Brazen Bride (6 page)

Had he remembered? Did he
know
?

She’d imagined that, with her usual high-handed authority, she would have no trouble carrying off the pretense that nothing had occurred between them, but to her irritation, her very real chagrin, she discovered herself caught on the horns of a totally unforeseen dilemma.

If he thought it all a dream, and remained convinced of that, then nothing more would happen. There would be no further interludes, and he and she would part as mere acquaintances once he remembered who he was.

And she would never again experience what she had last night.

Therein lay the rub.

But if he remembered, if he realized that all those heated moments had been real . . . she could have more. Lots more, for however many nights remained before he recalled who he was, and where he was supposed to be.

Yet she didn’t want to go down that road, either. It had taken no more than a few exchanges to realize he was a sort of man who didn’t “manage” well. When faced with her natural flair for command, most men fell into line easily enough—but he wouldn’t. The vision of him sitting, mostly naked, on the side of her bed was blazoned on her brain. Easily led he wasn’t, and would never be.

To hint him toward realizing, or not? That was her dilemma. And while her wise and sensible self voted strongly not to risk tangling with him again, her wild side wanted to embrace the chance, risk or not. As far as her wild side was concerned, risks were for taking—which was what had led her to this point.

Even as she smiled and gave Geoffrey her hands, she knew Logan was watching, noting, assessing, considering—and she felt the temptation to give him some sign. Quashing it, she asked Geoffrey, “How is Mrs. Corbett? Have you seen her recently?”

Geoffrey nodded. “She’s improving, but she’s determined to stay in her cottage, and who can blame her? It’s been her home since . . . before I can remember.”

“She was there when we were children, but her husband was alive then, and her sons were there, too.” Linnet paused, then said, “I’ll keep an eye on her—I ride past often enough.”

She sat and continued to talk with Geoffrey about local affairs, about the people on the Trevission estate and matters further afield. Logan listened closely, but said nothing, asked no questions. For such a large, vigorous man, he could sit very still, could make one forget he was there.

Keeping her gaze locked on Geoffrey, she ignored Logan entirely. Geoffrey noticed, was puzzled by it, but she didn’t want to engage with Logan, not even in outwardly innocent exchanges; she didn’t trust that nothing of the tension between them would show. And while Geoffrey might not understand it, or recognize it for what it was, he would see enough to grow concerned, and she didn’t need that.

Especially not if she opted to take a risk—a further risk—with Logan.

By the time she rose to walk Geoffrey to the stable, she was increasingly inclined to take that risk. Talking to Geoffrey had underscored the reality of her life. Geoffrey was a childhood friend. During her earlier years, those she’d spent mostly on the island, he and she had run wild. She loved him—like a brother.

Yet he was the only eligible male around. If she traveled to the island’s capital, she might find one or two others, but what use was that to her? Locally, there was no male with whom she could indulge, and while until last night she hadn’t realized what she’d been missing, now she knew.

Now she wanted more—at least a little more.

Logan could give her that.

In front of the stable, Geoffrey turned to her while Vincent went to fetch his horse. “Your latest stray—you will be careful, won’t you? I know he seems perfectly gentlemanly, but he’s . . . well, you only have to look at him to know he’s . . .”

Linnet let her lips curve. “Dangerous?”

“Well, not necessarily
that
. . . I was thinking more of him not being meek and mild. I have to say it’s difficult to judge a man when he doesn’t know who he is, but, well, you know what I mean.”

“I do, Geoffrey dear, and you know better than to worry.”

“You could send him to St. Peter Port, to the castle.”

“No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.”

Geoffrey sighed. “I know you won’t worry over what others may think, or say—how it will look that he’s staying in the house, but—”

“Geoffrey, answer me this—who is there to see? Who will ever know where he slept?”

Geoffrey frowned at her. “What you mean is that no one anywhere around here will argue with whatever you decree.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, Linnet stretched up and bussed his cheek. “Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you next time I get to church.”

Vincent appeared with Geoffrey’s mount. Linnet stepped back as, capitulating, Geoffrey swung up to the saddle. After waving him off, she remained in the yard, watching him ride away.

Then she turned and strolled back to the house. Clearing the line of screening trees, she paused and looked up. And saw Logan in the window of her bedroom looking down at her.

Brazenly, she gazed back at him, drinking in the sight of his broad shoulders, his height, the sense of innate virility in his powerful frame, then, unhurriedly, she resumed her journey to the house.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t, send Logan on his way—not until he remembered who he was. And if that gave her time to experience more of the singular pleasure he could show her . . . so be it.

