How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(15)

Mirela’s agitated voice reclaimed his attention. “Talk to her. Keep her company. Carry her outside so that she might get some fresh air.”

Carry her?

He recoiled at the idea of holding her again . . . touching her.

Since she regained consciousness, he was achingly aware of her as a female. She might be bedridden, but that didn’t stop him from studying her as she slept. Creeping into the wagon at night with only a taper to guide him, the dark fan of lashes on her cheeks fascinated him.

He could not understand why. She was no beauty in the classic standard, but there was something about her. She occupied far too much of his thoughts. In his head, alongside his dark and disturbing recollections, his ugly memories . . . that was no place for her to be. She was injured, vulnerable. He shouldn’t be thinking of her as a man thought of a woman. Even after everything he went through in India, he had clung to his own code, some semblance of honor to get himself through it all, to keep himself sane. When he set forth a rule, he would not break it.

He would not touch her.

In order to uphold that promise to himself, he couldn’t imagine carrying her around for fresh air a very good idea. “I don’t think that would be proper.”

Mirela laughed. “Proper? You sound like such an Englishman . . . all staunch and dignified, but we know you are not that, don’t we?” She tapped the corner of her eye. “We know. I see you.”

He stiffened, wondering what it was she thought she saw in him. “I will not carry her. She’s fine as she is. She stays in bed.” Turning, he strode back into the woods under the pretense of fetching more kindling. He did not emerge for several hours.



That night, Annalise heard him enter the wagon. She held herself still, feigning sleep with her eyes closed, debating how best to approach him. As he did not show himself during the day, if she wanted words with him, this was the only way.

She heard him lower himself to the cot, the rustle of his clothing as he removed his jacket. One boot hit the floor with a soft thud, then the next. She heard a puff of breath and suspected that he just blew out a candle.

Moistening her lips, she spoke into the dark. “How long are we going to stay here?” The moment the question escaped her, she winced. We. When had she decided their fates were entwined? Was this because of the foolish words Mirela had rattled off to her?

There was a long pause and she imagined the strong lines of his face contemplating her question. “And where is it that we should go?” His deep voice floated over her. There was no ring of surprise that she was awake, and she wondered if he had known. She recalled his dark blue eyes, so deep and intense. It was as though they missed nothing. Maybe they could even see to her through the dark.

She hastily sought a reply, regretting her rash words.

“Have you regained your memory?” he asked.

“No.” Silence stretched for several moments before she spoke again. “There is a fair,” she announced, turning and staring in the direction of his voice.

“Yes. There is.”

“I should like to see it.”

“You cannot walk,” he reminded her.

She blew out a gust of breath. “Could I perhaps be . . . carried? Pushed on a cart? Anything? I can’t stay in this wagon for weeks.”

Silence met her request.

She balled her hands at her sides. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” He sighed as if it took everything to utter the single word.

She fumed. Talking to him was like pulling one’s teeth.

“The fair?” she prodded.

He did not respond. Clearly he had no wish for her company.

“Why are you even here? Why haven’t you just left?”

He shifted. She thought she identified the outline of him, sitting up beside the bed.

“I found you. You are my responsibility—”

“Oh, indeed?” She snorted lightly. “So you’re a man driven by duty and honor?” She knew she should sound more gracious, thankful even. If he wasn’t that sort of man, she would likely be dead.

His voice stroked the air, low and deep. “You say that like it’s such a bad thing.”

It wasn’t, of course. If not for him, she would doubt such men existed at all anymore. On the heels of her trauma, however, she was still skeptical. “Forgive me. I’m bad-tempered from being cooped up in this wagon.” She took a deep bracing breath, sliding her hands down her face in a slow drag. “Some fresh air for even a short time would improve my mood considerably.” She stared at his shadowy shape, wincing at the plea in her voice.

His silence seemed to indicate that her words were lost on him.

She tried a different tactic. “The fresh air might even be good for me—speed my recovery.” She plucked at her blanket with her fingers, focusing on a patch of loose threads. “I’ve heard that, you know. Well in spirit is well in body.”

Nothing. He didn’t even stir, and she began to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

She propped herself up on an elbow. “Mr. Crawford? Are you listening?”

Annalise strained for a sound of him below her.

“Mr. Crawford?”

Finally he answered her, “Good night, Anna.”

A slight rustling told her he was settling back down, ignoring her request. No promise to let her out of this wagon. No hope from moving from its increasingly oppressive space.