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First he added a couple of logs to the fire. Then he got out of his own wet things, rubbed himself dry briskly and pulled on jeans and a shirt he didn’t bother to button. He filled the coffeepot with water and hung it from the hook over the fire.
It was going to be a long night. He’d have to keep an eye on her, try to wake her every hour or so.
He looked over her clothing as he spread it out on the hearth to dry, noting the designer label hand-stitched inside. Damp sheets and quilts went anywhere he found a spot for them. Good thing he didn’t intend to sleep anytime soon. There wasn’t a dry blanket in the place, except for those covering her.
He pulled the big, handmade rocker next to the hearth in the sleeping area and sat, heaving a sigh of relief. His knee and calf ached badly, but he hoped the heat from the fire would help enough that he wouldn’t be too crippled up tomorrow.
He held up her watch and necklace, examining the mellow gold in the glow of firelight. Both were expensive. Neither told him why a woman like her was out in the wilderness at midnight, bloody and wounded.
An automobile accident? It wasn’t completely consistent with her injuries—the lump on her head was in the wrong place, for one thing—but it was all he could think of just then. Highway 142 did lie on the other side of Old Baldy, and the climb wasn’t a difficult one—in dry, daylit weather, for a hiker in good shape. Hard to believe she’d crossed Old Baldy’s slopes in the middle of a thunderstorm, at night, with an injury to her head.
He glanced at the bed where she lay, a small, helpless lump under the blankets. He had no business, no business whatsoever, remembering what she looked like without the covers, without any covering at all. He’d better remember that. Because she was going to wake up. That was the only acceptable alternative. She was going to look at him and realize he’d undressed her, that he’d seen her.
She’d probably hate him for that.
His hand lifted absently to stroke the scar tissue on the left side of his face, scarring that ran down his neck to his shoulder and splashed across the top of his chest. Life wasn’t like fairy tales. The woman in his bed wasn’t going to like knowing that the Beast had looked on her beauty.
Pain came in colors and textures. At the bottom of the ocean, pain was mostly pressure, a distant, enveloping purple, but as she drew nearer the surface, pain turned a crackly, yellowish green.
A bruise-colored feeling. That was the surface, and she didn’t want to go there, not yet. Not when the pain was still so strong. But something, someone, was calling her, pulling her reluctantly nearer…gradually she realized the pain came from her head. It hurt. Completely. Relentlessly. And there was something else…all at once she remembered terror, and fought her way up and out.
Her eyes opened. Someone groaned. And above her, bending over her…
He was big. His inky dark hair hung loose around his face, and his eyes were as black as his hair. His skin was rough, as were the features in his narrow face, and half of his face was ruined.
And she knew him. He’d come to her out of the terrible darkness, catching her when she fell, stopping her flight with his big arms. She remembered seeing his face in the white flare of lightning, seeing his eyes, black and liquid as the night around them, seeing the ruined side of his face and thinking that he was hurt, too, hurt like her. With a sigh of relief she closed her eyes and let herself sink back down, knowing she was safe. Because he was here.
Seth stared down at the woman in his bed. She’d woken. She was going to be all right. She’d woken and seen him…
And smiled.
She woke to the smell of food cooking and the sound of bird song. Dreams and nightmares sluiced off her like water as she surfaced, a swimmer rising from murky depths. Her head hurt worse than it ever had in her life, and her bladder was miserably full. When she cracked open her eyes, light seeped in like pain.
Bacon? Did she smell bacon frying?
She looked around without turning her head. Moving would definitely be a mistake. The light wasn’t really very bright, she realized as her eyes focused. The closest window showed a dim, rainy day outside, though that didn’t seem to discourage the noisy chorus of birds. Inside was a cabin, a real log cabin with the walls planed smooth and varnished in some places, left rough in others. The effect was unusual but pleasing. She looked up at a high ceiling of glossy boards. The big bed she was in pointed her feet at a fireplace in the center of the room, circled by a low, brick hearth.
Something—no, someone—was missing. Someone who had been taking care of her. “I, uh…” She stopped and tried to swallow. Her throat was as dry as her bladder was full.
