Willa started to panic. What if he was one of the bandits? She didn't want to believe that he could be unscrupulous like the others, but what was he doing there? He didn't even know. She took a deep breath, trying to corral her emotions and questions. It wasn't like he could hurt her.
He was utterly incapacitated, and she just didn't feel that he was one of them. She’d heard their voices. They seemed much older than him, portly and dirtier. While he was no fresh flower, he didn't give off the same stench they did. Days of uncleanliness. That's what they had smelled like but not him.
“Very well, I'm Willa and you don't know who you are. I suppose I'll just continue to address you as Lord Knightly.”
“Lord Knightly?”
“A bit on the nose, I know, but I have to call you something. Don't I?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“I do,” Willa said, “even though I can't see your face. I must have a name, even if it's temporary. Do you think your memory will come back?”
He shrugged one shoulder again.
“Right,” she said more to herself than him. “I swear I'm not this dense on a daily basis.”
Chapter 10
A pleasant numbness settled over him. It was sort of nice, this blanket of nothing. He didn't have panic, fear, confusion. He simply floated in ambiguity, going everywhere and nowhere with a beautiful woman by his side. Not that he could do anything about his attraction to her. He was as helpless as a babe and likely as odiferous as one. Now that he thought of it, he did need to relieve himself. He cleared his throat, moving his lips. They weren't as sore as yesterday, and his mouth didn't fill with blood.
“I hate to ask this of you, but I need a bit of privacy.”
“Privacy? Oh,” she said, color filling her cheeks. His speech was getting clearer, but his voice was raspy, and strangely hollow due to the helmet. “Of course. Do you need help standing?”
Bloody hell, he probably did. Could he sink any lower, lower than he'd already sunk? He nodded, too embarrassed to utter the wordsI need help, but then she bent over him and all his senses rejoiced at her nearness, dulling his pain and embarrassment. He closed his eyes. Absorbing the pleasure of her closeness any way he could. The soft weight of her breast pressed against his arm. The slide of her hands under his back. He inhaled the scent of her hair as the unbound strands fell over his helmet.
Why the devil was he wearing a helmet?
If he thought too much, especially about why and what he couldn't remember, the questions turned into a battering ram in his head. For now, he wanted to avoid them and just embrace the present because a beautiful woman was within smelling distance, touching him, even if it was only to help him use the pot. He engaged muscles that didn't want to be bothered, but he sat up and then dropped his legs over the side of the cot. With her help, he stood, stabilizing himself with one hand on the wall.
“Can you manage?” she asked.
“I bloody hope so,” he said.
Her lips twitched with a smile. “I'll be right outside,” she replied.
Now he'd cursed in front of her. He was certain she was a lady. What had she said her name was? Willa. That's right. What an unusual name, but would a lady introduce herself so informally? Why could he remember things now, but not anything before?
She hadn't saidwhyhe was wearing the helmet or how or what had hit him. She’d run away before then, but he'd been there with highwaymen? He made a face under the helmet and winced in pain as his lip protested the movement. He fumbled with the placket on his breeches, barely able to look down at his own prick. He gently kicked the bucket closer and relieved himself.
What he wanted to do was take the bucket out himself. But even just holding the wall with one hand was a test of his balance. He gently slid it back under the cot. She would have to do it for him.
He re-buttoned his clothing and lowered himself back to the cot. The earth under him wanted to rock him, side to side. He held his head as if that would stabilize the room.
Was he a highwayman? She’d said it was because of him that she was able to escape. Maybe he was part of the stagecoach party?
He tried to picture his own face, but his mind came up blank. He couldn't even remember what he looked like. She'd asked him who he was, so he couldn't have been on the stage with her or she would've known it, she would've identified his clothing or something. What had she said? He tried to recall her brief words. His temples throbbed, and he pulled at his sticky neck cloth, glued to his skin with his own blood. He lay back down, and the world stilled just enough that he could breathe again, but he didn't bother to think. Thinking just made his head hurt too much.
She knocked softly on the door. He grunted a response, and she entered. He closed his eyes, but he could hear her remove the pail and take it outside. He didn't know why, but he could sense her as she drew near the bed again.
“I think you should take some water.”
He wanted to groan, but he managed to swallow it down. “I don't know how I’ll accomplish that.” He hated the way his words were slurred by his fat lip.
The cot dipped at his side, and his eyes popped open. He turned his head just enough to see her as she sat next to him, touching his arm. Then she reached for the helmet.
He flinched. “It's not coming off. It's a part of me now. I've accepted that.”
