He opened his eyes.

A soft glow illuminated the narrow, unfamiliar space, and he squinted, searching through the haziness, trying to make out the colored splotches in the darkened room.

He lighted upon a figure, wrapped in a coverlet. She rested in a chair at the end of the bedstead, dozing.

He rolled onto his side, parted his lips to call out to her…then grimaced at the shooting pain in his head.

The figure stirred and murmured sleepily, “You’re awake.”

He wished to the blazes he wasn’t awake. He couldn’t make out the woman’s figure clearly, for his vision was blurred and the room was in shadow. The vigorous pulsing in his head muddled his senses, too, and his jaw was tender.

He groaned and clutched his bandaged skull. “What happened?”

She slipped away from the chair, stepped into the faint candlelight, and knelt beside the bedstead. It was then he was able to observe her features more plainly—and she was lovely. Long, fine hair framed her winsome face, the fair tresses wavy and sparkling in the misty light. She possessed a milky complexion, with well-defined lips and a small, straight nose, the rounded tip upturned slightly.

She might be considered haughty with such a proud façade; however, there was a much more agreeable side to her countenance: a passionate, sensual side. It was there in her eyes. Sharp, almost exotic green eyes that pierced a poor fellow with their haunting beauty. He remembered those eyes from…

“What happened?”

Had he asked her that question already? he wondered. Had she responded? He didn’t remember.

“You were injured in a fight,” she said in a sweet-sounding voice that matched her charming visage.

He traced a finger across his bandaged brow, searching through the murky memories in his head. “Did I win the fight?”

She frowned. “Is that all you care about? There’s a gash at the back of your head.”

The woman’s petulant expression marred her pretty features. He thought about smoothing her down-turned lips into a smile with his fingers. He sensed she wouldn’t appreciate the teasing gesture, though, and said instead:

“Where am I?”

“At lodgings in St. Giles.”

He closed his eyes, searching for a memory, a recollection, but a pleasant thought soon entered his drowsy mind, and he wondered:

“Are we married?”

“What? No!”

He rubbed the sore muscles across his midriff. “Then why am I naked in your bed?”

“You’re half naked,” she clarified, blushing. “I removed your shirt and coat because the garments were stained with blood. I’ve washed the linens and they’re drying in the other room.”

That didn’t sound too scandalous, he thought glumly. “Are you my sweetheart, then?”

“No!”

She looked as if she wanted to clout him. Very unromantic.

“Don’t you remember anything?” she said.

He paused, thoughts spinning. “No.”

She peered at him suspiciously. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“I don’t even know who I am.”

She seemed oddly pleased by his confession, for she smiled slightly. “My name is Amy. I was attacked. You offered me assistance.”

“That was very noble of me.”

She quickly made a moue. “Yes, very noble.”

“Who am I? Where am I from?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a sigh. “I don’t know anything about you.”

That sounded dire, and yet he wasn’t all that perturbed. Perhaps the head injury was making him mellow. It didn’t seem right that he should be so calm at the prospect of amnesia.

Or perhaps it was the lovely Amy who was making him feel so tranquil. She had a magical, bewitching appeal about her. It suited him just fine if he forever stayed in her bed and admired her.

Had she sensed his intimate thoughts? If so, the lass didn’t share his wistful sentiment, for she moved away from the bedstead then, and approached a small dressing table in the corner of the room.

“I found this on your person when I removed your coat.”

She handed him a small coin purse. He fingered the fine leather satchel and glanced at the embroidered initials.

“E.H.,” he drawled.

“It might be your name,” she suggested.

The letters didn’t stir his memory, however. “What sorts of names begin with the letter E?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He mused, “There’s Eric or Elmer.”

“Elmer?”

He glanced at her dubious expression. “I don’t look like an Elmer, do I?”

She shook her head.

“There’s Edward,” he said.

“Edward’s nice.”

