A Kiss to Remember (10 page)

That was when he saw his ticket to freedom folded neatly on the brocaded cushion of the chair.

A pair of trousers.

Someone must have returned them while he was drowsing.

Shaking off the last traces of vertigo, he crossed the room with confident strides and drew on the trousers, savoring their familiar fit. He was delighted to discover a shirt draped with equal tidiness over the back of the chair. He fingered the crisp lawn, thinking it a rather extravagant fabric to be purchased on the stipend of a mere foot soldier. As he shrugged the shirt over his shoulders, he noted that several rips in the cloth had been mended with such care as to be almost undetectable. Perhaps the shirt had been the castoff of some benevolent officer.

Once he was fully garbed, he stood with hands on hips, feeling more like himself.

Whoever the hell he was.

Nicholas raked a hand through his untidy mane, wincing when his fingers made contact with the tender goose egg at the crown of his head. He’d learned something else about himself that interminable day. He didn’t fancy being held hostage to the whims of a woman. Laura had no right to inform him that she was his betrothed, then abandon him to make what he would of that shocking revelation.

Gaining resolve along with his strength, he slipped
into the darkened hallway, unable to say whether he was going in search of his fiancée or himself.

Laura haunted the drawing room like a beleaguered ghost. She hadn’t bothered to light a lamp or a candle, preferring the moon-dappled gloom for her fitful pacing. She feared she was only moments away from wringing her pale hands together like an overwrought heroine from one of Lottie’s beloved Gothics.

It was one thing to imagine sharing her life with a stranger in the bright sunshine of day, but quite another to contemplate sharing his bed in the shadows of night. She’d dreamed of marrying just such a man since she was a little girl, but those dreams had always ended with a tender declaration of love and a chaste kiss, not with six feet two inches of undomesticated male in her bed.

A panicked little whimper escaped her. Her betrothed might have lost his memory, but she had surely lost her mind to have concocted such a harebrained scheme.

She’d spent the entire day avoiding his company and rehearsing the history she’d invented for the two of them. She didn’t dare commit a word of it to the pages of her journal for fear he might discover it later.

Be sure your sins will find you out.

It had been one of her father’s favorite homilies and Laura could almost hear his gentle voice chiding her. Of course, her papa never would have believed his innocent little girl capable of committing any sin more damning than failing to learn her daily epistle or snitching a lump from the sugar bowl when her mama’s back
was turned. It had probably never occurred to either of her parents that she might snitch an entire man.

Laura’s shoulders slumped. It was too late to confess what she’d done and beg his forgiveness. Too late to whack him over the head with a candlestick and carry him back to the wood where she’d found him. He was hers now—for better or for worse.

“We were introduced by a cousin,” she mumbled, veering to the right to avoid stumbling over the ottoman. “A second cousin thrice removed. Or was that a third cousin twice removed?” She rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips, thinking she might have done just as well to stay in bed and listen to Lottie snore.

The old rosewood secretaire loomed over her in the moonlight. A piece of crumpled stationery lay abandoned, but not forgotten, among the desk’s clutter. It was the letter penned by Sterling Harlow’s loyal minion. Laura despised the arrogant duke more now than ever before. After all, he was the one who had set her on this path to certain destruction.

Fumbling in a darkened cubbyhole, she drew out a tinderbox. She struck a match, then touched its flame to the edge of the letter, feeling a surge of triumph when it began to crinkle and blacken.

“Take that, you miserable devil,” she murmured, holding it aloft. “May you roast in hell where you belong.”

“ ‘But heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,’ ” someone quoted from behind her, “ ‘nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’ ”

As those deep,
silken tones emerged from the shadows, Laura whirled around, fearing irrationally that she’d summoned the devil himself with her blasphemy. It wasn’t the Prince of Darkness but her betrothed who leaned against the doorframe, the flames reflected in his golden eyes warning her that she might be playing with something even more dangerous than fire.

Wrapped in nothing but a quilt, he had resembled some sort of magnificent savage fresh from the jungles of Madagascar. He looked no less uncivilized in trousers and a shirt. Without a coat and cravat to bind his masculine vitality, it seemed to spill from him in restless waves. The tawny gold of his hair, worn slightly longer than was the current fashion, brushed his broad shoulders while his shirt lay open at the throat. Laura glanced down, then wished she hadn’t. The clinging buckskin of his trousers perfectly defined the elegantly chiseled muscles of his calves and thighs. He was certainly no spider-shanks who had to use sawdust to pad his limbs.

Or anything else.

Pain seared her fingertips. Yelping, she dropped the smoldering remains of the letter and began to stomp on them with her slippers. “It was the latest bill from the butcher,” she explained breathlessly, lifting the hem of her nightdress to avoid the scattering sparks. “He can be rather intractable if he doesn’t receive his money by the first of the month.”

Her fiancé watched her graceless dance with keen interest. “So tell me, do you consign all of your creditors to hell or only the ones who insist on being paid?”

To avoid answering, Laura tucked her singed fingertips in her mouth.

“Let me have a look at that hand.” As he crossed the room, shadows veiled his face, making him look even larger and more menacing than he had in Lady Eleanor’s chamber.

Laura’s heart skipped a beat. What if Dower was right? What if she had brought a murderer or thief into their midst? Suppose he hadn’t been set upon by a band of highwaymen but was a highwayman himself? Surely any highwayman worth his salt could afford the outward trappings of a gentleman. Perhaps he had even discovered her subterfuge and had come downstairs to strangle her.

Without realizing it, she began to back away from him.

