Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 4

  The haughtiness seemed to drain from her. “All right. Yes.”

  Yes? She was going to willingly let him touch her? He supposed she realized she really hadn’t a choice. Carefully he moved his fingers through the tangled mess of her hair, gently kneading his fingers over her scalp. He grazed a knot. She winced. “Sorry,” he said. “You do have a lump there. A small one.” He withdrew his fingers. “It doesn’t appear to be bleeding.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “No blood is always good. I’ve hit my head before. I should think you would be fine after a bit.”

  She glanced around again, more slowly this time, as though she were cataloguing each and every imperfection: the faded and peeling paper on the walls which he had yet to replace, the crack in the mantel which he had yet to repair, the absence of rugs or draperies or paintings. Everything he planned to set right when he found the time. Her eyes narrowed, and he braced himself for her caustic comment regarding all that was lacking. “This room … it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t seem as though it would be mine.”

  Staring at her, he tried to make sense of her words. Perhaps the knot he’d felt was more dangerous than he’d surmised because she seemed terribly confused. “Of course it’s not yours. It’s mine.”

  Jerking her head toward him, she stared at him, her brow so deeply furrowed that had her head not already been hurting, he was fairly certain it would have been now. “Why would you bring me here? Who are you?”

  What game was she playing? “You know who I am. Drake Darling.”

  “I fear you’re quite mistaken. I don’t know you,” she whispered.

  “That makes no sense. You’ve known me for a while now.”

  Slowly she shook her head and tears welled in her eyes. He was not one to be generally disconcerted, but a weeping female tended to be his undoing. Neither of the most important women in his life—the Duchess of Greystone nor her daughter, Grace—tended to weep. They were strong, courageous women, so when it came to dealing with tears, he was at a loss. He was especially at a loss when it came to offering comfort to Lady O. The last thing he’d ever envisioned himself doing was wanting to console her, but at that precise moment it was all he wanted; he wanted it more than anything else in the world because he could not abide the tears. He wanted her to feel safe and secure. While she would no doubt castigate him, he decided to use a form of her name that he had on occasion heard Grace use. Surely she would find comfort in the familiar endearment.

  “Phee—”

  “Phee?” A question. “Phee.” An answer. A distance in her expression as though she were striving to snatch on to something that was just beyond reach. “Phee. It’s familiar.” She nodded, then looked directly at him. “That’s my name, isn’t it?”

  Something was terribly amiss. Very slowly he came off the bed and moved to its foot, putting distance between them as he tried to decipher precisely what was going on here. “What do you remember?”

  A crease between her brows, she lolled her head from side to side. “I don’t remember … anything.”

  Chapter 4

  Drake Darling studied her as though she were some sort of curiosity, an odd contraption discovered in a curio shop that he wanted to pick apart and examine. He wrapped a large hand around the bedpost. From her position, he appeared to be a giant of a man. He furrowed his brow, his lips set in a grim line. “You’re no doubt simply disoriented from your plunge in the river. Take a moment. Think. You can’t have forgotten everything.”

  He spoke with such authority, as though he had the power to draw her memories from the dark abyss into which they’d fallen. He was correct, of course. She should be able to recall something, anything, but it was as though she were knocking on a tin wall that did little more than echo through an empty chamber. “I recall waking up.”

  “This morning?”

  He sounded so incredibly hopeful, but she couldn’t share in his hope. “No, just now. Here, in this bed.”

  “Before that?”

  Shaking her head, she thought she should have been frightened of this man. She didn’t know him, yet something about him was familiar, and she instinctively knew that she was safe with him. But how did she know that? How did she know this wasn’t her bedchamber when she didn’t remember what her bedchamber looked like?

  How could she know things—bed, window, blankets, fire—and yet not know her own name? But she knew she should have a name. Phee had sounded right—and yet it didn’t. She was confused and terrified and flummoxed. It appeared he might be experiencing the same emotions—well, other than the terrified. He didn’t look to be a man who would be afraid of anything and it had little to do with his immense size. He just had that air about him, a man who understood who he was. She wanted the same knowledge regarding herself. Who the devil was she?

  He said she’d been in the river. Why would she be in the river? A cold shiver went through her and her head began to throb unmercifully. She didn’t want to think about the river. She didn’t want to think about anything beyond the man standing at the foot of the bed.

  He possessed such large shoulders that she thought he could carry a heavy burden with no trouble whatsoever. She thought about how he might have carried her here, cradled within those strong arms. Quite suddenly, she realized that beneath the covers she was without clothing. She clutched the blankets to her chest. “My clothes.”

  “I had to remove them. They were drenched and muddy.”

  “You took liberties.”

  “Would you have preferred to catch your death?”

  No, but she didn’t bother to voice the word. She was certain his question has been rhetorical. How did she know that word? How did she know any words? How did she know that it was wrong for him to remove her clothes? How did she know him? In what capacity? What was he to her? What was she to him? And why was she not certain she wanted answers?

  She plowed her fingers into her hair, stilled when she encountered something sticky that caused her skin to crawl. “What is this?”

