An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 2.2. Regain Consciousness

   Benedic came back to conciousness with a protesting groan of pain. The feminine voice had reached into the depths of his delirium, soft and alluring, reminding him of a time when he had enjoyed basic pleasures. When he had trusted a woman's touch. He wondered where he had heard the voice before, and he wondered briefly where the hell he was before he remembered; Lord help him, he was layered between what he'd dimly identified as female underwear.

   He struggled to pull himself upright from the bottom of the trunk. The undignified position reminded him of how he had posed in a coffin and pretended to be dead only a few short weeks ago. The only thing obvious at the moment, however, was that he was feverish and irrational. There was no other plausible explanation for the words that echoed in his brain.

   "The first time I put it on, my maid placed me halfway in and halfway out on the top. I looked like one of those Amazon women who lopped off one of their breasts so they could take better aim with their bows."

   He frowned, fighting the appeal of that voice, then surged to his feet in a shroud of scented petticoats. For a spell he stood disoriented and shaking, staring blankly at the door. With grim irony he realized that the mortal wounds inflicted by his murderer a month ago might indeed prove his death.

   He remembered now. He had been chased earlier in the evening by the man he employed as his gamekeeper. The loyal Irish servant had only been ensuring the privacy of his new employer, not realizing it was his true master he threatened to shoot. Yes, Benedic admitted it had been foolhardy to venture so close to home, for he did not wish to be recognized yet. The world believed him dead. He had no desire to correct that mistake.

   He had summoned the strength to climb a tree into this room to hide. Which did not appear to have been a wise move either. It was obvious he was in no condition for any sort of physical confrontation. That day would come soon enough. When he had regained his strength, he would take his revenge on the man who had schemed to destroy him.

   For now he needed to heal, to plan, and to deal with the woman whose strange remark had awakened him. Her voice stirred up an enjoyable but elusive chord of memory. The fragrance of expensive soap, a soft female shape, and . . . he was puzzled. How did he know the feel and scent of her?

   She had been talking to another person. He had no idea how large an audience he would be forced to entertain. In the event his ghostly presence failed to provide a sufficient distraction, he was reluctantly prepared to rely upon the physical.

   Checking the ebony-inlaid pistol in his waistband, he stepped toward the door and braced himself for a dramatic scene.

   It never failed to amuse him how hysterically people tended to react when confronted with a dead man.

   Charlotte heard suffering in that subdued groan, a plea for help she could not ignore. She pictured a man in pain, possibly dying from a mortal injury. A man confused and wounded who had taken refuge in her room. It did not occur to her for an instant that to help him would be to endanger herself. Her heroic spirit rose to the summons.

   She pulled on her Chinese dressing robe and flew to the closet without any hesitation . . . . Believing with all her heart that the moan in the dark had come from her own reckless brother, Damon.

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