Two

The same cozy bedchamber

After a few confusion-filled seconds had passed

With his one good eye, he studied her.

Her benign expression revealed nothing.

One thing was certain; he had never been so sodding feeble in his entire life. In truth, he doubted he could stand, let alone defend himself, should the need arise.

Wait …

He knew how to defend himself.

Another memory darted into his mind and was gone just as quickly.

A soldier—he was a soldier.

A slight smile formed on her mouth—a mouth Society would deem too full.

Another hint, that.

He knew something of High Society.

Not typical of an enlisted soldier.

An officer then?

Yes, that made sense.

He allowed himself the briefest glance over her voluptuous figure.

Le Beau Monde would consider her too plump as well.

He, however, thought she radiated health and a rare purity.

She smelled nice too.

“I am Lilibet Granger, the director and headmistress of this establishment, Kelston Hall Children’s Home.”

That explained the room’s sparseness.

Orphanages were notoriously short of funds.

She brushed a strand of flaxen hair that had escaped the tight plaits on either side of her oval face. She was not pretty in the classical sense, but there was an aura of wholesomeness about her that appealed to him. Her velvety-brown eyes, framed by lush, sooty lashes, were her best features.

Unremarkable in its simplicity and modesty, her faded blue night robe did not quite hide her generous curves.

He felt certain she missed nothing in that cool, calm assessment of him.

“The children and I found you in the back meadow close to a fortnight ago.”

A fortnigh t?

That long ?

“Actually…” Another slight smile tipped her mouth upward at the corners.

She was almost pretty when she smiled.

“Our milk cows, Clover and Buttercup, found you first. Their distressed mooing caught our attention.” She waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “Hence your presence here.”

Her focus shifted to the window before she stepped away and parted the curtains, allowing him a glimpse of the glorious sunrise.

“You had no identification on you, so we could not contact anyone on your behalf, though we did ask around Prudhoe,” she said in that low, melodious tone.

He found her dulcet voice soothing, not the least shrill or grating.

“The sheriff has been away,” she said, “so we could not ask him to put the word out on your behalf, either.”

At her mention of the sheriff, a wave of icy dread sent a shiver rippling over him.

She glanced over her shoulder, and a shadow passed across her features.

“In truth, I was not certain you would survive. Neither was Charles—the physician who lives here and has a vested interest in the children’s home. I am quite relieved that you have finally awoken.”

“Thank…” He cleared his throat, the bile yet burning a scalding trail from his stomach. He managed a hoarse whisper. “Thank…you.”

What else did one say when one could not remember how they had come to be unconscious in her meadow?

“Forgive me.” She swept to the commode and poured a glass of water. Passing it to him, she said, “The cool water from our well should soothe your throat. Sip it slowly so you do not upset your stomach further.”

He almost sighed aloud as the sweet water eased the acrid burning.

Sweeping his gaze over her face as he drank, he recognized the few small scars on her cheeks for what they were: pockmarks.

Not a lot and not severe, but noticeable regardless.

Pity filled him.

The world did not look kindly upon the flawed or imperfect in form, figure, or appearance.

He had firsthand experience in that regard.

How often had people gawked, or children shrank away in fear, at his eyepatch?

A rustling in the corridor alerted them to another’s presence.

Before he finished drinking the blessedly cool water, a small, mouse-like elderly woman wearing spectacles and a gaudy knitted red shawl draped around her narrow shoulders over her nightdress, entered beside a tall, lanky young man who, from his disheveled appearance, had hastily donned his trousers and shirt.

Not only was his shirt inside out, but he held his trousers up with one bony hand.

“Ah, you are awake, at last. Excellent. I am Doctor Charles Montrose.”

Surely not .

He squinted at the newcomer.

The fellow did not look old enough to have completed university, let alone medical studies.

Did he even boast whiskers yet?

The man peered harder.

Yes. There.

The merest shadow topped the doctor’s upper lip, but those sparse hairs scarcely counted.

He had seen women with more impressive mustaches.

I have ?

Not European women.

That must mean he had traveled somewhere exotic.

He tucked that tidbit into a corner to examine later.

Who knew what little detail might prove useful in jogging his memory?

The good doctor strode forward, seemingly not the least disturbed or concerned about his unkempt appearance. Or that his trousers were in danger of slipping off his skinny bum.

“You gave us quite a fright, I tell you.” His free hand on his hip, eyes narrowed, and mouth taut, the doctor gave a slow nod of approval. “I believe the worst is behind us, though you still have quite a recovery ahead of you. A less stalwart chap would not have survived, I dare say.”

A smile teased the corners of his mouth when he took in the awful nightshirt.

Not his, then.

“I shall put the kettle on now. The children will be about soon enough, in any event.” The elderly woman produced a cheerful smile, revealing several missing teeth. Her keen gaze bored into him. “A bit of gruel too, I should think. Nothing too robust though. Your stomach cannot handle solid food just yet.”

The man cleared his throat.

“May I inquire who you are?” he asked, since no introduction seemed to be forthcoming, and he could not very well call her Tiny Mouse Woman.

Blue eyes twinkling, she grinned. “Maudie Bletchley, but everyone calls me Mrs. B.”

With that surname, he could well understand why.

“Now we shall finally know who our patient is.” She adjusted the godawful shawl—probably a castoff donated to the home. “We had no choice but to burn your clothing. However, even filthy and tattered, they conveyed quality and refinement, as does your speech.”

“You rambled a great deal in your delirium,” Miss Granger put in by way of an explanation. “Though, truth be told, much of what you said was not distinguishable, and what was, made no sense.”

“Indeed. A great deal of blathering, shouting, and swearing.” Without missing a beat, Mrs. B continued. “Your eyepatch suggests you are a military or seagoing lad.”

Hardly a lad.

Perceptive deductions, but were they accurate?

“Your name, good sir?” The petite woman held no qualms about prying, it seemed.

Three pairs of eyes gazed at him kindly but expectantly.

“I am…” He racked his brain for a name. “That is, I am…”

Devil take it.

Who am I ?

He opened his mouth again, then snapped his shut.

Well, this is beyond troublesome .

Forehead furrowed as he stared at the coverlet, he piled through the archives of his mind for any sign of who he was. Any vestige of a memory or recollection that might help him with his identity.

Not a single name or nuance came to mind.

Not even the merest wisp.

He had absolutely no clue what his name was.

Amnesia. Blast it all.

He had amnesia.

At last, he accepted the harsh truth, and shrugging, raised an apologetic gaze.

“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you who I am.”

What a bloody, sodding inconvenience.

“O-oh?” Mrs. B drew the exclamation out into two syllables, her voice raising an octave on the last.

Miss Granger and Dr. Montrose regarded him with mild concern.

He produced a cynical smile. “I regret that at present, I possess no memory beyond the moments before I collapsed in the meadow.”