  “Mud. I was striving to wipe it off but you seemed to prefer that I not touch you.”

  His voice contained a hard edge, as though she’d offended him. She was not up to determining his moods. She barely understood her own. Yet she became incredibly aware now of the muck on her face and neck. Holding out her arms, examining her hands, she saw the black filth clearly. “A bath. I must have a bath. See that it’s prepared immediately. Hot water, a shade past warm.”

  He arched a dark brow. “A shade past warm.”

  Yes, that was how she liked her baths. She knew that. What else did she know? “My clothing. Have someone scrape off the mud and get it dried as quickly as possible. As you seem to know who I am, I assume you can see me to my residence.” She glared at him. “Why are you still standing there? Tend to matters posthaste!”

  His shadowed jaw tautened and a muscle jerked in his cheek. “As you desire.”

  Her stomach quivered. He’d said those words to her before. Dark and dangerous, a promise that had her looking away. What was he to her? A lover? Why else would he seem so comfortable with her being naked in his bed? Why was she so comfortable with it? Why wasn’t she trembling and shaking?

  She was acutely aware of his footsteps echoing through the sparsely furnished room. Heard the rustle of fabric as he swept up her clothing from the floor. The slam of the door as he exited.

  No, he wasn’t her lover. If he had been, he would have held her hand, caressed her brow, wrapped his arms around her, and held her close. He would have done all in his power to comfort her. She would have been grateful for his touch. She wouldn’t have implied anything else.

  She rubbed her brow. How could she know all of that, but not know who she was? It made no sense whatsoever. What was she doing in the river? Did she know how to swim? Yes, she believed she did, but the windows revealed the darkness beyond. Why was she out alone at night? Had she been alone? Had there been someone else?

  The pai
n in her head sharpened, was like a knife jabbing, jabbing, jabbing. She didn’t want to think about it, try to figure it out now. It would come to her eventually. She was certain of it. Once she was returned home, ensconced in familiar surroundings, wrapped in the bosom of her family—

  Another sharp pain at the thought of her family. Family, family. Who were they? Were they out looking for her? Did they care? Of course they cared. She was loved … wasn’t she?

  Everything would be answered soon enough, once he took her home. All would become clear and make sense. She wouldn’t have this dark void of nothingness, she wouldn’t feel as though she were moving through a dense fog. Her head would cease its abominable throbbing.

  Casting aside the covers, she felt a shiver course through her as she caught sight of her legs, caked in mud. He had put her in the bed filthy, dirty. What sort of man was he not to care about basic cleanliness?

  And how was it that she supposedly knew him but had no memory of him?

  He did not strike her as someone easily forgotten. Nothing about him appeared soft and gentle. She suspected he was a hard man. He had been quite short with her, at first anyway, until he’d realized that she was having difficulty remembering. Then he’d been a bit more sympathetic until she’d asked for the bath. She didn’t understand him, wasn’t certain she wanted to.

  She crossed over to the wardrobe and opened the door. It contained hardly anything at all. Was he a beggar, this man? No, he possessed a residence, knew her. She would not consort with someone of a lesser station.

  Stilling, she wondered where that thought had come from. Lesser station. Who was she? A princess? A queen? Perhaps he was a guard. He’d rescued her from the river because he was required to do so. It didn’t matter who he was. It only mattered that she arrive home as quickly as possible and strive to figure things out.

  From a hook, she removed a coat. A large, heavy coat. His coat. She slipped it on, and it provided immediate warmth, made her feel as though she were now shielded. Gliding over to the fire, she welcomed the heat toying with her toes. She could hear activity in the next room. The servants no doubt preparing her bath.

  She tried to latch on to an image of servants, but she couldn’t. Some things she seemed to know, to instinctually understand. Why couldn’t she recall everything about her life?

  Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. She would not cry. She was not allowed to cry. It indicated weakness, allowed others to take advantage. She’d not cried in years, not since—

  Oh God, her head. That horrid insistent throbbing again. Exhaustion suddenly claimed her. But there were no stuffed chairs, no sofas for curling in. Spotting a hard-backed wooden chair against the wall, she dragged it nearer to the fire and sat with a heavy thud. Not at all ladylike to drop down like a sack of flour.

  She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to question the things she knew and the things she didn’t.

  She focused instead on the man. He was quite beautiful, in a rough and rugged sort of way—like the Cornish coast. How did she know the Cornish coast?

  She fought down the fear that threatened to bubble up and consume her. She mustn’t show fear—ever. She knew that much as well.

  Be strong. Never show any weakness, any doubt, any shortage of confidence.

  Concentrating on the writhing flames, she struggled to regain her bearings. A masculine scent wafted around her. She’d been near it before, surrounded by it. It elicited a strange fluttering in her stomach, a wild pounding of her heart. Lifting up the collar, she pressed her nose against it. Drake. What was he to her that she could be at once wary and yet trust him implicitly?

  She wanted to remember his role in her life. He seemed the only tangible thing at the moment. Why was he taking so long to return to her? A thousand questions were popping up in her mind. He could answer them all.

