The older man nodded. “Lots of smugglers at loose ends the past ten years. That’s why I have my pistols handy when I travel. You never know.” He crouched down next to her. “Miss, can we move your husband into the chaise?”
Susanna nodded numbly. Now that the panic that had coursed through her since she’d seen Stuart’s face through the window had drained away, she couldn’t muster any more words it seemed. A hand appeared in front of her face and she automatically placed hers in its strong grip.
He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get you in first, Miss…?”
Susanna glanced down at Miles, still motionless and pale. She mentally shook herself; he needed her to take care of him. “Lady Hawksridge. You may call me Susanna since you saved our lives.”
“It’s good to meet you, Lady Hawksridge. James Marlow, at your service.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
His head throbbed.A bloody grandfather clock clanged nonstop, shaking his brain around. He cracked his eyelids open, but the sunlight hurt and he screwed them shut. Muffled voices surrounded him but he couldn’t decipher what they were saying and the damn clanging would not cease. He groaned and slid back into the blissfully quiet darkness.
The next time he surfaced, it was sharp pain he felt as strong fingers gently probed his head. The throbbing continued but it was more localized to the right side of his head. This time he could hear what the voices said.
“He has been dealt a traumatic blow to his temple. He may surface to consciousness once the swelling decreases,” a male voice murmured.
“But will he recover?” the female voice was thick with emotion.
He wanted to say he was fine, but his tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. And his eyelids would not cooperate and lift open. The female’s voice seemed familiar but he couldn’t for the life of him concentrate enough to come up with a name.
“There is no telling at this point. He needs rest. Now, tell me, are you hurt anywhere?”
“I’m fine. A little bruised but unharmed.”
“All right, send for me when he wakes up. And get some rest yourself, my dear.”
No, don’t go. She is hurt. She fell from a damn horse. Fell from a horse? He couldn’t seem to piece together any other thoughts except a memory of red hair flying through the air as she fell…no, as she jumped? His thoughts seemed to be made from smoke as he tried to grasp hold of them. He sighed; maybe they would behave when he woke finally. Darkness calm and blank stole over him again.
He woke with a start. His whole body jerked as though he had fallen and hit the ground. Above him was a red brocade canopy with gold yarn fringe. He blinked rapidly. The light in the room was dim but not dark. Moving his fingers, he stretched and clenched them. Next, he wiggled his toes. He wasn’t wearing his boots just a pair of soft wool socks. He ran a hand down over his face. Where was he? His head still hurt but the pain had dulled to an ache in his right temple.
Steady breathing came from next to him and he gingerly turned his head to the left. Laying on the pillow next to him was an angel. Soft delicate features framed by a cloud of thick flame-colored hair. Her eyes were closed in sleep, the pink bow of her lips open slightly. Who was she? He tried to concentrate. She slept peacefully next to him in the bed so he must know her. He squinted at her, willing his brain to work. Nothing.
He lifted his gaze to the room behind her, cataloging the furnishings, the paintings on the wall, nothing seemed familiar. He turned his head back to stare at the canopy. It wasn’t just the room and the woman that were unfamiliar. A terrifying thought froze the breath in his lungs. What was his name? Like the shadows from his dream earlier he couldn’t capture the elusive answer. He pushed himself up to sitting.Who was he?
Excruciating pain sliced through his head and he fell back against the pillow. Panic gripped him like a vice banded around his chest. Why couldn’t he remember his name? His yelp of pain woke the woman next to him. She abruptly sat up, pushing the hair out of her face as it tumbled around her shoulders.
“You’re awake,” she exclaimed. She scooted closer and her fingers brushed his cheek and across his jaw. “Oh, I have been so worried! How do you feel?”
He just stared up at her. Her eyes were the color of dark golden honey and swirled with emotion. His heart stuttered, who was this woman? What had she asked him? Oh yes, how did he feel? “Head hurts,” he croaked out. He tried to clear his throat but his mouth felt as though he had eaten sand.
“Yes, well, you suffered quite a trauma to your head. Bastards.” She gently swept back hair from his forehead. “The swelling on the side of your head has decreased dramatically. Here let me get you some water.”
She scooted off the bed and padded over to a small table which held a water pitcher and cup. Her movements were graceful and her form lithe. He watched as she poured the water and walked back to the bed. Somehow, if he focused on her, the panic he felt diminished to a manageable level. He scooted himself slowly up a little so that he could take the drink she offered. The pain in his head swelled to an unbearable level and he shut his eyes and tried to breathe through it. If he kept still, it abated to a dull ache. He carefully took a sip of water while trying to keep his head immobile.
The cool water felt so good he took several large gulps. “Thank you.”
Her smile was pure sunshine and tickled at his memory. “Anything you need, just ask.”
He took in a deep breath. “I seem to be having trouble…I mean I can’t seem to remember…can you tell me, who am I?”
A small gasp escaped her lips. “You don’t remember who you are?”
He shook his head. “Nothing is familiar, except maybe your smile.”
She came closer and placed her hand on his heart. “You are Miles Weston, Marquess of Hawksridge.” Her gaze studied him carefully.
Miles Weston. No, it didn’t spark any recognition. He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly so tired. Why didn’t he know who he was?
