She bathed his neck as far she could reach under the collar of his shirt.
“We really ought to remove this. I can wash it and hang it to dry while there's still enough light in the day. I should wash all your things.”
He complied at once, hungry for more of her touch. Was it wrong it to crave such intimacy and closeness from her when he couldn’t make her any promises about who he was or what he could give her?
Chapter 12
W. T. P. There was something familiar about those letters, but he just couldn't bring it to the front of his mind. He didn't know what those letters meant to him. He could've bought the watch with the letters already on it. Or maybe he stole it. He didn't think he was one of the highwaymen, but he wasn't certain of anything. He'd like to believe he wasn't a bad person, but he didn't know.
He didn't know anything about himself.
He bit back his frustration and pushed himself to a sitting position. His body ached, but he managed to wrestle his shirt off and lay back down. He heard her steps as she moved the clothing away, and then she returned, the bed dipping under her weight and that heavenly warm cloth returned to his skin. She rubbed him down from his neck to his naval, and it took all his concentration not to become aroused, but it was difficult.
He wanted to reach for her. To feel more than just the occasional slide of her fingertips on his flesh. He clenched his jaw, focusing instead on the innocent emotions, the relief to have the grit and sweat washed away. He was on the verge of falling asleep at the mercy of her touch when another knock sounded on the door.
She dropped the wet cloth on the nightstand and went to answer it. He lifted his heavy lids and turned his head to see the door. Willa opened it all the way, and a heavyset man entered with the biggest hands he had ever seen.
“My lady,” the smithy said with a thick accent. “I'm Mr. Lewis.”
Welsh, he thought, but how did he know that? Was he, himself, a Welshman? Did he know someone who was? He didn't speak anything like that, but he was certain that man's accent was Welsh.
Were they near Wales? The more his thoughts churned, the more his headache grew, so he let it go.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lewis. My husband, Lord Knightly.”
His stomach did an odd twist at her use of the wordhusbandin reference to him. How could he explain that? He wasn't even going to try right now.
“He suffered a terrible accident, as you can see, and we can't remove the helmet.”
Mr. Lewis turned to him, his wide mouth splitting in a grin, showing big teeth. The man had a scar above his eye and was rather frightening.
“I've seen a lot of things, but never that,” Mr. Lewis said, coming toward him.
Mr. Lewis knocked on the helmet, on what would should be his forehead, and he groaned as the sound rumbled through his brain like a cannon blast.
“Will you be careful?” Willa ordered in a stern voice. “He has a vicious wound underneath that we can't tend to until that helmet comes off.”
Mr. Lewis bent over him, and he could hear every scrape of the man's thick padded fingers against the helmet as he examined the dented side. He clenched his teeth and braced for more pain.
“This looks like it was made by a mace flail. My lord, did someone swing a mace at you?”
A vision flashed in his mind of a big mountain of a man swinging a mace. He wore a leather apron. He flinched, opening his eyes.
“Someone did,” he said.
“What?” Willa came to the other side of the bed. “You remember something?”
“Just now, in my mind, I saw a large man like you.” he cut a glance to Mr. Lewis.
The smithy stood back and fisted his hands on his hips, still grinning. He remembered the sword just as Willa had said. He'd cut him across the belly.
Was this the same man? No. The other man was much taller. This one was wide, but not so tall. And the face was different. This smithy had bushy sideburns, brows, and a mustache that curled at the ends. The other man didn't.
“You're not the same man.”
“I'd say not,” the smithy said. “You're lucky to be alive, my lord, that helmet might be the only thing keeping your head together. I won't remove it. Not if it pains you. You need a surgeon. Me brother once cracked his head. It swelled up like a peach under his hair. He was not conscious for a full day, and we thought we might lose him, but eventually the swelling went down and he got better. You might be the same, but you'll have to wait until the swelling goes down.”
“What about the face shield? Can it be removed so that he can eat? I don't want him to starve,” Willa said.
