Anne Barbour (3 page)

“Well, he looks none the worse for wear, at any rate,” she said. The glance she ran over his supine form was tinged with suspicion, and he wondered what he had done to warrant such wariness.

He uttered a faint moan, not so much because he was in pain—although he was still suffering some residual aches from whatever had befallen him—but because he had learned long ago that it was never wise to pass up an opportunity to gain a little sympathy. One never knew when it might come in handy.

“Oh, dear,” said Green Eyes. She dipped a cloth in the water basin and began to lave his brow.

‘Thank you,” he whispered weakly. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You are in my home,” she replied in a singularly musical voice that he thought he had heard before. “I am Miss Catherine Meade. You were injured when the shed roof fell in on you. When you went in after Silk. My dog?” At his increasingly blank stare, she stopped in confusion. “Do you remember anything of what happened?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” He formed the words with the appearance of great effort.

“Oh, my. Well, I must tell you, sir, that you acted quite the hero.”

The devil you say, he thought, startled.

“Yes, and I’m afraid your only reward so far has been a nasty bump on the head.”

Well. He chuckled inwardly. We shall have to see if we can come up with something a little more substantial, won’t we, my emerald-eyed poppet?

Perhaps something of his thoughts must have appeared in his eyes, for she shuttered her gaze and sent him a faint smile.

“Yes. Well, in the meantime, we must notify your family of your contretemps. What is your name, sir?”

Instinctively, he searched within himself for a false name. Somewhat to his surprise, nothing came to mind. He searched farther. Still nothing. A name hovered just on the edge of his consciousness, but refused to present itself.

He spoke at last in a labored croak.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, with perfect truth. “I cannot seem to remember my name.”

Chapter Two

The man felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead in large, prickly beads. His name! What the devil was his name? How could he forget his by-God
name!
He was almost overwhelmed by a stabbing sense of panic. He was in danger—he had to get out of here!

But when he threw aside the comforter and bolted upright in bed, a wave of dizziness sent him plummeting back into his pillow.

“Sir?” Miss Green Eyes—what was her name?—Meade—bent over him. “What is it? Are you all right? You truly do not know who you are?”

He shook his head, then winced at the pain caused by the slight movement.

“Well, never mind. The doctor will be here soon, and I’m sure he will—

“Doctor?” The word erupted harshly.

“Why, yes. We sent for Dr. Beech as soon as you were brought here. I’m afraid you were in the shed for some time, under all the rubble. I could not free you myself, and had to go for help.”

She hesitated. “Perhaps you could tell us what you were doing there? That is, were you on your way to see us?”

“To see you?” he echoed blankly.

“Yes. I thought that, since you were on my land, you must have been on your way to visit.”

“Visit,” he repeated, wishing he did not sound so much like a demented parrot.

“Perhaps,” interjected the second young woman, who was now occupied in brushing the dusty coat that hung on a nearby chair, “we’d better leave him to sleep it off until the doctor comes. Your grandmama will be wanting to know what’s afoot.”

“Of course.” Miss Meade rose with a graceful rustle of skirts. “Please rest now, sir. We’ll be back shortly, and if you need anything, you have but to call.”

The next moment she was gone, leaving an unidentifiable but piquant fragrance in her wake.

He stared at the ceiling and gave himself up to furious thought. All to no avail. He could remember nothing about a shed-—or a dog—or ever having seen Miss Catherine Meade before in his life. He did not remember what he might have been doing on her land. My God, he couldn’t remember anything! Not who he was, or where he was from, or where he was going, or anything else about himself. It was as though he had been born just five minutes ago.

He swallowed the tide of panic that rose within him. He had to get out of here! Once again, he threw aside the covers, and this time he was able to put his feet on the floor. For all the good it did him. With a startled gasp, he toppled over. He swore, long and fluently. His foot was apparently broken—or at least, sprained.

Painfully, he crawled back into bed and, pulling the comforter up to his chin, awaited developments.

In her own bedchamber, Miss Catherine Meade turned to confront the woman who had followed her.

