The Unforgettable Hero (7 page)

At the moment he needed to get Maggie out of the ballroom. Take her someplace where they could be alone and he could ask her questions. He was still out of sorts over not being able to find the papers she’d had with her during her accident. He’d hoped she’d be recognized at the ball tonight. And perhaps she had been just now. But the woman who’d called her Cecelia hadn’t mentioned a family name, and he certainly couldn’t ask her right then without causing Maggie more concern.

He took her by the elbow and led her along the far side of the room out the French doors. Once they were outside, he inhaled a deep breath. A light summer breeze swept across the terrace, and the scent of freshly cut grass and summer flowers mingled in the air. The wide stone space was sparsely populated with others from the party; small white candles in clear glass holders around the balustrade provided a scarce amount of light in addition to the stars hanging in the night sky.

Adam escorted Maggie to the far end of the balustrade that overlooked the Findleys’ gardens. For the moment, Adam and Maggie were alone. When he turned to face her, she wore a look of grave concern.

“Maggie, what’s wrong?” he whispered. Had her memory come back? Was she frightened?

She shook her head and swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her gloved hands. “I … don’t know.”

He searched her face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t know what’s wrong and that’s what frightens me. That woman called me Cecelia.”

He gently cupped her elbow. “Do you recognize that name?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I feel as if I should.” She lifted her chin but her bottom lip trembled. Adam had the urge to reach out and stroke it with his thumb.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she replied. Then she smiled, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. “It’s the strangest thing but I … I think I have a rabbit.”

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “A rabbit?”

“Yes. You know? Small, brown, furry. Enjoys carrots.”

“With you?” he asked with an irrepressible smile.

She glanced around. “Not at the moment, no.”

The moment of levity passed quickly and the look of panic returned to her eyes. “Peter, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me if something was wrong. You’re so noble and heroic and—”

“I’m neither of those things,” he ground out.

She took a step closer to him and looked up into his face. “Oh, yes you are. You’re a hero to me.”

Adam couldn’t help it. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

She gasped at first when his lips met hers, but soon her arms slid up the front of his jacket to encircle his neck. She pressed herself to him, and he nearly groaned. She felt so good, so soft and lush all pressed against the front of him. She tasted like berries. His tongue swept her mouth. His hands cupped her soft cheeks. He reached one hand down around her lower back and pulled her intimately against him, hard. She moaned.

He didn’t want to let her go, even though he knew the kiss was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. He was taking advantage of an ill woman, for Christ’s sake. But the way she’d looked up at him was so trusting and calm and beautiful. She’d called him a hero. No one had ever done that before. No one would ever do that again. In that moment, that one unforgettable moment, she’d made him feel like a hero. Her hero. Jesus, was it wrong to wish that she’d never remember who she truly was?

He forced himself to pull his lips away from hers and take a step back, still shaking slightly from their kiss. So was she. Her hands fell to her sides. She looked flushed. He needed a cold bath.

“I’m—My apologies,” he began.

“Please don’t apologize. You made me remember.”

Adam’s heart stopped. “You remember?”

“Yes.” She nodded, smiling at him, her pink lips gloriously swollen. “I remember our first kiss. The night we became betrothed. It was at the Harrisons’ garden party, and it was magical.”

Adam took a deep, still-shaky breath. “I don’t doubt it,” he said softly. But whatever the reason, he was merely glad that her fear had passed. Hadn’t he just wished she wouldn’t remember? His lungs had nearly jumped through his throat when she’d announced that she did.

“I may not remember everything,” she said in a husky voice that made Adam long to kiss her again. “But how could I forget a kiss like that?”

“My thoughts exactly,” he replied with a shaky laugh. “I’m mollified to hear you found it memorable, my lady.” Of course, she would no doubt slap him when she realized she’d just kissed a complete no one.

