Declaring her patient to be her long-lost husband had been the only viable way to explain his presence in her home.
Practically naked.
But calling him Alastair? What was her reasoning behind that?
Just a coincidence, foolishness, or wishful thinking?
She pushed off the door and made her way toward her kitchen. Oh, but how simple her life had been before she’d decided to help this unsettling stranger.
Before facing him again, Daisy brushed her hands down her skirt. What must he think of her now?
She would learn soon enough, because when she stepped into her kitchen, he was the only one waiting for her.
Wincing, she met his gaze.
“I imagine you’re wondering what that was about?” She couldn’t quite keep the shaking out of her voice.
Alastair—or whatever his name truly was—watched her closely, his frown deepening.
“I suppose you could say that.” His tone was mild, but his eyes sharpened, searching hers. “I had intended to take my leave today. Tomorrow at the latest.” He tilted his head slightly. “But why would I do that,” he asked slowly, “if you are my wife?”
Daisy stilled.
So Gilbert hadn’t told him anything.
“You don’t remember anything, then?” she asked carefully.
He exhaled heavily, his hands flexing at his sides. “I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried.” His jaw clenched. “It’s like staring into the dark, knowing there’s something there but not being able to make it out.” He shook his head. “And yet… you feel familiar to me.”
Daisy’s stomach dipped, but she ignored it.
“You can’t leave.” Her voice was firmer now. More insistent. “Your body needs more time to heal. You nearly…” Her voice dried up.
“And I appreciate everything you’ve done.” Then his gaze darkened. “But I refuse to be more of a burden than I’ve already been.”
“You’re not a burden,” she said quickly.
His lips pressed together, like he didn’t quite believe her.
“Although…” he continued, still watching her intently, “being married to you would explain a few things.”
Daisy’s heart lurched.
“What things?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
Alastair cleared his throat, rubbing a hand down his face.
“The feeling I have when I look at you…” His voice had softened. “The fact that you took me in.” He held her gaze. “That you cared for me—so thoroughly.”
Daisy’s pulse thumped violently in her throat.
The air between them thickened, the weight of the things he was alluding to.
Because, yes, she had cared for him. She had washed him. She had seen every inch of him.
And why?
Because it was the right thing to do?
