not mean to—”
She turned back to face him, and he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. Her jaw moved slightly as if she were trying to control her emotions. “’Tis none of your doing,” she said.
She obviously wasn’t going to explain further. And there was little he could do to console her.
“Where am I?”
“On the border in Northumberland.”
Northumberland. It meant nothing to him. A chill invaded him. It should. It must.
“What happened?”
“A battle between your Scottish king and our King Henry. A great battle.”
“Who won?”
“The English. They say the Scottish king is dead, along with most of his army.”
“The Scottish king? His name?”
“James.”
James.
He had apparently fought for a king. King James. For a fleeting second, he thought it was coming to him. But then, it vanished like smoke. Mayhap he only wanted to recognize it. To recognize something. Anything.
“You said a Scot killed your husband.”
“Two years ago. On a raid across the border.”
He looked at her. She was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, but pleasing.
Her eyes were gray, and her hair raven black. It fell in unruly curls to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was determined, her mouth wide, her eyes taking on different hues of gray according to her emotions. Under a black, almost shapeless gown, her body was slim but strong, her back straight. She’d not smiled once, and her manner seemed deliberately distant. But he’d seen a kindness when she talked to her daughter, and her hands had gentleness in her care for him. It belied the curt speech and short answers.
“Why then—”
“I told you. You might bring a ransom. Or reward.”
Someone might ransom him? Would he not remember someone close enough to do that?
“Why do you think someone would pay a ransom?”
“You were near the king. You wore a fine plaid and fine mail.”
Think!
A plaid. He remembered it, soaking in his own blood. Or was the blood someone else’s? Had he lost a brother? A friend?
The questions pounded at him. From what she said, he was alive when many Scots died. The hunger to know more gnawed at his heart.
“I must look after my daughter,” Kimbra said, her voice unsteady. “Please do not move again. I cannot spend the day making poultices.”
“I am grateful for what you have done.”
“Then stay still,” she said.
And then she left the room, leaving a scent of roses behind her.
’ I IS a bonny name.
Will used to say that but a little differently. Pretty instead of bonny. She’d liked the way “bonny” rolled off the Scot’s tongue. A flicker of warmth flared inside her.
And regret. The words had sparked too many memories.
The Scot lying in their bed did not help.
God help her, she had almost shed tears. It was the tension. Nothing else. Will had been dead two years now, and she’d grown used to the loneliness. Then why did something as simple as an innocent observation bring on this rush of emotion?
Tired. It was because she was so tired.
She had heard of people losing their memories, but she had never before encountered it. She had no idea what to do, how to bring back bits and pieces of a life.
Still, despite his loss of who he was, there was a quality that attracted her, a gentleness she rarely saw in the borderers. There was also an attraction that stunned her, since there had been none before Will and none after. Why a stranger? A Scot. And particularly someone who apparently was of noble blood?
Nonsense. She should not think of such things. He represented a way for her to be independent, to be free of an unwanted marriage. She had to find out who he was, without anyone else knowing. She could not reveal the crest without someone wondering why she had not surrendered it with the rest of the plunder they’d collected the night after the battle.
He had to regain his memory. He had to tell her who he was. Then perhaps whoever cared about him would give her enough money to
She turned back to face him, and he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. Her jaw moved slightly as if she were trying to control her emotions. “’Tis none of your doing,” she said.
She obviously wasn’t going to explain further. And there was little he could do to console her.
“Where am I?”
“On the border in Northumberland.”
Northumberland. It meant nothing to him. A chill invaded him. It should. It must.
“What happened?”
“A battle between your Scottish king and our King Henry. A great battle.”
“Who won?”
“The English. They say the Scottish king is dead, along with most of his army.”
“The Scottish king? His name?”
“James.”
James.
He had apparently fought for a king. King James. For a fleeting second, he thought it was coming to him. But then, it vanished like smoke. Mayhap he only wanted to recognize it. To recognize something. Anything.
“You said a Scot killed your husband.”
“Two years ago. On a raid across the border.”
He looked at her. She was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, but pleasing.
Her eyes were gray, and her hair raven black. It fell in unruly curls to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was determined, her mouth wide, her eyes taking on different hues of gray according to her emotions. Under a black, almost shapeless gown, her body was slim but strong, her back straight. She’d not smiled once, and her manner seemed deliberately distant. But he’d seen a kindness when she talked to her daughter, and her hands had gentleness in her care for him. It belied the curt speech and short answers.
“Why then—”
“I told you. You might bring a ransom. Or reward.”
Someone might ransom him? Would he not remember someone close enough to do that?
“Why do you think someone would pay a ransom?”
“You were near the king. You wore a fine plaid and fine mail.”
Think!
A plaid. He remembered it, soaking in his own blood. Or was the blood someone else’s? Had he lost a brother? A friend?
The questions pounded at him. From what she said, he was alive when many Scots died. The hunger to know more gnawed at his heart.
“I must look after my daughter,” Kimbra said, her voice unsteady. “Please do not move again. I cannot spend the day making poultices.”
“I am grateful for what you have done.”
“Then stay still,” she said.
And then she left the room, leaving a scent of roses behind her.
’ I IS a bonny name.
Will used to say that but a little differently. Pretty instead of bonny. She’d liked the way “bonny” rolled off the Scot’s tongue. A flicker of warmth flared inside her.
And regret. The words had sparked too many memories.
The Scot lying in their bed did not help.
God help her, she had almost shed tears. It was the tension. Nothing else. Will had been dead two years now, and she’d grown used to the loneliness. Then why did something as simple as an innocent observation bring on this rush of emotion?
Tired. It was because she was so tired.
She had heard of people losing their memories, but she had never before encountered it. She had no idea what to do, how to bring back bits and pieces of a life.
Still, despite his loss of who he was, there was a quality that attracted her, a gentleness she rarely saw in the borderers. There was also an attraction that stunned her, since there had been none before Will and none after. Why a stranger? A Scot. And particularly someone who apparently was of noble blood?
Nonsense. She should not think of such things. He represented a way for her to be independent, to be free of an unwanted marriage. She had to find out who he was, without anyone else knowing. She could not reveal the crest without someone wondering why she had not surrendered it with the rest of the plunder they’d collected the night after the battle.
He had to regain his memory. He had to tell her who he was. Then perhaps whoever cared about him would give her enough money to
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