Danice Allen (10 page)

“My coachman thinks you’re a rogue, and by the shameless way you flirt with a woman of my obvious maturity and respectability, I tend to agree,” said Amanda, trying to sound severe.

“That plain black dress does not hide your beauty, Miss Darlington,” said John. “And three-and-twenty is far from matronly.”

“Do you know that you talk in your sleep?” she said, changing the subject. She wished she had a fan to cool her heated face. The dratted man seemed determined to discompose her.

“I don’t
recall
that anyone has ever told me so, Miss Darlington, but my lamentable memory …” He smiled crookedly.

Amanda looked away, absently tracing a grooved pineapple design on the bedpost. “You mentioned several female names.” She threw him a glance from under lowered lashes and observed that he had the audacity to look pleased.

“Will you repeat them?” he asked.

“If I can remember them all,” said Amanda with a shrug, hoping he hadn’t detected the peevish tone that had crept into her voice.

“Maybe the names will help restore my memory. But please, Miss Darlington, first tell me about the accident.”

Amanda told him all about the accident: the location, the time, and his extremely inebriated condition. He sat forward and listened intently, then leaned back into the pillows with a thoughtful expression.

“When I awoke this morning,” he said at last, “I assumed I was suffering the after-effects of too much brew-tipping, but I can’t imagine being so fuddled that I’d actually wander into the path of a coach-and-four!”

“The fog was very thick last night in that particular area,” Amanda offered as a partial explanation.

“But still, it’s not my usual style to be so careless. Curious! Now, tell me the names I mumbled in my sleep.”

Amanda sat down in the rocking chair and clasped her hands demurely in her lap. She was determined not to let the subject make her uncomfortable. After all, she was only trying to help John regain his memory; then they could both go their separate ways.

“Laura was the first name you mentioned.”

“What did I say about the lovely lady?”

“Not much. Just that you … er …
needed
her.”

He looked disappointed. “That’s all? How
very
unoriginal. Who next?”

“The next name I heard you clearly say was Gretta.” Amanda picked a piece of lint off her skirt and cleared her throat. “She used to … er … give you baths, apparently.”

John’s brows flew up. “Are you sure? How could I possibly forget a female who was so agreeable as to give me a bath!”

Amanda very properly made no comment but secretly thought that Gretta would certainly retain
her
memories of the bathing incident. The image of John’s naked body would be singed into Amanda’s brain till her dying day.

“Well, weren’t there others?” John said, urging her on.

“There was Angela.”

“A beautiful name,” John said approvingly.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Amanda. She hesitated, then suddenly blurted, “You thought I was Angela this morning when you pulled me onto the bed.”

“So
that’s
how you got there,” he said in the delighted tone of one having just been given the answer to a riddle, then slyly added, “but why did you stay?”

Amanda abruptly stood. In a stiff voice, she said, “I only stayed because it seemed to comfort you and because I was cold and cross and tired. And since none of the names I’ve repeated seem to have jogged your memory, sir, I have no desire to continue a meaningless and distasteful conversation.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Darlington,” said John, trying to repress an amused smile but failing miserably … the wretch! “I promise not to beg you for more names, but you
will
tell me, won’t you, if there were other things I mentioned in my dreams which might help identify who I am?”

Amanda hesitated. She knew John was just baiting her, just setting her up for more blushes and embarrassment. But there
was
something else she could tell him that might prod his memory. She could tell him that during his worst deliriums he thought he was fighting battles. It was a sobering revelation that might bring back the most hideous of all his recollections, but Amanda felt it was in his best interest—and hers—to help John get his memory back by any method available.

Gravely she said, “I think you were a soldier, John. Last night you were reliving battles. You cried out….”

John’s amusement faded away as uncertain, troubled emotions flitted across his face. Amanda was sure he was remembering something, or at least close to doing so. But presently he shook his head as if to clear it and locked eyes with Amanda again.

“If I was a soldier,” he said with a shrug and the return of his rakish smile, “I don’t remember it.”