He shrugged and set the purse aside. “Edward it is then. I don’t think the initials are mine, though. I think I stole the purse.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It’s embroidered with gold thread. Look here.” He lifted it again, stretching it toward the candlelight. The stitching was luminous. “It’s too fancy, something a bloody nob would sport, not a…” He frowned. “Well, whoever I am, I’m not a nob. I’m sure of that.”

“Wonderful,” she said dryly. “I’m harboring a thief.”

“Ah, but a thief who saved your life.”

She snorted. “That would explain your foul manners at—”

“My foul manners?”

“Never mind.”

He persisted: “At…?”

“Never mind!” She sighed. “I think you’re a sailor.” She murmured, “When you’re not thieving.”

He tossed the purse aside. “Why do you think that?”

“You have a tattoo on your back.”

“I do?”

“An anchor on your right shoulder. There are some more letters there, too.”

He fingered his shoulder. “What do they say?”

She looked away. “I can’t read.”

He observed her embarrassed mannerisms, her averted eyes. He didn’t want to make her feel even more uncomfortable, so he said to comfort her:

“I might not be able to read, either.”

“But you know the name Edward starts with an E?”

“Good point.” He wrestled with his dizziness, and with great effort settled into a precarious sitting position. “Do you have a mirror?”

She eyed him warily. “You’re pale.”

He had sensed the blood drain from his face as soon as he’d righted himself. The pounding in his head was ferocious, too. “I’ll rest soon, I promise. The mirror?”

She sighed and skirted across the room once more. She collected two small mirrors from the dressing table, for she had anticipated his intention.

“Here.” She handed him a looking glass with a white bone handle. “I’ll hold the other one.”

He gazed into the reflective material, then slowly lifted the other small mirror, angling it over his right shoulder.

He spotted the inked anchor and the penmanship. “Bonny Meg.”

“I suppose she’s your sweetheart.” She snatched the mirror away from him. “I’m sure you have one in every port.”

Amy sounded…jealous, and that pleased him immensely, warming his belly. She ordered him to rest again. He obliged her; his head was throbbing.

“I guess I can read.”

He sighed as he lowered his head onto the feather pillow.

“I guess you can,” she returned stiffly, setting the mirrors onto the dressing table. “An educated thief. I’m impressed.”

Was she still brooding over the bonny Meg? he thought wolfishly.

Who was Meg?

His sweetheart? His wife? No…not his wife. He had no memory, but he had a feeling, an instinct the lass was not his spouse. The woman was dear to him, though, that much was for sure. He wouldn’t have inked her name on his back otherwise…unless he’d been foxed at the time. Perhaps she was just a pretty wench he’d tried to impress with the tattoo?

He was thinking too much; his head pounded with vim.

“Are you married, Amy?”

She whirled around. “I told you, we’re not married!”

“To someone else, I mean?”

“No.” She placed her arms akimbo. “I live alone.”

“What do you do for livelihood?”

She hesitated. There was obvious uncertainty in her handsome green eyes.

“Don’t trust an educated thief, do you?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“I wouldn’t, either.”

She screwed up her lips. “I suppose it’s no secret…I’m a barmaid at a gentlemen’s club. I serve drinks—and that’s all I do!”

“You’ve said that to me before, haven’t you?” He frowned. “It sounds like you’re repeating yourself.”

“I am.” She glowered at him. “You were both foxed—and bold—tonight.”

“At the club? Where we met?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry.”

She bobbed her head. “You’re forgiven.”

He might still be woozy and disoriented, but something didn’t seem quite right about her cajoling him into an apology.

“Didn’t I save your life?”

She pointed at him with accusation. “You do remember!”

“No,” he said, drawing out the word. “You told me I saved your life, remember?”

She looked flustered. He admired the color in her cheeks. It suited her pale complexion well.

“Yes, you offered me assistance,” she confirmed. “And?”

“Well, where’s my thank-you?”

She eyed him with suspicion. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t very sincere.”

She scowled at him. “What do you want from me?”

“A kiss.”

She pressed her pretty lips together until the rosy flesh turned white. “You’re teasing me. You do remember everything about tonight, don’t you?”

