The Rebel Page 8

  "Aye, he did. He's dead now, course, but from old age, not the injury."

  "So what is it?"

  "I told you he lost his memory and couldn't remember anything that happened before his wedding day."

  "Yes."

  "His wife died on their weddin' day."

  Lucy gasped. "How awful."

  "Aye, me Ma said it was a very sad time. The girl was picking flowers down beside Cold Stream out Larkham way to put in her hair, see, but there'd been a lot of rain and the creek ran swift and deep. She fell in and drowned."

  "The poor girl. Poor man. He must have been devastated."

  "He was. That's why he couldn't remember it, nor nothin' after it."

  "I don't follow."

  Widow Dawson glanced at the door again and chewed her lip. "He only remembered the good things, not the bad times and not the thing that started the bad times. It was like that day was a wall in his mind, blocking the memories that came after it so they couldn't get through. I think the same thing is happening with Mr. Coleclough."

  Lucy leaned against the paneled wall for balance. The world had suddenly tilted, and she was losing her grip. "You think he only remembers up until the age of eighteen because something bad happened then?"

  "Aye. I'd wager he recalls up to a partic'lar day. And I'd wager it's got something to do with them scars on his back."

  CHAPTER 7

  "Those scars could have happened around that time," Lucy said. "Nick says his father's man gave him four lashings just a month ago. Or a month before his last memory, that is."

  "He don't remember the other ones?" Widow Dawson asked.

  Lucy shook her head. "Do you think he's started to remember already?"

  "Aye. Did you see his reaction when I told him the other man remembered everything after three days?"

  Lucy frowned, shrugged. "I don’t think he said anything."

  "He didn't. You was happy when I said he'd remember in a few days. He weren't so pleased. You'd think he'd be happy too—unless he knew those memories weren't ones he wanted to remember."

  Lucy rubbed her aching forehead. "I don't know. He's given me no sign that his memories have returned. Do you think I should I push him to recall the day he's trying to forget?"

  "That depends now."

  "On what?"

  "On whether you want him to keep on liking you. B'cause I expect he's not goin' to want to remember, and if you're the one makin' him… " She grimaced. "Best to let it happen naturally."

  She opened the door, and they both walked back into the bedchamber. Nick was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his shirt once more covering his chest. Bel sat opposite, holding a stack of playing cards, a grin splitting her face.

  "I beat him twice, Ma," she said.

  "Next time you suggest a game of Primero, I'm going to be busy." Nick handed his cards to Bel then tugged on a lock of her hair. "If I want to gain any respect here, I can't afford to lose to a child."

  "I'm ten," Bel said with a withering glare. "Not a child."

  "You weren't playin' for coin now, were you?" Widow Dawson asked. "B'cause that wouldn't be fair what with poor Mr. Coleclough's achin' head."

  "You have a headache?" Lucy asked.

  He shrugged one shoulder, but it was the wise woman who answered. "Course he does. The crack in his head wouldn't tickle now, would it?"

  "Nick? Why didn't you tell me? I could have made up some more of that tonic for you."

  "It's not so bad."

  She stamped a hand on her hip and gave him a glare she hoped would rival Bel's. The effect was lost, however, because one of the maids entered and announced dinner.

  Matilda joined the other servants in the kitchen, but Lucy insisted Widow Dawson and Bel dine with her and Nick. They sat at the large table in the hall and the servants brought in trenchers of ham, roasted lamb, bread, cheese, fruit tarts, and a bowl of pea pottage.

  "Master Cowdrey not joinin' us?" Widow Dawson asked, heaping peas onto her trencher.

  "He's very busy," Lucy said. "There's so much work to do. I don't know how the previous farmer managed it all. Henry is no lay-about, but he's gone from dawn till dusk most days."

  "He worked his men into the ground, that's how." The wise woman shook her head and spooned peas onto her daughter's trencher. "He worked 'em so hard, they got sick. He and his sister never gave their ill staff a moment's care, as was their duty, not even givin' the poor families some bread from their bakery. And I couldn't do nothin' for 'em b'cause they never called me until it was too late. That Walter Cowdrey seemed nice enough when you talked to him in church or at the market, but when you scratched the surface, you'd see the real man, and he weren’t one you'd want to cross. His sister too." She waved her knife in the air. "You've heard the stories by now, I expect."

