How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(14)

She sucked in a deep breath. Her fist knotted in the blanket covering her lap as if she could crush the reminder in her grip. Her breakfast of porridge and milk threaten to rise up on her.

She belonged to no man. Not her social-climbing father who wanted nothing more than to wed her to the highest bidder—she saw that now. Not her husband. And not some stranger who scraped her up off the banks of the river. She was her own independent woman and would be solely that from now on. She would recover, heal, and carve a new life for herself somewhere far from all of them.

Mirela watched her with interest, one gray eyebrow lifted in silent inquiry. Annalise, shaking her head slightly, forced a tremulous smile and turned her attention to the portrait of a long-ago family member set within the cupboard.

She held silent as Mirela went about gathering the wet linens used for her sponge bath earlier in the day. After a few moments she found her voice to ask, “When do you think I can get out of this bed?”

“Hmm. Perhaps another four . . . five weeks.”

She felt her eyes bulge in her face. “Five weeks?”

“You broke your leg . . .”

“Last time I didn’t stay in bed nearly so long.” She had already confessed to the childhood memory of breaking her leg when she fell from a tree. She thought that could be important for Mirela to know as she went about nursing her. After all, just because she remembered something that happened to her at fourteen did not mean she could remember the traumatic event from a week ago.

“And you had a limp, no?”

Annalise nodded again.

“That is why. You did not give it time to heal properly.” Mirela looked at her in accusation. As if she was to blame for her limp.

Not that she’d had much of a choice in the matter. Mrs. Danvers demanded her up and moving about within a week, helping her mother with the smaller children in the nursery. Her mother’s employer did not care one whit about allowing her time to recuperate.

Mirela lifted the bowl of soapy water. “This time, we will let it heal.” She stabbed one gnarled finger toward Annalise. “You will not move from that bed.”

Her face flushed both hot and cold as the reality of her life for the next five weeks settled over her.

She would remain in this bed, in this wagon, with a strange man sleeping a foot away from her every night? It wasn’t to be borne.

A path of sunlight tunneled into the wagon as Mirela opened the door and descended the steps. Annalise leaned forward, eager and aching for its warmth, for the vast openness of the outdoors. Just as quickly the light was gone. The door shut with a click and she was all alone in a space that felt like it was shrinking by the moment. She slumped back in the bed, quite convinced she would go stark raving mad stuck here for several more weeks.



Owen looked up from where he stacked an armful of kindling he had gathered from the nearby woods. Mirela stood in front of him, the rare afternoon sunlight glinting off her many brilliant gold necklaces.

“Mirela,” he greeted, marveling how this elderly, slow-moving woman managed to move with such stealth. He never heard her approach.

“What do you think you are doing?”

He glanced down at the kindling and bit off the sarcastic reply rising to his lips. “Helping . . .” He let the word hang, more question than statement. From the irritated way she glared at him, he did not think she approved of his activity.

Several of the men had gone into the village to speak with townsmen regarding tomorrow’s fair, and Owen had taken it upon himself to gather the day’s kindling. It was something to do rather than sit idle and wonder what precisely he was doing here with a band of Gypsies and an invalid female.

She pointed to the wagon. “That girl needs some attention.”

He stared from the wagon to the old woman.

“I don’t understand. Are you no longer capable of caring for—”

“I’m not talking of tending her injuries. I speak of her spirit. She is restless, lonely.”

He stared, unsure how to respond to that. He was not a companion for hire. “I’m certain you or one of the other women would be better equipped—”

“Nonsense. She trusts you. You rescued her.”

“That hardly makes me fit company.” He’d taken measures to give Anna her privacy. Rising before she woke and retiring after she slept. Even though she claimed memory loss, she had clearly been through an ordeal, and he had no intention of making her uneasy with his hovering presence. Or perhaps he didn’t want to make himself too comfortable. Either way, he kept his distance.

Mirela pointed to the wagon. “She’s been in that bed two weeks now and you dawdle out here . . .” She waved wildly. “ . . . playing with your sticks.”

He blinked. “What am I to do?” He was still here. He hadn’t left. He was obliged to stay with the woman. At least until they learned her identity and he knew where she belonged. No doubt she had a family waiting for her somewhere, sick with worry. Maybe even a husband. Perhaps she had been traveling with family and was set upon by brigands.

He glanced back at the wagon as though he could see within to its confines, to Anna lying there on the bed. For all he knew, the damage to her leg, the bruise to her ribs, had not been the only injury done to her person. His chest pulled and tightened uncomfortably at the notion. Regaining her memory might be the worst trauma to befall her yet.