How to Lose a Bride in One Night (7 page)

“Are you saying I don’t give you the opportunity to speak?” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “Very well. I shall leave it to you to carry on the conversation. I will follow your lead, Mr. Crawford.”

Without comment, he unwrapped a meat pie and handed it to her. She watched as he did the same for himself. He took a large bite, indifferent that she watched him. Indifferent to the stretch of silence.

She took a nibbling bite, the quiet hovering between them. Even the sounds of the fair were too distant to hear anymore. She glanced from him to her meat pastie several times, waiting, expecting for him to say
something
. Nothing profound. Simply . . . something. She accepted the lemonade when he offered it, savoring the cool tartness on her tongue.

After several more minutes of silence, she dropped the pastie back into the wrapper. “This is just silly.”

He smiled slowly and something unfurled in her stomach at the sight of that smile. Triumphant as it was, there was a hint of the devil to it that made her pulse quicken.

“Oh, and now you think you’ve won?” Annoyance swam hotly through her blood—perhaps mostly at herself for breaking down and talking first.

His shrug only irritated her further.

“After we finish lunch, will you return me to the fair?”

His smile faded and she knew that had not been his intention.

“I was enjoying myself,” she added, as if that would somehow make a difference to him.

“This is the first time you’ve been out of bed since you woke,” he said. “You don’t want to overtax yourself.”

“I’ve either been carried or in a cart. I’m hardly overtaxing myself.” At the arch of his eyebrow, she snapped, “I don’t require your permission, you know.”

He nodded to the cart. “Unless you plan to snap your fingers and make the cart move, you actually do.”

“You’re not the only one capable of pushing a cart.”

“No one else is at the camp. Who will you prevail upon? I doubt Mirela and the others will return before evening.”

She beat a fist against her lap. “You are cruel. If you don’t want to escort me, I don’t know why you won’t permit Luca—”

“Has it occurred to you that you’re keeping him from work? They depend on their efforts at fairs like this to keep them clothed and fed. It’s rather inconsiderate to monopolize Luca.”

At this, her shoulders slumped with deflation. She hadn’t considered she was somehow taking advantage of Mirela’s hospitality. “I see. I did not realize . . .” She wrapped her pastie back up in the paper. “I’m ready.”

“You haven’t finished eating.”

“I’m quite full.”

“That can hardly be the case. You need to regain your strength.” His gaze skimmed her. “You’re wasting away.”

She stopped herself just short of throwing her wrapped-up pastie at him. “There you are again . . . lavishing me with your charm.” She motioned to herself. “I’m hardly wasting away. I had quite a bit of cushion on me before I fell in the river.”

“Did you?” His gaze sharpened on her, and she realized her error.

“I—yes, at least I feel that much is true.”

He leaned closer. “What else do you ‘feel’?”

She reached for her lemonade and took another long sip, looking anywhere but at him as her mind feverishly worked, desperate to come up with a viable response.

Lowering the lemonade, she lifted her gaze to him.

He stared back expectantly, his handsome face ever impassive—not a hint of emotion seeping through. “What else do you remember?”

“Nothing.” Beneath his probing gaze, she felt compelled to elaborate. “Nothing
yet
. I’m certain I will. I’m certain . . .” Once she could stand on her feet again and take herself away, she could claim a sudden full recovery of memory.

She couldn’t risk telling him her identity until then. Couldn’t risk him returning her to her husband. Annalise’s throat tightened at the prospect of coming face-to-face with Bloodsworth again. Especially in her weakened condition.

Squaring her shoulders, she held his gaze, commanding herself not to look away. That would be as good as admitting she was lying.

“I look forward to it,” he murmured. There was just enough of something in his voice—skepticism perhaps—that she arched an eyebrow at him as he took a final bite of his lunch.

She watched as he leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at the branches swaying above them. She followed his gaze, feeling some of her tension ease away as she enjoyed the afternoon. He must have believed her. He certainly wouldn’t relax beside her on a blanket if he believed her to be a liar.

“You know,” she began, “I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Crawford. Aside from the fact that you rescue drowned females. Where are you from?”

