Page 13 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
She immersed herself completely beneath the surface. Water lapping. A roaring in her ears. Panic took hold. Air, no air. She was going to die!
Springing up, she gasped, greedily gulped air into her lungs until they ached, until she couldn’t fill them anymore. Tucking her bent knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, she fought to squelch the shivering. She wasn’t cold, but she had been. In the water, in the Thames. How had she come to be there? Shouldn’t she know? Had something horrid happened that resulted in her being there? Was that why she didn’t remember, because she didn’t want to remember? Did it have anything to do with Drake Darling?
What sort of name was that anyway? Harsh on the one hand, soft on the other. A name that rather seemed to describe him. He was gentle and concerned one moment, harsh and unyielding the next, as though she’d done something to anger him, or at the very least irritate him. She had the sense that he didn’t much like her. Then why not dismiss her? Why keep her on as a servant?
Because her work was exemplary? It had to be. She wasn’t one to settle for less. She knew that. Shoddy work was not to be tolerated. It was the reason behind her pique for having to wait so long for the bath.
Snagging the soap, she began scrubbing at her hair, her body. Now noticing a bruise here and there. And aches, so many aches. As though she’d been battered. She supposed she had been by the river currents and banks. As the bathwater darkened, became filthier, she started to call for a servant—
And stopped. Why did it seem a natural thing to do? To order someone to empty the bath and replenish it with clear water so she could bathe again? And again and again. Until all the grime had been scrubbed off.
But according to Drake there was no one to call. She certainly didn’t want him coming to assist her. She didn’t feel quite clean, but it would have to do. Stepping out of the tub, she grabbed a towel and rubbed it vigorously over her body, striving to make herself feel cleaner. Why couldn’t she feel clean?
She wasn’t quite certain that the sense of uncleanliness all had to do with the mud. It was her, something about her. Something she had no desire to explore.
Clutching the towel around her, she approached the mirror cautiously, not quite trusting what it might reveal. She spied the hair first. It was wrong, so terribly wrong. Tangled and wild, the blond locks cascading past her shoulders. She couldn’t recall ever brushing it, but surely she had. It should be pinned up. Yes, that was how it should look. Neat, tidy, with a few curls left free to frame her face.
Leaning in, she studied her features more closely. She recognized the green eyes, the nose, the chin, the cheeks. Why couldn’t she remember more? It seemed the harder she tried to recall the facts about herself, the more elusive they became, weaving in and out like fog that couldn’t be grasped.
Glancing down, she spied the silver brush. His brush, no doubt. She could see a few stray black hairs woven through the bristles. Such an intimacy, to use his brush on her hair, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. She didn’t know where her brush might be or if she even had one. She thought the not knowing so much might drive her mad.
Wrapping her hand around the brush, she lifted it. It was a good solid weight. Certainly not cheaply made. How did she know that?
Using it, she struggled to work out the tangles. It felt odd to be the one doing it. She had no recollection of ever managing her hair before. But surely she had. She wasn’t a barbarian to run around unkempt. When the tangles were conquered, when the brush finally slid easily through her hair, she plaited the long strands into a single braid. She wore her hair in a braid when she went to bed, that she knew. She also knew with absolute certainty that she did not sleep in the altogether. Where would she find a nightdress?
After slipping on the heavy coat, she cautiously opened the door and gazed out. He wasn’t lurking in the bedchamber, thank goodness. Relief, as well as exhaustion, slammed into her. Then something more. The bed she’d left in a rumpled state was now tidy, one corner turned down. As it should be, waiting for her to slip between the covers.
Lifting the blankets, she examined the sheets. No mud or muck remained. He’d replaced the dirty linens with clean ones. Unfortunately, he’d not left a nightdress for her. She feared if she went in search of one and encountered him that she would become unsettled all over again.
She padded over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and peered inside, grateful to find what she’d been searching for. Considering his immense size, compared with her smaller one, she decided that one of his neatly folded shirts would suffice. Shrugging off the coat, allowing it to fall to the floor, she slipped one of the linen shirts over her head. The material was incredibly soft. It was not the attire of someone from the lower classes.
Where had that thought come from?
Of course it made sense. He owned a residence, had a servant. She was that servant. That admission refused to take hold. It seemed to go against any rational thought. Yet he would have no reason to lie.
With a sigh, she wandered over to the bed, climbed onto it with a bit of effort—why didn’t he have steps? He didn’t need them with his astonishing height. Did women never visit his bed? She supposed if they did, that he lifted them up and set them on it. Yes, she could see that.
He would have carried her, would have set her in the bed. Had she been standing, she might have lost her balance as her knees went weak. Instead, she brought the covers over her and curled onto her side. He’d removed her clothes, had quite possibly touched her, and yet...
She didn’t believe he’d taken advantage. Something about him spoke of honor. Or maybe it was all simply wishful thinking on her part. She was weary of striving to make sense of all this. She wanted only to sleep.
When she woke up, perhaps she would discover it was all just a dream.
It wasn’t a dream. She awoke in the same bed within the same bedchamber with the same man standing at the far bedpost. She wanted to object with outrage at his intrusion, but it was his room, his bed, his house. And she was his servant. He was well within his rights to do as he pleased.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Lost, confused, terrified, not that she would confess any of that. Instinctually, she knew that she needed to keep all her feelings to herself, was in the habit of doing just that, of never revealing anything beyond a confident façade. “Quite well, thank you.”
“No hurts, no pains?”
“A bit of soreness here and there, but nothing with which I cannot live.”
“Your memories?”
She furrowed her brow, wished she could keep that bit of information to herself as well, but she needed him to help her remember. “It’s as though I didn’t exist before I awoke in your bed.”
He didn’t move, simply studied her, and yet she thought she sensed hesitation in him. Concerning what, she hadn’t a clue, but then that seemed to be the norm for her. Not having an inkling regarding anything of importance. How could her existence, her past, be wiped clean? She considered hitting him with a barrage of questions, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to learn the answers.