  A quiet rap sounded at the door. Slowly she rose, drew back her shoulders, and angled her chin. She refused to display in any manner that she was frightened. That this big gaping hole where her life had been was threatening to swallow her. “Come in.”

  The door opened, Drake stepped in, and the room shrank. Just like that. He dominated it with his presence. Not only his size, but his bearing. He was not one to be trifled with. He owned this room, this residence, but more than that, he owned himself.

  How marvelous would that feel not to answer to anyone?

  She furrowed her brow. To whom did she answer? An image flashed through her mind but she couldn’t snag it long enough to examine it, to identify it.

  “I have a bathing room.” He pointed toward a door near the fireplace. “The bath is ready.”

  “It took the servants long enough,” she said, walking over to the door and opening it. “I daresay you mollycoddle them.”

  Assailed by the scent, the masculinity of it, she hesitated a heartbeat before strolling into the room. It was prudent to never hint at one’s doubts with a misstep, sloping shoulders, averted eyes. Rules beaten into her until they were second nature and demanded that they not be forgotten, unlike other aspects of her life.

  She was astounded by the enormity of the tub awaiting her. Had she ever seen one so large? But then it would have to be to accommodate his form. She didn’t want to imagine his long limbs sprawled over the expanse of copper or his movements causing ripples in the water.

  She didn’t know why she was suddenly hesitant to bathe. It seemed obscene to sit in a tub that belonged to someone else. Surely she had her own, but it wasn’t here, and she couldn’t very well travel through London caked in mud.

  Her head came up. She spun around and came up short. He was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a light sprinkling of hair. He’d rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were bronzed and sinewy, muscles bunched, veins ropy. She saw strength there. Power. She wanted to run her hands over those arms, have them close around her as she rested her head on his chest. Comfort. He would provide immense comfort. But it would be entirely inappropriate.

  “Are we in London?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s strange—the things I know and the things I don’t.”

  His brow furrowed. “You still don’t recall anything about your life?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “No, but I’m certain it will all become clear when I’m returned to the bosom of my family.”

  Another pain ricocheted through her head. They were becoming quite bothersome. Doing her best to ignore it, she tiptoed her fingers through the water. “It’s too hot. I shall have to wait for it to cool. Rather inconvenient. Have the girl removing the mud from my clothing bring the items up as soon as they are ready. Meanwhile, fetch a girl to help me wash my hair.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he’d not moved a muscle, other than the one along his jaw, which looked as though it had turned to granite. “Don’t just stand there as though you have all day. Fetch the girl, and then have a carriage readied.”

  “You’re the girl.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He unfolded his arms, inch by inch, before prowling over to her like some big hulking cat. “To put it bluntly, Phee, you’re the servant here.”

  Chapter 5

  Her eyes widened in horror. Her jaw dropped. For a moment there, he was afraid she might swoon, and he’d have to lunge for her before she hit the floor.

  God help him, but it took every bit of control he could muster not to burst out laughing and ruin the moment. The startled look on her face … he would have paid a hundred quid to see it. No, a thousand, a million.

  He didn’t know what had possessed him to tell her she was the servant. He’d been worried about her as he’d prepared the bath, working as quickly as possible to get it done, so she would be more comfortable, so she could be clean once again, so he could deliver her to her family—

  And for his trouble, not even a thank-you. Not a hint of gratitude. Only more demands. Fetch th
is, fetch that. The water isn’t to my liking. Why are you so slow? I am far too important to have to wait for anything or anyone.

  She kept her nose stuck in the air and never looked down long enough to notice the masses, to appreciate that the luxury in which she lived was provided by the hard work of others. She awoke to draperies drawn, fires crackling, heated water waiting. Clothes were pressed, beds were warmed, food was served.

  Suddenly he’d had quite enough of her. Spoiled, pampered, entitled. Bored.

  Because she might have very nearly drowned earlier, the unkind thoughts now pricked his conscience, but only slightly, certainly not enough to cause him to retract his words. Let her mull on them for a bit, let her rethink her place in this world for a few more hours, until morning, and then he would return her home. It would take that long at least for her clothing to dry sufficiently so she could put it back on.

  Although it would be somewhat damp still so she would complain about it. He didn’t have a carriage to be prepared for her comfort so they would have to walk for a bit and find a hansom. She wouldn’t be pleased about that. He doubted she had ever ridden in one. She might not remember who she was, but it seemed, by God, that she remembered what she was.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “It means, sweetheart, that you are my housekeeper.”

  She skittered away from him, around the edge of the tub, stopping on the other side as though putting distance between them would change his words. He didn’t want to consider how vulnerable and innocent she appeared with his coat draped around her, that his body would swallow her up as easily. He wasn’t going to think of bare, tiny toes or how he might have rubbed them if she weren’t such a shrew. Shakespeare would have adored her.

  Dazed, she shook her head. “That can’t be right. I would know—”

  “You don’t even know your name. Why would you know you’re a servant?”