Page 16 of The Ladies Least Likely
All the while, the sun inched from the east windows to the west and the man on the bed breathed, a looming shadow, an ever-growing threat. Gwen was about to lose her mind and pounce on him, throttling him awake to demand he pronounce their sentence and end the suspense.
When it came, the hoarse whisper from the bed nearly made her shriek and drop her mending.
“Where the devil am I?”
Gwen melted into a puddle of relief. Not dead. She’d been fearing what she must say to Mr. Stanley, Mr. Barlow, that awfulsly secretary, if Penrydd died. They’d have every reason to think she’d wanted it.
“This is St. Sefin’s,” Gwen croaked, and then held her breath. Perhaps if he looked about, saw the place through her eyes, his heart would soften toward them.
Dovey sat up and put her knitting aside. She held still as a mouse.
“Who are you?”
His voice was a low rasp. Gwen passed him a wooden cup filled with water from their own well, clear and safe to drink. He tried to raise his right hand, groaned, and let it fall.
“Jesus. Every part of me hurts. What happened?”
Her fingertips tingled as she touched him. Odd. She slid her hand behind his neck and urged his head forward, bringing the cup to his lips. He drank, coughed, and without thinking she dabbed the corner of his mouth with her sleeve. The man was weak as a newborn lamb, yet she still felt a thrill of terror course through her.
She presumed it was terror, at least. Any moment now, he’d recognize her.
His eyes were a reddish brown, like hazelnuts. The outer corners slanted upward, giving him a faintly devilish look. His nose was straight, very aristocratic, and his lower lip was full and almost womanly. What obliterated any impression of softness or femininity was the jut of his chin and the straight, bold jaw, creasing as a muscle clenched.
“Whoareyou?” he breathed.
“Gwenllian ap Ewyas.” Her voice scratched from her dry throat, barely audible. It stung that he couldn’t recall her from mere days ago, but she mustn’t appear weak or simpering. She had to keep the upper hand.
“And who am I?” he asked.
Her breath stopped. “Beg pardon?”
His brows met. “I don’t know where I am. I can’t say why I feel I’ve been trampled by a bull. I don’t know who you are.” He looked up at the ceiling, at the empty room around them, then focused on Dovey. “I don’t know whoyouare.” He closed his eyes briefly. “And I can’t remember my own name.”
This was unexpected. Gwen rushed to help him. “You’re Pen—ow!” She sucked in a breath as Dovey’s knitting needle sank into her side. Poking her stays, not her skin, but still.
“Pen?” The furrows deepened on his forehead. “Pen.” He repeated it softly to himself. “It feels right, and yet—like that name doesn’t belong to me.” He met Gwen’s eyes, his expression bewildered. “Why should that be?”
“Whatdoyou remember?” Dovey asked.
He squeezed his eyes shut and thought a long time before answering. “I remember a tree in a meadow. Sunlight. I felt safe there.” He paused. “I see a woman’s face. I want her to smile at me—is she my mother? I see a tall ship riding at anchor. A naval vessel.” He opened his eyes and stared at Gwen, the blank look giving way to panic. “That’s it. Everything else is wiped clean. My life—gone.”
“You did take a rather fierce blow to the head,” Gwen said weakly. “I’ve heard that can disorient for a while.”
“Gwen, dearie.” Dovey’s fingers clamped around her wrist. “Let’s give our patient a moment, shall we? Mayhap he’ll remember something more.” She dragged Gwen out of the wooden hall of the infirmary into the room next door, the old buttery which they still used for storage.
“He doesn’t remember who he is!” Dovey hissed.
“I know!” Gwen clapped a hand to her mouth, pushing back a mad giggle. She had heard tales of people who couldn’t recall events after an accident had injured them. There was a farmer in Langstone who had fought in the American colonies and then returned home unable to recall a single incident from the war.
“We can use this,” Gwen said. “We can make him see how people need us, and perhaps he won’t toss us out after all. We need only explain?—”
“Or we tell him nothing,” Dovey said.
Gwen frowned. “You mean, let him see for himself what we do here?”
“I mean,” Dovey said, with deliberate slowness, “we tell him nothing abouthim. Let him remember on his own time who he is, and what he meant to do with us.”
Gwen gasped. “You want us tolie?” Her stomach turned over, sending an acidic bite up her gullet. Obliterating the pleasure of that delicious meal.
