Thank the Lord she was alive, still breathing.
There had been a moment in Lady Rathbone’s dining room when she feared she would never see the light of day again. How had the matron duped her so easily? When had the weak, docile woman turned into a crazed criminal?
Scarlett knew the answer.
For four years, Lady Rathbone had known her son’s secret. Ever since Lord Steele’s death, she had been a kind and supportive friend. But behind the screen of sincerity, the matron had despised Scarlett to the core of her being.
Jack Jewell was not her father.
The sudden thought brought a different pain.
It was the opposite of emptiness. Losing her parents hung like a heavy, heavy weight in her heart. She would never get the opportunity to ask questions, never be able to wrap her arms around them and thank them for taking care of her when her real father shirked his responsibilities.
Heavens, and to think she was related to Lady Rathbone.
Disbelief, along with a hundred unanswerable questions pounded in her head, too.
“Dr Redman advises complete rest for the next few days.” The rich, masculine voice drifted across the room. “He said you may experience slight memory loss. May have a megrim for a week or more.”
Scarlett’s gaze followed the voice to the corner of the room, to where she had sat while waiting for Wycliff to recover from his gunshot w
ound. Her heart lurched at the sight of the handsome gentleman sitting in the chair. He wore the same dark blue coat as he did the day she met him in the tavern. The coat clung to the bulging muscles in his arms, complemented the Mediterranean look of his dark hair and sultry eyes. He’d teamed it with a black cravat and breeches, the material of which clung to his powerful thighs.
“If there is one thing Blake can teach us about life, it is its fragility.” Wycliff gestured to the book in his hand. “That said, I experienced it firsthand last night.”
“I can scarce remember much after the fall.” Whenever she had found the strength to open her eyes, she was in his arms.
“Please tell me you remember everything until the point you hit your head on the table.” His tone conveyed a sense of trepidation. “Tell me everything in this room is familiar to you.”
Did he fear she wouldn’t remember him?
Did he think she would forget those glorious times when he entered her body and made her whole again?
“Of course I remember.” She remembered she loved him. Loved him more than she had dared admit to herself. “And this room holds many fond memories.” Beautiful memories.
His smile deepened.
“Was it you or Dr Redman who stripped off my clothes and left me in a chemise?”
“Do you honestly think I would let another man put his hands on you?”
The warm feeling returned to her chest. Despite her pounding head, she wanted this man to take her in his arms and make all her troubles fade away.
“Dr Redman left a tincture for the megrim on the night table,” Wycliff continued, “and laudanum should you have trouble sleeping.”
Scarlett glanced at the medicine on the table, but her gaze fell to the pretty vinaigrette bottle with a painted scene of a gentleman pushing a lady on a garden swing.
“And the vinaigrette?”
“Contains an aromatic vinegar made by my housekeeper. The bottle belonged to my mother. She kept it at her bedside, and I would often stare at the painted figures and invent stories. It belongs to you now.”
“To me?”
“A gift.”
“You seem to make a habit of giving me gifts that represent treasured memories.” She would never forget the day he gave her his mother’s precious cross.
He fell silent though she could feel the contained emotion bursting to break free.