How to Lose a Bride in One Night (5 page)

She tore her gaze away and looked up. Fixed her stare to his face. Only that was worse. He was handsome. Beautiful in a harsh, menacing sort of way. In an instant she knew this was a dangerous man. She had never thought such a thing by looking at Bloodsworth, but looking at this man, she knew.

His deep-set eyes were a piercing dark blue. They drilled into her, watching her keenly. “Go ahead. Drink.” He nodded at the cup. The movement dipped his dark blond hair lower over his forehead.

She resisted the impulse to hide from his scrutiny—where could she go, after all?

She took the cup from him, careful not to touch his fingers with her own. She meant to only sip, but the moment the water touched her tongue she was gulping it down. She handed the cup back to him. “More, please.”

He moved back to a small tray on a scuffed, ancient-looking sideboard and poured water from a pitcher. “Just a little more. Don’t want you getting sick.”

She took the cup and drank greedily again, eyeing him above the rim. He watched her in turn, not looking away.

Lowering the cup, she wiped the water from her mouth with the back of her hand, not caring how unladylike she must appear. She’d been the perfect lady before—or tried to be, at any rate—exemplifying only the best manners, aping her betters, and look where that had gotten her.

“I suppose I owe you a thank-you.” The moment the words escaped she realized they sounding grudging.

He held her stare for a long moment with his deep-eyes gaze, not responding. Taking the cup, he finally turned from her. “You owe me nothing. I found you. Was I to leave you there to die?” His words were terse and she was struck with the suspicion that this was not a man accustomed to making polite conversation.

“Not everyone would have bothered with me.” Indeed not. Her faith in mankind was dismally low at the moment. Inhaling a deep breath, she repeated, “Thank you.” This time she sounded sincere.

He shrugged one well-formed shoulder and his lean, muscled torso once again became a point of fascination. She had never seen a man built like him before. She forced her gaze from the ridged plane of his stomach and examined the room. After a moment she frowned. It was not like any room she’d ever seen. It was all wood, crammed with cupboards and chests.

“What is this place?”

“We’re in Mirela’s wagon. You’ll meet her in the morning when she comes to poke and prod at you again. Sadly, you’ll be awake for it this time.”

Like a magnet, he drew her gaze again. She watched as he effortlessly sank down onto the pallet beside her bed, one arm propped over his knee.

“They’ve given us use of this wagon? That’s very kind of them.”

“Oh, they’re not entirely altruistic.”

“What do you mean?”

Those dark blue eyes stared steadily at her. “Nothing is free in this world. Everything has its price.” Truer words had never been said. Hadn’t Jack, in effect, bought a duke for her?

“You’re paying them?”

“They need to survive, too.”

She considered this before replying. “People do what they have to.” Just like she would. She would do what she must to make sure she never became
that
girl again. The one cast into the river. She wouldn’t be naive and stupid again.

His head tipped to the side. As though he didn’t expect her to say that.

She continued gazing at him evenly. “And what shall be your price for helping me, then?”

He stared until she grew uncomfortable. She resisted the urge to fidget.

“You said nothing is free in this world. I simply wondered what manner of recompense you expected.”

He spoke at last. “I did not mean myself.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, wondering about this man. He held himself tensely, clearly uneasy with their exchange, and she began to suspect that it wasn’t just her but conversation,
people
in general, that discomfited him.

He looked away, the flesh along his jaw tensing in a way that hinted at his lack of comfort.

She moistened her lips. “Where does Mirela sleep?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Outside with the others. I’m sure you’ll meet them, too. They’ve been curious about you.”

“Curious?”

“Yes. You’ve only shared your name with us, after all.”

“I only know your name,” she rejoined.

He stared at her for a long moment, his vaguely menacing features measuring her in silence. “If I didn’t know any better,” he began slowly, “I would think you’re being evasive with me on purpose.”

“Not at all.” She absently brushed her fingers against her temple. He was practically accusing her of hiding something—which would be accurate.

“You still can’t remember how you got into the river?” he pressed.

