Norwyck's Lady. Margo MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
thoughts. She was a woman, no more and no less. Fully capable of the most devious treachery.
He would allow her to stay until she was steady on her feet. But then she had to go.
“Wrap the shawl more securely, if you don’t mind,” he said coolly as he walked toward her.
She fumbled with the heavy wool as she stepped back, and lost her footing. Bart lunged and caught her before she fell, and lifted her into his arms.
Her naked flesh felt absurdly enticing. She had only covered the front of her body—and not very well at that—leaving her back entirely bare. Her skin felt smooth, warm.
Her eyes were an unusual light green, edged in blue, framed by dark lashes. Bart did not believe he’d ever seen eyes like hers before, but they were unfocused, confused. Her predicament touched him. To have survived such an ordeal, possibly to have lost her family in such a terrible way, was unspeakable.
Inuring himself against any feelings of pity, he set her on the bed and tossed the blankets over her. Whatever had happened was done. It had naught to do with him. He would allow this woman to remain at Norwyck until she was well enough to travel, then send her on her way.
When she began to tremble, Bart looked away.
“My lord?”
“You’re at Norwyck Castle,” he said, keeping his back to her. “Your ship went down in our waters.”
“My…ship?”
“As far as we know, you are the sole survivor,” he said, turning back to pierce her with his stony gaze. “And you are…?”
She moistened her lips. “I…I…cannot remember,” she said simply.
Bart stared at her mouth, unable to comprehend the meaning of her statement. Oh, he well understood what she’d said, but he did not know quite what she meant.
“You cannot remember?”
“N-nay, my lord,” she said. She fought to keep a tremor from her voice, but Bart refused to be taken in by that manipulative wile. ’Twas one his late wife had used to great effect. “I awoke without knowledge of who I am or w-where I belong.”
Bart chortled without humor. How was it possible that she did not remember who she was? She must think him a fool to believe such a tale.
He walked to the eastern window and gazed out to sea. He did not care to look at her now, not with that impossibly vulnerable expression in her eyes, nor the lies on her tongue.
“So. You have no idea who you are, or from whence you came,” he said. “What, exactly, do you remember?”
She hesitated long enough that he was just about to turn to her, but then she murmured, “I remember…only s-snatches of things. A face, a garden…children. I…I—”
Bart pushed away from the wall and turned to her. “You’ll pardon me if I find your story difficult to believe,” he said derisively. He crossed the room, looking back at her only when he’d reached the chamber door. “You will need clothes. I’ll have a maid bring something suitable to you. When next I see you, mayhap you’ll have a more believable tale to tell.”
With those parting words, he was gone.
She turned away from the door and blinked back tears. Not only was she unable to remember anything of substance, but something was terribly wrong with her eyes. The lord’s attitude was quite obviously hostile, as if her turning up at Norwyck had somehow offended him or caused him undue hardship.
Well, she would just remove herself from this place. There had to be someone who could direct her to a more hospitable dwelling, a place with a less frightening master. As soon as she had clothes to wear, she would get as far from Norwyck as possible.
If only she could remember. She wracked her brain trying to place the images that came to mind, but was unable to make anything coherent of them. The face of a woman…some blond children…a field of flowers…
Someone entered the chamber, and she looked up to see the shadowy form of a child. A child with bright red hair, certainly not one of the children she’d seen in her mind.
“My lady?” the girl said as she approached the bed.
She cleared her throat. “Yes…”
“I am Eleanor,” the child said, “sister to Bartholomew.”
She must have looked quizzically at the child because the youngster clarified, “Bartholomew Holton, Earl of Norwyck.”
“Oh,” she replied numbly. Bartholomew was the bad-tempered man who’d just left her.
“I’ve brought you some…What is it?” the child asked.
“My eyes.”
“Your eyes are beautiful, my lady,” the girl said as she placed something on the bed. “So clear and bright.”
She shook her head, sending sharp spears of pain through her skull. Lying back on the bed, she swallowed back a wave of nausea. “Nay, they are not clear. I cannot see.”
“You are blind?” the child asked, astonished.
“Not quite,” she replied, “but I might as well be. Everything I see is hazy. Blurred.”
“Like when I squeeze my eyes almost closed and look at you?”
“Something like that.”
“How terrible,” the child replied, placing a small hand on her forearm. “How do you manage? I mean if you’re—”
“I do not know,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve always been like this, or if…Nay. This malady seems too unfamiliar. I could not have suffered it before….”
“I do not understand, my lady.”
She hesitated. Would a child—even this child, who seemed so bright, so interested—ever understand?
“I—I seem to have lost my memory.”
Silence filled a long, empty interval, and she could feel the little girl’s eyes upon her. Finally, the child spoke, her voice alight with wonder and puzzlement.
“You’ve lost your…You mean you cannot remember—”
“I cannot remember anything,” she whispered in reply.
“Did the wreck take your memories away?”
“I suppose so, though I have no way of know—”
“Your name! You do not even remember your name?”
She fought back tears. “Nay. I do not know who I am. Or where I belong.” She did not even know if English was her own language. It seemed familiar to her in an odd, distant way.
Eleanor made a small sound, then walked around to the other side of the bed. “Will you ever remember it?” The girl’s voice was full of astonishment and sympathy.
She felt the child’s interested gaze upon her.
“I do not know.”
“What will we call you, then?” the child asked.
She bit her lip and tamped down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her again. Who was she? She tried to think of a name that seemed to fit, but could not. Naught seemed familiar, and trying to force the memory only made her head hurt more. “I have no idea.”
“Then we’ll just have to give you a new name,” the child said excitedly. “I will share my name with you. We’ll call you Eleanor…. Nay.” It sounded as if the girl was frowning. “That would be too confusing, with two of us. I know!” The voice brightened. “We’ll call you after King Edward’s wife—Marguerite!”
“’Tis as g-good a name as any, I suppose,” she replied, though it, too, sounded utterly