A
fter luncheon, she suggested he should rest. Logan thought otherwise. “I’ll come with you and the girls.” He held her gaze. “Montrose mentioned you tended animals, but he didn’t say what sort.”

“All sorts!” Gaily, Gilly grabbed his hand. “Lots of sorts. You can help us—we’ll show you how.”

Getting to his feet, Logan smiled—as innocently as he could—at Linnet.

She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue further. They donned coats and cloaks, then, with Jen, she followed him and Gilly from the house.

“The pens are this way.” Turning left from the back door, Gilly towed him along a path running along the back of the house and on toward another line of trees. Glancing around, Logan noted that the house was more or less encircled by trees, all old and gnarled, but affording excellent protection from the prevailing winds. The path led them through an archway formed by living branches, out onto a wider, more open expanse—pastures and enclosures protected by more trees.

“We have to feed the babies.” Gilly tugged him to a large wooden bin with a slanting wooden lid. Releasing his hand, she looked up at him expectantly. “You have to open it.”

He smiled and did, remembering at the last minute to push up with his right arm and not lift his left.

“Careful of your stitches.” Linnet was suddenly beside him, helping to set back the lid. When he raised his brows at her, faintly amused, she waspishly informed him, “Muriel and I spent more than an hour sewing you up—I don’t want our handiwork damaged.”

“Ah.” He continued to smile, continued to be tickled by her irritation; he’d noticed that none of the others dared bait her temper.

Then again, she had red hair.

And gorgeous green eyes, which she narrowed at him, then she reached into the bin, lifted a sack, and thrust it at him. “You and Gilly can feed the baby goats.”

Taking the sack, he turned to find Gilly jigging with impatience. With a grin, she whirled and dashed off. He followed her to one of the further enclosures and consented to be instructed in how to feed young goats.

By the time they’d done the rounds of all the pens, feeding calves, donkeys, fawns, even a few foals as well as the rambunctious kids, he’d realized what the vicar had meant about Linnet’s strays. Strays, orphans—those without family. She took them all in, and did her best to care for them.

With daylight waning before what looked to be a storm blowing in, they returned the sacks of grains, carrots, and turnips to the bin, then between them, he and Linnet lowered the lid and secured it. They’d exchanged barely a word since beginning the feeding. Falling into step alongside her, behind Jen and Gilly, who skipped ahead comparing notes on their favorite “pets,” he glanced at Linnet’s face, smiled, and looked ahead.

Deciding she was unlikely to do more than wither him for his presumption, he murmured, “You’re not exactly the usual run of gently bred female.”

He felt the green glance she sent him.

“Do you know so many gently bred females, then?”

He considered the question. “I suppose I must, given my comment.”

She made a scoffing sound. “If you can’t remember details, how can you know what gently bred females are like—what the limits of behavior are?”

“I know they wouldn’t share a bed with a stranger—not under any circumstances.” He caught her eyes—her wide green eyes—as she glanced at him. “I remember that much.”

How much did he remember?

He could see the question in her eyes—and could think of only one reason it would be there. His pulse leapt, but before he could press further and wring an admission from her, she looked forward and said, “Thank you for helping—you’re very good with children. Perhaps you’ve spent time with others at some point—can you remember? Perhaps you have some of your own?”

The idea rocked him. But . . . “No—I don’t think so.” But he couldn’t be sure. The notion left him with a hollow feeling; the idea he might have children and had forgotten them, however temporarily, chilled him—and in some stirring corner of his brain, he knew there was a reason for the feeling.

When he continued silent, keeping pace beside her, cloak pushed back, his hands in his breeches pockets, head bent, a frown tangling his black brows, Linnet tried to congratulate herself on having so successfully deflected him, but his continued silence nagged at her. Almost as if she’d landed a low blow.

She suspected she had.

She’d noticed how well he interacted with the boys; they’d only known him a day, yet they’d instantly taken to him. That wasn’t, perhaps, surprising; even bandaged, he cut a dashing figure with his peculiar aura of danger hanging about him almost as tangibly as her father’s old cloak. But the girls were usually much more reserved, yet even quiet Jen had smiled and chatted to him as if she’d known him for months, if not years.

He’d been attentive, responsive, engaged, yet utterly dictatorial. He’d stopped Gilly from climbing too high on a fence with the simple words, “No—get down.”