He moved into her range of vision from somewhere near her feet. He was big—one of those really big men who, she thought with a slow blink, when seen from a distance, don’t look unusually large because everything is in balance. He didn’t make a sound as he came to stand next to her bed and looked down at her.
Her eyes drifted up to his face. His dark hair hung loose below his jaw line. Livid scar tissue covered him from the crest of his cheekbone on down past his jaw, his neck, disappearing under the collar of his plain blue work shirt. The skin was shiny smooth, the angry color left by bad burns. The scarring distracted her.
Then she noticed the way his hands were knotted into fists at his sides. “What’s wrong?” she croaked, alarmed. Was she even sicker, more damaged, than her pounding head suggested?
His big hands relaxed. “I didn’t know if you were completely awake this time.” His voice matched the rest of him, deep and solid and vaguely reassuring.
“How long…?”
“You’ve been out for over fifteen hours,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her. “I think you’ve just been sleeping, though, not unconscious, since the last time I woke you. Where do you hurt?” He put his big hands on her neck and probed gently.
“My head.” Fifteen hours. She tried, and failed, to think of what had happened to her.
“Anywhere else?” He prodded her lightly. “Here? Or here?”
“No.” Why was she here, in this cabin, with him? The effort to think made the pounding in her head increase until it throbbed all the way along her jaw and down her neck. She gave up and closed her eyes. “I’m very thirsty.”
The bed creaked as he shifted. “It should be okay for you to sit up for a drink. I’ll have to lift you a bit,” he said, and slid an arm carefully under her shoulders, supporting her neck. For all his care, it still hurt fiercely when he raised her off the pillow, and she made a small sound.
“Take it easy,” he murmured, and held a glass to her lips. His low voice cooled the jagged edges of her pain the way the water soothed her dry throat. She managed several sips.
“Better?” he asked in that comforting voice as he laid her back down.
She thought about nodding and didn’t. She thought about lying there until her other problem went away—but it wasn’t going to. She forced her eyes open, wretchedly embarrassed. “I need to use the bathroom.”
He nodded, the undamaged half of his face as unrevealing as the burned side. “I’ll get a bowl for you to use as a bedpan.”
“No way.” Surely, if he helped her, she could make it to the bathroom. She couldn’t stand the idea of some stranger, no matter how kind, helping her with such a private matter.
Some stranger?
No, he wasn’t a stranger. He was…his face was familiar, of course it was, and she’d think of his name in a minute. In a minute she’d remember…
By the time he came back to the bed, the humiliating bowl in his hand, her breath came in quick, fearful pants, like a dog. “Who are you?” she whispered.
He stopped dead. If his face had been unrevealing before, it was flatly blank now. “Seth,” he said slowly. “Seth Brogan.”
She closed her mouth. Licked her dry lips. Stared at him as if she could force her way through his deliberate blankness, force her way through to what she desperately needed. And asked her next question. “Who am I?”
Two (#ulink_0023ff35-6764-51d3-9a5b-885a089dfa8b)
She couldn’t remember?
Seth stood rooted to the floor, holding the stupid bowl. All he could think, selfishly, was that the fear he’d seen twisting her pallid face hadn’t been about him, after all. She was afraid because she didn’t remember who she was.
Finally he got his tongue unstuck. “A blow to the head can affect the memory, but it’s temporary. Mostly temporary. You may never remember everything that happened right around your accident.” If whatever happened to her had been an accident. He’d begun to have some doubts about that.
“But the rest—my name—will come back to me?”
“Sure,” he said as if he knew the answer.
She wanted to believe him, that was obvious from the way her face relaxed. Then she saw the bowl in his hands and stiffened up again. “Are you a doctor?”
He shook his head.
She bit her lip. “I don’t suppose you’re my brother or something?”
He could have told her he was. She’d have accepted it. For some ungodly reason, probably because she had so little choice, she trusted him. Being cared for like this would be easier on her if she thought they were related.
Only how could he lie to her, when she trusted him? “Afraid not,” he said. “But listen, it could be worse.” The corner of his mouth, the one on the undamaged side, creaked up. “You could need a catheter. Trust me, that’s worse.”
In spite of everything, there was a faint, answering spark of humor in her eyes. Big, shamrock green eyes, he noticed for the first time. Green as the grass of Ireland, and somehow twice as pretty with the way her pale lashes left her eyes all open and unshielded.