  Lucy bowed her head, nodded. She could feel Nick watching her and could sense his burning questions about the previous Cowdreys of Cowdrey Farm, but he didn't ask any. Instead, he said, "Perhaps I can help your brother—"

  "No!" Lucy and Widow Dawson said.

  "Don't be such a fool," Lucy added.

  "You need to rest that head, or you won't be leavin' here at all," the wise woman said.

  "I hate doing nothing," Nick muttered. "And what precisely does rest mean anyway? I won't remain in bed."

  "I can see that," Widow Dawson said. "Yer not to ride or travel by cart. Too bumpy. Anythin' that'll rattle yer head is bad, 'specially workin' in the fields. You can walk about the house and such, but nothin' more vig'rous. Understand?"

  He pulled a face. "You'll have to keep me company, Lucy, or I'll go mad."

  Lucy regarded him over her spoonful of peas. "You should take up whittling again to keep yourself occupied."

  "You whittle?" Bel picked up a pea and popped it into her mouth. "Make me something, Mr. Cole." She swallowed the pea. "Pleeease."

  "Coleclough," her mother corrected her.

  Nick's knife clattered onto the trencher. His jaw swung open, and he stared at the girl. Bel put her hands together as if in prayer and turned her big golden eyes onto him, pleading. She was oblivious to his shock, but Lucy was not.

  "Are you all right?" she asked him. She glanced at Widow Dawson who'd half-risen from the chair.

  He shook his head, either dismissing their concerns or shaking loose a memory. Perhaps both. "I don't know how to whittle." He pushed his trencher away and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "What is it?" Lucy asked. "What have you remembered?"

  He waved a hand. "It's nothing. Bel called me Cole just now, and it seemed very familiar, that's all."

  "You weren't called that before?"

  "No. I'm just Nick to my family." And he'd already told her he had no friends to speak of.

  "I wonder who called you Cole then."

  "It don't sound like something a wife would call her husband," Widow Dawson said.

  "We call Johnny Turtledove 'Turtle,'" Bel said. "Suits him 'cause he's as slow as a turtle. You’re not black as coal though, but yer a little bit brown."

  "Well," Lucy said cheerfully, "another piece of the puzzle falls into place. It would appear you now have friends who are comfortable enough with you to call you Cole."

  He nodded slowly. "I wonder if I was visiting any of them near here."

  "Sutton Hall's only a few miles away. Perhaps you was visiting Lord Lynden, what with you being a lord's son too and—"

  "You’re a lord!" Bel almost bounced out of her chair. "I beat a lord at Primero? I should've played for coin."

  Nick chuckled. "I don't have any coin. And I'm not a lord, my father is. My brother will inherit the title and estate, not me."

  "Wait till I tell Biddy Yarrow I bet a lord at Primero."

  "Beat not bet," Widow Dawson said. She winked at Lucy. "And wait till I tell everyone in the village there's a lord's son with a cracked skull stayin' at Cowdrey Farm. You'll have all the eligible girls and their Ma's stoppin' by."

  "We don't know if Mr. Colec
lough is already married," Lucy said. She picked up a hunk of bread even though she didn't feel like eating it and proceeded to tear it into smaller chunks. "It might be a good idea to mention that. A very good idea." She dropped the last piece of bread onto the trencher, scattering crumbs.

  "Can a village girl marry a lord?" Bel asked.

  "I'm not a lord," Nick said. "I'm the second son of a lord, and I will marry whomever I want, no matter what Father thinks." He said it with far more vehemence than necessary, and Lucy glanced up from her trencher. He was looking directly at her, not Bel, a hard gleam in his eye that she'd never seen before. "If he disagrees, I need only remind him that he married a Catholic girl from Florence. Hardly a suitable prospect for the future Lord Coleclough."

