nuzzle the sweet-smelling hair.

  “Unhand me! I can walk!”

  “You can resume walking tomorrow. After a night’s rest.” She crossed her arms as he carried her into the bedchamber.

  “You don’t need to carry me anymore,” she pouted.

  “When you fail to listen and act with good sense, then I apparently do.”

  “You need not act so concerned for my welfare. I know you want to be rid of me.”

  He opened his mouth to deny the charge, but knew he could not. He did want her gone. For him. For herself. For both of them. She just didn’t understand his reasons.

  He stopped before her bed. Instead of lowering her, he continued to hold her, staring down until she lifted her gaze to his face.

  “I will keep my word to you,” he said.

  Her expression lightened, her eyes softening. He hardened his heart against the sight. He was no boy to be swayed by a girl’s tender looks. He might have been that boy once. And the girl to twist him around her finger might have been Paget. His gaze roamed Anna, tracing her eyebrows, her nose, her lips. No two females looked more unalike, but he could not recall ever feeling quite so enthralled. Paget, with her ice-blond hair, had simply been Paget. His best friend. There had been no mystery, no fascination for him. Not as he felt now for this woman.

  “You’ll help me?” she whispered.

  “I said as much.”

  “When can we begin? Tomorrow?”

  Discomfort knotted inside him at her sweetly hopeful expression. He was going to regret this. He already did.

  “Very well. Tomorrow.”

  She uncrossed her arms and placed her palm flat on his chest. “Thank you. You can never know what it means to me.”

  An image of her broken body on the bank of the river flashed in his mind. “I think I do.”

  He set her down on the bed, desperate to separate himself from her warm, giving body, from the sensation of her hand on his chest. Seeing her on the mattress, however, did not improve matters.

  She was dressed more than the previous occasion he stood over her, and no invitation gleamed in her eyes as she hurriedly covered her legs with her gown to make certain no part of her was exposed. And yet he wondered, if she offered herself to him right now, would he refuse? He could not imagine he possessed enough strength to resist her a second time.

  Her head cocked as she studied him. “I believe you do understand.” And he knew she was recalling how easily he had dispatched the two scoundrels outside the village fair.

  He moistened his lips. “I do this for you, and then you go.” He hesitated, expecting her to ask him where she should go. With no memory, no family or friends, that must be a worry. And yet her expression remained calm at the prospect of losing his support. Hoping to reassure her, he continued, “I shall provide you with funds so that you can secure a situation for yourself somewhere.”

  Before she could reply to his generosity—if she even wished to—he turned on his heel and went back into his room, as if a door was the only thing he needed between them to stop her from infiltrating his thoughts.

  Annalise stared after the earl, his voice reverberating in her mind. I do this for you, and then you go. The words didn’t wound her. Nor did they even strike fear in her. The knowledge had always been there that this, whatever it was between them, would eventually come to an end.

  Before Jack Hadley found her and claimed her as his daughter, she had been alone. Solitude was nothing new to her. It did not frighten her.

  And she was stronger now. Smarter. No longer a girl who believed in fairy tales. She knew she couldn’t stay here forever. At least she would be able to depart here with some knowledge and skills to protect herself. And he was beyond generous to offer her funds. She would be fine. And perhaps she would forget Owen, to
o. Put his memory behind her.

  As eager as he seemed to put her behind him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annalise could not say precisely what woke her. She sat up in bed, her body alert and tense. The fire burned low, its light not reaching far into her vast chamber. Then she heard it. A moan from the room beside hers. Rising, she hastened to the adjoining door. She waited on her side, jerking when a rough shout clawed the air. As though someone were hurt. Owen.

  Concerned, she turned the latch. Pressing the flat of her palm to the door, she swung it open soundlessly.

  Hovering in the threshold, she peered into the gloom of his bedchamber. His fire was out. She heard it again. A sharp, guttural cry.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded small and tremulous even to her ears. She cleared her throat. “Are you hurt?”

