How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Page 6
“Sore,” she replied.
“You’re very lucky. Mirela is a healer. I don’t think a physician could have cared for you better.”
“Lucky.” The word escaped her like an epithet. Nothing about her life felt lucky. True, she could be dead, but her fate still hung in doubt. She couldn’t surface and reveal herself. The duke would finish what he started on their wedding barge.
“Yes. When I first found you, I did not expect you to live. You were barely breathing.”
She stared into the dark, in the direction of his voice, trying to see something of him, even just a hint of shadow. The outline of his shape would be reassuring. The last man she’d been alone with had attempted to smother her, after all. And although Owen Crawford wasn’t Bloodsworth—he had in fact rescued her—she didn’t feel entirely secure. Perhaps she never would again. Perhaps she would always be this—a wary creature of distrust, always on the verge of bolting.
Only she was bed-bound. She wasn’t bolting anywhere. Her fist knotted into the blanket at the unwelcome thought.
Although not for long, she quickly vowed to herself. Somehow, some way, she would regain her strength. She’d be stronger than ever before. Smarter. Her thoughts shied away from the fear that she was perhaps worse than before. That her leg was completely and irrevocably lame. She would not dwell on the possibility.
“Yes. I am.” She nodded with decisiveness, as though he could see her in the lightless space. “Lucky, indeed.” She was alive. She had escaped her murderer. She had another chance.
“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”
She pressed a hand to her belly, noting that it wasn’t quite as curved as usual. If she’d slept for an entire week, she didn’t imagine she’d eaten that much. Even now the notion of food made her stomach rebel. She wasn’t ready for that.
“I’m thirsty.”
There was a scuffling against the floor and a swift yellow flare. She squinted, holding a hand over her eyes, blinking, adjusting to the sudden lamplight.
He was there, offering her a cup. Her gaze moved over the long stretch of his arm, appreciating the taut and flexing tendons and muscle beneath his sun-kissed skin. Her breath escaped in a short, quick burst. He wore no shirt. No jacket. No vest or cravat. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so much of a man’s chest before. Did they all look like this? So broad and dense with muscle?
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
Mirela 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.
“You’re very lucky. Mirela is a healer. I don’t think a physician could have cared for you better.”
“Lucky.” The word escaped her like an epithet. Nothing about her life felt lucky. True, she could be dead, but her fate still hung in doubt. She couldn’t surface and reveal herself. The duke would finish what he started on their wedding barge.
“Yes. When I first found you, I did not expect you to live. You were barely breathing.”
She stared into the dark, in the direction of his voice, trying to see something of him, even just a hint of shadow. The outline of his shape would be reassuring. The last man she’d been alone with had attempted to smother her, after all. And although Owen Crawford wasn’t Bloodsworth—he had in fact rescued her—she didn’t feel entirely secure. Perhaps she never would again. Perhaps she would always be this—a wary creature of distrust, always on the verge of bolting.
Only she was bed-bound. She wasn’t bolting anywhere. Her fist knotted into the blanket at the unwelcome thought.
Although not for long, she quickly vowed to herself. Somehow, some way, she would regain her strength. She’d be stronger than ever before. Smarter. Her thoughts shied away from the fear that she was perhaps worse than before. That her leg was completely and irrevocably lame. She would not dwell on the possibility.
“Yes. I am.” She nodded with decisiveness, as though he could see her in the lightless space. “Lucky, indeed.” She was alive. She had escaped her murderer. She had another chance.
“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”
She pressed a hand to her belly, noting that it wasn’t quite as curved as usual. If she’d slept for an entire week, she didn’t imagine she’d eaten that much. Even now the notion of food made her stomach rebel. She wasn’t ready for that.
“I’m thirsty.”
There was a scuffling against the floor and a swift yellow flare. She squinted, holding a hand over her eyes, blinking, adjusting to the sudden lamplight.
He was there, offering her a cup. Her gaze moved over the long stretch of his arm, appreciating the taut and flexing tendons and muscle beneath his sun-kissed skin. Her breath escaped in a short, quick burst. He wore no shirt. No jacket. No vest or cravat. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t recall ever seeing so much of a man’s chest before. Did they all look like this? So broad and dense with muscle?
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
Mirela 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.
