pretending to be married, but the real thing was another matter altogether.
Amanda pulled her shawl close about her shoulders. It was starting to sprinkle, and she knew she ought to go back inside. She’d enjoyed looking at the flowers planted against the wall of the inn—the candytuft and forget-me-nots, the larkspur and clove pinks—but now she was getting cold.
Yes, it was time to go in, but Amanda was less afraid of catching her death than of facing John again, especially now that he’d revealed that he knew she’d seen him naked. He’d obviously deduced that there was no other way she could have nursed him through the fever than by stripping him down and sponging him off. He’d doubtless seen the method used a thousand times during his service in the war.
Amanda looked up at the small, partitioned square that was the window to the room where the stranger lay on a narrow bed, tall, tan, still naked, and still disturbingly masculine. With the bandage slanted across his brow, a day’s growth of black beard, and a bare chest as finely sculpted as Michelangelo’s David , he looked as wicked and wild as a pirate. And when she woke up this morning, having slept for hours against the warm hardness of his body, he was touching her breasts.
At first she’d thought she was dreaming. She was married and being held by her husband, loved and treasured in a way she’d always privately yearned for. It was intoxicating, it was erotic, and it was … very improper. She’d very properly put a stop to such goings-on, but—dash it all!—she’d loved it while it lasted.
Amanda paced the cobbled yard, taking two or three agitated turns. She knew John was thoroughly enjoying teasing her and making her stutter and blush. It was a game with him, but she was so vulnerable, so stupidly flattered by his silly compliments! She just wished the dratted man would remember who he was so she could wash her hands of him and get on with her trip.
He seemed so unconcerned about his amnesia! If she suddenly woke up in a strange place with no memories beyond whether she took one or two lumps of sugar in her tea, she’d be quite hysterical. But John took it all in stride, seeming not the least worried. He was either a wise man, patiently awaiting the inevitable return of his memory, or a foolish man, too cocksure of himself to realize that he may have lost his past and his identity forever. And the problem remained as to what she was going to do with the fellow. He had told Mrs. Beane that they were both leaving on the morrow, but Amanda couldn’t allow that … unless she took him only as far as the first populace town and left him in the care of the constabulary. They’d know how to advertise John’s situation and find his family. A sketched likeness of him circulated round London would probably get immediate results.
Amanda stopped pacing and looked up again at the window. She supposed she could put up with the fellow long enough to get him to the authorities. And possibly she wouldn’t even have to do that much. He could regain his memory any hour, any moment. And if he remembered who he was, it wouldn’t hurt him a bit to stay with Mrs. Beane till some member of his family came to get him.
Thinking of family reminded Amanda of her brother or sister on Thorney Island. She clamped her lips tightly together as a protective instinct surged through her. She’d never tell her family secret to John. She’d never give him or anyone else an opportunity to hurt the child who was hopefully still living on at Thornfield Cottage. But each moment that passed was precious time wasted. No matter what happened, no matter what the doctor said, no matter whether or not John got his memory back, Amanda was leaving in the morning for the coast.
Just then a gig rattled into the courtyard, and Amanda turned to greet Doctor Bledsoe. Together they walked up the cinder path and into the inn to see the patient.
Chapter 6
“You’re much better, my
Amanda pulled her shawl close about her shoulders. It was starting to sprinkle, and she knew she ought to go back inside. She’d enjoyed looking at the flowers planted against the wall of the inn—the candytuft and forget-me-nots, the larkspur and clove pinks—but now she was getting cold.
Yes, it was time to go in, but Amanda was less afraid of catching her death than of facing John again, especially now that he’d revealed that he knew she’d seen him naked. He’d obviously deduced that there was no other way she could have nursed him through the fever than by stripping him down and sponging him off. He’d doubtless seen the method used a thousand times during his service in the war.
Amanda looked up at the small, partitioned square that was the window to the room where the stranger lay on a narrow bed, tall, tan, still naked, and still disturbingly masculine. With the bandage slanted across his brow, a day’s growth of black beard, and a bare chest as finely sculpted as Michelangelo’s David , he looked as wicked and wild as a pirate. And when she woke up this morning, having slept for hours against the warm hardness of his body, he was touching her breasts.
At first she’d thought she was dreaming. She was married and being held by her husband, loved and treasured in a way she’d always privately yearned for. It was intoxicating, it was erotic, and it was … very improper. She’d very properly put a stop to such goings-on, but—dash it all!—she’d loved it while it lasted.
Amanda paced the cobbled yard, taking two or three agitated turns. She knew John was thoroughly enjoying teasing her and making her stutter and blush. It was a game with him, but she was so vulnerable, so stupidly flattered by his silly compliments! She just wished the dratted man would remember who he was so she could wash her hands of him and get on with her trip.
He seemed so unconcerned about his amnesia! If she suddenly woke up in a strange place with no memories beyond whether she took one or two lumps of sugar in her tea, she’d be quite hysterical. But John took it all in stride, seeming not the least worried. He was either a wise man, patiently awaiting the inevitable return of his memory, or a foolish man, too cocksure of himself to realize that he may have lost his past and his identity forever. And the problem remained as to what she was going to do with the fellow. He had told Mrs. Beane that they were both leaving on the morrow, but Amanda couldn’t allow that … unless she took him only as far as the first populace town and left him in the care of the constabulary. They’d know how to advertise John’s situation and find his family. A sketched likeness of him circulated round London would probably get immediate results.
Amanda stopped pacing and looked up again at the window. She supposed she could put up with the fellow long enough to get him to the authorities. And possibly she wouldn’t even have to do that much. He could regain his memory any hour, any moment. And if he remembered who he was, it wouldn’t hurt him a bit to stay with Mrs. Beane till some member of his family came to get him.
Thinking of family reminded Amanda of her brother or sister on Thorney Island. She clamped her lips tightly together as a protective instinct surged through her. She’d never tell her family secret to John. She’d never give him or anyone else an opportunity to hurt the child who was hopefully still living on at Thornfield Cottage. But each moment that passed was precious time wasted. No matter what happened, no matter what the doctor said, no matter whether or not John got his memory back, Amanda was leaving in the morning for the coast.
Just then a gig rattled into the courtyard, and Amanda turned to greet Doctor Bledsoe. Together they walked up the cinder path and into the inn to see the patient.
Chapter 6
“You’re much better, my
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