“Or maybe you don’t
want
to remember it,” suggested Amanda. “If I had fought in the war, I’d try to forget.”

“I’d much rather remember Gretta and those baths,” said John, obviously determined not to embrace a single serious subject.

“You’re hopeless,” said Amanda with a shaky sigh. “And I need some fresh air.” She stood up and wrapped a black wool shawl around her shoulders. “I’m going to get that little chambermaid up here to sit with you while I take a walk.” She moved to the door and threw the stranger a narrow look over her shoulder. “Please don’t terrorize the poor girl by chasing her about the room.”

“I promise to be good,” said the irrepressible scoundrel, “because I simply don’t have the energy to do otherwise. You’re starving me to death! But before you go, Miss Darlington, might I suggest a possible way to determine if I was once a soldier?”

With her hand on the doorknob, Amanda turned. “Pray, what do you suggest?”

“If I were a soldier, it’s likely I was wounded.”

She knitted her brows, afraid of where he was going with his theorizing. “So?” she said unencouragingly.

He smiled like the devil himself. “Well … was I?”

“Were you what?” she asked cautiously but with a growing sense of dread.

“Was I wounded, Miss Darlington?”

She felt the warmth creep up her neck. “How could
I
possibly know?”

“I’m not unfamiliar with what is necessary to do when a person is feverish, Miss Darlington. Perhaps last night, when you took off my clothes and sponged me with a cool cloth to bring down my temperature, you might have noticed if I had any war wounds …?”

Jack was having a capital time. His head ached a little harder after Miss Darlington slammed the door behind her as she made a hasty exit, but the pain was worth it. He loved watching the proper Miss Darlington blush. The silly girl probably thought that dressing like a Quaker camouflaged her pale beauty, but Jack thought the plain black frock only accentuated it.

He shifted against the pillows, his back stiff from lying too long abed, his stomach rumbling with a hunger that could not be appeased by beef broth and a crust of bread. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and wished he could shave, then brightened at the notion that he might be able to tease Miss Darlington into doing the task for him. She’d have to bend close to him, and those winsome breasts of hers would be just inches away.

Of course, now that he knew she was a lady, he’d never touch her or try to compromise her—it was a sure way to get leg-shackled and marriage was the last thing on Jack’s mind—but he was going to flirt and be as provocative as possible. How better to while away the hours of his recuperation?

It wasn’t just Miss Darlington’s beauty and prim innocence that intrigued Jack. She was a bit of a mystery, too. After all, despite her obvious respectability, she was traveling without a chaperon or a male escort of any kind, she was a woman of independent means, and she was on some sort of secretive rescue mission. Although he would be denied a truly intimate knowledge of the fair lady, Jack felt it would be extremely entertaining to get to know as many of Miss Darlington’s secrets as possible.

He might even be able to help her out of a fix … if she should happen to be in one.

Jack grinned sheepishly. Perhaps he was an honorable sort, the gallant type that enjoyed being of assistance to damsels in distress. Then again, perhaps he was a rake, seducing women right and left. But for some reason, Jack wasn’t too concerned about what sort of man he was yesterday or two years ago, or even ten years ago, but was rather more intrigued with enjoying the possibilities of
today.

Jack’s brow furrowed, and he absently rubbed his bare chest as he considered his situation. He’d lost his memory, and he should be gravely concerned about that fact. But he wasn’t. He felt sure he’d get his memory back soon enough and completely intact. His loved ones and friends would be missing him by now, and while that was regrettable, there was nothing he could do to change things. He simply couldn’t remember who he was.

To be completely honest with himself, for some reason Jack
liked
not knowing who he was. It was like living in a pleasant state of limbo. He felt
free.
There was a sense of having escaped something dreadful, but he couldn’t imagine what.

Amanda had hit on an interesting point when she’d remarked that if she had been a soldier, she’d try to forget fighting in a war. Jack had a sneaking suspicion that he wanted to forget something, too, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with a possible military career or wartime experience. What he wanted to forget was far more personal….

