“And before that?” she prompted.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. “It’s there.”But that defeated look was returning. “I just can’t…” He looked up at her again. “You are familiar, though. Your scent. It’s?—”
“Honeysuckle.” It was the scent of her most popular soap but also the perfume she made for herself. Sometimes it permeated the entire shop. He would have been smelling it on and off since he’d arrived.
Although, it had always been her favorite, and it grew ubiquitously in the trees where they’d spent hours and hours together, alone, talking, and eventually… loving.
No. No. No!
This man was a stranger.
This manwas notAlastair.
The Alastair she had loved would be safe and sound at one of his estates—possibly married to a well-bred wife.
“Who is your family?” she asked.
He frowned, and Daisy felt her stomach twist.
She could not continue keeping a strange man hidden away in her storeroom. There had to be someone out there—someone who cared for him, who would come looking for him.
But what if those looking for him weren’t… friendly?
A troubling thought crept in, one she’d pushed aside until now. She’d been so focused on protecting her garden, on keeping Gilbert safe, that she hadn’t truly let herself consider the deeper implications.
Had someone with power ordered his death?
She looked at the man before her—refined, well-spoken, a gentleman through and through. Who was he?
She needed to get her hands on the latest Gazette. If he was someone of note, surely there would be a notice—a missing person’s report, a desperate plea from family or friends.
She needed to know if anyone was looking for him.
“Who are you?” she asked, locking her stare with his. “What is your name?”
More silence.
He stared down at the sleeve of the night shirt she’d found for him—one of her father’s old garments. He lifted his wrist, turning it from side to side, flexing his fingers as if testing their movement.
A long, weighted sigh left his lips.
“I don’t know.”
The words landed heavy in the small space, and the memory of that final blow—the one delivered with cruel precision by the meaner of the two bobbies—flashed through her mind.
Had they damaged him permanently?
If he didn’t even know his own name… how could he possibly find his people?
She couldn’t keep him here—not without his presence being discovered.
Handsome though he might be.
Her gaze flickered—not for the first time—to the open vee of his nightshirt.
Beneath the fabric, taut skin stretched over firm muscle. He was lean but strong, his chest broad, his skin smooth.
She knew all of this because she had bathed him.