Had he kissed her at the club? What a miserable quirk of fate that he shouldn’t remember the sensual experience. It made the agony in his head all the more acute, for he rummaged through the foggy shadows in his mind, searching for the sweet memory.

A series of knocks resounded at the door in the other room.

Edward winced at the cacophony in his skull.

“Let me in, Amy!”

“Oh no!” The lass whitened even more. “It’s Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

The unusual name rolled around in his head. “Who?”

“Stay here!”

She sprinted from the room and soon returned with his shirt and coat. She tossed both garments, still moist, onto the bed.

“Don’t leave the room, please! If she finds you here, she’ll have me tossed into the street!”

The look of horror in Amy’s eyes sobered Edward. Madame Raf…whatever her name was…must be the eccentric landlady who frowned on any immoral activity taking place under her roof—like an unmarried girl entertaining a bachelor in her bedchamber. He certainly didn’t want to see the lass destitute. However, staying in the room wasn’t going to protect Amy, not if the landlady was determined to search the quarters.

He gathered his clothes as soon as Amy had closed the door, kicked his boots, sitting on the floor, under the bed, then slowly made his way to the tall, decorative screen at the other end of the bedchamber.

He was dizzy and a bit confused by the need for a room divider in such a small space, but he slipped behind it, unwilling to dwell too much on the oddity…or the collection of ladies’ mirrors that rested on the dressing table. There had to be at least a dozen!

Amy was a vain minx, wasn’t she?

 

Amy frantically searched the sitting room with her eyes for any sign of Edward’s presence. She had removed his shirt and coat from the hearth. She observed no other indicator that there was a man staying in her lodgings: a man who might know her secret identity as Zarsitti.

More pounding at the door.

What was the queen doing at her apartment so late at night?

Amy glanced at the mantel clock. It was after midnight. With a deep breath and trembling fingers, she unfastened the bolt at the door.

“Madame?”

The surly queen elbowed her way inside the apartment. “What is the meaning of this?” She produced a piece of shattered glass and shoved it in Amy’s face as if she might cut her. “The dressing room is in shambles: broken glass, furniture. What did you do?”

Amy veered her head to one side to avoid the lacerated edge. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Liar!”

“I’m not lying,” she insisted in an even voice, heart swelling. “I was attacked.”

The queen pinched her brows together. “By whom?”

“Whom do you think?” The wicked woman was privy to the overexcited patrons at the club, and Amy gathered her courage to demand: “Where were the guards to protect me?”

Madame Rafaramanjaka set the piece of glass aside. She eyed the dancer with venom. “I saw no one inside the dressing room.”

The men must have regained their senses and escaped before the queen and guards had spotted them, Amy thought, but she refrained from making the claim aloud, for she was sure the cruel woman would not believe her.

“I was attacked,” Amy insisted.

“You look fine to me.” She grabbed her chin and roughly pushed it from side to side, inspecting the flesh. “Not a scratch.”

Amy wriggled away from her icy claws, shivering at the woman’s vile touch. “That’s because I had help. One of the patrons came to my aid, but he doesn’t my true—”

“Who?” Her black eyes flashed. “Your lover?”

“I don’t have a lover.”

“Is he here?”

The queen glanced around the room as if she had not heard the assertion, her cheeks filling with blood. She headed for the bedroom door.

“There’s no one here!” cried Amy.

But it was too late. The wretched woman entered the bedchamber and Amy sensed her heart pause in trepidation, sweat gather between her brows…and then she sighed, the room empty.

Where the devil had he gone?

The queen marched out of the bedchamber in a haughty manner. “Why are the bedsheets rumpled?”

Amy blinked, casting aside her bewilderment. “I was asleep,” she fibbed.

“In your clothes?” She sneered. “He was just here, wasn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Your lover, you stupid slut!”