She lowered her fingers from her temple and held his stare a moment before shaking her head. “No. I don’t remember . . .” Her voice faded as an idea seized her.

It was so simple. An escape from admitting the shameful truth that her own husband would rather kill her than keep her as his wife. And there was the very real concern that if Owen Crawford knew her identity he would turn her over to her husband. What did she know of him? He rescued her, true, but he might not believe her husband did this to her. A murderous duke—it was far-fetched even to her ears. Bloodsworth was a powerful man, seventh in line for the throne. He might think she belonged with her husband and insist on returning her to his clutches. Fear clawed at her throat at that prospect. No, she could not risk telling anyone who she was.

“Anything? Your family? Friends?”

She grimaced, wondering how plausible he found her lie. “I . . . no, nothing. It’s all nothing. Just blank.”

After a long moment in which he studied her, he sighed softly. “I’m sure it will come back to you. In time.”

She wished she couldn’t, in fact, remember. How wonderful would it be to have no memory of that night?

“Get some sleep for now. Mirela says you need rest the most.”

Nodding, she let her head fall back down on the pillow. Rest wasn’t all she needed, but for now she would settle for that. She would rest, heal, regain her strength.

And then she would figure out what came next.

Chapter Six

M
irela lifted the tray from Annalise’s lap with a satisfied grunt. “You ate almost everything this morning, I see.”

Annalise patted her stomach. “I tried. Still don’t quite have my appetite back.”

“Eh, give it some time. You’re a good stone less than when he first dragged you in here.” Mirela nodded a head toward the wagon door as if he stood out there somewhere.
Owen
. The man she knew so little about. Except that he had saved her.

It had been almost a week since she woke in the middle of the night to find Owen Crawford sleeping beside her bed. A week since they’d spoken and she claimed memory loss. Since then, he’d kept his distance and talked not at all. He continued to sleep in the wagon with her every night, only entering the confines
after
she had fallen asleep. And he was always gone before she awoke.

“Who is he?” she asked Mirela, realizing if she wanted to know anything about the elusive man, the old woman might be her best source.

Mirela looked up at her sharply. “You ask me? He’s the one who brought you here.”

“I was out of my head with fever—”

“And you’ve been awake for several days now. Why don’t you ask him your questions?” She waved a hand in the air. “You are his now. I told him as much. It is right that you know who he is.”

Her cheeks burned with scalding heat. “I am not
his
!” What utter rot. “You did not tell him
that,
did you?”

The elderly woman nodded as if it were of no account and not a mortifying revelation. “Not that he put much store by it.”

“Of course he didn’t! It’s utter nonsense.” Annalise pressed a hand to her burning face.

“He saved your life. Without him, you would be dead.” She held her hands out in front of her and laced her fingers together, interlocking them. “Your lives are woven together now. Threads in a tapestry.”

Annalise stared at those gnarled hands, the locked fingers. A heaviness built in her chest. It was not true. The woman possessed antiquated principles. She owed Mr. Crawford her gratitude. Nothing more. He certainly wanted no long-standing connection between them. He scarcely spoke to her.

If she was bound to anyone, tragically, it was Bloodsworth. As much as she was loath to admit it, in the eyes of the law and before God she had bound herself to the evil man. Immediately, she felt his weight bearing down on her, smelled his brandy-laden breath . . . heard the echo of his words.
Little cow, I’m thinking you’ll sink straight to the bottom.

She sucked in a deep breath. Her fist knotted in the blanket covering her lap as if she could crush the reminder in her grip. Her breakfast of porridge and milk threaten to rise up on her.

She belonged to no man. Not her social-climbing father who wanted nothing more than to wed her to the highest bidder—she saw that now. Not her husband. And not some stranger who scraped her up off the banks of the river. She was her own independent woman and would be solely that from now on. She would recover, heal, and carve a new life for herself somewhere far from all of them.

Mirela watched her with interest, one gray eyebrow lifted in silent inquiry. Annalise, shaking her head slightly, forced a tremulous smile and turned her attention to the portrait of a long-ago family member set within the cupboard.

