“Back to the cottage.”
The cottage. That sounded nice and warm.
“You’re hurt,” he said after she’d taken a few steps.
She waved a hand. “I scraped my knee. I’m fine.”
His arm about her tightened. “You’re fortunate that’s all that happened to you. You’ve been out all night.”
“I have?”
He halted and moved to face her. “What are you not telling me?” he demanded. “You’re not behaving at all like yourself.”
She stared up at him, into those lovely blue eyes. They looked familiar as well. She must have gazed into them many times. Her attention dipped to his lips as he spoke again.
“What happened last night?” he asked.
She shook her head. She didn’t know how to tell him about the darkness, about how she couldn’t penetrate it.
“Never mind. We’ll discuss it later.” And then he did something she would have never predicted. He lifted her up and carried her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. Was this something he did often? Did she like to be carried about like a baby?
“You’re pale as a specter and trembling violently from the cold,” he said as he walked briskly. He was moving much faster carrying her than they had been a moment before. “For once, don’t argue with me.”
For once. She was an argumentative person? She must have been because even now she had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him to put her down. She did not like being treated as though she were helpless. And yet, he was warm and strong, and he smelled very good. She had the sense that she enjoyed libraries and reading and books. Those scents were appealing, but it was the scent underneath those—perhaps his personal scent—that made her want to lean in and sniff. She liked the way he smelled and the way his arms felt about her, and yet, she had the sense that she did not want to like it. Did not want to admit how much she liked his touch, how much she liked him.
None of these feelings made any sense, and with her head pounding as it was, she couldn’t begin to unravel them. Much easier to rest that hammering head against his chest, close her eyes, and let him carry her.
She must have drifted off because when she opened her eyes again, he was stepping through a doorway and into a cottage. The vestibule had wooden floors and a table against the wall. Above the table was a mirror, and as they passed it, she caught a glimpse of a woman being carried by a man.
She gasped as she realized that woman was her. “Put me down,” she said.
“We’re almost to the sitting—”
“Put me down!”
He complied immediately, setting her gently on her feet and taking hold of her arm to keep her steady. She lurched toward the mirror, keen to have another look at herself. She stepped in front of it and put her hands on the table. A stranger stared back at her. She had no idea whatsoever who the woman in the mirror could be.
She touched her cheek, and the woman in the mirror touched her cheek. She licked her lips, and the woman in the mirror did the same. “What is happening?” the woman in the mirror said.
“Marjorie?”
“Stop calling me that,” she told the man who was standing at her side. She met his eyes in the mirror. “Is this what I look like?”
He paused—as anyone would at what must be an odd question. “You’re a bit worse for your exploits last night, but yes. That is your image. Are you feeling—”
She didn’t hear whatever else he said. She was too busy staring at herself. She had dark hair, long and disheveled and crusted with sand. As the man had claimed, she was very pale. Dark shadows smudged the skin beneath her eyes. Her eyes were an amber brown fringed with thick, dark lashes and dark brows. Sand still stuck to one side of her face, and her lips were almost blue from cold and trembling. Her expression was so serious, so intense. Did she always wear that expression?
Glancing down, she saw she wore a modest gown of gray with long sleeves and a high collar. The material was wet and torn at one shoulder. Even if the gown had been perfectly clean and neat, it would have been an ugly gown and exactly the wrong color to suit her. She didn’t know how she should know this—any of this—and not recognize herself in the mirror.
“I’m not feeling well,” she said, answering the man’s question, though she’d barely heard it. “My head—”
“I thought I saw blood. Come into the sitting room. I’ll take a look.”
Yes, the knot she’d felt earlier. That was why her head throbbed. But that wasn’t what she’d been about to say. She’d wanted to say something about the blackness in her mind, how she couldn’t penetrate whatever was behind it—the part that knew her name, her face, her life. The part that knew who the man beside her was.
She turned away from the mirror and looked at him. He was as much a stranger to her as her own face had been, and yet, he seemed to know her. “Who are you?” she asked. His eyes widened and he visibly started with the shock of her question. “No.” She held up a hand. “I should ask the other question first. Who am I?”