  He didn’t answer her. Perhaps he couldn’t. She stepped cautiously into the chamber. A ribbon of moonlight trickled into the room from the thin part in the curtains. It was enough for her to make out the shape of the enormous bed. He thrashed around, fighting the covers—and from the sound of it countless other invisible demons.

  She stopped beside the bed. He muttered gibberish she couldn’t decipher. Deciding he was in the grip of some terrible dream, she turned to go, but he whimpered. It was a small sound. It reminded her of a child, and she turned back around.

  “Owen?” She leaned in, her fingers lightly grazing the bed as she assessed his writhing shadow. “Owen, are you—”

  He jerked upright, and she staggered back a step, her hand flying to her throat. Her words were cut off, twisting into a sharp cry as he lunged for her.

  A hard hand closed around her arm, pulling her down. A scream ripped from her mouth.

  She fell against smooth, muscled flesh. Into bruising hands. She fought, punching and slapping as he rolled on top of her. It was all too terribly familiar. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, yelling into his ear, “Let me go!”

  He stilled, his hands gentling on her but not dropping away, still holding her. “Anna?”

  She gasped, swallowing back a sob of relief to hear the even calm of his voice. “Please.” She gulped. “Get. Off. Me.”

  “Easy,” he soothed, smoothing back the tangle of hair from her face. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I heard you cry out—”

  “So you thought you would just waltz in here—”

  “I was worried about you!”

  “Well, you nearly got yourself killed for your trouble.”

  “I realize that now. A mistake I won’t repeat,” she bit out, shoving her fists at his bare chest.

  “Don’t ever sneak into my bedchamber again while I’m sleeping.”

  She inched her face close, feeling the fan of his breath on her cheek. “Understood. Now let me go.”

  He rolled off her in one easy move. She rose to her feet and raced for her room, slamming the adjoining door shut behind her. But solitude wasn’t to be. He followed, flinging her door open as he slid the last of himself into his breeches, making it clear he had been naked in that bed.

  Heat scored her face.

  “Anna—”

  “We needn’t discuss this.” She averted her eyes from his gaze and the sight of his enticingly bare chest.

  “But I do. I need to explain.”

  She bit back a response, looking anywhere but at him.

  “You’re here, under my roof and in my care. I want you to feel safe.” A pause followed. “Anna.”

  She looked up at the sound of her name.

  He gazed at her intensely. “I need you to feel safe.”

  She nodded clumsily, as though she understood that. Understood him. Of course, she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine why that would weigh so importantly on him.

  “Sometimes I have dreams.” He dragged a hand though his hair, cringing. “Nightmares, really. Of the war.”

  She opened her mouth, searching for something to say, to commiserate, but then she wasn’t supposed to remember anything of her past.

  “When the memories fade, perhaps the nightmares will, too,” she offered.

  He angled his head, studying her. “You think so?” He sighed and dropped his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He gave a short, broken laugh. “That would be nice. Peaceful dreams. Or better yet, no dreams at all. Just deep, dreamless sleep.”

  She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat at seeing him like this. So very human. Vulnerable. “I hope you find that.”

  He faced her, his eyes piercing. “Do you have that, Anna?”

  She shook her head, at a loss for words.

  “Of course not,” he added. “I need only look into your eyes and see the shadows there to know you do not.” His look turned rueful then, his eyes turbulent as a night sea. Her chest tightened. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Good night, Anna.”

  He returned to his chamber. For several long moments she stood in the center of her room, gazing at the shut door, her heart racing like a rabbit in her chest.

  Owen had agreed to begin helping her today. He reminded himself that he had done far more distasteful things in his life. Things his mind shied away from in his waking hours but could not escape during those brief moments of sleep he managed to steal, proving there would never be an escape. He would never be free. Last night had proved that easily enough.

  And yet as he lifted his head from his desk where he had been studying his long-neglected accounts to stare out the window at the day’s deepening shadows, he felt only grim reluctance.