She held silent as Mirela went about gathering the wet linens used for her sponge bath earlier in the day. After a few moments she found her voice to ask, “When do you think I can get out of this bed?”

“Hmm. Perhaps another four . . . five weeks.”

She felt her eyes bulge in her face. “Five weeks?”

“You broke your leg . . .”

“Last time I didn’t stay in bed nearly so long.” She had already confessed to the childhood memory of breaking her leg when she fell from a tree. She thought that could be important for Mirela to know as she went about nursing her. After all, just because she remembered something that happened to her at fourteen did not mean she could remember the traumatic event from a week ago.

“And you had a limp, no?”

Annalise nodded again.

“That is why. You did not give it time to heal properly.” Mirela looked at her in accusation. As if she was to blame for her limp.

Not that she’d had much of a choice in the matter. Mrs. Danvers demanded her up and moving about within a week, helping her mother with the smaller children in the nursery. Her mother’s employer did not care one whit about allowing her time to recuperate.

Mirela lifted the bowl of soapy water. “This time, we will let it heal.” She stabbed one gnarled finger toward Annalise. “You will not move from that bed.”

Her face flushed both hot and cold as the reality of her life for the next five weeks settled over her.

She would remain in this bed, in this wagon, with a strange man sleeping a foot away from her every night? It wasn’t to be borne.

A path of sunlight tunneled into the wagon as Mirela opened the door and descended the steps. Annalise leaned forward, eager and aching for its warmth, for the vast openness of the outdoors. Just as quickly the light was gone. The door shut with a click and she was all alone in a space that felt like it was shrinking by the moment. She slumped back in the bed, quite convinced she would go stark raving mad stuck here for several more weeks.

O
wen looked up from where he stacked an armful of kindling he had gathered from the nearby woods. Mirela stood in front of him, the rare afternoon sunlight glinting off her many brilliant gold necklaces.

“Mirela,” he greeted, marveling how this elderly, slow-moving woman managed to move with such stealth. He never heard her approach.

“What do you think you are doing?”

He glanced down at the kindling and bit off the sarcastic reply rising to his lips. “Helping . . .” He let the word hang, more question than statement. From the irritated way she glared at him, he did not think she approved of his activity.

Several of the men had gone into the village to speak with townsmen regarding tomorrow’s fair, and Owen had taken it upon himself to gather the day’s kindling. It was something to do rather than sit idle and wonder what precisely he was doing here with a band of Gypsies and an invalid female.

She pointed to the wagon. “That girl needs some attention.”

He stared from the wagon to the old woman.

“I don’t understand. Are you no longer capable of caring for—”

“I’m not talking of tending her injuries. I speak of her spirit. She is restless, lonely.”

He stared, unsure how to respond to
that
. He was not a companion for hire. “I’m certain you or one of the other women would be better equipped—”

“Nonsense. She trusts you. You rescued her.”

“That hardly makes me fit company.” He’d taken measures to give Anna her privacy. Rising before she woke and retiring after she slept. Even though she claimed memory loss, she had clearly been through an ordeal, and he had no intention of making her uneasy with his hovering presence. Or perhaps he didn’t want to make himself too comfortable. Either way, he kept his distance.

Mirela pointed to the wagon. “She’s been in that bed two weeks now and you dawdle out here . . .” She waved wildly. “ . . . playing with your sticks.”

He blinked. “What am I to do?” He was still here. He hadn’t left. He was obliged to stay with the woman. At least until they learned her identity and he knew where she belonged. No doubt she had a family waiting for her somewhere, sick with worry. Maybe even a husband. Perhaps she had been traveling with family and was set upon by brigands.

He glanced back at the wagon as though he could see within to its confines, to Anna lying there on the bed. For all he knew, the damage to her leg, the bruise to her ribs, had not been the only injury done to her person. His chest pulled and tightened uncomfortably at the notion. Regaining her memory might be the worst trauma to befall her yet.

Mirela’s agitated voice reclaimed his attention. “Talk to her. Keep her company. Carry her outside so that she might get some fresh air.”

Carry
her?

He recoiled at the idea of holding her again . . . touching her.

