Swept Away (7 page)

“When you said I was brought here, may I ask...
where
, exactly, is ‘here’?”

“Widdicombe House.” It was Anna’s turn to frown. “My aunt tells me she knows you very well; you used to visit here a great deal when you were younger. She has been almost as anxious as the vicar to speak with you. In fact--” She took a nervous step toward the door. “She wanted to be told the minute you came to your senses.”

“My father is the Earl of Witham, my mother is a Compton, by way of the Somerset Comptons, and niece to Lady Widdicombe.” It was an awkward and pretentious introduction at best, but for some reason she felt compelled to establish her position and stature quite clearly. At the very least, she had no intentions of being mistaken for a poor relation relegated to the position of companion to an old woman. At best, she would not be ordered about by a treasonous rogue, regardless if his head was broken or not.

“Miss Fairchilde,” he said, licking dry lips, “if you would be so kind as to bear with my ignorance a moment longer? Since you appear to be well enough informed, I would be grateful if you could tell me who the blazes
I
am.”

Anna started, shocked again. “Who
you
are? You do not know?”

“My head is...” he stopped and appeared to look inside himself with no happy result, “utterly and completely blank. A void. Entirely empty except for the bastard who is pounding the inside of my skull with an iron pike.”

A shudder rippled the length of his body as he fought to cope with both the pain and the sudden anxiety. “Please,” he said through clenched teeth, “if you can tell me something...anything that might help jar a thought or memory loose? I don’t mean to frighten you, and can only hope it is just a temporary impediment, but--”

“You remember nothing at all? Not how you came here, or how you ended up on the beach?”

“Nothing. I remember nothing. Water, perhaps. A great deal of water and hot sun, but other than that...I have no recollections at all.” His arms, his legs, his entire body began to tremble beneath the blankets and the look in his eyes was frantic enough for Anna to abandon her caution and hasten to the side of the bed. There, she had to place her hands on his bare shoulders to restrain him from struggling to sit up.

“Mr. Althorpe, please. You must not overtax yourself. I am certain you are right. I am certain it must be a temporary thing, a result of the blow you took to the head, but you will do yourself no good trying to force something that is not quite there yet.”

His teeth were beginning to chatter and his eyes, when she looked into them, had the terrified, uncertain look of a trapped animal.

“Your name is Emory Althorpe, sir. You have two brothers; one of them is the Reverend Mr. Stanley Althorpe who is, I believe, five years your junior. You also have an older brother--” she paused and reached for the stoppered bottle of laudanum on the bedside table, pouring what she hoped was a safe measure of the pale blue liquid into a glass before mixing it with equal parts of water. “His name is Arthur, and I think my aunt said he was thirty-one...or perhaps it was thirty-two, I am not sure. There was a third brother, William, but he has passed, as have your father and mother. Your father was Edgar Althorpe, and he was the Earl of Hatherleigh,” she added, trying to remember what her aunt had told her about the family. “Your mother’s name was Eugenia. You have no sisters, but you do have a sister-in-law, Lucille--the vicar’s wife. Your family home is called Windsea Hall and is located some five miles north and east of here, above Torquay.”

His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. “I do not recognize any of those names or places. I do not even recognize the name you tell me is my own.”

“Here,” she said, leaning over the bed. “Take a sip of water, you must be thirsty. I’ve put some laudanum in it which may help ease the pain.”

He reached eagerly for the glass but hand was still too shaky to hold it steady against his lips. Anna slid her arm under his shoulder to support him while he took several deep swallows, and when he finished, he fell back against the pillows, trapping her arm beneath. The motion brought her forward and she found herself practically sprawled across his chest, her nose a mere inch or two from his face.

His eyes were closed again and she watched as a trickle of water ran down his chin, leaving a shiny path of liquid between the taut cords of his neck. The hand he had placed over hers while she held the glass to his lips had slipped down until it was around her wrist, and although it was warm and dry, Anna felt a cool, prickling sensation skitter up her arm and down her spine. It was not nearly as fierce a grip as the one he had held her with on the beach, but even so, the size of his hand, the strength in his fingers made her wrist feel as fragile as a matchstick.

“Please,” he said, the softness of the word sending another shiver through her body. “You said I was on the beach? Who found me?”

“As it happened...I did. I was the one who found you.”

He had not yet opened his eyes, for which Anna was partially thankful. She was wriggling her arm to free it, but it was a slow process, not helped any by the fact there was not an inch of her own flesh not burning with mortification. It was bad enough that she already had a more intimate knowledge of his body than any books on social etiquette allowed. Now, to feel all that hard, smooth muscle sliding against her hand...well, it was almost more than she could hope to survive without turning as red as a beetroot.

Making matters infinitely worse, she was close enough to count the individual stubbles of his beard if she were so inclined. The lashes she had admired earlier were so long and thick they would have been the envy of any woman. The eyebrows above were black and smooth, the left one marred by a tiny white scar that cut through the arch. The waves of hair that framed his face were blacker still, far too long and undisciplined to comply with strict London fashion, but then she doubted if a rogue and adventured cared much for the dictates of Beau Brummell. His mouth was blatantly, shockingly sensuous as well, and if he ever smiled the effect would be, she imagined, quite heart-stopping.