The order had been utterly absolute; he’d expected to be obeyed—and he had been.

That moment, above all, had bothered her; she knew all there was to know about command, and she liked, indeed insisted on, being the one who wielded it.

Logan—whoever he was—was a born leader; now she’d started looking, she could see the telltale signs. And all her instincts were telling her it wasn’t his size or his strength she should be wary of. In personality and character they were very much alike. Giving him any reason to consider her one of those it was his duty, indeed, his right, to protect—and to therefore issue orders to, ones he would expect to be obeyed—would only result in battles, battles he wouldn’t win, but she didn’t need those sort of clashes in her life.

She didn’t need, didn’t want, a man who expected to control her, to bend her to his will, anywhere near.

Especially not if he might succeed.

Her saner side had come to the fore. Despite her brazen self still wanting to spend as many nights as possible in his arms, self-protection trumped her newfound desire for sexual satisfaction.

Which had resulted in her instinctive, and it seemed perfectly gauged, deflection.

She glanced at him, saw him still brooding, and inwardly grimaced. Felt a touch guilty.

But at least she’d had time to slow her heartbeat. He’d evoked a moment of uncharacteristic panic, but she was over that now. No matter how much he might suspect, no matter how much he might hint, he couldn’t actually know—not for certain. Unless she told him, or in some way gave herself away, he couldn’t be sure he truly had made her sob and moan last night.

They entered the house in the girls’ wake. When they paused to hang up their cloaks in the hall, she glanced at him again.

He was still looking inward, his expression shuttered.

She grasped the moment to look—to study him again, and let her senses inform her mind of all they could detect.

What she saw made her shiver.

Abruptly turning, she led the way to the parlor.

He, whoever he was, was too much—too large, too strong, too powerful, too virile, altogether too commanding. And while there was, undeniably, a challenge in the prospect of engaging in a wild liaison with such a man, a wise woman would keep her distance.

She could, when so moved, be very, very wise.

Three

W
ith the exception of the other men, who were continuing with their duties about the estate, the household gathered about the dining table for afternoon tea—for scones, raspberrry jam, and clotted cream.

“I know I like scones and jam,” Logan said in reply to Muriel’s query, “but for some reason . . .” After a moment, he grimaced. “I don’t think I’ve had any for a considerable time.”

“Well, have another.” Buttons passed him the tray. “There’s plenty.”

Linnet watched as he helped himself to two more, yet while the children chatted and Buttons and Muriel swapped local gossip, once again, although physically present, Logan became so still that he seemed no longer there.

He was wrestling with his memory again. She longed to tell him that no good would come of it, that bludgeoning his brain wasn’t going to help.

She hadn’t helped with her comment about children.

She studied his face. His color was good, his eyes clear. She would have liked to check the wound in his side, but didn’t want to lift the dressings yet—tomorrow, maybe. Meanwhile . . . his physical condition had improved considerably and he’d shown no sign of developing a fever. Perhaps it was time to risk prodding his memory.

Rising, she went into the parlor, to the drawer in the sideboard where she’d placed the three items he’d had on him when they’d found him. Her hand hovered over the saber, but in the end she picked up the dirk and carried it back to the table.

Logan blinked back to the world when Linnet appeared by his side and placed a dirk on the white cloth before him.

“You had this when we found you—you were clutching it so tightly I had to pry your fingers from the hilt. Presumably it’s important to you.”

She said nothing more, simply slipped into her chair at the head of the table to his left.

He picked up the dirk.

He knew it was a dirk. Knew it was his. Holding it in his left hand, he stroked the fingers of his right over the ornately wrought hilt, over the polished stone embedded in it. . . .

And remembered.

He closed his eyes as the years flooded back.

His childhood. Glenluce. The little cottage above the town. His mother, sweet-faced and gentle. His uncle, her brother, who had raised him, taught him, counseled him so wisely. His father . . . oh, yes, his father.

“Monteith.” Opening his eyes, he met Linnet’s. “My name is Logan Monteith.” The chatter about the table ceased. Into the ensuing silence, he recited the bare facts—that he’d been born and raised in Glenluce, in Galloway, a small country town on the river, The Water of Luce, just above where it ran into Luce Bay.

He remembered much more—the light slanting off the water, the wind in his hair. His first pony, the first time he’d gone with his uncle sailing and fishing in Luce Bay. The scent of heather on the moors, the smell of fish by the wharves. The cries of the gulls wheeling high above.

And his father—above all, his father.

