The other little maid-Molly, he thought her name was-brought him a plate piled even higher than the day before. He thanked her and absentmindedly fell to eating while he tried to solve the riddle.
In case he hadn’t seen it, Linnet murmured, “Your expensive boots don’t match your ordinary clothes.”
He glanced at her, but said nothing.
Linnet left him to his thoughts. The children finished, and she dispatched them to their various chores and lessons. Buttons followed Jen, Chester, and Gilly out, shooing them ahead of her to the schoolroom.
With only herself, Muriel, and Logan left in the room, Linnet transferred her gaze to Logan, and waited.
Eventually he looked up and met her eyes. Grimaced. “I have no idea what the discrepancy between my clothes and boots means.”
He fell silent again, his forehead-what showed beneath the now lopsided bandage-deeply furrowed. Linnet looked down the table at Muriel, sipping her last cup of tea, and arched a brow. Her aunt saw, considered, then nodded.
Linnet rose, went into the parlor, retrieved both the scabbarded saber and the wooden cylinder, returned to her chair, then placed both items on the table before Logan. “These were the only other things you had with you, other than your clothes and boots, and the dirk.”
He glanced sharply at her and reached for the saber.
Unperturbed, she responded, “As I believe I mentioned, we’ve”-with her head she indicated Muriel, watching from the table’s foot-“had significant experience with temporary loss of memory. It never pays to push, to try to recall too much at once.” She watched curiously as he withdrew the saber and examined the blade. “Regardless, I was going to give you the saber yesterday, after the dirk had been so helpful in bringing so much back to you, but, if you recall, you were tired after that, so pushing again then didn’t seem wise.”
He glanced at her, grimaced, then looked back at the saber. “Despite your solicitousness, this isn’t having the same effect as the dirk.”
“Perhaps it isn’t yours,” Muriel said.
Logan slid his hand into the saber’s guard, grasped the hilt. Hefted it, rolled his wrist a little, gauging the weight. “No-I think it is mine. It feels… familiar. But…” Frustrated, he shook his head. “I just can’t remember what it means, what it tells me.”
Setting it back on the table, he picked up the wooden cylinder. Examining the strips of wood that formed it, held together by brass clasps, he frowned. “This tells me even less. I’m fairly certain it’s not mine.” He tried to open what appeared to be the top, secured by a combination of brass levers, but nothing he did seemed to release the lid.
“It has to be important to you,” Linnet said. “You were carrying it, wrapped in oilskins, in a specially designed leather sling-the cylinder rested along your spine, secured by a belt loop and two other straps that went over your shoulders. We had to cut the sling off you to tend to your wound.”
“I can’t open it-I’m not sure I ever could.” Setting it down, he stared at it. “I must have been a courier- presumably taking that to someone, somewhere. But why? And to whom? And where was I heading?”
No answers came.
After a moment, Linnet rose. “Never mind that now-my advice is to leave it and it’ll come to you. However, as you’re clearly going to puzzle over it anyway, come and let me take a look at your head while you think. That bandage needs retying.”
As the loosened bandage had developed a tendency to slip down over one of his eyebrows, Logan grunted and rose. Muriel rose, too, and headed for the kitchen. Logan followed Linnet into the corridor leading to the back door, then she turned off it, down a narrower corridor. Stopping outside a door, she opened it and went through, into a small bathing chamber.
“Sit there.” She pointed to a bench beside a sink.
Noting that her voice of authority had returned in full measure, Logan somewhat grumpily sat.
Linnet ignored his frowning, undid the sloppily tied knot-one he had clearly fashioned-and carefully unwound the bandage, removing the various lumps of padding they’d included to protect the wound.
“It’s stuck,” Logan informed her, just as she reached that point. “That’s why I couldn’t take it off myself.”
“You shouldn’t have tried.” She looked, then humphed. “I’ll need to moisten it, dampen it to remove it. Wait here while I fetch some warm water.”
She went out and to the kitchen. When she returned minutes later carrying a basin with warm water, Logan was sitting exactly as he had been, hands braced on his knees, his gaze fixed in the distance, his brows drawn down in a distinctly black frown.
“If you keep on like that, you’ll give yourself a brain fever.” Setting down the basin, she squeezed out the cloth she’d dropped in the water, then drew his head forward, and gently, carefully, wet the patch where the bandage had stuck.
He shifted, but she kept hold of his head. “Does that hurt?”
“Not of itself-only when you press.”
“Good.” The bandage finally came free. She lifted it away. “Lean further forward so I can check the wound-you might not need another bandage.”
He obliged. Lifting the thick locks of his hair, she inspected the contusion. Although still raised, it looked nowhere near as angry as it had two evenings before, and the break in the scalp was closing nicely.
She straightened. “Let’s leave it unbandaged through the day. The air will help it heal. But you might need padding to sleep comfortably-we’ll see.”
“I sleep on my side or stomach mostly.”
She recalled that he’d tended to sleep draped over her-more on his stomach than not.
Sitting up, he caught her gaze. “I need to check the wound in my side-it’s itching, but until I look at it I can’t tell if that’s good or bad, but I couldn’t untie the knot.”
“Just as well. That’s my handiwork-
He shrugged. “As you like.” He eased out of his coat. She helped him free his hands, then turned away to lay the coat aside.
When she turned back, he had his shirt half over his head. She leapt to help him draw it off and down his left arm. Pulling it free, she shook it out, then laid it on the coat and turned back to him once more.
Inwardly frowned as her mouth went dry at the sight of him. She wondered how he could possibly seem larger-broader, harder, more powerfully muscled-than he had in her bed last night. He’d seemed more than big enough, powerful enough, then. Of course, then, the bleak winter daylight hadn’t been washing over him, highlighting every line, every curve, every sleek bulge.
And she hadn’t, then, had time to stare.
Realizing, she gave herself a mental shake and briskly walked closer, waving him to swivel so she could reach the knot in the middle of his broad back.
As she reached around him to pick the knot apart, the scent of him-a definable scent that screamed
She held her breath and concentrated on the knot.
It came apart before she expired.
Straightening, surreptitiously dragging in a deep breath, she started unwinding the long bandage. Series of bandages. He had to help, but eventually, after she once again applied her damp cloth, the bandages and the dressings were stripped away, and he sat naked to his waist on the bench.
“Here.” Grabbing his left wrist, she lifted it. “Lean on the sink. I’ll need to check the stitches-you might have pulled some.”
His dark eyes watched her, but he said nothing, simply complied.
Ducking under his raised arm, she followed the line of the wound down, inch by inch checking each stitch, running her finger along the side of the gash-still angry but healing, and with no sign of infection, thank God. She worked her way down the side of his chest, bending to examine the spot where his rib had been exposed, then continuing her inspection down to his waist.
As she neared the point where the wound disappeared beneath his breeches, his right hand moved to the buttons securing the waistband, but then paused. “Do you want to check the rest?”