“You have no idea how I came to be on the beach?”

“What?” She was still staring at his mouth when she realized his eyes were open again. She quickly pulled her arm the rest of the way free and straightened. “Oh. No, none at all. We were hoping you could tell us, for you were in a rather....unusual state of undress.”

“Unusual? How so?”

The color that had been riding high on her cheeks flamed even darker. Undergarments of any kind were most definitely never to be mentioned in polite conversation, especially not when the memories of the ill concealed shapes and shadows they were intended to protect were still shamefully clear in the mind. “You were not...
completely
without coverings, sir, but...what there was...suffice it to say, could not have been worn in any public place.”

He said, “I see,” though she doubted he did, then added, “I am truly sorry to be the cause of so much trouble.”

“You have been asleep most of the time and therefore no real trouble. My aunt, as I said before, is quite fond of you, despite--” her breath caught and held for as long as it took her to bite back the words she had been about to say-- “despite the fact that you leaked a great deal of salt water onto her carpets.”

He said nothing. If he realized she had been about to say one thing and substituted it at the last moment for another, there was no indication of it in his eyes. He was just studying her face, feature by feature, in the same fashion she had been studying his a few moments ago.

“When I first saw you sitting by the window...I thought you were an angel,” he murmured. “I thought I was dead and you were waiting to take me away.”

Annaleah reacted with an involuntary smile. “I expect my family would be vastly amused by your misimpression, sir. For that matter, I always imagined angels must be dressed in long flowing robes, with wings, and halos, and a shining cascade of long golden hair spilling down to their knees.”

His own smile was crooked, a little wistful. “Whereas I will forever more imagine them as dark-haired beauties with eyes the color of a stormy sea.”

Anna raised a hand self-consciously to touch a glossy chestnut spiral that had tumbled over her shoulder. It was by no means the first compliment she had ever received in her life, and yet...delivered through those lips, judged by those eyes, it was almost a physical caress.

“I really must fetch my aunt,” she whispered.

“Please--” he held his hand out palm up in a hesitant plea. “Will you not sit with me just a few minutes longer?”

There was a shadow of desperation in his eyes, as well as helplessness. It occurred to Anna that she could imagine feather-winged angels with perfect ease, but she could not for a single instant imagine what it must be like to waken in pain, in a strange place, with no memories, not even a name.

She looked at his hand, trembling visibly with the fear of rejection, and she reached out, slipping her cool, slender fingers into his. The thrill that travelled up her arm this time shot straight down into her knees and, having already broken more rules of decorum than she could count, she shattered a few score more by sitting down on the edge of the bed.

He seemed so pleased with himself to have remembered such a trivial thing, she smiled. “Yes. I came out from London eight days ago.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that if she was alone, then by definition her family was not with her, but then she realized he was no longer even looking at her. He had turned to stare at the beam of sunlight streaming through the arched window. It occurred to her that he had not really cared about the answer, that he might just want to hear her voice so that he would not be left too long with his own thoughts.

It was a feeling she could well understand, for the silence was forcing her to look at the way the cords of his neck stood out when he turned his head, and the way his hair lay like a wave of silk over his cheek. The blanket had slipped down below the first hard bands of muscle that formed his chest. The hair there was smooth and black as well, covering the skin like a dark breastplate. It was much finer on his arms, allowing a clear view of the veins that flowed down to his hands, to the fingers that were wrapped with easy possession around hers.

As far as making casual conversation, what could she say? You, sir, are a fugitive charged with treason. There are soldiers patrolling the roads, searching inns and taverns on the waterfront, watching the vicar’s house, the church, even questioning Poor Arthur’s nurses to see if he had had a visit from his notorious brother.

“My family lives in London during the season,” she said, clearing her throat softly, “and spend their summers in Exeter. I have a sister, Beatrice, and a brother Anthony, both older. Bea is married, Anthony is not. I am...I am engaged,” she added awkwardly, wondering why she had felt the need to throw up such a petty defence. Especially when the addition caused him to turn and stare at her through a frown.

“Do you happen to know...if
I
am married?”

“No,” she whispered. “I am afraid I do not. According to my aunt, you have been out of the country for several years and no one really knows what you have been doing.”

She saw the next question forming in his eyes, but before he could ask it, the sound of loud, scraping footsteps on the stairs put her hastily on her feet and prompted her to take several precautionary steps away from the side of the bed.

“That will be Broom,” she explained. “He has been watching over you while you slept.”

“Watching over me?”

“Yes. In...in case you woke up. Now I really
must
go and find my aunt. She will want to send for the vicar at once, and between them, perhaps they will be better able to answer some of your questions.”

Again there was no time to answer--if indeed she could have thought of something to say--for Broom was at the door, snatching the crumpled felt hat off his head and bowing as much to clear the lintel of the doorway as to extend the formal courtesy to Annaleah.