How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(10)

“Ssh. Easy there.”

A face filled her line of vision. Panic washed over her as she recalled everything that had happened to her. The duke had tried to kill her. Her husband!

And now there was this voice. This man. In the dim room, she could not make out much of his features. She only knew that it wasn’t Bloodsworth. This man’s voice was different. Deeper. Gravelly. The knowledge immediately quelled her panic. She squinted, struggling to peer at him through the gloom. Even in the weak lighting, she could make out that his hair was not as dark as the duke’s.

She swallowed against her parched mouth, struggling to form words. “My leg,” she rasped, her fingers stretching, reaching.

“It’s broken, but we’ve set and splint it. No fear. It will mend.”

Broken? Her head lolled to the side and a hot tear slid from the corner of her eye and vanished into the pillow. She’d broken her leg before. It had never healed properly. She doubted his assurances. Would she even be able to walk this time?

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She moistened her dry lips. “Anna—” She stopped herself from saying the rest. Her name wasn’t that common. There could be news of her drowning. Clumsy, crippled Annalise, the newly minted Duchess of Bloodsworth, fell off her wedding barge. Such a poor, hapless girl. She was certain the duke would present the image of grieving husband to perfection. She, better than anyone, knew how well he could act.

“Anna,” she repeated.

She pressed her lips as though her name might slip past against her will. She would guard her identity. Doing so might be the only thing to keep her alive. The last thing she wanted was her husband showing up to finish the deed. Her throat tightened as the image of his face filled her head. His words echoed inside her ears. Little cow, I’m thinking you’ll sink straight to the bottom.

A whimper rose to her lips. She swallowed it back, vowing that she would never be afraid again. He would never hurt her. No one would.

“Anna,” the stranger whispered. “Do you know what happened?”

“I don’t remember,” she lied. She shook her head, shifting on the bed. Pain lanced her leg and traveled up though her hip. She gasped.

“Here.” He pressed a cup to her lips. “Drink.” She swallowed, coughing against the bitter liquid. Clearly not the water she first thought he was offering her.

“What is that rot?” she choked.

“Water laced with some herbs to ease your discomfort. Mirela has been giving it to you to help with the pain.”

“Who is Mirela?”

“A Gypsy. I found you and brought you here. She’s been caring for you.” He fell silent, and she heard his slight movements as he took her cup and set it down somewhere close. “Do you know how you ended up on that riverbank?”

A reasonable question. He would want to alert her family that she was alive and well—return her to their care.

She shook her head, grateful for the dim lighting that he could not see her face. No doubt she looked as panicked as she felt. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

He sighed softly and contrary to her earlier wish, she would have liked to see his face, to ascertain whether he believed her. Madame Brouchard’s other apprentices had always called her a horrible liar. They knew, of course, because they loved to tease her and ask her terribly awkward questions that she wouldn’t dare answer truthfully.

Have you ever been kissed, Annalise?

Annalise, tell us, do you not find Mr. Newman the most handsome fellow . . . I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a kiss stolen from him.

She winced at the memory. How those girls would laugh now to see her broken and rejected in the worst way imaginable by her own husband.

Shaking off such thoughts, she moistened her dry, cracked lips. “Who are you?”

He did not immediately answer her. She sensed his body shift, as if moving farther away from her.

“My name is Owen. Owen Crawford.”

Owen. A nice, strong name. The type of name that belonged to a man who rescued young ladies from near-death.

“How long have I been here?” She glanced around the shadowed space, sensing it was small. And where is here? She bit back the question. One at a time. She already felt tired again, her lids heavy over her eyes.

“Almost a week.”

A week!

At her sharp inhalation, he explained quickly in that deep voice that was coming to soothe her. “You were feverish. We didn’t know if you were going to survive.”

Her mind raced. Were they even looking for her? Everyone must assume her dead by now. That realization actually made her breathe easier. The tension ebbed from her body. If Bloodsworth thought she was dead, why correct the misapprehension? Her family would not miss her. She had known them for only a short while. Jack had ignored her for the entirety of her life until recently, when he decided he wanted a blue blood for a son-in-law. She’d not put her trust in him again. She’d trust no one but herself ever again.

“Th-Thank you.” It was impossible to keep her eyes open. The pull of sleep was too much. “Still . . . tired.”

“Get some rest. We can talk more later.”

She managed a nod before her eyelids drifted shut again, the deep rumble of his voice a faraway echo through her head.

Her lips moved. Words fell without deliberation, “Will you . . . stay . . .”