He put a hand to his head, feeling the bandage lightly. “So it’s thanks to you I survived the night. Several nights.” He gave her a look, as if he didn’t know what to make of her.
As if he still thought she might be a thief. But there was nothing she could say to convince him, and if she continued to argue the point, it would only sound worse.
“The doctor will be back. I expect he’ll send a bill when he’s finished his treatment.”
“I see.”
“He also said he won’t know if that ankle is broken or not—we brought the swelling down a bit, but you need to be conscious for him to know for sure. See if you can wiggle your toes. Things like that.”
He shifted uncomfortably “I wondered about that. It aches like the very dev—a lot.”
“Yes, your horse stood on it. But in the meantime, you’re not to move or try to get out of bed.”
She lifted his clothes from the nail, laid them on the bed, then pulled a small leather portmanteau out from under the bed. “The vicar sent this with the boys; it was strapped to your horse. Look through it yourself. Maybe something will jog your memory. And you can check the—” She stopped, realizing that if he couldn’t remember who he was, he’d certainly not remember what was in his case. Or how much.
“It’s all there,” she said stiffly. “We may be poor, but I haven’t touched a penny. I wouldn’t.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I’m an ass. It’s just—”
“That you don’t know me. And I don’t know you. Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She flicked the bed curtains closed and a moment later he heard the cottage door shut behind her.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to upset her like that. He didn’t know her—didn’t know himself for that matter—and people robbed travelers all the time. But they didn’t usually drag them in out of a storm and put them to bed in their own beds.
It was strange how he knew some things quite well but couldn’t even remember his own blasted name.
But he knew she hadn’t tried to steal or seduce money out of him; hadn’t tried to seduce him at all, more’s the pity. He would have been very happy to cooperate. She was lovely.
Not beautiful in the classic sense, but she was luscious, almost edible, with that silken creamy skin so soft and fragrant and inviting. He wanted to touch, taste, explore her from top to dainty, feminine toe.
Lord, he sounded like every bad love poem he’d ever read. Not that he could remember a single one at the moment. He gave a spurt of ironic laughter—and was instantly punished for it. He waited for the pounding of hammers in his head to subside, then reached for his things.
His coat pockets disgorged a handful of coins, a large roll of crisp, new banknotes, and a small piece of paper which had once had writing on it, perhaps an address. He unfolded it, but it was completely illegible, the ink having run.
His breeches contained a few more coins and a handkerchief embroidered with the initial R.
R: What could it stand for? A first name or a surname? Richard? Robert? Rupert? Rafe? He frowned. Rafe . . . There was an echo . . . but no. He felt no more like a Rafe than a Rupert or a Roger. Or even a Rollo.
A surname then? Roberts? Rogers? Reynolds? Richards? He ran through them, dredging up more and more possibilities. Robinson?
Rose? Russell? It was ridiculous. Raleigh? Rowe?
He went through his portmanteau. As she’d said, there were no obvious means of identification. Apart from a small, businesslike pistol, loaded, but with only the maker’s mark on it, and clothing—the bare minimum: a change of underwear, a spare shirt, a pair of stockings, a neckcloth—there was nothing else except toiletries and a razor.
The razor was a welcome sight. He ran a hand over his stubble. He had no liking for a rough beard and he was certain ladies didn’t, either. He’d wash and shave later.
He sifted through his belongings a second time. Nothing caused a single bell in his beleaguered brain to ring.
He appeared to be a man of some means: his belongings were of the best quality. But there was no crest or even gold initials stamped on his portmanteau or toiletries case, so he was probably not from one of the better families.
And it was odd that he was, apparently, traveling alone, without a groom or valet, and on horseback, something few gentlemen did unless for a short, informal day trip. But nobody around here seemed to know him or notice his absence, so it seemed he was unknown in this locality.
Was he running away?
The complete lack of any form of identification, no papers, no letters, nothing except the large wad of banknotes—new notes—seemed odd. Peculiar. Even a little suspicious.
Was he, could he possibly be, some kind of shady character? He didn’t feel shady, he didn’t much like the idea, but then, he clearly wasn’t in his usual mind.
Yet he was in her bed, and she’d shared it with him, stranger or no. That had to mean something.
