“Don’t you remember?” she asked.
He began to blink far more rapidly than was normal. “Over a month, you say?”
“That’s what they told me. I only just arrived.”
“Over a month,” he said again. He started shaking his head. “How could that . . .”
“You must not overtax yourself,” Cecilia said, reaching out to take his hand in hers again. It seemed to calm him. It certainly calmed her.
“I don’t remember . . . I was in Connecticut?” He looked up sharply, and his grip on her hand grew uncomfortably tight. “How did I come to be back in New York?”
She gave a helpless shrug. She didn’t have the answers he sought. “I don’t know. I was looking for Thomas, and I heard you were here. You were found near Kip’s Bay, bleeding from your head.”
“You were looking for Thomas,” he echoed, and she could practically see the wheels of his mind spinning frantically behind his eyes. “Why were you looking for Thomas?”
“I’d got word he was injured, but now he’s missing, and—”
Edward’s breathing grew labored. “When were we married?”
Cecilia’s lips parted. She tried to answer, she really did, but she could only manage to stammer a few useless pronouns. Did he actually think they were married? He’d never even seen her before this day.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
Cecilia chose her words carefully. “You don’t remember what?”
He looked up at her with haunted eyes. “I don’t know.”
Cecilia knew she should try to comfort him, but she could only stare. His eyes were hollow, and his skin, already pallid from his illness, seemed to go almost gray. He gripped the bed as if it were a lifeboat, and she had the insane urge to do the same. The room was spinning around them, shrinking into a tight little tunnel.
She could barely breathe.
And he looked like he might shatter.
She forced her eyes to meet his, and she asked the only question that remained.
“Do you remember anything?”
Chapter 2
The barracks here at Hampton Court Palace are tolerable, more than tolerable, I suppose, although nothing to the comforts of home. The officers are housed two to a two-room apartment, so we have a bit of privacy. I have been assigned to live with another lieutenant, a fellow named Rokesby. He is the son of an earl, if you can believe that . . .
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Edward fought to breathe. His heart felt as if it were trying to claw its way out of his chest, and all he could think was that he had to get off this cot. He had to figure out what was going on. He had to—
“Stop,” Cecilia cried, throwing herself on him in an effort to keep him down. “You must calm yourself.”
“Let me up,” he argued, although some tiny rational part of his mind was trying to remind him that he didn’t know where to go.
“Please,” she begged, transferring her weight to her grip on each of his wrists. “Take a moment, catch your breath.”
He looked up at her, chest heaving. “What is happening?”
She swallowed and glanced about. “I think we should wait for the doctor.”
But he was far too agitated to listen. “What day is this?” he demanded.
She blinked, as if taken off guard. “Friday.”
“The date,” he bit off.
She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her words were slow, careful. “It is the twenty-fifth day of June.”
Edward’s heart started pounding anew. “What?”
“If you will only wait for—”
“It cannot be.” Edward shoved himself into a more upright position. “You are wrong.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m not wrong.”
“No. No.” He looked frantically about the room. “Colonel!” he yelled. “Doctor! Anyone!”
“Edward, stop!” she cried, moving to block him when he flung his legs over the side of the bed. “Please, wait for the doctor to see you!”
“You there!” he ordered, pointing a shaky arm toward a dark-skinned man sweeping the floor. “What day is it?”
The man looked to Cecilia with wide eyes, silently asking for guidance.
“What day is it?” Edward said again. “The month. Tell me the month.”
Again, the man’s eyes flicked to Cecilia’s, but he answered, “It is June, sir. End of the month.”
“No,” Edward said, falling back to the bed. “No.”
He closed his eyes, trying to force his thoughts through the pounding in his skull. There had to be a way to fix this. If he just concentrated hard enough, focused on the last thing he could remember . . .
He snapped his eyes back open and looked straight at Cecilia. “I don’t remember you.”
Her throat worked, and Edward knew he should be ashamed of himself for bringing her so close to tears. She was a lady. She was his wife. But surely she would forgive him. He had to know . . . he had to understand what was happening.
“You said my name,” she whispered, “when you woke up.”
“I know who you are,” he said. “I just don’t know you.”
Her face trembled as she rose to her feet, and she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear before clasping her hands together. She was nervous, that much was easy to see. And then the most disjointed thought popped into his head—she didn’t look very much like that miniature her brother carried about. Her mouth was wide and full, nothing like that sweet, mysterious half moon in her portrait. And her hair wasn’t golden either, at least not the heavenly shade rendered by the painter. It was more of a dark blond. Rather like Thomas’s, actually, although not quite as shot through with brass.
He supposed she didn’t spend as much time in the sun.
“You are Cecilia Harcourt, aren’t you?” he asked. Because it had just occurred to him—she had never actually confirmed this fact.
She nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“And you’re here, in New York.” He stared at her, searching her face. “Why?”
He saw her eyes flick toward the other side of the room, even as she gave her head a little shake. “It’s complicated.”
“But we’re married.” He wasn’t sure whether he’d said it as a statement or a question.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be a statement or a question.
She sat warily on the bed. Edward didn’t blame her for her hesitance. He’d been thrashing about like a trapped animal. She must be quite strong to have been able to subdue him.
Or else he’d become quite weak.
Cecilia swallowed, looking very much as if she were steeling herself for something difficult. “I need to tell you—”
“What is going on?”
She jerked back, and they both looked over at Colonel Stubbs, who was stalking across the chapel with the doctor in tow.
“Why are the blankets on the floor?” the colonel demanded.
Cecilia rose once again to her feet, moving aside so that the doctor could take her place at Edward’s side. “He was struggling,” she said. “He’s confused.”
“I’m not confused,” Edward snapped.
The doctor looked at her. Edward wanted to grab him by the throat. Why was he looking at Cecilia? He was the patient.
“He seems to be missing . . .” Cecilia caught her lip between her teeth, her eyes flitting back and forth between Edward and the doctor. She didn’t know what to say. Edward couldn’t blame her.
“Mrs. Rokesby?” the doctor prodded.
There it was again. Mrs. Rokesby. He was married. How the hell was he married?
“Well,” she said helplessly, trying to find the correct words for an impossible situation. “I think he doesn’t remember, ehrm . . .”
“Spit it out, woman,” Colonel Stubbs barked.
Edward was half out of the bed before he realized what he was about. “Your tone, Colonel,” he growled.
“No, no,” Cecilia said quickly. “It’s all right. He means no disrespect. We are all frustrated.”