He glossed over the fact that his father hadn’t lived with his mother, had appeared only irregularly in that little cottage above the town. Omitted to mention that his father hadn’t married his mother, and even on her deathbed, his mother hadn’t cared.

But he, Logan, had.

Even when he’d been young, too young to truly comprehend the situation, he’d cared enough for them both.

“Later, I went to Hexham Grammar School.” Those memories were vivid—the chill of the stone buildings, the small fires, the echoes of dozens of feet pounding along corridors. The shouts of boys, the roughhousing, the camaraderie. The masters in their black gowns. “I remember my years there. I was a passable student.” Scholastically, he’d done well enough, a sharp eye, native wit, and a ready tongue enough to get him over all the hurdles. “I remember it all, to the last year. When I returned home, I . . .”

Abruptly, the memories ended. He frowned. Try as he might, he couldn’t see further, couldn’t push further; it was as if he’d reached a black stone wall. He stared unseeing across the table. “I can’t remember anything more.”

Linnet exchanged a swift look with Muriel. “Don’t worry—the fog will clear if you give it time.” She glanced at the dirk, still in his large hands. “Who gave you the dagger?”

He looked down, turned it in his hands. “My father.” After a moment, he went on, “It’s been in his family for centuries.”

“An heirloom, then,” Muriel said.

Slowly, his gaze still on the blade, Logan nodded.

Gently, Linnet asked, “Your mother, your father. Are they alive?”

Logan lifted his head, met her eyes. “Waiting for me to come home?” When she nodded, he stared at her, then frowned. “I don’t think—
feel
—that they are, but . . .” After a moment, he shook his head. “I can’t be sure. I can’t
remember
. They were alive, both of them, when I finished at Hexham.”

Linnet resisted the impulse to tell him to let the matter rest, let his mind rest after the sudden influx of memories, let it catch its breath, at it were. “Now you’ve started remembering, the rest will surely come.”

“Indeed.” Muriel briskly nodded. “It often comes back like that—in fits and starts.”

The children had been commendably silent, listening and watching, but Brandon couldn’t hold back any longer. “What sort of boat did you sail with your uncle?”

The question pulled Logan from his absorption. Linnet mentally blessed Brandon as Logan, clearly thinking back, answered.

That was the signal for the others to put their questions, peppering him with queries on pets—numerous, siblings—none, and for details of Glenluce and Scottish ways.

The distraction gave Linnet a chance to refine her view of Logan in light of what he’d recalled. Even in Guernsey, they knew of Hexham Grammar School. As Winchester Grammar School was to the south of England, Hexham was to the far north. The boys who attended were gentry, overwhelmingly of the higher orders—the aristocracy and even the nobility. Many noble houses of the Border regions sent their sons to Hexham.

Logan’s ingrained manners, his air of command, and his protectiveness toward those he considered weaker, combined with his having attended such a school, painted a picture of a gentleman very much Linnet’s equal—born to good family, gentry at least, brought up in the country, by the sea.

The children’s questions faded. Logan fell silent, a frown once again knitting his black brows.

Finally, he let the dirk he still held between his hands fall the few inches to the table. Folding his hands atop it, he looked at Linnet. Lips thin, he shook his head. “I still can’t remember anything more.” Frustration etched his face, darkened his eyes. “What did I do next? What did I become?”

She dropped her gaze to his hands, then on impulse reached out and took them in hers.

Memory of a different sort struck.

She nearly jerked at the jolt of remembered sensation.

Of excitement—pure, unadulterated, lancing-sharp—that flashed across her senses. Heat, sensual and potent, unfurled in its wake . . . mentally gritting her teeth, locking her gaze on his fingers, his palms, she ignored it. Ignored the unprecedented
thump-thump
of her heart, and focused.

Examined.

Managed to draw enough breath to say, in a level, passably unaffected tone, “You don’t have the right calluses to be a sailor.” She released his hands, resisting the urge to run her fingertips over the calluses that were there.

To her relief, when she glanced up, he was staring at his hands. “I do have calluses, though.”

“Yes, but you didn’t get them sailing.”

He nodded, accepting. “Something else repetitive. Reins?” He looked at her. “Perhaps I was a driver?”

“Or a rider.” She thought of the saber in the sideboard drawer.

She was about to rise and fetch it when he dropped his head in his hands, for an instant gripped, held still, then started massaging his temples. Linnet hesitated, then looked down the table at Muriel.

Concern in her eyes, Muriel shook her head.