Where are you going? What life is it that I’m keeping you from?
She resisted the urge to bombard him with these questions. He certainly wouldn’t be so forthcoming to tell her his entire history in one sitting. Not as brusque as he was.

“I grew up not far from here.” He exhaled. “A village called Winninghamshire. I just left there.”

“You don’t live there?”

“No. I was . . . visiting. My parents are gone, but I have a brother left there. And his wife.”

There was something in his voice. Something he was leaving out. Was it the loss of his parents? Grief for them?

“And where do you travel now?”

“I have a residence in London.”

She studied his profile. A residence in London, but no mention of a profession. He must be a gentleman. Somehow she suspected as much, although he possessed none of the haughty airs of the gentlemen of the
ton
she’d met over the last year. His clothing was of fine quality but not the height of fashion. His hair was in need of a good trim. The sun-streaked dark blond locks brushed the collar of his brown jacket. It was a pleasure to study him. She recalled that brief smile she had seen. In that moment he had truly been irresistible.

“Well, what have we here?”

Owen launched himself into a sitting position before she even fully turned her gaze to the pair of men approaching where they reclined.

She tensed at the sight of them. They looked like they hadn’t washed in the better part of a year. Their hair was scruffy, matted at the roots, shorn at the ends as if by a knife. The taller of the pair stood at the helm, adjusting his impossibly soiled neck cloth. “Looks like little lovebirds on a picnic.” His grin showed furry, rotting teeth. He looked from his friend back to Owen and Annalise.

Owen rose to his feet in one easy motion. “Move on your way.”

“Oh, this is a private affair? My apologies.” The man looked to his companion. “Freddy, I think we’re imposing.”

Freddy nodded with exaggerated movements.

And yet neither of the ruffians made a move to leave. Instead they continued to smile, seemingly harmless. Only there was an undercurrent of menace in the way they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, almost as though they were deliberately forming a wall.

“Oh. What did the young lady do to her leg?” Freddy inquired, noting the end of the splint peeking out from her hem. Her fingers slid there self-consciously, tugging on her hem as if she could hide the vulnerability from them.

Unease skated over her skin, reminiscent of another night not long ago when Bloodsworth had toyed with her moments before he slammed a pillow over her face. Anger followed on the heels of her unease . . . anger that the arrival of these two should bring her back to that place again and make her feel like the old Annalise.

Owen stepped around her, blocking her from their view. “None of your concern.”

Her hands moved over the blanket, seeking something, anything she could use to defend herself. Her fingers bumped the half-full carafe of lemonade. She circled the neck with her fingers and held it close.

“Oh, wants her to himself, does he, Peter?” Freddy elbowed his taller companion.

Peter stepped to the side, his eyes looking beyond Owen to Annalise with interest. She fidgeted beneath his gaze, her fingers flexing around the carafe. She’d never seen a man look at her in such a lascivious manner. She felt the urge to snatch the extra blanket and cover herself.

But that still wouldn’t hide her face. Suddenly she regretted the ribbons and artfully arranged hair. She felt like a silly girl . . . and that made her feel somehow more vulnerable.

“Can’t blame him. She is a picture.” Peter attempted to sidestep Owen.

Not only did Owen move to block him, but he set a hand to the ruffian’s shoulder.

Peter knocked it aside with a snarl. Freddy moved then. She gave a small squeak and scooted back as he tackled Owen to the blanket.

She dragged herself out of the way of their thrashing bodies. The carafe slipped, spilling lemonade. She fumbled for it as they fought—a tangled blur of limbs beside her. Dimly, she heard Peter shouting encouragement.

Crying for help, Annalise looked around wildly, seeing no one else in that stretch of countryside. Securing her grip on the glass carafe, she lifted it over her head, waiting for the opportunity to bring it down.

Then the two bodies went still. Locked, but utterly still.

She stopped shouting, stopped breathing. Her gaze fixed on Owen, one arm wrapped around Freddy’s throat. His free hand pressed the tip of a knife to his cheek, indenting the flesh.