Her humor died in the painful, awkward moments that followed. She hid by closing her eyes again. He went outside, leaving the door open so she could call him.
When he came back in she was white with pain and exhaustion, too worn-out, he thought, to feel more than mild embarrassment at their forced intimacy. He understood how that felt, too.
He had hoped she’d be able to get some soup down, but she fell asleep almost before he could get the covers settled back around her. Seth let his hands linger briefly while tucking her in, not invasively, he told himself. An innocent sort of touching, through the sheet and two blankets, and far less personal than the task he’d just performed for her.
But he looked at her face while his hands smoothed the covers over her. Her hair had dried to a streaky blond. It wisped around the edges of the pretty face eased by sleep, except on the left side. Dried blood clumped the soft blond strands together above her ear.
Looking at her sleeping face was, Seth understood, an invasion of sorts, an intrusion on her helplessness.
But he felt helpless, too. Helpless to keep from watching her. And wanting her, damn him for a fool. Seth looked over at the round oak table where he’d made a small pile of her things: slacks, panties, top, watch, a locket with a name engraved on it…and a small plastic bag he’d found in one of the deep pockets of that top. A bag half-full of white powder.
She woke up more easily this time, trailing wisps of memory after her. Enough memory to know where she was, so that she wasn’t startled when she opened her eyes and saw rafters and wood above her. Dust motes danced in the sunbeam slanting in the window.
She didn’t know what her name was. But she remembered his. “Seth?”
As before, he appeared almost immediately, his narrow face serious on one side, stiff with scars on the other. “How are you feeling?”
He wore jeans, a plain blue work shirt, and a dish towel stuck into the waist of his pants and apparently forgotten. The incongruously domestic touch on such a rough-looking man made her smile. “Better.”
A lot better, she realized as she shifted, testing her body’s reactions. Her head hurt, yes, but in a normal sort of way, no longer overpowering. Her whole body was stiff. She ached as if she’d been lying in one position far too long.
She breathed deeply and smelled a welcome aroma. “May I have a cup of that coffee?”
He hesitated. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt. I’m out of milk, so I hope you take it black. Sugar?”
“I don’t know.” How very peculiar, not to know how she drank her coffee. And yet she’d known, when she smelled the coffee, that she wanted a cup. “You can give it to me without and we’ll see if I like it that way.”
“You don’t seem very upset about your lack of memory.”
She wasn’t, and that, surely, was odd. But it was good just to lie here and not hurt. Too pleasant for her to waste energy worrying. She smiled. “I feel so much better than the last time I woke up, I guess it doesn’t seem worth getting upset over. After all, like you said, my memories will come back soon.”
He frowned. “You’ll need some breakfast to go with the coffee. I hope you like your eggs scrambled.”
“That sounds fine.” Did she like scrambled eggs? Did she like eggs at all? The idea of eating them didn’t disgust her, so she supposed they’d be okay.
When Seth moved she automatically followed him with her eyes, turning her head slightly on the pillow to keep him in sight.
Ouch. Well, it could be worse—had been, in fact, much worse. The swift stabbing pain that accompanied her head movement faded to the same dull ache she’d woken with. She ignored it in favor of studying the cabin…and Seth.
Seth was easy to watch. He got a bowl from the cabinets, moved out of her line of vision, and came back with several eggs cradled in one hand. He had big hands. Long fingers, like a pianist. He cracked the eggs into the bowl, stirred them, and carried the bowl to a large, modern stove, limping slightly.
She was curious about her rescuer, about his big hands and his big, athletically graceful body. Watching Seth was better than struggling with the clouds in her brain. Something about the way he moved, an athletic economy unimpaired by his limp, fascinated her, reminded her of—
Pain lanced through her skull, turning her so quickly away from.the memory that she lost the thread of thought. She blinked, dazed, grateful for the easing of the pain.
She looked away from Seth and her fascination with him. When she moved her head again, cautiously, it didn’t hurt too much, but her hair tugged at her scalp. She reached up and gingerly felt around the sorest place on her head, just above her left ear, and grimaced. Half her hair seemed to be caked together with what she was afraid was dried blood. Her blood.
