“How do you feel today?” He tilted his head, his hair springing out in all directions, a hopeful smile on his lips.
Her own smile fell, knowing she was going to disappoint him. “I know that my name is Tabetha Chester and that you are my husband, Rock, but aside from that… I reach for it. It’s as though my fingertips are almost touching it. But then it is gone. I simply grasp at… nothing. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t.” His voice was abrupt, surprising her. Even from across the room, she recognized the hardening of his jaw.
“Don’t?”
“Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault. I should have protected you.” His indigo eyes darkened, reminding her of a distant storm. “God, Tabetha. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I should have caught you. I shouldn’t have…” He stared down at the floor, his feet shoulders’ distance apart, looking far too guilt-ridden.
Not only was he handsome and sweet, but he was also a person with a sense of responsibility. She pushed herself off the pillow. She would not allow him to go on blaming himself.
“If I can’t be sorry then you can’t either. My head doesn’t hurt today, and I’m sure my memory is going to return soon. As I said, it’s there, I just can’t get in.”
He stared at her helplessly.
“But my mouth is as dry as the Sahara.”
She’d barely uttered the words before he was tipping a pitcher of water into a glass and then crossing the room to hand it to her.
“You must be hungry too.” He sat beside her with the glass.
She took it from him, and as she met his gaze, she reached out to touch the corner of his eye. It was bruised, purple and yellowish. How had she failed to notice that before?
“What happened?”
He covered her hand with his, skimming his fingers around his eye, almost as though he’d forgotten about the injury. “I box.” He grimaced. “For sport. It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“No.” He smiled at that. “Drink up.”
She sipped at the water, aware that he was still watching her.
She squirmed. “I must look a fright.” It didn’t matter that she’d been injured, or didn’t even know her name, a lady wanted to look her best at all times. Especially for her handsome husband, who she’d newly married.
She dabbed a hand at her hair but rather than feeling the smooth silky strands she expected, her fingertips tangled in a rat’s nest.
“It feels like straw!”
“It’s not much different than usual.” His mouth twitched. “You’re not one to care much about your looks.” A suspicious light danced in the back of his eyes but before she could begin to contemplate if he was teasing her again, a horrible thought swooped into her brain.
“I don’t even know what I look like!”
“Your hair is fluffier than usual. And you’ve some blood right here—"
“But I don’t know what Ilooklike!” She closed her eyes to summon an image of herself but could only imagine a small woman in her nightdress—a faceless woman with horrific hair. Panicked, she tugged a strand around her face, half crossing her eyes to examine it. Blond, but something was crusted in it. Blood? “I don’t know what color my eyes are!” She touched her face with her fingertips and then danced them over her nose searchingly. “Or what my features look like.” She dared not hope that she might be beautiful but what if she wasn’t even pretty?
Rock was considerably handsome, however, and unless he had married her for her virtuous character or her sharp intelligence, both of which she highly doubted, she had to be at least a little bit pretty.
Didn’t she?
A looking glass was propped atop the bureau across the room and although dreadfully curious to peek at her reflection, icy fear kept her paralyzed.
“Brown. Your eyes are brown. Sometimes they’re the color of coffee and other times more like caramel. Trust me, you’ve nothing to worry about.” His voice rumbled with a gravelly tone. “Although there are days I wish you did.”
All notions of his teasing fled when her gaze locked with his, making her feel heavy and warm.
This weight in the air was the attraction between them. Not knowing anything else about their marriage, or about herself, she was one hundred percent certain of this.