Amy clenched her fingers into fists. “I don’t have a lover.” She pinched her tongue between her teeth, but, oh, there was so much more she wanted to impart to the miserable, insufferable witch. “And if I had a lover who’d just departed, wouldn’t I be in my underclothes?”

“Whore!” The queen was unmoved, erratic. She approached Amy, fingers quivering. “There are other girls employed at the club to service the needs of the patrons.”

Yes, and it was Amy’s duty to arouse the patrons into fits of ecstasy, encourage them to seek out the “other girls,” thus plumping the queen’s purse.

She shuddered.

“What if you become enceinte?” demanded the queen. “Do you think men will want to admire a woman with a fat belly?”

“I’m not pregnant!”

“At the first sign of a babe”—she moved her forefinger across her throat—“I’m cutting you off.”

Amy gasped for breath, her fingers quivering. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room, for the self-centered queen had already tried and condemned her for her imaginary folly.

Amy eyed the iron poker next to the coal hearth and imagined…

She soon smothered the gruesome thought.

Madame Rafaramanjaka looked around the sitting room with scorn. “What is the meaning of so many trinkets?”

An instinct to protect the so-called trinkets welled in Amy’s breast. She had diligently saved her pennies to afford more luxurious items, like the damask window treatments with decorative finials, the bright patterned rug, the brass candlestick holders, the cranberry glass vase.

“Is this why you’re whoring?” The queen fingered an expensive, handmade oak chair with disdain. “To supplement your income?” She snickered. “What are you trying to do? Become a lady?”

Amy trembled with vexation. The desire to spit at and wipe the witch’s fingerprints from the furniture stirred her blood. She bit out stiffly, “I don’t have to explain my reasons to you.”

“I pay you too much.” She huffed. “I’m cutting your salary in half until you pay off the damage to the dressing room.”

Amy parted her lips to protest; the damage inside the dressing room was not her fault.

“Don’t tempt me, girl,” warned the witch, anticipating the objection. “One more troubling word from you and I’ll terminate your services at the club—entirely!”

Amy pinched her lips together, her resistance dashed.

“I want the coin purse, too,” she snapped. “You sallied off with it tonight. Do you think I’m going to fashion you a new one every week?”

“Yes, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

Amy returned to her bedroom. As she entered the cramped space, she looked for Edward. Was he under the bed? She eyed the narrow gap between the furniture and the flooring; she concluded the man was too big to fit there.

Where are you?

There was a chest in the corner of the room, next to the bedstead. The sturdy piece of furniture was locked. She removed the key from her bosom and retrieved the cursed satchel. As she departed from the room, she noticed bare toes shuffling under the fashionable screen.

Amy sighed and returned to the sitting room, where the petulant queen was still waiting. She removed her earnings from the little black bag before she returned the purse to the wicked woman.

The witch opened her hand for more.

“What?” demanded Amy.

“I want half your wages now.”

Amy’s heart pulsed. She squeezed the cold, hard-earned metal between her fingers. “No.”

“You can give me half the money now or forfeit all your wages next week.”

Amy gnashed her teeth, trembling, as she counted the coins, halving the much-needed salary.

“Here,” she said crisply.

The queen humphed before she snatched the blunt and removed her white, short gloves from her reticule. She slipped on the pair, then bustled from the room.

Amy was rooted to the spot, her breathing deep and heavy, her thoughts whirling in her head. She waited a few more seconds before she cautiously opened the door and peeped into the passageway. It was empty. She closed the barrier and secured the bolt.

As soon as the iron lock was in place, she sighed. She was stiff, every muscle taut, every nerve thrumming. The queen had an unfortunate knack for unsettling her good sense, for taking away every vestige of hope she possessed.

She moved away from the front entrance and gathered her breath, her thoughts. She glanced at the bedchamber through the opened door. “Come out, Edward.”

She entered the room just as the man’s tall figure emerged from behind the burnished divider. He had removed the bandages, and his low brow and smoldering blue eyes met hers with poignant regard.

He was clutching his shirt and coat. He set the garments on the bed. “She isn’t the landlady, is she?”