She gawked. She had not known he even possessed a knife. Certainly she had not seen it anywhere on his person. His sun-streaked hair was wild about his head, brushing the sharp planes of his face, falling low over his brow. His dark blue eyes appeared even darker, glittering like a night sea, full of an emotion she had never observed in him before. Not that she
ever
saw emotion from him.

Peter sputtered obscenities. “Let him go, you bastard!”

“And why would I do that?” Owen spoke as calmly as he looked, easily holding Freddy in check. “Considering what you were planning for us?” The knife pressed closer, blood pooling around the tip and dripping down Freddy’s cheek. “That wouldn’t be very wise of me.”

Freddy’s face was purpling now, his lips fighting for words, arriving only at a squeaked “Please.”

“We weren’t going to do nothing. Promise.” Peter held his hands up as though to show how harmless he really was.

“Lying curs,” Owen said in that coldly even voice. “You were going to rob us and do whatever other sordid whim struck you. Why should I let you go to just do it again? To carry on and hurt others?”

Annalise couldn’t look away. She knew she should tell him to stop, to let them go, but she couldn’t. Owen’s words resonated deeply within her. What if the duke had been hurting others, innocents, for years? No one would have dared stop him—a powerful lord. She vaguely realized she was nodding, silently encouraging Owen to stop these two.

Then Owen was looking at her. Those dark blue eyes trained on her, all that carefully restrained emotion focused on her. Watching her. Seeing
her
.

And something changed in his face then. A subtle altering. Some of the hard-edged tension ebbed from his features. That fire in his eyes faded, like coals banked.

His eyes still on her, he said to Freddy, “I’m going to release you. If you or your friend make any sudden movements . . . if you come at either me or the girl, I will show you just how good I am with a knife. I’ve left a long line of corpses that can attest to just how excellent my aim is.”

“ ’Course, ’course, yes, thank you,” Freddy babbled in his arms.

“We understand,” Peter agreed.

After some moments Owen slid his gaze from her and released his captive. He moved to stand before her as the unsavory pair scurried off, resembling wild animals. They scampered away as fast as their legs could carry them, looking over their shoulders several times as though to assure themselves that Owen was indeed letting them retreat and not making good on his threat.

A beat of silence held before she found her voice again. She moistened her lips and stared up at him. He still watched the men flee, the long lines of his body rigid and tense, like a spring ready to snap. “That was impressive.”

He turned and looked down at her, his eyes once again an impenetrable blue.

She moistened her lips, realizing her pulse still raced in her neck even though they were out of danger.

And then it dawned on her that they had never been in danger. Not truly. Not with this man—this stranger who apparently knew how to fight and wield a knife with deadly skill. He had always been in control. She scanned him from head to foot, admiring him . . . this man who could handle himself in any situation. She doubted he’d ever been a victim . . . ever tasted the sharp, coppery flood of fear in his mouth.

He said nothing in response to her compliment, merely stared at her with that maddening impassivity.

“How did you—” She stopped, swallowing back words as sudden hope blossomed in her heart. It didn’t matter how he knew how to handle himself in dangerous situations, only that he did. Only that he could.

Chapter Eight

I
mpressive?” Owen echoed as he looked down at her.

“Yes.” She nodded doggedly. She waved her hand in a small circle. “What you just did . . . how you protected yourself.” She paused and moistened her lips. “I wish that I could be like you.”

His expression cracked as he looked down at her, and she knew she had astounded him with her words. A frown pulled at his well-carved lips. “You don’t want to be anything like me.” He moved then, gathering up their things and setting them in the cart.

“Why not? To do what you just did? To be so capable? You’re a hero. You saved me. Twice now, I suspect. To be able to do the things you do . . . that would be . . .” She paused, groping for the words to convey just how tremendous, just how relieved and at peace she would feel to be that strong, that in control.

He shook his head as he bent to lift her in his arms.

She squeezed his shoulder as he moved her toward the cart, her fingers digging into the muscle and sinew beneath the jacket. She tried to finish her earlier words, “That would be— ”

“No,” he bit out, depositing her.

She searched his face, trying to catch his gaze as he draped the blanket over her lap. “No?” He wouldn’t even let her praise him? “Why aren’t you proud—”

“Please. Stop.”

