But as he said the words, a wave of dizziness hit. He stumbled to the side.Christ, mayhap he had done too much, too soon. Or perhaps it was the question of where he would go when he left his temporary lodgings here. He was no one, with no money, no memories, no name.
Caro was at his side in an instant, her arms around his waist, guiding him back to the bed. “You still need time to heal.”
Her sweet scent teased his senses. Floral, he thought. Lavender? Rose? He had not asked, and his muddled mind could not be sure he even knew the distinction between the two, though the words appeared readily enough.
He forgot he was naked as a babe as she helped him to settle on the mattress.
Until he glanced down at her and realized she was carefully looking in the other direction, the flush still kissing her cheeks. “Thank you,” he said, aware of the manner in which his large form must tax her smaller frame.
But she was resilient, Caro, and capable, too.
With a stern air, she flipped the bedclothes over his lap. “You are not strong enough to be wandering, but next time I will be certain to announce myself before entering, and you, sir, will be certain to be clothed.”
It was a reprimand, he knew, but coming from Caro, it possessed little bite. He wondered what sort of man he was. Honorable or a rogue? A gentleman or a scoundrel? Was he kind and considerate? What if he had a woman at home? He had never considered that possibility before.
His body certainly had a mind of its own, and it wanted the woman before him.
“Aye, Caro,” he said, attempting a gentle nod. Moving too strenuously still produced the devil of a headache thanks to the beating his old knowledge box had taken.
He wished he knew who had attacked him and why. Caro had told him it was a miracle he was not dead, and he believed her. He must have been in a bad way. About to croak.
But it was difficult indeed to comprehend himself in danger, when now he was ensconced in the softness of her bed, the seductive floral notes of her scent, those hazel eyes pinned on him, her hands fussing with his hair. Sweeping a lock gently from his forehead.
Christ, had anyone shown him such care?
He could not remember, but he thought not.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked him, frowning.
He did not like when she stopped smiling, for he knew from experience that her expression meant she was concerned. Worrying. Usually, over him. He did not know why, or what he had done to produce such fretting.
“I feel like I want your smile,” he blurted, and then regretted his tongue’s haste.
He was strangely adrift, uncertain of who he was, what he would ordinarily say. There remained the questions, as ever, gnawing away at him, filling him with guilt.
“My smile?” She obliged him by giving him a bright, teasing grin. “And here I thought you would be wanting to break your fast.”
The scents on the tray she had brought with her reached him. His stomach growled. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be beyond broth and gruel.”
“I can well imagine.” She flitted away from his bedside to fetch it before returning and placing it carefully upon his lap. “Broth and gruel are detestable. I was sick once, and my sister spooned bone broth down my throat until I nearly choked for fear of what would become of me. To this day, I cannot stomach broth.”
If she had taken note of his incessant cockstand, straining against the bedclothes, she said nothing. He was partially ashamed for the rampant display, but also partially concerned with the need to keep her here, at his side. To ignore his body’s reaction, over which he freely acknowledged he had no control. Being ill required a man to give up all hope of reining in his own anatomy. Ever since he had awoken, he’d been a prisoner of his inabilities: to remember, to move…hell, even to complete the simplest of tasks.
He turned his attention to the sustenance she had brought him. Coffee, eggs, a rasher of bacon, honey cakes. His stomach growled once more, but she was watching him, hovering near, her delicious scent like a continued benediction. He shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, to seek some relief.
Finding none.
As long as she was here, within reach, casting her spell upon him, he was stripped of any chance at producing the necessary defenses. “I meant what I said, Caro. I’ll not be taking your bed from you any longer.”
Pink lingered in her countenance, but she busied herself with motion, as always. Caro was often a blur as she flitted from one task to the next. She never sat. Nor was she still. She was always, forever, moving. And as someone who had been stricken with great difficulty when it came to his own movement, he appreciated it all the more. She was something akin to a butterfly, beautiful and bold, flying about him.
He would never catch her.
“You will remain here until you are well enough to go,” she told him curtly as she tidied the assortment of tinctures and vials on the table at his side. “I have another place to sleep which suits me fine.”
“I do not like your keeping me a secret from your family,” he groused. “You must stop doing so.”
Her smile was small, almost wistful. “You do not know my brothers. If you did, you would be thankful for this respite. Eat now, lest your food grow cold.”