She stepped away from him and placed both palms against the stone balustrade, looking out into the darkened gardens. “There’s something else, Peter,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

A shudder snaked through her slim body, and she wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her prickled skin. “I have the strangest sense that I’m in danger.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Adam had nearly torn the house apart this morning looking for the blasted pages. Maggie’s pages. Or were they Cecelia’s pages? The ones that had flown into the road when she’d been nearly killed by the coach. He lined up all the servants and asked them one by one if they’d seen the pages. One of the housemaids had seen them two days ago sitting on the desk in the drawing room where he’d left them, but she swore that she hadn’t touched them. None of the other servants admitted even seeing them.

After a frustrating morning, Adam ended up back in his bedchamber. He took a seat on the edge of his bed, his palms splayed against the mattress behind him. He considered who Maggie might be. Last night, as soon as she’d mentioned that she might be in danger, he’d quickly escorted her back inside, gathered Lucy and Derek, and ensured they made their escape. How could they have been so stupid, taking her out in public that way?

When she’d asked whether the coach had been purposefully trying to run her off the road that day, he’d dismissed it, assuming it was the ravings of a woman whose memory wasn’t fully restored, but now he realized it may have well been true. She had been alone, as if she’d been lost perhaps. And the coach had made no effort whatsoever to slow or to miss her. It was entirely possible that she was in mortal danger and he, like an idiot, had agreed with Lucy that they should trot Maggie out in public to find someone who remembered her. They’d never considered the fact that they might be placing her into worse danger.

Was she in danger? The only person they knew of who had recognized her was the young blond woman at the party who had called her Cecelia. They hadn’t been able to find her later, they’d been so preoccupied with leaving. But that woman might well tell others.

Damn it. He would never forgive himself if Maggie was hurt again because of his own foolishness. No wonder he’d never made it as a spy in the War Office. He didn’t deserve to fetch brandy for the spies, let alone be one. He shook his head. That line of thinking wasn’t helpful.

What the hell could have happened to the pages? Surely Derek wouldn’t have touched them. And Lucy … Lucy had taken Maggie shopping on Bond Street this morning, despite his insistence that Maggie remain in the house. In true Lucy fashion, the duchess had ordered four footmen and two groomsmen to go with them in case anyone should try to harm Maggie, and they’d left with barely a backward glance. He was still a bit riled by it, actually.

Did Lucy have the pages? It wouldn’t be right to go rifling through his sister-in-law’s rooms.

On the other hand …

It wouldn’t hurt to merely stick in his head and take a look.

He left his room and strode down the corridor to Lucy’s chamber, which was next door (with an adjoining door) to Derek’s. To be safe, Adam knocked, and when no sound came from the inside the room, he tentatively opened it and peeked inside. The grand room was decorated with violets and tasteful white lace; fresh purple flowers sprouted from a glass vase on a table in the center of the room. It smelled like Lucy’s perfume. Adam didn’t have long to search. There, sitting in a haphazard stack on her bedside table, were the pages. Every last dusty, crumpled one of them. He strode over to the table and pulled the first page of the manuscript from the stack. Apparently, Lucy had put them in order. He scanned the page.

Lady Magnolia and the Duke,
it read.

Lady Magnolia? He caught his breath. That’s why the name had seemed familiar to him.

Once upon a time in London, Lady Magnolia Makepeace, of 123 Grosvenor Square, was pretty, popular, and titled. She had everything her heart desired, except, of course, a proposal from a gentleman. But Lady Magnolia was lucky, for she was about to meet the man she was going to marry.

After the first few lines, Adam found himself enjoying the story. It was entertaining and well written. But where did it come from? Did Maggie write it? Or Cecelia? If not, where did she get it? And why did she have it in her arms that day while walking alone through Mayfair?

Adam read faster, flipping the pages as quickly as he could, devouring the text. Nearly twenty minutes later, he stopped and looked up from the novel—for it was indeed a novel, and as he’d originally suspected a romantic one—staring unseeing and dumbfounded at the violet-colored walls of Lucy’s bedchamber. There it was, the second name he’d been looking for: the Duke of Loveridge. Blast it.

She thought that she was the heroine from this story and he was the hero. Two entirely nonexistent people.