“Maybe if I could comport myself as you just did I could have prevented this from happening . . .” She waved at her body.

He stared hard at her. “You remember what happened to you?”

She inhaled and fought to hold his gaze as the lie tripped off her tongue, “No, but Mirela told me that the bruise on my ribs was from someone hitting me. I don’t think I fell into that river by accident.” She paused for breath, arching an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He held her gaze a moment before looking away, staring off into the horizon where the two ruffians had disappeared. “No. I don’t think it was an accident.”

She leaned forward, reaching over the edge of the cart to seize his arm. She curled her fingers into his forearm. “Then you should understand.”

He glanced down and stared at her hand on his arm.

She continued, “I can’t even walk—”

“In a few more weeks you can get out of bed,” he reminded her.

“But I’ll never be like you.” She felt herself smile and knew it was rueful. Sad even.

He angled his head, surveying her with a bemused expression. “But you’d want that?”

She looked down and plucked at the colorful fringe on the blanket, nodding and feeling foolish admitting such a thing.

“I can teach you that.”

Her head snapped up at his softly worded declaration. “What?”

He was moving around the cart with his usual swift, easy strides to take up the handles again. “I can teach you,” he repeated, the words crisp, succinct.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Her hand trembled on her lap
.
Had she misunderstood? Did he just offer to teach her to be more like him?

“What . . . how . . . what do you mean precisely?”

“I can show you how to be more self-possessed, more aware. You don’t have to be an easy target, Anna.”

“Yes,” she breathed, awed and eager at the possibility. Questions whirled in her head. Would they remain with Mirela and the others until she could walk again?

“Leave it to me. I’ll handle the arrangements,” he said as though he could read her spinning thoughts. He stared straight ahead, no longer looking at her.

She scooted until her back rested against the wall of the cart and settled in for the ride back to camp, not even minding that he was returning her to the dreaded wagon with its dreaded bed. Imminent boredom didn’t matter anymore. Not with hope looming in her future.

O
wen strolled through the camp, searching for Mirela. Night had fallen and most everyone had returned from the village by now. He spotted her near the fire, ladling from a pot set over the crackling nest of flames.

“Hungry?” she inquired when he approached.

“We’ll be leaving in the morning. I’d like to borrow one wagon and one of your men to take us into Town. Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time and services . . .”

She stopped and stared at him. “Decided to keep her, have you?” She cackled then. It was the only word to describe her laughter.

He scowled. His forehead drew tight and he resisted the urge to rub there and ease the sudden tension he felt. “No, of course not.”

Her eyebrows winged high, twin gray birds. “Oh? Not yet then?”

“Not ever,” he quickly snapped. “I merely think she’ll be more comfortable recuperating in Town.” And he’d had enough sleeping on the floor of a wagon. He wanted a bed. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us—”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “You’ve paid for it. No thanks needed.”

“At any rate, she would likely have perished without you.”

Mirela was already turning away. “Luca can take you where you wish to go in the morning.”

He watched the bent old woman walk away, wondering at her conviction that he and Anna were somehow linked. Absurd. It was the stuff superstitious old Gypsy women believed in.

He winced again as he recalled the promise he made her. What possessed him? It was her eyes. He had seen something in them. It was the same thing he had seen when she first opened her eyes atop his mount. The same haunting fear was there, glazing that velvety brown.

He supposed offering to help her didn’t exactly promote the notion that they were unattached—two strangers whose paths were only briefly intersecting. In his mind, he saw that bruise on her ribs, the cuts and scrapes covering her body, the wheeze of her breath, barely there, scarcely alive.

His hands tightened into fists at his sides. She wasn’t a soldier. This wasn’t a war, and yet someone had brutalized her. Something out there terrified her. Whether she remembered or not—and he suspected she remembered more than she revealed—she needed to armor herself.

And he couldn’t deny her the chance to help herself. Not staring into those eyes that seemed to reach inside him and pull at what was left of his soul.

He’d help her heal, teach her to be strong.

Her words from earlier washed over him.
You’re a hero
.

He sucked a breath inside his suddenly shrinking lungs, reminding himself that she would soon be gone. Before she discovered just how far from a hero he really was.