Her blood might be singing with pleasure and excitement, and her foolish heart yearning after impossible dreams, but this was dangerous, too dangerous for a woman in such a precarious position.
She had to keep him at arm’s length. Further. She could feel the imprint on his mouth against her palm still. Her fingers were closed protectively over it, as if they could keep and cradle his kiss forever.
If anyone in the village had the slightest idea of what had happened in the bed this morning . . .
Her good reputation was the fine slender thread that connected her in friendship to the villagers. And without their friendship—and their custom for honey, hats, and eggs—she and the children could not survive.
While the few people who knew thought him a helpless invalid, she was safe.
But he was no invalid now. She had to put a stop to it, before she allowed any further liberties.
“When my head is no longer a blacksmith’s anvil, we’ll try that again,” he murmured with a faint, wry smile.
She turned and found him watching her, the way a cat watches a mouse it has already trapped, possessively, with leashed anticipation.
It was as if he’d dashed a bucket of cold water in her face. He knew nothing of her position, and from his expression, he didn’t care. He was a rake.
And she was a stupid, dreamy fool.
“And will that be soon?” she asked.
He gave her a crooked, altogether wicked smile. “I certainly hope so.”
“Good.”
“Good?” His smile broadened.
“Yes, for as soon as your head is not a blacksmith’s anvil,” she said sweetly, “you will leave this house.”
For an instant, it wiped the smug look from his face, then he rallied. “I can’t. Where would I go? I have no memory, remember?” His piteous expression was patently feigned, his tone so ripe with confidence it enabled her to harden her heart.
“Where would you go?” she echoed. “To the place in the parish where any poor, lost soul is welcome, of course.”
He blinked. “You’d never send me to the workhouse.”
“Of course not. You have too much money. You’ll go to the vicar’s.”
His brows snapped together. “That prosy old bore’s? Impossible.”
“No, it will be quite easy,” she assured him, willfully misunderstanding. “He has a carriage with which to convey you. It’s very well sprung. It will hardly bump your aching bones at all.”
“I won’t go.”
“You won’t?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“I can’t. I’m—I’m allergic to clergy. And windbags. And fruit bowls.”
She laughed. “Nonsense.”
“It’s true,” he said earnestly. “I come out in . . . hives . . . and . . . boils at the merest whiff of a sermon.”
“But how can you possibly know that, Mr. Rider,” she said sweetly, “when you don’t even remember your name?”
He shrugged. “It’s like Hadrian’s Wall, one of those odd things I remember.”
“Very odd. And quite irrelevant, I’m afraid. The minute you’re able to move, I’m taking my bed back.”
“You’re more than welcome in it. Have I not made it clear?”
