Brazen Bride (13 page)

She glanced at him. “Torteval—the village—isn’t far. We should ride over and see if anyone there has learned anything more about the wreck.”

He met her gaze, then tipped his head. “Lead on.”

She did, wheeling east, determinded to find some clue to ressurect his memory so he could be on his way.

T
hey rode into Torteval, a village just big enough to boast a tiny tavern. Leaving their mounts tied to a post, Logan followed Linnet inside. The locals greeted her eagerly; she was clearly well known, well liked, well respected. She introduced him, and eagerness instantly gave way to curiosity.

Those seated about the tables were old sailors and farmers; none were young.

“You’ve the luck of the devil,” one elderly seadog informed him. “Coming from that direction, if you’d missed Pleinmont Point, you’d have washed into open sea—next stop France.”

Logan grimaced. “I was hit on the head, and I’ve yet to remember where my ship was bound.”

Stripping off her gloves, Linnet sat on one of the benches at the long wooden table about which everyone was gathered. “Has anybody found anything—learned anything—around here?” She looked up at the innwife, bustling out from the kitchen. “Bertha, have you heard of any pieces of the wreck being washed up?”

Bertha shook her curly head. “No, miss—and I would of if there had been. We’d heard there’d been a wreck, so those ’round about have been looking, but no one’s even seen bits and pieces.”

Grimacing, Linnet glanced up at Logan. “It was worth a try.” Looking back at Bertha, she said, “Now we’re here, we’ll have two plates of your fish stew, Bertha, and two pints of cider.”

Bertha bobbed and hustled back to the kitchen. Understanding they were lunching at the tavern, Logan stepped over the bench and sat beside Linnet.

One of the old sailors leaned forward to look at Linnet. “No sign of debris in Roquaine Bay?”

She shook her head. “My men have checked, but no one’s found anything.”

“Then seems likely the ship broke up on the reefs well out from the bay, north and west of the point. Given the direction of that last blow, if things didn’t fetch up in your west cove, they’d miss our coasts altogether.” The sailor looked at Logan. “If that’s the case, there’s not going to be anything to help you get your memory back, not anywhere on the island.”

The other sailors all nodded their grizzled heads.

Bertha appeared with two heaped and steaming plates, which she placed with a flourish before Linnet and Logan. “There you are! That’ll warm you up before you head out again. Wind’s whipping up. I’ll fetch your ciders right away.”

The talk turned to the perennial sailors’ subject of the day’s likely catch. Logan applied himself to the surprisingly tasty fish stew and let the chatter wash over him.

He was ready to leave when Linnet rose and bade the company good-bye. He was reaching into his pocket for his purse when he remembered.

Linnet waved to Bertha, telling her to put the charge on the Mon Coeur slate. Logan followed her from the tavern, frowning as they walked to their tethered horses.

He lifted Linnet to her saddle, then held her there, caught her gaze. “If I was wearing Hoby’s boots, I must have money somewhere. When I remember where, I’ll pay you back.”

She arched her brows. “I was thinking you could pay me back tonight.”

Lips thinning, he held her gaze. After a moment said, “That hardly seems sufficient recompense.”

Releasing her, he turned, grabbed Storm’s reins, and swung up to the saddle.

“Then make it sufficient.” Linnet caught his eye. “I’m sure, if you exert yourself, you’ll manage.”

With that, she set her heels to the mare’s sides and surged out into the lane.

Logan held Storm in, prancing on the spot, while he stared at Linnet’s back. Then, frown converting to a scowl, he eased the reins and set off after her.

R
eturning to the house, Logan insisted on doing what he could to help about the estate—which that afternoon meant helping the other men erect a new enclosure to protect a small herd of deer Linnet had imported to breed and raise for meat.

He threw himself into it, blotting out his frustration with not being able to remember—and with her. He hadn’t liked her suggestion that he repay her hospitality with sex the first time he’d heard it, and he was even more annoyed that he’d let her override his scruples and lure him into playing her game last night.

Her continuing insistence on casting their nighttime interludes in that light made him . . . he didn’t know what, but spearing a shovel into the dirt to dig out a post hole felt good.

He was aware of his wound, of it pulling, skin tugging, but as long as he protected his left side, he wasn’t too restricted. His strength had largely returned to what he thought it should be, and as he was right-handed, he could wield a mallet with more force than any of the other men there.

So he dug, and thumped, and with the other men heaved posts into place, railings into grooves, and ignored the female critically watching.

Linnet stood under a nearby tree and watched her deer pen take shape. The pen itself met with her approval; it was just the right size, in both acreage and height. She wasn’t so sure about her latest stray, but she could hardly complain. Constructing enclosures was not her forte, yet he, apparently, knew enough to direct Vincent, Bright, Gerry, and their respective staffs. From the respect they’d immediately accorded his “suggestions,” he was, once again, firmly in charge.

He pulled his weight, literally. Despite the chill wind and the gray clouds scudding overhead, all the men had stripped off their coats and were working in their shirts, with or without waistcoats. In Logan’s case, without; she watched the way his muscles, visible through the fine cotton of one of her father’s old shirts, bulged and shifted, contracted and released as he lifted a huge post into the last hole.

Immediately he grabbed a shovel and started filling the hole in. Young Henry ran to help; even from a distance Linnet could detect a certain awe in the lad’s expression.