Since she regained consciousness, he was achingly aware of her as a female. She might be bedridden, but that didn’t stop him from studying her as she slept. Creeping into the wagon at night with only a taper to guide him, the dark fan of lashes on her cheeks fascinated him.

He could not understand why. She was no beauty in the classic standard, but there was something about her. She occupied far too much of his thoughts. In his head, alongside his dark and disturbing recollections, his ugly memories . . . that was no place for her to be. She was injured, vulnerable. He shouldn’t be thinking of her as a man thought of a woman. Even after everything he went through in India, he had clung to his own code, some semblance of honor to get himself through it all, to keep himself sane. When he set forth a rule, he would not break it.

He would not touch her.

In order to uphold that promise to himself, he couldn’t imagine carrying her around for fresh air a very good idea. “I don’t think that would be proper.”

Mirela laughed. “Proper? You sound like such an Englishman . . . all staunch and dignified, but we know you are not that, don’t we?” She tapped the corner of her eye. “We know. I see you.”

He stiffened, wondering what it was she thought she saw in him. “I will not carry her. She’s fine as she is. She stays in bed.” Turning, he strode back into the woods under the pretense of fetching more kindling. He did not emerge for several hours.

T
hat night, Annalise heard him enter the wagon. She held herself still, feigning sleep with her eyes closed, debating how best to approach him. As he did not show himself during the day, if she wanted words with him, this was the only way.

She heard him lower himself to the cot, the rustle of his clothing as he removed his jacket. One boot hit the floor with a soft thud, then the next. She heard a puff of breath and suspected that he just blew out a candle.

Moistening her lips, she spoke into the dark. “How long are we going to stay here?” The moment the question escaped her, she winced.
We
. When had she decided their fates were entwined? Was this because of the foolish words Mirela had rattled off to her?

There was a long pause and she imagined the strong lines of his face contemplating her question. “And where is it that we should go?” His deep voice floated over her. There was no ring of surprise that she was awake, and she wondered if he had known. She recalled his dark blue eyes, so deep and intense. It was as though they missed nothing. Maybe they could even see to her through the dark.

She hastily sought a reply, regretting her rash words.

“Have you regained your memory?” he asked.

“No.” Silence stretched for several moments before she spoke again. “There is a fair,” she announced, turning and staring in the direction of his voice.

“Yes. There is.”

“I should like to see it.”

“You cannot walk,” he reminded her.

She blew out a gust of breath. “Could I perhaps be . . . carried? Pushed on a cart? Anything? I can’t stay in this wagon for weeks.”

Silence met her request.

She balled her hands at her sides. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” He sighed as if it took everything to utter the single word.

She fumed. Talking to him was like pulling one’s teeth.

“The fair?” she prodded.

He did not respond. Clearly he had no wish for her company.

“Why are you even here? Why haven’t you just left?”

He shifted. She thought she identified the outline of him, sitting up beside the bed.

“I found you. You are my responsibility—”

“Oh, indeed?” She snorted lightly. “So you’re a man driven by duty and honor?” She knew she should sound more gracious, thankful even. If he wasn’t that sort of man, she would likely be dead.

His voice stroked the air, low and deep. “You say that like it’s such a bad thing.”

It wasn’t, of course. If not for him, she would doubt such men existed at all anymore. On the heels of her trauma, however, she was still skeptical. “Forgive me. I’m bad-tempered from being cooped up in this wagon.” She took a deep bracing breath, sliding her hands down her face in a slow drag. “Some fresh air for even a short time would improve my mood considerably.” She stared at his shadowy shape, wincing at the plea in her voice.

His silence seemed to indicate that her words were lost on him.

She tried a different tactic. “The fresh air might even be good for me—speed my recovery.” She plucked at her blanket with her fingers, focusing on a patch of loose threads. “I’ve heard that, you know. Well in spirit is well in body.”

Nothing. He didn’t even stir, and she began to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

She propped herself up on an elbow. “Mr. Crawford? Are you listening?”

Annalise strained for a sound of him below her.

“Mr. Crawford?”

Finally he answered her, “Good night, Anna.”