He stopped abruptly. “If you’re my fiancée, then why do you behave as if you’re afraid of me?” He drew nearer, looking so genuinely aggrieved that it was almost as if she were the one who had wounded him. “Have I ever hurt you or led you to believe that I would?”

“Not yet.” Her shoulders came up against the mantel, setting a porcelain vase to swaying. He reached
around her to steady it, effectively cutting off her means of escape. “I mean, no.”

Her stinging fingertips were forgotten as he cupped her cheek, the callused pad of his thumb playing softly over her downy skin. Instead of shrinking from his touch, she found herself wanting to turn into it.

His husky voice was mesmerizing. “If I’m the sort of bullying churl who would lift a hand to a woman, then I’d just as soon you’d have left me to the mercy of the French. It would have been no crueler a fate than I deserved.”

Laura ducked beneath his arm, seeking shelter in the moonlit bay of the window seat. She sank down among the cushions, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m not afraid of you,” she lied. “I just thought it best to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“It’s a bit late to worry about that, isn’t it, considering that we’ve yet to have a conversation while fully clothed.” His eyes sparkled with dark humor. “At least not in my memory.”

Laura glanced down at her nightclothes. The modest nightdress with its ruffled bodice and high lace collar was far less revealing than her damp gown had been. Oddly enough, it was the unbound hair rippling around her shoulders that made her feel the most exposed. Surely only a husband should see it in such disarray.

“Despite your condition,” she said, “there are still certain niceties that should be honored.”

His smile faded. “Is that why you kept yourself from my bedside all day? To honor the
niceties?”

“You’d suffered a terrible ordeal. I assumed that you needed your rest.”

“Just how much rest can a body stand? According to
you, I’ve already been drifting in and out of consciousness for …” He stretched his arm along the length of the mantel and drummed his fingertips on its polished surface. “Exactly how long was it?”

Even as he stood there, looking perfectly at ease with his tousled hair and bare feet, he was watching her face intently. Searching for the truth? she wondered. Or for any hint of deceit?

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Two of your commanding officers delivered you to our doorstep nearly a week ago. Given the nature of your injury, they weren’t sure you’d ever regain full consciousness.”

“Now that I have, I suppose I’ll be expected back at my post.”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “Since Napoleon has abdicated and Louis is back on the French throne, they assured me that they would have no further need of you.”

“Well, at least I’m not to be hanged as a deserter.” He frowned. “What of my family? Have they been informed of my return?”

Laura gave all of her attention to arranging the skirt of her nightdress into tidy pleats. “I’m afraid you’ve never spoken of your family to me. I gathered that you’d been estranged from them for quite some time before we met. You seemed more than content to make your own way in the world.”

A shadow that had nothing to do with the moonlight passed over his face, ever so briefly. “How very odd,” he murmured.

“What is it?” Laura asked, fearing that she’d inadvertently said something to jog his memory.

A melancholy smile quirked one corner of his mouth.

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that’s made perfect sense to me.”

“Not having parents is something we have in common, you see. My mother and father perished in a fire when I was thirteen. Which is precisely why dear cousin Ebenezer thought we’d get along so well. He’s the one who introduced us when you came home with him on a Christmas furlough two years ago. Dear, dear Ebenezer Flock-hart … my second cousin thrice removed,” she added, wincing when she realized how awkward it sounded.

“Remind me to thank him the next time I see him.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Why, he … he …”

“Was killed in the war?” her fiancé ventured.

Laura had been tempted to give dear fictional Ebenezer a noble death in the service of his country and king, but the tattered shreds of her conscience prevailed. “He sailed to America. It was always a dream of his and now that the war there is over as well, he was finally free to make it come true.”

“Perhaps we can visit him someday. Since he’s the one who introduced us, I’m sure he would like nothing more than to see the shining faces of our children.”

“Children?” Laura echoed, not quite able to keep the squeak out of her voice. “Just how many children will there be?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I suppose a half dozen should suffice.” He ducked his head and gave her a bashful glance that was completely at odds with the wicked glint in his eye. “To begin with.”

Laura’s own head was beginning to reel. In just two days, she’d gone from stealing a chaste kiss from a stranger to bearing him half a dozen babes.

To begin with.

He laughed aloud, startling her. “There’s no need to go so pale, my dear. I’m only teasing you. Or did you neglect to inform me that I don’t have a sense of humor?”

“I knew you were teasing,” she assured him with a nervous hiccup of laughter. “You always told me that you wanted only two children—a boy and a girl.”

“How very tidy of me.” He slid into the window seat next to her, flexing his long legs. Laura scooted as far away from him as the cozy half-circle of cushions would allow. He captured her icy hands in his warm ones before she could tumble onto the floor. “I’m a bit puzzled by your demeanor, my dear. You tell me we’ve been apart for a very long time, yet you seem less than eager to become …
reacquainted.”

“You’ll have to forgive my shyness, sir. We’ve been engaged for nearly two years, but due to your military career, your visits here were quite infrequent. Much of our courtship was conducted through correspondence.”

He drew her closer, genuine excitement replacing the mocking light in his eyes. “Do you have my letters? They might prod my memory or at least give me some insight into what manner of man I am.”

Laura had not anticipated this request. “I’m afraid I don’t have them. They’ve been disposed of.”

He freed her hands, plainly taken aback by her words. “Well, at least no one can accuse you of trite sentimentality.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me!” She put her hand on his arm without realizing it. “I cherished each and every word you wrote. I slept with the letters beneath my pillow … which is how Cookie came to boil them in lye on laundry day. I’m dreadfully sorry.”