She humphed. All very well, but . . . was this Logan’s way of balancing the scales with her, rather than obliging her in her bed? In her view, there was no real debt—she would do the same for any man in his situation and expect nothing beyond sincere thanks—but their liaison had been established, more through his doing than hers, and in light of that, her request that he educate her in matters in which he was expert was entirely reasonable. Yet although he wanted to lie with her, neither last night nor this afternoon had he been at all eager to fall in with her script.

Indeed, after today’s exchange, her earlier challenge, he’d insisted on coming out here and building her a deer pen.

Folding her arms, she frowned, as the last section of fence in place and secured, negligently swinging a mallet it would take her two hands just to lift, he walked to where Vincent and Bright were assembling the gate.

The message was clear. He wasn’t going to cease his exertions until the pen was complete.

She narrowed her eyes on his back. She knew the male of the species found her significantly more than passably attractive. Logan was, in that respect, typical of his kind. So why wouldn’t he accept her proposition?

Presumably because he didn’t like the language in which it was couched.

Last night his reticence had sprung from a sense of honor. While she might not agree,
that
she could respect. And the more he recalled of the man he was—cavalry commander, gentleman—the more his code of honor would become entrenched. However, if
she
didn’t have the excuse of allowing him to repay her by teaching her of things she, at her age, really ought to know, things she patently wouldn’t be able to learn from, or with, anyone else, then what reason would
she
have for indulging with him?

What other excuse could she have for wanting to lie with him?

She felt like Queen Elizabeth worrying about Robert Dudley. At least she judged Logan more trustworthy, and less power-hungry, than Dudley had been.

But like Elizabeth, she felt she was grappling with a relationship that was threatening to develop in ways she didn’t want.

Ways that could only lead to heartache.

So no. Logan would have to toe her line, and accept her proposition as it stood; it was safer that way. While their interaction remained on such a footing—a near-commercial exchange—neither she nor he was likely to forget that what happened in her bed had nothing to do with her heart.

And neither would develop any deeper expectations.

The men finally lifted the gate into place and secured it. As a group, they stepped back and looked at it—surveyed the pen, admired their handiwork, then congratulated each other on a job well done.

The lads gathered up the tools. Parting from the other men, Logan bent to retrieve his coat from where he’d tossed it over a log—and Linnet saw the bandage around his torso shift and slide.

Lips thinning, she stepped out from beneath the tree and waited on the path as, shrugging on the coat, he walked toward her.

As he drew near, he arched a brow.

“Thank you for your help. Now come inside and let me check your wound and retie that bandage.”

Spinning on her heel, she stalked ahead of him back to the house.

Lips tightening, Logan followed.

A
fter pausing to wash his hands under the pump near the back door, Logan ambled in Linnet’s wake into the downstairs bathing chamber. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat, drew off his shirt, then sat on the bench beside the sink and let her have at him.

He’d largely worked off his earlier frustration, but was curious as to what was gnawing her. As she shifted back and forth in front of him, unwinding the long bandages, he studied her expression.

When she next went to step past, he caught her about the waist, held her between his knees. He examined her forehead, then lifted one finger and rubbed between her brows.

She jerked her head back, stared at him. “What was that for?”

“There was a furrow forming there.”

The furrow promptly returned. He raised his finger again.

She batted it away. “Stop that.”

“You don’t have any reason to frown, so why are you frowning?”

She met his eyes, hesitated, then said, “You’re making things too complicated. Just . . .” The last bandage fell free and she scooped it up. “Just sit there and let me check your stitches.”

Linnet shifted his arm, held it back, and focused on the stitches. She breathed in, steeled herself against being this close to him.
Just concentrate on the stitches.

She examined, gently prodded. Thought again of how he must have got such a wound. Seized on the distraction. “Some man faced you with a sword—someone who knew how to wield one. Right-handed, like you. He went for a killing stroke, but you pulled back just enough, just in time. You must have been fighting on deck during the storm—you could only have just taken this wound when you went into the water. You lost some blood, but you would have lost a lot more if you hadn’t been immersed in icy water.”

“There were two of them.”

She glanced up to see his gaze fixed in the distance.

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s not right. There were
three
, but I killed one . . . after they leapt on me as I came out of the forward companionway. I came up to see what was happening with the storm.”

Carefully straightening, she held her breath. His words were coming slowly, as if he were literally piecing the memory together.

“I didn’t know them . . . I can’t remember who they were. I’m not even sure I knew at the time. I can’t see their faces.”

When he fell silent, she whispered, “What can you see?”

“Beyond the storm, beyond the flash of blades . . . nothing.” Suddenly focusing, his gaze shifted to her face. “But I know they were after something I had. That was why they wanted me dead, so they could take . . .” He paused, then, face and voice hardening, continued, “The only thing of potential value I had on me at the time. They must have been after the wooden cylinder.”

He tensed to stand.

Slapping her hands on his shoulders, she held him down. “No! The cylinder is where we left it. You can get it in a minute, but first I need to finish checking these stitches, then I need to wash, dry, and rebandage. With stitches you can’t go out without a bandage yet.”

The look he bent on her should have withered steel, but she was adamant and gave not an inch.

With a disgusted humph, he settled back on the bench.

Logan let her finish tending his wound while he struggled to make sense of what he’d remembered. The facts were sketchy, disjointed, some visual memories, others just random bits of
knowing
.

When he added them up . . . his blood ran cold. He didn’t know who his opponents were, or why they wanted the cylinder, but of their viciousness, their utter disregard for life, their callousness, their unrelenting evil, he had not a shred of doubt.

He might not remember who they were, but he knew what they were.