Reaching Through Time (2 page)

“It’s good,” she said, prying her gaze away from his.

“Excellent.” He grinned, took the cup and picked up the toast and ladled thick golden honey over it.

She took it, ate it. “This is good too.”

He leaned back, braced a booted foot against the bedside chair. “Now, as promised, your questions.”

She had a million questions, but decided not to let him know she remembered nothing of who she was first thing out of her mouth. “H-how did I end up here?”

“I found you.”

“Found me?”

“On my father’s estate, up by the entrance gate, just inside. You were lying in a heap on the ground, unconscious.”

“But how did I get there?”

He shrugged broad but graceful shoulders. “That I don’t know. I was out riding. My horse drew up or he would have stepped on you.”

“When was this?”

“A few days ago.”

“Days!” She sat up straighter and the tray would have slid away if he hadn’t caught it.

“I brought you here,” he said, setting the tray on the nearby chair. “To this room. To this bed.”

She remembered the gown she was wearing. And what she wasn’t wearing under it. “Who dressed me?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask “Who undressed me?”

“I did,” he said.

Her face burned hot, and she wanted to hide under the thick covers. “Where are my clothes?”

“I burned them.”

Her embarrassment turned to shock, then to anger. “You burned them! They might have held a clue about me.”

“Your clothing was dirty and torn. I’ll find something for you to wear.”

“I don’t want your clothes. I want mine. I want to go—” She halted. Go where?

He rose from the bed, bowed and gestured toward the door. “You may leave at any time. You’re not a prisoner, just a lost girl I rescued from the cold and brought into my home.”

Her anger fizzled. “I—I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I know you’ve helped me. It’s just that—that …” She couldn’t finish.

He moved closer to the bed, lifted her chin. Once again, she found his touch cool, as if his hand had been in cold air. “I get that you’re frightened. But now that you are here, you’re my guest, and you’re safe.”

She stared up into his compelling eyes. “You don’t understand,” she whispered, struggling to find words she didn’t want to say.

“Tell me.”

He might think her insane, but she decided to risk it. “I—I don’t know who I am. I have no memory of anything that happened before I woke up in this bed last
night. Nothing. Zero. I don’t even know my own name. Who can’t remember their own name?”

He lifted a bit of hair that had fallen across her face and smoothed it off her forehead, his eyes ever holding hers. “A person who’s struck her head and has temporary amnesia. You’ve lost your memory. I’m sure that with rest it will return. Until then, you’re welcome to stay here and recover. All right?”

Lost. Yes, she was lost in a place she didn’t know, with a stranger she found exciting and mysterious and oddly disturbing. “What now?” she asked.

“Get your strength back and let me be your friend.” He stepped away, and she was torn between wanting him to stay and wanting him to leave. He went to the door.

“Wait,” she called. “Who are you? I don’t know your name, and you’ve helped me.”

“My bad manners,” he said, bowing. “I am Heath de Charon. Your host.”

A
fter Heath had shut her door, she swung her legs to the floor. She felt woozy, but once the feeling passed she began to explore her space. The room was large, with ceilings that soared upward, high enough to make the huge canopied bed seem perfectly sized for the space. The stone floor was covered in thick woven rugs, but still the air was chilly and so were her bare feet. She crossed to the windows and tugged on the rich purple drapery, sliding the panels aside to reveal wavy panes of glass and a view of thick gray mist, too thick to see through.

She made her way around the room, touching massive pieces of carved furniture, opening drawers, in which she found a couple of sweaters and not much else. She stopped at a tall piece of furniture with doors and metal handles. She pulled open the doors and discovered a few pairs of slacks and plain white tops along with a long gray dress. Were these the clothes Heath had meant she could
wear? She looked down at the simple cotton nightgown, felt another rush of embarrassment. Nothing looked or felt familiar, and she grew irritated all over again. How could Heath have burned her clothes? She wanted to cover herself from head to toe, so she grabbed the long gray dress with its high neck and long sleeves, then rummaged through all the dresser drawers until she discovered a long slip, smooth and soft to her touch. She dressed, hoping both would fit. She shouldn’t have wondered—both pieces fit as though they’d been made for her tall lean body.

She found heavy woolen stockings and tugged them on, and beneath a stack of shawls she found a mirror lying facedown. She chewed her bottom lip, hesitant to turn it over, not sure she wanted to look at herself. What would the mirror tell her? Her hand trembled as she turned the mirror upward. What she saw was a girl equal in age to Heath de Charon, with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. What she didn’t see was someone she recognized.

“Are you feeling better?” Heath looked up from where he was seated at a gold-ornamented desk when she stepped into the room.

“The toast and tea helped,” she said. She’d left her room and crept down wide carpeted stairs lined with a banister of rich dark twisting wood. At the foot of the stairs, a marble floor spread in all directions to thresholds
of tall doorways leading to several rooms. She’d discovered Heath behind this desk in one of the rooms.

He rose, smiled and walked to her. “Welcome to the library. I’m catching up on some estate bookkeeping business for my father.”

