Wife With Amnesia. Metsy HingleЧитать онлайн книгу.
hadn’t counted on having the door he was leaning against suddenly opening and nearly sending him sprawling on the floor with Claire in his arms.
“Sweet heavens, Mr. Matthew,” Emma Dubois chided even as she provided him with a steadying hand. “What on earth is it you think you’re doing, mauling poor Miss Claire on the doorstep for all the world to see? And the poor dear just home from that wretched hospital?”
“I wasn’t mauling her, Emma. I was kissing her,” Matt said to his housekeeper, not even bothering to point out that the so-called wretched hospital was one of the best medical facilities in the South.
Emma huffed as she shut the door behind them. Folding her arms, she arched her brow imperiously. “And what would your sainted mother have to say if she was to hear you’d been putting on such a show for the neighbors, I wonder?”
Matt sighed and wondered whether he should try explaining to Emma again that she worked for him now—not his mother. Of course since the half-Irish, half-French Emma was practically a fixture in his family, he would probably be wasting his breath. Still, he tried. “Since my mother is no saint—at least not judging by the earful she gave the staff at the hospital when they refused to let her see Claire in the emergency room—my guess is she’d say that she hoped I enjoyed myself.”
“As if Mrs. G. would spout such nonsense,” Emma replied. She looked down her nose at him like he was still a boy—one who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
It amazed him how she still managed to pull off that particular trick, since the woman was a full foot shorter than his own six feet. No doubt the fact that she’d changed his diapers and paddled his bottom on more than one occasion had something to do with it, Matt conceded. “Tell you what, Emma. Why don’t I kiss Claire again and you can call my mother and ask her?”
“Matt, please.”
“Behave yourself,” Emma told him. “You’re embarrassing the poor girl.”
Evidently Emma was right, Matt decided at the sight of the color flooding Claire’s cheeks. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Sorry.”
“You can put me down now,” Claire told him.
“He’ll do no such thing. You’ve a sprained ankle according to what Mrs. G. and Mr. Matthew told me and you shouldn’t be putting any weight on it, lamb.”
“But I—”
“Besides, Mr. Matthew, here, is as strong as an ox,” Emma replied, her expression going from stern to loving as she addressed Claire. “He can carry you into the den. I’ve set up a tray of coffee and some of those little chocolate cakes that you like so much.”
“You heard her, Red. It’s best not to argue with Emma.”
“But I don’t want either of you to go to all this trouble,” Claire protested.
“As if it’s any trouble. Why, if you’d known how worried I was when I heard you’d been hurt…” Emma snatched a tissue from her apron and sniffed, then straightened her shoulders. “I’d better go see to the coffee.”
“Who exactly is she?” Claire whispered as Matt followed Emma down the hall.
“Believe it or not, she’s the housekeeper.”
“The housekeeper?”
“Yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “Hard to believe, considering she’s the one giving the orders around here.”
“I heard that, Matthew Gallagher.”
“I swear the woman’s got eyes and ears in the back of her head,” Matt complained.
“A body certainly needed them with you around as a boy,” Emma informed him as she waited while he positioned Claire on the big overstuffed chair and propped her ankle up on the ottoman. “Don’t you pay him any mind, Miss Claire,” Emma told her as she shooed Matt out of the way so she could fit the breakfast tray table over Claire’s lap.
When Matt reached for one of the chocolate cheesecake squares on the tray, Emma swatted his hand. “Those are for Miss Claire.”
“What about me?”
“There’s more in the kitchen if you want some.”
“See what I mean?” Matt countered and was rewarded by a grin from Claire.
He was treated to several more of Claire’s smiles during the next thirty minutes as Emma regaled her with stories of his youth. And while Emma fussed over her like a mother hen over her baby chick, he fielded call after call from his family, checking on Claire.
By the time he had repeated Emma’s instructions on heating the casserole she’d prepared for their dinner and closed the door behind the housekeeper, the troubled look he’d noticed sneaking into Claire’s eyes several times during the afternoon was back. For the life of him, Matt couldn’t quite figure out what was behind it.
Claiming a corner of the oversize chair beside her, he asked, “So how’s the head feeling?”
“Tender,” she replied, and ran a finger along the edge of the bandage affixed to her temple. “I was hoping that coming here would help me to remember.”
“Has it?”
She shook her head and lifted her gaze to his. “I can’t believe I don’t remember Emma.”
Matt grinned. “She is a hard one to forget.”
“She really loves you and your family a great deal.”
“And you,” Matt amended. Giving in to the need, he reached for her hand. “She loves you, too, Red. All of my family does—and me most of all.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she told him, averting her eyes.
Sighing, Matt released her hand. “There I go pushing again. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, touching his arm when he started to rise. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You’ve been wonderful, Matt. You, your family, everyone. I just…I just wish I could remember.”
The disappointment etched across her face ripped at him. “Don’t be so tough on yourself. You heard what the doctor said. You just need to give yourself time.”
The smile she gave him was soft. Slow. Warm. “You’re a nice man, Matthew Gallagher.”
Matt winced. “Nice? Whatever you do, please don’t say that I’m sweet. If you do, you’re liable to find out that I’m not nice at all.”
“But you are sweet…and kind…and patient…”
“Stop!”
She chuckled at his protest. “It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Those are all good qualities.”
“Trust me, Red,” he said, his voice gruff. “No man wants to hear a woman describe him as though he were some kind of saint.”
Her lips twitched. “Somehow I doubt that anyone would mistake you for a saint.”
“Thank heaven for that.”
“So, what descriptive terms does a man want to hear a woman use to describe him?”
“Oh, the usual ones,” he told her, his mouth kicking up at the corners. “Sexy…virile…stud…”
“I get the picture,” she said dryly, a flush climbing her cheeks.
“Sorry. I just couldn’t resist teasing—not when you blush so prettily.”
He watched her struggle to regain her composure. When she did, the lighthearted moment had passed. “It all seems so strange. Not knowing anything about myself, about you, about us.”
Matt hesitated. “The doctor said to let your memories come back on their own.”
“I