Chapter Six

He slept like the dead and awoke with no concept of where he was. He lay for a moment, eyes stretched wide open, and took in the place where he was: fine, high-ceilinged room, burgundy-colored draperies at the window and heavy, dark furniture. Faint sunlight seeped in from outside, showing him he lay in a bed that had four high posters, finer than any where he’d ever laid his head.

Panic clawed at his belly, like the band of pain that encircled his throat. He didn’t know this place or how he came here. He didn’t know his name.

Clara.

He sat up so abruptly his stomach lurched and he had to fight down the urge to vomit. For an instant he thought his brain would explode. Beneath the satin-edged covers he was naked. A robe—brocade, gold and red—lay across the foot of the bed.

Did he remember the robe?

God, but his throat hurt. He put up an exploratory hand and encountered a wide abrasion. It hurt both in and outside. What did he recall?

A slip of a lass. Gray-green eyes. She’d kissed him.

His panic calmed somewhat but didn’t dissipate. He fought his way out of the covers and went to the window. Below lay a street, an ordinary street with houses—fine, big ones. The street lay wet, though it wasn’t raining now. Dimly he remembered it had rained. Now light bled from his left. Morning.

The house directly across, built of red brick, had a steamcarriage out front. Two lads tossed a ball back and forth.

Two lads.

Did he know them?

As he watched, a lass came out of the house door directly below and called to them, a tiny, brown beauty.

His belabored brain supplied a name: Georgina.

The lads followed her into the house.

Why was he here? Why couldn’t he remember? By God, he needed a drink.

The room door behind him whispered open. He caught a glimpse of an elfin face before it shut again, abruptly.

He snatched up the robe, shrugged into it, and yanked the door open, catching her with wide, startled eyes.

Her gaze skittered from his face to his throat, down across the muscles of his chest and, as if she could not prevent it, lower still.

Clara.

Deliberately, he left the robe hanging open. Want some of that, do you? Come on in—the bed’s just there.

“How do you feel this morning?” she asked politely.

Better, for seeing you. “Well enough, except for my throat.” The pain there burned, worse than it had last night, and soreness radiated across his shoulders and down his back.

“I may be able to do something for that. Come to my father’s surgery for a moment.”

With a crooked smile, he tied the robe closed, then followed her down the main stairs and through the door on the left.

Aye, and he had been in places such as this before, though he did not know where or when. A high couch covered in leather occupied the center of the room, and a strong smell of cleaning solution stung his nose. A desk stood in the far corner and shelves filled every other available space.

Clara turned immediately to one of these and nodded at the couch. “Sit there, please.”

“You know what you’re after doing with all these vials and implements?”

“I frequently assisted my father here.” She turned about to face him, and he found himself struck again by the impact of her presence. Bright light flooded through the front windows, making her eyes look more green than gray. Her light brown hair gathered like a cap of feathers around her head, and she looked fragile as a bird. A fey creature, sure.

She approached him, a jar and a bundle of cloth in her hands.

“I will just bathe and soothe these abrasions, and wrap your throat to keep you from frightening any more children.”

She meant to touch him. Glory be to God.

She poured clear liquid from the jar onto a folded cloth.

“What is that, then?”

“Witch hazel.”

“Good name for you, that.”

“I am not a witch, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Don’t call me that. ’Tisn’t my name.”

“What else am I to call you?”

“What was that first name you gave me last night?”

“William.”

“Liam, then. Call me Liam.”

Her eyes met his for a brief instant that rendered him breathless. She stood, now, virtually within his arms, and him wearing almost nothing.

“I hope this will ease the pain of those abrasions; I will also apply some of my father’s special unguent. He left a small quantity upon his death.”

“How long’s he been gone, then?” He fought against the sensation her hands made against the skin of his throat. She had better not look down, for he was hard again. Christ, sure and only green lads were constantly in this condition.

“Eight months. We were not in particularly good straits even then. My father tended to donate his services to those in need more often than he charged for them.” Her touch felt far too gentle and careful to affect him this way. He was about ready to burst into flame.

She laid aside the cloth and left him, to search for a second jar on one of the shelves. Devastation assailed him until she returned.

“So,” he said, striving mightily to sound sane, “you’ve no finances, then?”

“There is some money tied to the house, and various small amounts coming in, barely enough to feed all the mouths we have at present.”

She dipped her fingers into the jar and then ran them over the skin of his throat. He nearly came off the couch, the pleasure felt so intense.

“Ah!”

“I’m sorry, does that sting?”

He wouldn’t be able to tell if it did. His blood roared in his ears and obliterated any pain.

She continued calmly, “And even that funding will end, and we will lose the house very soon, when I turn twenty-one.”

“How is that, then?”

“It’s a complicated matter, Mr.—Liam. This house never actually belonged to my father but has been in trust to me since my mother died. It was settled upon my mother by her father, a wealthy man in this city. He never approved of my father, you see, but granted Mother’s request by including a proviso allowing him to remain here throughout his life with a small, extremely stingy income. And I am to inherit it after, provided I’m married by the age of twenty-one.”

“That seems a strange set of circumstances.”

“My grandfather is a very strange man.” She sighed, a small sound he felt all through his body. “He came to Buffalo as a youngster, when the Erie Canal opened, and made his fortune shipping lumber back east. The wealth he made he invested in the city, buying a great deal of property. He has a good eye and managed to snatch up and build on parcels that later proved valuable. He has become one of the richest men on the Niagara Frontier.”

“Aren’t you a lucky girl, then?”

“No, Liam, I’m not.”

“But the old bugger will kick off one day, and you’re bound to inherit, right?”

Her gaze met his in a long look. “No, I will not. My grandfather had other children, who did not defy him and marry outside what he considered their station. I have many cousins of whom he approves. He settled this house on my mother as a dowry, but I expect nothing else from him. And I highly suspect he would enjoy nothing more than snatching this place away from me.”

“Aye, well, you are in a bit of a fix.”

“I am.” She finished fastening the cloth bandage around his throat. Her fingers stilled, but she didn’t withdraw them. He remained all too aware of them resting lightly against his skin.

And, sweet Jesus, he could catch her scent, an enticing fragrance like herbs and pure woman. “Can you no’ break the terms of this will?”

“We’ve tried. Out of concern for me, my father attempted just that before his death. And I have spoken with a lawyer, a friend of mine, since. No hope, I’m afraid. As I have said, my concern is not so much for me but all those dependent on me—Georgina and the children.”

“So, then, you’ve only to get married.” It should be easy enough for her, uncannily lovely as she was, and with a property promised to her.

“I intend to.”

His stomach dropped. Before he could speak, she continued, “But I will tolerate no traditional marriage. No man will ever tell me what to do, nor make me vow to obey him. Just so you know that. And you should also know that the money attached to the house—that I’ll come into when I turn twenty-one, provided I’m married—should be enough to keep us all, I hope, at least modestly.”

He lifted a brow. “Why do I need to know that?”

Her gaze seared him, burning green. “Because you are my intended husband.”