“Mariah, what would you have me do? Throw him out into the road? He is injured—and he does not know who he is?”

“Mmph,” sniffed Mariah. “
Says
he doesn’t know. That’s two different things. I don’t trust him, Cath. He dresses like a peddler, but he owns a horse that’s worth three hundred guineas if he’s worth a farthing.”

Catherine stifled a snort of amusement. “Are you saying he’s lying about losing his memory? That he stole his horse? You’re making a great deal of the fact that he does not dress as well as he might. Don’t forget, he ran into a collapsing building to rescue Silk—and me.”

Mariah chuckled. “I don’t suppose he expected that little shack could do any harm if somebody threw it at him. He just didn’t reckon on the stone chimney piece. I’m not saying he’s a thief—necessarily. I’m just saying, I—”

“You don’t trust him,” finished Catherine. “Well, to be frank, I’m not sure I do, either, but he’s hurt and he’s in our house. We’ll see what Adam Beech has to say before we decide what to do with him.”

Mariah brightened. “Indeed, the doctor will know what to do.”

She bustled from the room, and Catherine began the task of removing her stained riding habit. There was certainly nothing about the stranger, she mused, to cause one to have misgivings about him. Upon catching sight of him in the shed, her impression had been one of latent strength. It was his eyes, however, that had arrested her attention. A peculiar shade of gray, they reminded her of the barrel of her father’s favorite hunting rifle. She used to touch it as a child, attracted by the smooth sheen of the metal and the danger the weapon represented.

Later, when he was lying in bed, she sensed a sort of coiled tension about the man, as though he felt himself in some sort of danger.

She shook herself. Goodness, she was not ordinarily so fanciful. She wondered what Adam would have to say about the presence of this odd visitor in her house. She sighed. Quite a bit, she supposed, He always had a great deal to say regarding anything that could be remotely construed as a threat to her well-being.

She frowned. Adam was a good friend as well as a good doctor, and she had enjoyed his company and companionship over the sometimes lonely years of her exile, but she wished he were not quite so proprietary in his attentions toward her. She shrugged. Not that Adam would ever allow his actions to go beyond the bounds of convention, but he always made her feel so—so what? Guilty that she did not feel more for him than friendship? How absurd. One could not force affection on oneself any more than it could be forced on another.

After washing the dust from her person and combing the debris of her mishap from her hair, she donned a simple morning gown of pomona green. Hurrying from her room, she walked swiftly down the corridor and tapped gently on a door just a few steps from her own. At the faint response from within, she entered.

“Grandmama, I did not know you had risen from your nap.” Catherine advanced into the room and stooped to embrace the old woman, who sat reading in a comfortable chair. The sitting room was, like the adjacent bedchamber, decorated in palest blue.

“Sit by me, child.” The old woman patted the chair opposite hers. Lady Jane was a small woman, and spare. She dressed with a great deal of elegance, but modestly, withal. Her greatest pride was her hair. It had once been a glorious gold, as Catherine’s was now, and, though it had turned a snow-white and had thinned considerably, still crowned her neat little head in spectacular coils.

“Mariah tells me you were in a bit of a bother,” she said in a fragile voice. “Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, Grandmama. Did she also tell you of the mysterious stranger in our midst?”

“Yes, indeed. She seems to think he has come to do us some mischief. Tell me all about it,” she commanded.

Catherine seated herself and related the circumstances of the morning’s adventure.

“And he cannot remember his own name?” asked the old woman. “How extraordinary! What do you think of him, Catherine?”

“Think of him? Why, there is nothing to think of him, Grand-mama. We have exchanged only a few words, and those were not of any consequence. He is simply a man who has suffered an injury—one that has somehow damaged his brain.”

“Mmph. Where is he?”

“We put him in the green suite. I think—What is it, Grand-mama?” she asked as the old woman rose slowly and with some effort.

“I want to see him, of course.”

A second woman entered the room, and Catherine sent her a significant glance. The woman was large and stooped and nearly as old as Grandmama, and she had been Lady Jane’s handmaiden since that lady had made her come-out, nearly seventy years before.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, my lady. You have not had your cordial yet. Besides, you didn’t get much rest last night, and you agreed to stay to your room today.”