Jack’s eyes drifted shut. He was tired, and his head was throbbing again. He’d sleep for a while till the doctor came, then he’d spin a whisker and tell the old sawbones he was feeling as spry as a spring chicken. If he didn’t remember who he was by the next day, there was no way he was going to be left in the care of that hatchet-faced old crone who ran the inn. He’d rather take his chances with Miss Darlington, no matter what buffleheaded scheme she was involved in. He’d prove he was travel-worthy, then take to the road with his “wife.”

Just as Jack drifted off he remembered the dream about the wedding and fervently hoped it would not return. He enjoyed pretending to be married, but the real thing was another matter altogether.

Amanda pulled her shawl close about her shoulders. It was starting to sprinkle, and she knew she ought to go back inside. She’d enjoyed looking at the flowers planted against the wall of the inn—the candytuft and forget-me-nots, the larkspur and clove pinks—but now she was getting cold.

Yes, it was time to go in, but Amanda was less afraid of catching her death than of facing John again, especially now that he’d revealed that he knew she’d seen him naked. He’d obviously deduced that there was no other way she could have nursed him through the fever than by stripping him down and sponging him off. He’d doubtless seen the method used a thousand times during his service in the war.

Amanda looked up at the small, partitioned square that was the window to the room where the stranger lay on a narrow bed, tall, tan,
still
naked, and still disturbingly masculine. With the bandage slanted across his brow, a day’s growth of black beard, and a bare chest as finely sculpted as Michelangelo’s
David
, he looked as wicked and wild as a pirate. And when she woke up this morning, having slept for hours against the warm hardness of his body, he was touching her breasts.

At first she’d thought she was dreaming. She was married and being held by her husband, loved and treasured in a way she’d always privately yearned for. It was intoxicating, it was erotic, and it was … very improper. She’d very
properly
put a stop to such goings-on, but—dash it all!—she’d loved it while it lasted.

Amanda paced the cobbled yard, taking two or three agitated turns. She knew John was thoroughly enjoying teasing her and making her stutter and blush. It was a game with him, but she was so vulnerable, so stupidly flattered by his silly compliments! She just wished the dratted man would remember who he was so she could wash her hands of him and get on with her trip.

He seemed so unconcerned about his amnesia! If she suddenly woke up in a strange place with no memories beyond whether she took one or two lumps of sugar in her tea, she’d be quite hysterical. But John took it all in stride, seeming not the least worried. He was either a wise man, patiently awaiting the inevitable return of his memory, or a foolish man, too cocksure of himself to realize that he may have lost his past and his identity forever. And the problem remained as to what she was going to do with the fellow. He had told Mrs. Beane that they were both leaving on the morrow, but Amanda couldn’t allow that … unless she took him only as far as the first populace town and left him in the care of the constabulary. They’d know how to advertise John’s situation and find his family. A sketched likeness of him circulated round London would probably get immediate results.

Amanda stopped pacing and looked up again at the window. She supposed she could put up with the fellow long enough to get him to the authorities. And possibly she wouldn’t even have to do that much. He could regain his memory any hour, any moment. And if he remembered who he was, it wouldn’t hurt him a bit to stay with Mrs. Beane till some member of his family came to get him.

Thinking of family reminded Amanda of her brother or sister on Thorney Island. She clamped her lips tightly together as a protective instinct surged through her. She’d never tell her family secret to John. She’d never give him or anyone else an opportunity to hurt the child who was hopefully still living on at Thornfield Cottage. But each moment that passed was precious time wasted. No matter what happened, no matter what the doctor said, no matter whether or not John got his memory back, Amanda was leaving in the morning for the coast.

Just then a gig rattled into the courtyard, and Amanda turned to greet Doctor Bledsoe. Together they walked up the cinder path and into the inn to see the patient.

Chapter 6

“You’re much better, my lord, but not well enough to travel on the morrow,” was the doctor’s opinion after examining his patient. “The wound won’t bleed again, I daresay, but you’ll have a scar.”