But there had been no mention of danger. None whatsoever. If Lady Magnolia in the story was not in danger, was Maggie (or Cecelia, or whatever her name was) truly in danger?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Maggie felt a bit guilty. She clearly did not enjoy shopping as much as Lucy did. She’d been perfectly ready to follow Peter’s suggestion and remain in the house. Apparently he’d taken her quite seriously when she’d told him last night that she felt as if she might be in danger. It was only a nagging feeling, really. Something she couldn’t quite place. But Lucy seemed more than ready to ignore Peter’s warning. And it was Bond Street, after all. Maggie remembered enough to know that the prospect of shopping on Bond Street should have her squealing with joy. But as they bumped about inside the duke’s coach, nerves crept up Maggie’s spine.

“Your, ah, mother asked me to ensure you had enough things for the next few days,” Lucy explained, patting Maggie’s gloved hand where it rested in her lap.

The explanation no longer made sense. Even if it were true that her mother was ill, why didn’t they just send to her house to gather her things or send a maid with them? But fear kept Maggie from questioning it aloud. Something was wrong—very wrong—with her stay at the duke’s house. And panic kept her from voicing it. Instead, she smiled and nodded at Lucy. Then returned her scattered attention out the window of the fine coach.

They’d already been to the
modiste.
They were back in the coach, wending through heavy traffic, on the way to the milliner’s. Maggie glanced at the woman sitting across from her. Oh, out with it. She couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Lucy, I know there is something you’re not telling me. Something about my mother, perhaps? Is she all right?”

Lucy’s head snapped up to face her. Her kind eyes were filled with empathy. “Oh, dear. She’s perfectly all right. At least I hope she is.” Lucy worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

But there had been something else on the tip of her tongue, something else the pretty lady had been about to say. Instead, she shook her black curls and reverted her attention out the window. “We’re almost there.”

Maggie folded her hands calmly, much more calmly than she actually felt. She would let it rest for the time being. Her kiss with Peter last night had been … unexpected, surprising, unforgettable. But how long could she stay with him and his family? Surely people would begin to talk soon. And why wasn’t anyone telling her the details about her mother’s condition?

The coach came to a stop in front of a quaint little hat shop. The footman pulled out the stairs and helped both ladies to alight.

“Here we are,” Lucy said. “Madame Bissette. She makes the most adorable hats. I ordered one a fortnight ago. I do hope it’s ready by now.”

Lucy picked up her skirts and turned toward the store’s entrance. Maggie made to follow her. They were nearly to the door when a child’s voice stopped them. “Cecelia!”

There was that name again. Maggie turned toward it. Why did it sound so familiar?

“Cecelia, is that you?”

She swung around to see a light-haired girl rushing toward her through the throngs of other shoppers. Lucy’s eyes were wide.

“Cecelia, it’s me, Mary,” the girl said, coming to stop not a foot in front of them. She was panting and coughing, her small shoulders shaking, but she wore a look of supreme relief on her pretty young face.

Maggie shook her head. The girl looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place her. The panic that had seized her last night at the ball when the blond lady had called her Cecelia returned to nearly choke her. “Cecelia,” she repeated. “I’m sorry but I don’t know who Cecelia is.”

“Cecelia? You don’t recognize me?” The girl’s face had turned both anxious and confused. She wrung her hands. “We’ve been looking for you. For days.” Her coughing intensified.

“Are you from my mother’s house?” Maggie asked the girl, a mixture of confusion and fear filling her own voice. The adamant manner in which this girl insisted she knew her frightened Maggie.

Lucy stepped in between Maggie and the girl and whispered to the girl in a low but calm voice. Maggie couldn’t hear everything she said, but she saw Lucy present the girl with a card.

“Please pay us a visit at this address this afternoon at two o’ clock,” Lucy told the girl, before bustling Maggie into the shop.

As soon as the shop door closed behind them, Maggie turned to Lucy, trying her best to keep the alarm from her voice. “What was that about, do you suppose? Someone else thought I was a woman named Cecelia? And did I hear you invite her to the house this afternoon?”