How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(13)

She continued gazing at him evenly. “And what shall be your price for helping me, then?”

He stared until she grew uncomfortable. She resisted the urge to fidget.

“You said nothing is free in this world. I simply wondered what manner of recompense you expected.”

He spoke at last. “I did not mean myself.”

“Oh.” She stared at him, wondering about this man. He held himself tensely, clearly uneasy with their exchange, and she began to suspect that it wasn’t just her but conversation, people in general, that discomfited him.

He looked away, the flesh along his jaw tensing in a way that hinted at his lack of comfort.

She moistened her lips. “Where does Mirela sleep?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Outside with the others. I’m sure you’ll meet them, too. They’ve been curious about you.”

“Curious?”

“Yes. You’ve only shared your name with us, after all.”

“I only know your name,” she rejoined.

He stared at her for a long moment, his vaguely menacing features measuring her in silence. “If I didn’t know any better,” he began slowly, “I would think you’re being evasive with me on purpose.”

“Not at all.” She absently brushed her fingers against her temple. He was practically accusing her of hiding something—which would be accurate.

“You still can’t remember how you got into the river?” he pressed.

She lowered her fingers from her temple and held his stare a moment before shaking her head. “No. I don’t remember . . .” Her voice faded as an idea seized her.

It was so simple. An escape from admitting the shameful truth that her own husband would rather kill her than keep her as his wife. And there was the very real concern that if Owen Crawford knew her identity he would turn her over to her husband. What did she know of him? He rescued her, true, but he might not believe her husband did this to her. A murderous duke—it was far-fetched even to her ears. Bloodsworth was a powerful man, seventh in line for the throne. He might think she belonged with her husband and insist on returning her to his clutches. Fear clawed at her throat at that prospect. No, she could not risk telling anyone who she was.

“Anything? Your family? Friends?”

She grimaced, wondering how plausible he found her lie. “I . . . no, nothing. It’s all nothing. Just blank.”

After a long moment in which he studied her, he sighed softly. “I’m sure it will come back to you. In time.”

She wished she couldn’t, in fact, remember. How wonderful would it be to have no memory of that night?

“Get some sleep for now. Mirela says you need rest the most.”

Nodding, she let her head fall back down on the pillow. Rest wasn’t all she needed, but for now she would settle for that. She would rest, heal, regain her strength.

And then she would figure out what came next.





Chapter Six





Mirela lifted the tray from Annalise’s lap with a satisfied grunt. “You ate almost everything this morning, I see.”

Annalise patted her stomach. “I tried. Still don’t quite have my appetite back.”

“Eh, give it some time. You’re a good stone less than when he first dragged you in here.” Mirela nodded a head toward the wagon door as if he stood out there somewhere. Owen. The man she knew so little about. Except that he had saved her.

It had been almost a week since she woke in the middle of the night to find Owen Crawford sleeping beside her bed. A week since they’d spoken and she claimed memory loss. Since then, he’d kept his distance and talked not at all. He continued to sleep in the wagon with her every night, only entering the confines after she had fallen asleep. And he was always gone before she awoke.

“Who is he?” she asked Mirela, realizing if she wanted to know anything about the elusive man, the old woman might be her best source.

Mirela looked up at her sharply. “You ask me? He’s the one who brought you here.”

“I was out of my head with fever—”

“And you’ve been awake for several days now. Why don’t you ask him your questions?” She waved a hand in the air. “You are his now. I told him as much. It is right that you know who he is.”

Her cheeks burned with scalding heat. “I am not his!” What utter rot. “You did not tell him that, did you?”

The elderly woman nodded as if it were of no account and not a mortifying revelation. “Not that he put much store by it.”

“Of course he didn’t! It’s utter nonsense.” Annalise pressed a hand to her burning face.

“He saved your life. Without him, you would be dead.” She held her hands out in front of her and laced her fingers together, interlocking them. “Your lives are woven together now. Threads in a tapestry.”

Annalise stared at those gnarled hands, the locked fingers. A heaviness built in her chest. It was not true. The woman possessed antiquated principles. She owed Mr. Crawford her gratitude. Nothing more. He certainly wanted no long-standing connection between them. He scarcely spoke to her.

If she was bound to anyone, tragically, it was Bloodsworth. As much as she was loath to admit it, in the eyes of the law and before God she had bound herself to the evil man. Immediately, she felt his weight bearing down on her, smelled his brandy-laden breath . . . heard the echo of his words. Little cow, I’m thinking you’ll sink straight to the bottom.