“More broth?”
“Something more solid.”
“I think that's good,” Willa said with hope. She took the cup away and handed him the glass of murky brown liquid. She prayed this noxious substance wouldn't upset his stomach. He first sniffed it, his lip curling.
She could see him smile now, she suddenly thought. At least a little if she was standing in the right position, and in his inclined state, she could see his mouth, but that was it. The rest of him was a shadowed mystery—the rest of his face that was. She peeked down at his chest again. The broad expanse of muscle had been a shock to her senses. His skin was pale, but he was muscular, like a tradesman, though it was obvious he never worked in the sun. Not shirtless, anyhow.
Even his hands showed no traces of hard labor. His nails were neatly trimmed and clean, the pads of his fingers and palms smooth. He was a gentleman. Not a highwayman, not a commoner, or a day laborer. She was certain of it.
He’d been traveling on the same road as her stagecoach and came to her rescue. That meant he had a good heart.
She bit back a smile. Was she smitten? She just might be. She blushed and moved away from the bed, giving him privacy. She went to the single small window of their room and looked out the curtains. The sun was setting, another day gone, and she had no idea how long it would take them to get back to London. She was spending another night alone with a man, a young muscular man. She peeked over her shoulder at his chest again. Not that she could adequately judge men's chests, but he certainly looked like a younger man. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him his age, but then she remembered he probably didn't know that either.
How terrible it must be to be so lost in one's own mind. Not only that, he had no place to go. She inhaled, lifting her chin. However long he needed to he could stay with her—with Josie and Lord Selhorst. They would never turn him away. Luna might take an interest in his condition. Willa would send for her and Dr. Hadley. He was a wonderful physician who could work miracles, at least according to Luna.
Willa was grateful she had so many resources at her disposal, but only once they reached London. For now, she just had herself and that's all he had too. And his money. She’d counted the coins this morning. Depending on any delays, they might have just enough to reach London. Once they reached Swinton, it would still take them three days by stage to get to London, but only if he could endure it. She wasn't going to risk his health any more than she had to. But what would happen after that if he didn't remember who he was? Where would he go, what would he do? Would he want to stay with her?
This would be the second night alone together, and by society’s dictates, they should marry, but that might not be possible if he didn't know who he was. They'd have to search for someone, anyone, who might recognize him. Maybe they could have Lord Luckfeld draw him. He was so good at portraits. He’d drawn all the sisters and intended to make formal portraits of all of them. He could draw Lord Knightly, and they could post the picture in the papers and hope that someone could identify him.
Then what?
Once he had a name and identity, he’d be free to return to his life or marry her.
She chewed her lip as she stared out the window at the empty inn yard. She could already imagine her sisters’ faces. They pestered her so often about marriage, expecting her to find a husband in a ballroom or at a garden fete, but she had to be kidnapped by highwaymen before she found… Her thoughts stalled.
Before she found a man she might be able to love.
She hardly knew him.Hedidn't know himself. It was preposterous, but then she did know some things about him.
She heard the clatter of the glass as he set it down, and he folded his hands across his stomach, a plane of undulating muscle.
He took a deep breath and then a restful exhale.
Willa moved to the bed. “I'll take off your boots,” she said. He murmured something.
She proceeded to tug off his boots. Not so difficult when they weren't custom-fit hobby boots, but rather well-made and worn-in riding boots. The kind a gentleman would wear for travel on dusty roads in places where it was easy to be robbed.
Willa ran her hand along the smooth brown leather and set it down before removing the other boot. She set them by the door, intending to go wash his clothes. But before she left the room, she turned and looked back at him, her knight in rusty armor.
“Sleep well, Lord Knightly,” she whispered, and then she left the room.
When Willa returned he was still sleeping. She laid his clothes out on the floor before the fire to dry. While she was out washing his things, she tended to her own needs, using the outside privy and the water pump to bathe herself as well as she could without completely undressing. She was lucky it was such a sparse village, and she wasn't raised to be so modest that she couldn't attend to her needs in such an awkward situation. She was a Marsden and Marsdens always made do with what they had.
Willa twisted her tangled locks into a knot on her head and used her last remaining hair pin to hold the bun place. It would stay if she didn't move. She took the chair and set it by his bed, watching his chest slowly rise and fall until her own eyelids were heavy, and she decided to go to sleep.
Chapter 14
His head felt like ten stone. He raised a hand, colliding with metal, and for a moment, he panicked, staring into darkness. Then it came back to him. Where he was—Quailfield, in a small inn, wearing a helmet he couldn't remove with a wound on his head.
His mind raced, as did his pulse, until he calmed down. In the dim light, he could see the shape of her, Willa, his guardian angel. Without thinking, he reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. Her bun fell to the side, unraveling in his hand. Beyond her, pale light filtered through the curtains.
It must be dawn, he thought. Another day and he still didn't know who he was. He remembered the pocket watch, and he picked it up off the nightstand, flipping it open and just barely making out the glint of the engraved letters. W.T.P.
What do they mean to me?
Was it a stranger's, a man who sold his watch for money? Or was this passed down to him, his fathers, and before that his grandfathers? He just didn't know, and it was so bloody frustrating. He closed the watch and swallowed it in his hand.
He carefully stood up to see to his urgent needs. He glanced back at her, but she was sound asleep, and he couldn't wait. He was not going to use the pot in front of her again and expect her to empty it. They were supposed to leave with the farmer… He couldn't remember his name, but he knew she'd said something about a farmer who would take them to the next village where a stage could carry them to London.