Looking back at Logan just as he scrubbed his hands over his face, then rubbed the back of his neck, Linnet had to agree. He might be physically strong, but he looked mentally exhausted. Pushing too hard all at once might not help.

Turning to Will, she asked, “Which way did you go on your ride?”

L
ater, after dinner, Logan followed the children into the parlor and, sprawling with them on the floor before the fire, taught them a card game he’d remembered from his childhood.

The children were quickly enthralled, calling out, laughing, and crowing triumphantly as they swapped cards and won tricks.

It was a game he could play without thinking—he’d spent many long winters’ evenings playing with his mother and uncle. The activity gave him time and mental space to review all he’d recalled. His own childhood, the memories he hadn’t shared.

He understood, now, why he felt so much at home here, amid the warmth and joy of a house full of children, a large house of comfort, of quiet, unadorned elegance, and a vital, almost tangible, sense of family. This was the antithesis of his own childhood—one of a lone child, the bastard son of a distant earl living quietly estranged from all family with his unwed mother on the earl’s pension. His uncle had been his only anchor, the only member of his mother’s well-connected English family who had not cut all ties.

With an easy smile fixed on his lips, he watched the children play, helped little Gilly select her cards, and inwardly acknowledged that the reason he felt so wonderfully at peace here at Mon Coeur was not because it was in any way like his home but because this large house encapsulated and embodied the childhood home of his dreams.

This was all he’d ever wanted—even better than, as child or man, he’d been able to imagine. Mon Coeur had it all, everything a lonely soul could want: lots of children, adult women of both the necessary generations—mother and grandmother—needed for complete care, for that all-embracing feminine nurturing. It even had older men to provide the essential male influence; Edgar and John had joined the household about the table, then followed them into the parlor. The two sat in what was clearly their usual armchairs, set in one corner back from the hearth, and quietly chatted about this and that. Male talk, discussions Will and Brandon, and even sometimes Chester, paused to listen to and take in.

Mentally sitting back, seeing it all, absorbing it, Logan was tempted to tell Will, Brandon, Chester, Jen, and Gilly just how lucky they were. But they wouldn’t understand—wouldn’t be able to see as he could, through eyes that had always, until now, looked on this world from the outside.

It was human nature not to value what one had until one no longer had it. He hoped for their sakes it would never come to that, not for them.

He glanced at Linnet, felt oddly reassured. She would never allow any of them to lose this, to lose Mon Coeur.

Mon Coeur.
A name he now understood.

“Logan!” Gilly tugged his sleeve. “Pay ’tention. Which card should I put down?”

He focused on the five cards she held tightly in both hands. Pointed. “That one.”

“All right.”

He watched as she whipped it out and laid it down.

The others looked, and groaned.

“Did I win?”

Logan laughed, lightly tousled her bright head. “Yes, poppet. You did.”

From the other side of the parlor, Muriel watched Gilly beam and bounce on her knees, watched Logan gather the cards and reshuffle them. Saw the interest in the other children’s eyes, the boys’ eyes especially, as they watched and learned.

Much of her earlier wariness toward Linnet’s latest stray had dissipated. Yet looking at Linnet as she sat in an armchair and watched the group before the fire, Muriel wondered if her niece had ever before looked at any man as she was looking at Logan Monteith. Certainly not that Muriel knew.

There was interest, clear as day, in Linnet’s green eyes—not a calculating interest, but a fascinated one. An intrigued attraction.

Then Linnet stirred. Uncrossing her legs, she rose. “That’ll have to be the last game tonight.”

The children and Logan looked up; the children all waited—looking hopefully from Logan to Linnet—but Logan merely inclined his head and turned back to deal the cards. “Last hand.”

The children pulled faces, but no one moaned.

Turning, Linnet walked to where Muriel sat, Buttons beside her.

Viewing the subtle smile curving her niece’s lips, Muriel felt compelled to ask, as Linnet reached her, “What about the sleeping arrangements?”

Logan might be a gentleman born and bred, nevertheless . . .

Linnet didn’t pretend not to understand. She grimaced lightly. “Logan will have to continue in my bed—his head’s still causing him considerable pain, and there’s nowhere else he’d be comfortable. I doubt the cot in the box room would support his weight, but it’ll do for me, at least for a few nights.”

Muriel nodded, her gaze going to Logan. “I suspect that’s the best arrangement in the circumstances. The better rested he is, the more likely he is to regain his memory.” Rising, she said, “I’ll have Pennyweather bring in the tea.”