But hehadremembered something. People. His family. He had parents and a brother called Marcus.
What was Papa’s name? And where was that nursery? He could see it in his mind’s eye, a long room, set high in a big gray house. On the western side, where in the afternoon you could stand at the window and watch the sun setting. Looking out over a park toward a forest. And beyond that, mountains.
Its name was on the tip of his tongue.
But he could not remember, dammit. Each time he thought he almost had it, it just . . . slipped away.
“Finished?” She stood there, framed by the faded red curtains, as lovely a sight as any he could imagine.
He glanced down. The dish was still half full.
“You look pale,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m all right. But . . .” He didn’t know what to tell her. His memory was coming back but he still knew nothing? Better to wait until he knew who he was.
But oh, the relief, that there really were memories there.
“Don’t you like rabbit?”
“No, it’s . . . it’s delicious, but I’m full,” he lied. Not full, just feeling a bit queasy. And that was nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the things he . . . almost remembered.
“Never mind.” She took the tray. “It won’t be wasted. John will eat whatever you leave. He’s at that age where he can eat until you think he’ll burst, and then ten minutes later he’s hungry again.”
He nodded, not really listening, and slid back down onto the bed. The relief was tinged faintly with dread. Who would he turn out to be?
He lay, worrying at it the way you worried at a sore tooth, fruitlessly. Elusive memories danced at the edge of his consciousness, slipping away as he tried to grasp them. Like catching moonbeams reflected in water.
He was only vaguely aware of the sounds of Maddy reading a story to the children, her voice low, the words indistinct but the sound musical and soothing. He listened to her getting the children washed and changed and put to bed and tried to conjure up memories of his own childhood, such as the ones that had come unbidden earlier.
But the harder he tried, the more they refused to come.
The cottage was quiet, the children were in bed. He could hear Maddy moving around, the sound of water being poured out and soft splashes, as if . . .
His attention was suddenly riveted. She was bathing.
In a cottage this size there would be no room for a bath, and any hot water she had would have to be heated over that fire. Which meant . . .
His mouth dried as he painted the image in his mind.
She’d have to stand in something like a basin. He swallowed, his ears straining for every sound, imagining her naked in front of the fire, the light of the flickering flames caressing each delicious curve and hollow as she stood in a small tin bath, washing herself.
He heard the trickle of water. In his mind’s eye, she dipped her flannel in the water, then squeezed it out and soaped it up. He strained in the silence that followed, hearing the faintest sounds of soft movement as she rubbed the moist, soapy cloth over her creamy, naked skin.
What he wouldn’t give to be wielding that cloth now. In Turkey once, he’d been given a bath by two young female slaves—it was a form of hospitality he’d never encountered before. The girls hadn’t seemed unhappy in their servitude; in fact, they’d been a very jolly pair. They’d washed him all over with giggles and sly caresses and it had turned into a romp that lasted half the night. He had very fond memories of that style of—
Another memory!he thought with a surge of elation. And as before, it had come when he wasn’t trying to think or remember. Not thinking about it was the key, then.
More splashing sounds distracted him. It sounded exactly as though she was pouring a large pitcher of water over her soapy body. He could almost see the rivulets trickling down her body.
If he took Miss Maddy to a Turkish bath, would she let him wash her? Would she wash him?
He was aching with desire.
There was just a faded red curtain between himself and her. A gentleman would not look. He was no Peeping Tom.
On the other hand, she hadn’t warned him not to look.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t know he was there, or that he could open the curtains to look out—he’d done it several times before. Yet she’d said nothing. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if he looked.