She went back to her inspection of the cabin. By careful degrees she was able to move her head around on the pillow, taking in most of her surroundings. -
This was not a typical log cabin. The roof rose to a peak in the center, where a metal chimney carried aloft smoke and cinders from the big central fireplace. The oddest thing, though, was the shape, and the lack of interior walls. The cabin’s exterior walls defined five different living areas. Five sides…a pentagon. Like in Washington, D.C. Or like the basis for inscribing a pentagram, the shape used by witches and warlocks when casting their spells.
She didn’t think the cabin had much in common with the Pentagon, no more than her host had in common with the regimented warriors and drones who peopled the Defense Department. He did, however, have something of the look of a warlock. Brooding and mysterious.
Somehow even that thought wasn’t enough to disturb the inexplicable comfort she’d awoken with, a lazy sense of safety that she knew made no sense.
But then, she thought, watching Seth scrape the contents of a skillet onto a plate, her sorcerer had used his powers to save her, not to harm her.
Seth walked toward her, carrying a speckled blue plate that made her think of cowboys and camp fires. He set it, and the mug of coffee he held in his other hand, on the square table next to the bed. Then he turned away.
“Seth?” she said, when he went to a tall chest against the wall. “I, ah, I hate to bother you, but I don’t think I can sit up without a little help.”
He turned around, holding a blue shirt identical to the one he was wearing. “I’ll help you sit up and get this on.”
Get the shirt—oh, no. Tentatively she moved her leg and felt the sheet beneath, sheet and blankets above—all directly against her skin, nothing in between her and them, which meant…She moaned, grabbed the covers with one hand and pulled them up to her nose. That made her head hurt, so she squeezed her eyes shut.
A thread of humor laced his voice. “I think I’m the one who’s supposed to close my eyes, not you.”
He was amused? She opened her eyes and frowned.
If he’d been amused, he didn’t look it now. His face was as impassive as ever, frustratingly so. And she was still naked, quite entirely naked, whether her eyes were open or closed. She sighed. “Do we know each other at all?”
“We do now.”
“That’s a lousy answer,” she said, but she let go of the edge of the covers. There wasn’t much point, was there? He’d undressed her and—oh, Lord! That horrible bedpan yesterday! If she’d been in any shape to pay attention, that should have clued her in to her lack of clothing. “I guess I’ll need some help.”
He sat on the bed beside her. With one arm he scooped her upper body off the bed. The covers fell to her waist. The movement made her head pound and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She tried to help him get her arms into the sleeves, but she was so dratted weak, her efforts were probably more hindrance than help. When she looked down to button the shirt, she got dizzy and nearly toppled over, so he took over doing that, too.
She closed her eyes again. Illogical, maybe, but it gave her the illusion of privacy. It also left her oddly attuned to his scent, a unique blend of soap, coffee and male…to the movement of his hand…a sensation of warmth, the slight rasp of the cotton against her skin, her nipples, as he tugged button and buttonhole together…the careful way his hand shifted to avoid touching her breasts.
By the time he finished, her head pounded miserably. She was dizzy. And aroused.
She knew she should have felt embarrassed. He’d probably noticed her involuntary reaction to the intimacy of being dressed by his careful hands. But embarrassment, like fear, seemed like too much effort. So she just smiled at him when he settled her against the pillows he’d arranged to prop her up.
“Whew.” Her heart thudded in rhythm with her head. “May I have some of that coffee now?”
He looked at her doubtfully, but whatever his objections, he didn’t voice them.
He helped her hold the cup. The coffee was strong, dark and hot. His hand on top of hers, steadying the mug for a few sips, was strong and warm, too. He set the mug down and held the plate of eggs and buttered bread for her, but she managed the fork herself.
Apparently she wasn’t a fussy eater. The overcooked eggs went down fine. At least a reasonable portion of them did—he’d given her enough to feed a fullback.
Once she persuaded him she really couldn’t eat any more, he gave her three aspirins and made her drink half a glass of water before he’d let her have the few last sips of coffee.
“Thank you,” she said, leaning back fully on the pillows. So many questions…they’d seeped in while she ate. “I have a lot to thank you for.”