Amy shivered at the low timbre of his voice. It was rough, but not harsh. It was such a soothing contrast to the queen’s shrill tone that she yearned to keep him talking even though she knew it was better for him if he rested again.

“No,” she admitted cheerlessly. “She’s my employer.”

He reached for his coin purse, tangled in the white bed linen. As he stretched his long limbs, his muscles moved and flexed, and she was suddenly aware of his robust figure.

She blushed at the thought that she was aware of his robust figure. A warm sensation quickly rushed from her head to her toes, making her quiver.

He approached her. In the dim candlelight, she observed the smooth stretch of skin that covered his chest, his strapping form: a seaman’s form. He had an athletic build; it teemed with strength. Healed cuts marked his ribs, the scarred flesh paler than the rest of his tanned physique. He had been injured before, it seemed.

He followed her gaze with his eyes and glanced at his torso, rubbing the wounds. He said nothing, however. What was there to say? He had no memory…or so he claimed. She was still dubious about his bout with amnesia.

“I want you to take the money, Amy.”

He offered her the coin purse.

“No, it’s all the money you have in the world.”

She wanted to smother the stirring sensations in her belly, and she stepped away from him…but his dark blue eyes still fired her senses.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her in a cool, confident manner. “If I don’t remember my name soon, I’ll join a ship’s crew and earn my keep.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“The room at the club was damaged in the fight, wasn’t it?” He looked at her with a sharp glare. “I damaged it.”

“Helping me,” she clarified.

He had listened to the entire exchange between her and the queen. For a moment, she had forgotten about the wretched witch. She was soon filled with anxiety, though, as she rehashed the quarrel in her mind, wondering if she had inadvertently revealed any details about her secret identity as the dancer. In the end, she concluded she had not offered any insight into Zarsitti’s existence.

“I still want you to take the money.” He placed the purse on the dressing table since she still refused to take it. “I’ll leave it here whether you like it or not. Do what you want with it.”

An honorable thief?

Amy munched on her bottom lip. He wasn’t acting like an obnoxious lout anymore; he was behaving like a gentleman. It had to be the forgetfulness, she thought, making him so chivalrous. If he regained his memory, she was sure he wouldn’t be so gallant…that he’d return to his scoundrellike ways.

Slowly he grappled with his shirt and slipped it over his head, grimacing at the clearly difficult movements.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m leaving.”

“But your clothes are still wet.”

“It isn’t right for me to be here.”

That much was true, but the man was injured. He had risked his own well-being to protect her from the attackers. She couldn’t just let him wander the streets at night in a daze. Where would he go?

“Stay here for the night,” she insisted. “You have to rest.”

“No.”

He reached for his coat, and she grabbed the garment away from him. “You’re staying for the night whether you like it or not.” She tossed the coat onto the dressing table, then pointed at his chest. “Your shirt.”

There was a mulish gleam in his eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

“You have to heal.”

She stepped toward him with determination and tugged at his shirt. He lifted a black brow at her brazenness, but she ignored the impropriety of the gesture, for she was much more concerned with his unreasonable state of mind.

He sighed at last. With effort, he pulled the moist fabric off his back. She sensed it as he struggled with his breath, his steps wavering, and she quickly grabbed his arms to support him. He yanked the shirt over his head—caging her between his arms and the garment that still hung from his wrists.

Amy’s heart pattered at the hard, warm feel of his sinewy body. The masculine musk from his skin teased her senses, too, and the deep glow in his eyes melted her hardheartedness. She listened to the rugged sound of his breathing, impervious to the more reasonable shouts of danger that crowded in her head.

“Amy.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I think I’m going to black out.”

Eyes wide, Amy quickly slipped away from his strong embrace. She escorted him back to the bedstead, where he dropped with a hard sigh before, as threatened, he fainted.

She chastised herself for her folly. She removed the shirt from his wrists, gathered the coat from the dressing table, and headed back into the sitting room, stretching the garments across the chairs and pushing them nearer the warm hearth.