  The throb of blood through her veins was very loud, drowning out whatever Bel said. Unfortunately, or perhaps it was fortunate, Lucy heard Widow Dawson's words as clear as day:

  "If I were to guess, I'd say you was wed already. Men yer age always are. Always, b'cause none wants to live alone."

  Lucy rubbed breadcrumbs between her fingers and watched them fall back onto her trencher like little brown snowflakes.

  Nick cleared his throat. "You mentioned a Lord Lynden just now," he said. "Perhaps I should meet him. If we're friends, it might trigger my memories."

  Lucy's heart lifted and she forked a brow at Widow Dawson. See? She wanted to say. He does want to remember.

  The wise woman gave a slight nod as if to concede the point.

  "Unfortunately, he's away," Lucy said. "He attends court on occasion, so it's likely he does know you. Or your father at least."

  "Her Majesty's court will be on procession now that it's summer." Nick frowned. "Is Queen Elizabeth still alive? She must be very old."

  "She's in her sixties, but well enough by all accounts."

  "Do you know when Lynden is expected to return home?"

  "Soon," Widow Dawson said. "He wrote to his house steward with instructions to set up two of the bedchambers for ladies."

  "Ladies?" Lucy echoed. "Is he bringing home visitors or someone more permanent?" She didn't know Lord Lynden well, but she did know he was unwed and not in a hurry to change that state if his lack of interest in females was any indication. According to Susanna Holt, he'd never shown the slightest inkling in the fairer sex, and she ought to know being his cousin's widow. On the other hand, he was a nobleman, and noblemen had to marry. Perhaps he'd found himself a wife in need of a titled gentleman, albeit a pompous prig of one. Lucy felt sorry for her already.

  "Lord Lynden don't share his plans with me, Lucy," Widow Dawson said with a wink.

  Lucy laughed. "I'm sure you're told much more than most in the village, what with your tendency to wield sharp implements when your patient is at their most vulnerable."

  Bel giggled. "What about the Holts?" she asked. "Mr. Cole might know them too."

  "Aye," her mother said. "Orlando and Susanna Holt at Stoneleigh. I'm going there after I leave here. Susanna's as big as a sow, poor pet, and what with her losing two babies a few years back, I like to keep me eye on her."

  "I saw her yesterday morning," Lucy said. "She was— Nick, are you all right?"

  "That name… " He rubbed his temple. "Orlando."

  "It's an unusual name. You said so yourself yesterday."

  "It's more than that." He sighed. "I don't know."

  "It's all right. It'll come to you." She reached across the table and touched his hand. "Perhaps you do know him. When I first met you, you were heading in the direction of Stoneleigh."

  "We'd already met before…this?"

  "Yes. In the meadow that borders Stoneleigh land."

  If he found it curious that she'd not mentioned the meeting before, he didn't show it. Indeed, she'd said 'saw' not 'met,' so he might think there was nothing to add.

  "I'll tell Mr. Holt about you," Widow Dawson said. "If he knows you he can come out here."

  "That's if he'll leave his wife long enough," Lucy said. "He won't go further than the edges of the Stoneleigh estate most days. He's that worried about the baby coming while he's not there."

  "He's adores her, he does." Widow Dawson rose and signaled Bel to get up too. "I'll stay with her if he comes here. Won't take 'im long to see you, Mr. Coleclough, and get back to Stoneleigh. There'll be time enough for your man to drive me to the village and be back here before nightfall."

  "Mistress Dawson," Nick said, pushing out his chair. "I wonder if you could do something for me when you return to the village. Would you take a letter and see that it gets into the hands of someone traveling to Kent?"

  "Aye, I can do that."

  "You're going to write to your father?" Lucy asked.

  "I can think of no better way to discover more about the events and people I've forgotten."

  She wasn't so sure about that. His father seemed like someone best avoided, at least until Nick's memory fully returned, and he knew all the facts.

  It was ironic that Widow Dawson had warned Lucy that Nick may not want to remember, but now that he seemed determined, Lucy wasn't so sure it was a good idea. After all, he didn't know that a particular horrible event was responsible for blocking his memories. It might be best if he never remembered it after all.

