The Brazen Bride

Logan frowned at her. Not even a healer, but she’d been around enough men… “Miss Linnet Trevission of Mon Couer-who’s she?”

Closing the armoire, taking a few steps his way, she flung a quilted woollen robe at him. He caught it. She nodded at it. “That was my father’s-my late father’s.” She met his gaze. “So among other things, I’m your hostess.”

Before he could respond, she swung to the door. “There’s a water closet at the end of the corridor.” She pointed left. “There’s a bathing chamber next to it. I’ll have shaving gear sent up for you, and whatever clothes we can find-my aunt is seeing what she can salvage of your things, but until then, some of my father’s might fit.”

Linnet paused with her hand on the door and looked back. Grasped an instant to drink in the sight of the gorgeous naked male sitting on her bed. “You can rest here as long as you wish, then when you feel up to it, you can join us downstairs.”

Opening the door, she went through, then reached back and drew the door shut behind her. She paused, staring at the panels but seeing him… feeling him…

Exasperated, she shook free of the recollection, blew a strand of hair from her face, then continued down the corridor.

She’d been right. He was going to be trouble.

More than an hour later, Logan made his way down a long oak staircase, looking around as he slowly descended. Mon Coeur . What kind of man named his house “my heart”?

Regardless, Linnet Trevission’s father had been no puny weakling; his clothes fitted Logan well enough to get by. The shirt and coat were a trifle tight across his shoulders, and he’d had to button the breeches one button wider at the waist, but the length of sleeve and leg were almost right. Linnet herself was tall for a female, so it was no great surprise her father had been tall.

He’d found the clothes waiting in a neat pile on the bed when he’d returned from shaving. After using the water closet-its existence an indication that Mon Coeur wasn’t some small farmhouse-he’d looked into the bathing chamber and found a shaving kit neatly laid out. He’d availed himself of it. He’d been halfway through removing several days’ growth before he’d realized he knew what he was doing.

He’d lathered chin and cheeks, then picked up the sharp razor and applied it as he had countless times before, in a pattern he’d worked out a presently unknown number of years ago.

His panic over not being able to remember things-lots of things-had receded as the fact that he remembered lots of other things, like what Mon Coeur meant, as well as things he did by rote, had sunk in.

When Linnet had informed him he was on Guernsey, he’d known instantly what that was-had known it was an island in the Gulf of St. Malo, that it enjoyed special privileges as a property of the English Crown. He didn’t think he’d been there before, even elsewhere on the island. As he recalled-and he savored the fact he could-Guernsey wasn’t large.

All of which he took as a sign that his memory lapse would indeed prove temporary.

He knew how to dress himself; he knew how to shave. He knew he-whoever he was-hadn’t entirely appreciated his hostess’s haughty superiority.

But he didn’t yet know who he was. Didn’t know what sort of man he was, or what he’d been doing on the ship.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and having seen enough to confirm that the Trevissions were, at the least, the Guernsey equivalent of landed gentry, he made his way down a corridor toward the sound of voices.

Children’s voices. The sound tweaked a memory, but the instant he halted and tried to bring it into focus, it slid away, back into the void. Suppressing a grimace, he continued on-to a long, comfortable parlor running down one side of the house. Although a fire was burning in the hearth, there was no one in the parlor, but on walking in, he saw a pair of open double doors in the rear wall and a bright, airy dining room beyond.

The chatter filling his ears was coming from there. It sounded as if half a small army was gathered about the long table.

He paused on the threshold. Seated at the head of the table, Linnet looked up, saw him, and beckoned. “Good. You’re on your feet.” Her gaze passed, critically assessing, over his face. “Come and sit down, and have some breakfast.”

She waved to an empty chair beside her. He moved forward, scanning the other occupants. Children, as he’d thought-two lasses, three lads-and a middle-aged gentlewoman, plus an older lady seated at the table’s foot. Recalling Linnet mentioning an aunt, he inclined his head politely. “Ma’am.”

The older lady smiled. “I’m Muriel Barclay, Linnet’s father’s sister. Do sit down and break your fast, Mr…?”

Closing his hand on the back of the chair beside Linnet’s, Logan smiled, a touch tightly. “Just Logan at the moment, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t remember the rest.”

Drawing out the chair, he glanced at Linnet. Her lips had thinned a fraction, but clearly she hadn’t informed her household of his lack of recall.

“Don’t you know all your name?”

The question, in a loud, childish voice, drew Logan’s gaze down to the small girlchild seated to his other side. Wide cornflower blue eyes looked up at him. Subsiding into his chair, he let his smile soften. “Not at the moment, poppet.”

“Not to worry.” Mrs. Barclay’s brisk tone was a more moderate, less autocratic version of her niece’s. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you shortly. Now I expect you’d like some ham and eggs, and perhaps a few sausages?”

Logan nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’ll let Mrs. Pennyweather know you’re here.” Mrs. Barclay rose and headed out of another door.

Now that he noticed it, Logan heard, distantly, the clang of pans and other kitchen sounds. Manor house, his mind decided. Which presumably made his hostess the lady of the manor.

He glanced at her to find her waiting to catch his eye. Having done so, she directed it around the table. “This is Will, and that’s Brandon beside him.” The two older lads bobbed their heads and smiled. “They found you yesterday morning, and Chester”-she indicated the youngest of the three boys-“came running here to fetch me.”

Logan nodded to all three boys. “Thank you-I’m grateful.”

“And beside Chester,” Linnet continued, “is Miss Buttons-Buttons to us all. She endeavors to teach this horde their letters and numbers.”

Logan inclined his head to the middle-aged woman, who smiled back. “Welcome to Mon Coeur, sir,” she said, “although I daresay you would have preferred to arrive in a less painful way.” She nodded at his head. “Does it hurt very much?”

“Not as much as it did.”

“It’ll fade through the day.” Mrs. Barclay returned in the wake of a little maid, who smiled shyly as she set a plate piled high with succulent eggs, bacon, sausages, and ham before Logan.

He thanked her and shook out the napkin he found beside his plate.

“Jen-please pass Logan the toast rack.” Linnet waved at the last two at the table. “These two young ladies are Jennifer and Gillyflower-Gilly.”

Logan smiled and thanked them both as they passed him the toast. There was a curious dearth of men about the table, but there were four plates already used before four vacant chairs. Will, the oldest boy, looked to be about fifteen years old. As the others all returned to their meals, Logan buttered a slice of toast, crunched, and realized he was ravenous.

Picking up his knife and fork, he cut a piece of thick ham, chewed, and almost groaned in appreciation. Opening his eyes, he glanced across the table.

Will caught his eye. “We searched all yesterday, up and down the coves, but we didn’t find any other survivors.”

“Just the two dead bodies we found near you,” Chester added.

“Two dead?” Logan glanced at Linnet.

“The bodies are here, in the icehouse. Two sailors. The boys will take you to view them later, in case you know them.”

If he remembered them. She didn’t say it, but he saw the thought in her eyes. He merely nodded and attacked the ham. It tasted like the food of the gods.