Lady Jane swung on her. “You’re an interfering old biddy, Hannah Riggins. I have no intention of cowering in my chamber like a frightened rabbit when there’s something going on. Now, help me—’

“Grandmama,” interposed Catherine hastily. “I’m not sure the, er, patient is up to receiving visitors. Why don’t you—oh!” She paused in some relief, listening. “Someone is here. It must be Adam. Why don’t you wait until Adam has seen the man and he can then give you a full report. Time enough then for you to descend on him.”

She smiled, knowing well her grandmother’s innate curiosity.

“Oh, very well,” grumbled Lady Jane, subsiding once more into her chair.

Dropping a kiss on the old lady’s hair, Catherine ran lightly from the room and down the stairs, intercepting the figure that had just entered the house.

“Adam!” She held out both hands in greeting. “I am so glad you are here. Thank you for coming so promptly.”

The gentleman who grasped her hands was not tall, but compactly built, and muscular without appearing stocky. A shock of brown hair fell over a pair of brown eyes that sparkled with humor, and perhaps something warmer.

“Good Lord, Cath,” he said, “from what your groom said, I expected to find the floors stained with the blood of a mysterious stranger sprawled at death’s door on your best Persian rug.”

“Nothing nearly so dramatic,” Catherine replied with a laugh. Once again, as the two ascended the stairs, she recounted her adventure.

Adam stopped abruptly, subjecting Catherine to an intent scrutiny. “My God, the whole thing collapsed on you? My dear, are you all right?”

“As you see.” She bobbed an impudent curtsy. “Actually, it was our mysterious stranger who caught the brunt of the damage. Adam—” Her expression sobered. “The poor man suffered a terrible blow to the head when the chimney piece fell on him, and he has lost his memory!”

“What!”

“Yes. I have heard of such cases, have not you?”

“Mmp. Yes, of course, but I’ve had no experience with them except for a time or two when it was faked for the patient’s convenience.”

The two had resumed their journey upward, and now stood before the injured man’s door.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case here, Adam. The fellow seemed quite panic-stricken when I asked him his name. His mind had obviously gone blank.”

“We’ll see.” The doctor opened the door, but when Catherine moved to follow him, he stayed her.

“You won’t want to come in, of course, my dear.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Adam. He may be in bed, but he’s fully clothed.”

“But I shall wish to examine him,” replied Adam gently. “I’ll call you when I’m through.”

Irritated at his unnecessary devotion to the proprieties, Catherine would have continued her dispute, but Adam had already entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. She stumped away in some indignation.

Lord, did he think a woman nearing thirty would faint at the sight of a man stripped down to his drawers? Actually, she supposed many spinsters would, but surely Adam knew her belter than that. Had she not splinted Jem Beamis’s broken leg last fall when he was injured during the harvest and they were not able to locate Adam? Did Adam think the stranger a dangerous marauder who could not be trusted in the same room with a lady, even though he was laid by the heels with a whack on the head?

Considering the aspect of the man who now lay in her best spare bedchamber, however, Catherine suspected that Adam’s assessment might be correct. Despite his present debility, and though he was docile enough while flat on his back, there was a definite aura of a temporarily inconvenienced predator about him. Laughing at her own fancy, she strode off to attend to her household duties.

The man in the bed opened one eye to observe a gentleman of professional mien bending over him. His muscles tensed in an unthinking urge to leap at the man’s throat, but, surprised at this savage reaction, he suppressed the instinct and lay quiet. No one was holding him prisoner, after all. Were they?

“Well, then,” grunted the gentleman, “let’s have a look at you.”

A doctor then, and one who seemed to know his business. His fingers were cool and sure as he prodded bone and sinew. The foot, he pronounced, was not broken, but merely sprained. He applied a cool compress and bound it efficiently, which action brought considerable relief.

“I am Dr. Beech, by the way—Adam Beech. Catherine—that is, Miss Meade, tells me you have lost your memory,” he said as he assisted his patient in replacing his disarranged bedclothes.