She didn't join him in laughter. “I'm sorry,” she said. “But on the bright side, the innkeeper, Mr. Sawyer, said tomorrow morning, Farmer Tinley comes by for an ale and breakfast. He takes the lane to the main road to the next village to sell his turnips. Mr. Sawyer thinks for a few coins Farmer Tinley will gladly give us a ride to Swinton. But I still don’t know what to do about you. There's no doctor here, but he said the blacksmith might be able to do something about…”
He could feel her lightly touching the helmet. He propped himself against the wall, and she opened the door and stepped inside. Bracing himself on the doorjamb, he was able to take a few steps under his own strength. He peered around the room. One bed barely large enough to fit two people, a wood chair, no cushion, no table, scarcely anything on the walls. He hated the idea of her having to sleep in the chair. He focused on the bed. Whoever he was, for this moment alone, he ought to marry her.
She offered him her arm and led him to the bed. He dropped down and then lay back. He looked at his hands and tried to look down at his clothing, but the helmet impeded his vision. He held his hand up, staring at it. Was he a gentleman or was he an educated commoner? Something inside urged him to do the right thing, to act a gentleman, to protect and shelter her.
But he couldn't do any of that. He was emasculated by this wound to his head, by this goddamn helmet. He needed to get it off.
There was a knock on the door, and Willa answered it. She returned to the bedside with the pitcher of warm water.
“What's that for?” he asked.
“Warm water to bathe with and some broth for you. I also requested someone send for the blacksmith.”
“The smithy?”
“We may not have access to a doctor, but maybe we can do something about that terrible helmet. You need to be able to eat.”
He sighed. She was right. He would only get weaker by the day. But the idea of removing this helmet scared him. He didn't know who the man was underneath, what he looked like, how damaged he would be, and he didn't want her to see that.
“In the meantime, why don't you remove your coat and get comfortable? It isn't like we have anywhere to go now. Not until you're stronger. I can't imagine what the jarring motion of a cart will feel like with your head wound.”
He forced himself to sit up and remove his coat. The knots of muscle in his back stabbed at him as he shrugged to tug it, and she took it from him, searching inside.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Perhaps you had your name stitched into the lining. Some gentlemen do that.” She inspected the inside.
“Well?”
She exhaled. “Nothing, but it is a finely made coat.”
He glanced down in disappointment and turned his attention to his cuffs, unbuttoning them. Next he removed his waistcoat. She inspected it just the same. She slipped her hand inside it and pulled out a fob watch. His breath hitched. Watches usually had some sort of inscription or identifying mark.
She met his gaze and then flipped it open. “These look like initials.” She ran her thumb over the letters.
“What are they?” he asked, his heart pounding.
“W T P?”
He frowned, the wound at the side of his head pulling. He must have a deep cut there, but he didn't feel a fresh spurt of blood.
“W T P?” he repeated.
“Do those initials mean anything to you?”
He closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. “Nothing. Nothing is coming to me.”
He fell back against the bed, the helmet knocking against the headboard. Pain lanced through his skull. His whole body went rigid, and his breath caught.
“Tomorrow you'll feel better and more will come back. You've already had some progress. You need to give yourself time. Judging by the dent in that helmet, you took a vicious blow. Don't strain yourself any more than you need to.”
He would've nodded in acknowledgment of her kind words but instead remained still, counting the seconds until he could breathe again.
He heard the splash of water. He imagined her dipping a rag into the pitcher and wringing it out, matching actions with the sounds.
The warm wet cloth touched his throat and he couldn't bring himself to deny the comfort and pleasure of her bathing him, however innocent it was, her touch drove away the pain.
His muscles unlocked, his body going heavy on the bed, and the constant racket in his mind quieted just enough that it was only a background nuisance.