  He’d heard Anna moving about the house throughout the day, her steady tread on the stairs. He even caught sight of her walking the gardens. She was tackling her recovery with great determination. As far as he could tell, she had not been idle all day.

  Rising, he rounded his desk and went to find her. They could manage a small lesson before the dinner hour. A few tips that would show her how to keep vigilant in her surroundings. Some simple evasive maneuvers. Later he’d make certain she could handle a weapon. He’d acquire a small pocket pistol. Something she could take with her when she left here.

  Crossing the threshold of his study, his distaste intensified, coating his mouth in a bitter film. He suspected it might be a result of the thought of Anna leaving, disappearing into the unknown. Further evidence that he needed to be free of her . . . before she complicated his life any more. Before he let himself kiss her again.

  He set one foot on the bottom step just as Mrs. Kirkpatrick hailed him. “My lord, you have a visitor in the downstairs parlor.”

  He turned and frowned, wondering who would be calling on him. Other than Ian, he had not reacquainted himself with any of his old friends.

  At his puzzled expression, his housekeeper hastened to add, “It’s your brother, my lord.”

  Jamie? His stomach dipped. He should have known that Jamie would make an appearance. Owen had not even said farewell to him when he left, simply slipping away before the household awoke, unable to stand another moment of his and Paget’s tempered happiness. Tempered only because they continually looked his way with guilt and wariness . . . as if they should somehow not have found happiness with each other. He could not stomach it. They should feel free to love each other without his shadow inhibiting them.

  When he and Anna had arrived in Town, a letter was waiting from Paget. After her gentle admonishments for his sudden departure and pleas for him to return for another visit, she had filled the parchment with cheerful, meaningless news. He had merely glanced over the drivel, feeling empty inside at her report of village happenings.

  All inane, empty words, but beneath every written word lurked the guilt and fear that he was lost to them. And he was. Only not for the reason Paget thought.

  With heavy steps and a sinking sensation settling low in his gut, he pushed open one of th
e double doors Mrs. Kirkpatrick had left cracked.

  His half brother turned from the window that faced the street. A slow smile spread across his features. There was little resemblance between the two of them. Owen favored his mother, while Jamie took after their father with his darker coloring. In fact, he felt as though he were staring at a younger version of his father now. Tall and handsome with a certain brightness in his eyes that had not been there when they served together in India. Owen had never seen his brother ever look so happy. Even before the war. Paget was responsible for that.

  Owen was merely glad his brother had left India and returned home before he’d ruined himself. Like him.

  “Jamie,” he greeted.

  “Thought I would find you here.” Jamie approached as though to embrace him, but he must have read something in Owen’s demeanor because he stopped at the last moment.

  Owen motioned to the tray of brandy. “Drink?” He supposed he could have invited Jamie into his study. The room was more appealing with its rich woods and leather than this parlor, which still bore the handiwork of his maternal grandmother. He had not seen to redecorating it yet. The wall was papered with tiny golden rosettes, and the curtains were a pale rose damask. He remembered hiding behind them when visiting here as a child, trying not to give away his presence with a giggle as the housemaids hunted for him. Too bad he could not hide behind them now instead of enduring his brother’s pitying stare.

  Quitting this room for the study also meant venturing upstairs. That posed the risk of running into Anna. And how would he explain her to his brother? Not that he couldn’t do it. The explanation of her presence was perfectly reasonable. He had found her. Saved her. She was his responsibility. It was a clear enough matter to him, but perhaps it wouldn’t be clear enough to Jamie. He might think there was more to it than that.

  Owen nodded as he poured first a glass for Jamie and then himself. “What brings you to Town?”

  “Some business.” Jamie took a long swallow. His gaze flickered away for a moment, and Owen knew that wasn’t the entire truth. “And I wanted to see you. Set my mind to ease that you are well.” Owen suspected that was closer to the truth. “You left so suddenly, Owen—”