  Widow Dawson took her daughter's hand. "Come, Bel. We'll gather our things." She mouthed 'Tell him' to Lucy as she ushered Bel out.

  Lucy stood and took both of Nick's hands in her own. "There's something you ought to know."

  He kissed her. The light brush of his lips on hers sent tingles whispering across her skin, and warmed her from head to toe.

  "I've been wanting to do that all day." He smiled against her mouth then pulled away. "So what is it Widow Dawson wanted you to tell me?"

  "You saw that?"

  "I've lost my memory not my eyes."

  "Yes, well, of course. I, uh… "

  He grinned. "You seem a little distracted, my little light."

  "Light? Oh, Lucy, yes." She stepped away because being so near him was indeed distracting, and she needed to say her piece. "Widow Dawson said there may be something blocking your memories. Something that happened when you were eighteen. Something… unfortunate that has troubled you ever since."

  His only response was a pulse of the muscle in his jaw.

  "Are you sure you want to find out what it was from your father?" A shiver made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She crossed her arms and held herself tightly together.

  Nick stepped closer and folded his big hands around her arms. "He seems like the best person to tell me the truth." His voice was a low rumble that hung in the air between them.

  He didn't understand. She had to explain it better, blunter. "If he gave you four scars on your back, he may have… given you the others."

  He tucked her hair behind her ear and slowly caressed his knuckles down her throat to her small ruff. "It seems likely."

  "You agree?"

  "I suspected as much, after last night."

  The nightmare. "Oh. So what—?"

  He put a finger to her lips. "Not yet. It's not all clear to me and I don't want to… " He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. "I don't want to discuss it until I know for certain what happened."

  "Perhaps it's best that you don't know, Nick. Not before you're ready."

  "Lucy, I can't run away from the past. I must face it, no matter what happened to me. No matter what I did. Otherwise the nightmares will continue to plague me."

  "What you did? What about what has been done to you?"

  "That too, perhaps." One side of his mouth kicked up. "We can't make assumptions until we know the full story. Don't worry." He kissed the top of her head. "I think I can face anything with you on my side."

  Her heart beat in her throat, choking all the words she wanted to say. She wanted to cry and hold him. She wanted to tell him that she'd never felt like this, not with Edmund, not with anyone.

  But she did not. What lay between them was muc
h too strong, too intense, and too new. She should not feel this way about a man she'd known for only a day, a man who didn't even know himself.

  So why did it feel so right?

  He bent to kiss her again, but she put a hand to his chest, staying him. His heart thumped against her palm. "If you are wed, I could not forgive myself."

  He went to rub a hand through his hair, but it met with the bandage. He sighed and scrubbed his face instead. "You're a cruel wench. Too much common sense, that's your problem." He smiled his crooked smile. "Or rather, your common sense is my problem."

  She turned away because that smile held too much power over her for her own good. "Come. We'd better write that letter before Widow Dawson leaves."

  ***

  The only way Lucy could get Nick to rest was if she remained with him in his bedchamber. That meant Matilda had to stay too. Lucy gave the maid one of her herbals to read, and she seemed quite engrossed in it. Hopefully she wouldn't fall asleep—Lucy didn't want to be left alone with Nick anymore. She couldn't trust herself around him.

  "They adore you," Nick said when he was settled on the bed. He refused to lie down and get under the covers, but at least he was sitting still. It was as much rest as he was going to get.

  "Who?"

  "Widow Dawson and her daughter."

  "She's been very kind to me. I worried that she wouldn't like me visiting her patients and offering them comfort, but she has encouraged me from the first day. It's difficult for her to get to the sick outside the village and since I have a cart and horse, I can deliver medicines or supplies for her."

  "I'm sure it's more than that." His eyes turned velvety soft, warm.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "How am I looking at you?"

  "Like you want to… " Kiss me. "Nothing. I don't know."

  A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "You're flustered."

  "I am not."

  "And you're blushing again."

  She glanced at Matilda, but the maid didn't look up from the book. "Stop it," Lucy whispered. "We agreed not to flirt."

  "I didn't agree to anything."

  "I think I should go. This isn’t restful at all." Not for him and certainly not for her.