She saw grand shelves that reached to the room’s ceiling, every one filled with leather-bound books. Two tall windows allowed gray morning light to fill the room. “I don’t want to bother you.”

He took her hand and led her to a sofa of soft supple leather. “No trouble.” He guided her to sit and he sat beside her, turning in her direction. “I see you found the closet.”

Her face went hot as she thought about him undressing her, about his pale eyes seeing her breasts, her curves and intimate mounds. She averted her eyes. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t have much of a selection.”

“I liked the dress best,” she said. “Without my other clothes, I had no idea what to put on.”

“You look good in anything. Or in nothing,” he added.

She felt her face burning.

“I’m embarrassing you. Forgive me.” He stood and walked over to his desk. “Please, look around. This won’t take much longer.”

Anxious to have something to do, she began to make her way around the library, reaching to run her hand
along the spines of the many books on one shelf. “You’ve got a large collection.”

“A family obsession.”

“Some look really old.”

“Most are. It’s my job to see they’re preserved. Original printings of rare books are also pretty valuable, but that’s not why I do it.”

She stopped in front of one of the long casement windows, stared out at the thick mist broken only by the top of a hedge that hugged the lowest pane of glass. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivered and fought an urge to cry.

He was next to her in seconds, cupping her chin and raising her face to his. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here.”

Tears welled in her eyes and his face blurred. “Why can’t I remember anything about myself? I look around and every object has a name. I know what each thing in the room is called. Everything except me. I found a mirror in my room, but I didn’t know the face that looked back at me.”

“Your memory will return,” he assured her.

“What if it doesn’t? Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I read all I could find about amnesia.”

“Did a doctor—?” She couldn’t finish her question because he had laid a finger against her lips.

“Shhh. You’re getting worked up and it won’t help you remember. The best treatment is to adopt a daily routine
and let your memory catch up with you. According to what I’ve read, when you least expect it, a fragment will return. That will lead you to additional fragments until all your memories come back.”

The coolness of his long fingers, the smoothness of his words and the beguiling depths of his eyes calmed her. She decided she must trust him because she had no other choice. “All right,” she said softly.

A smile lit the angular planes of his face, making her knees weaken. “Good! Now make yourself comfortable. My home is yours.”

She glanced at the books. “I guess I could read.” She looked up at him quickly. “Can people with amnesia read? Do we remember how?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

She went to a nearby shelf and pulled out a book. She flipped it open, but the words were a jumble of letters. She tried another book. It too was a mass of tangled letters she couldn’t decipher. Tears of disappointment filled her eyes. “I—I can’t.”

Heath took the book from her hands and laid it on the shelf. “Most of my books are in Latin,” he said kindly. “A dead language.”

“You read in Latin?” She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed because she knew nothing about Latin. “Why?”

“A family tradition. My father insisted that I have a
classical education. This way I can go into medicine or law or teaching with a giant head start.”

“No books in English?”

“No English, but some are in French.” He walked to the other side of the room, pulled three volumes out of the case and brought them to her.

She eagerly flipped open the top one. She couldn’t read it. She returned it to him. “No French.”

He looked sorry for her. “Don’t be sad. I’ll keep you busy.”

A chill ran through her. How else could she learn about the world? If she couldn’t read, what was there to jog any memories locked inside her head?

As if hearing her thoughts, he said, “I’ll be your guide. My house, my grounds, my time are devoted to you. Surely over time something of your past will come to you—first a trickle and then a flood.”

More than anything she longed to believe him.

“Now,” he said, taking her arm and hooking it through his. “It’s time for lunch. The dining hall is this way.”

She went, not because she was hungry, but because she had nowhere else to go and no one else to lean on except Heath, a boy-man, so totally in control of his world and now hers that she had no choice but to follow him.

H
e led her out of the library, across the marble floor and into a room with an impossibly long table with rows of chairs on either side. The table was set with pewter plates, ornate silverware, glass goblets and soaring candelabras. She stopped short. “Expecting company?”

He laughed. “This is the banquet hall, but we won’t be eating in here. We’ll walk through it to get to the morning room.”

He led her through another doorway and into a much smaller room with leaded-glass casement windows on three sides. The table was set for two and topped with dome-covered platters. He pulled out a chair. She sat and he took the chair directly across from hers.

“I hope you’ll like the food.” He lifted a dome and revealed a neatly sliced ham. Other platters held roast potatoes, cooked cabbage and carrots.

Oddly, she knew the names of the foods, and a tingle
on her taste buds let her know she had eaten them before. Or foods like them. “Looks yummy,” she said, surprised by the uptick in her appetite. “I think I like ham and potatoes.”

He spooned some roasted vegetables onto her plate. “A memory?”

She wasn’t sure. “The food just seems familiar. That’s all.”

“See? I told you that your memory would return gradually.”

“I’d rather know my name,” she said, slicing some ham and tasting it.

“We could give you a name.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I want to remember on my own. Everyone has a name.”

“I’m sure yours will fit you perfectly.”

She heard an intimate tone in his words, but didn’t meet his gaze, looking instead over his head and out the window into the swirling mist. “Is the weather always like this? Does the sun ever shine?”