Page 9 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“Are you a physician?” she asked pointedly.
He scowled at her. Her attempt to bring him to task was quite annoying at a time such as this when he was striving to be helpful. Could she never put the differences between them aside? “Of course not, but I can feel a bump if it’s there. Let me see.”
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?”
