JENNA SWAM IN the darkness of a twilight world. Was that snow melting on her face, or her own tears?
And then, miraculously, she realized that she was no longer alone. She felt the touch of a leather-gloved hand on her cheek. A thick blanket was wrapped around her. Heat radiated from it, cocooning her in warmth and safety. She sank into it, and into soothing oblivion.
Fleeting sounds and sensations roused her, danced through her hazy awareness. The scrape of a chair, a man’s deep voice and a woman’s soft reply. The closing of a door. Later there were gentle hands, a cup of cool water pressed to her lips.
She woke gradually, and struggled against an overwhelming lassitude. In the silence she heard the hiss and crackle of flame, smelled the deep, smoky fragrance of a wood fire. Her eyes fluttered open. She saw a lovely, candlelit room and glimpsed the reflection of a handsome, dark-haired man in the mirrored armoire.
I’m dreaming, she told herself. And a very nice dream it is.
Later, when she awoke briefly, the man was gone, the candles snuffed. She didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. The room was shrouded in deep shadows, the only light that of the banked fire in the hearth. She looked toward it and gasped.
An enormous beast was stretched out on the rug before the hearth. At her sound, it turned its head and regarded her steadily. Its eyes glowed like burnished coins.
Her heart constricted with a leap of atavistic fear. The creature stared at her a moment, then lowered its head.
Jenna stared. Then she realized what it was: a very large dog, its face framed by a ruff of pale, silvery fur.
For a split second, she’d thought it was a wolf.
The next time Jenna awakened it was to filtered daylight. She was disoriented for a moment, as she struggled to free herself from a nightmare in which was running, wild with fear, across an alien landscape.
As the fear receded, an awareness of pain took its place. Her left shoulder and ribs felt bruised, and her head ached abominably. There was a bandage on her temple and another on her arm.
She was in a bed, a high tester bed with elaborately carved posts and hangings of pale gold brocade. The draperies were partially open, and the unfamiliar view through the tall windows revealed a wide green valley tucked in the embrace of lofty mountains.
She turned her head and winced as pain lanced through it.
The man standing before the marble fireplace heard her sharp intake of breath and whirled around. He was dressed casually but expensively, in gray slacks and a crisp shirt, open at his tanned throat.
Something teased at the back of her mind. Recognition came to her slowly. He was the man whose reflection she’d seen in the mirror.
He strode across the chamber to the bedside, looking very much in control of the situation. She was suddenly and intensely aware of her disheveled state, with the white gown slipping off her shoulder and her tousled hair.
Although his eyes were dark, up close she saw that they held a golden light in their depths. He inclined his head. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. How do you feel?”
Jenna licked her dry lips. Her voice was hoarse when she answered. “Like I fell off a cliff. On my head.”
“You came very close to doing so. It was only by the grace of God that I arrived on the scene in time to prevent it.”
“I’m sorry that I don’t remember it . . . but I’m very grateful to you.”
He regarded her intently. “You recall nothing of the circumstances that brought you here?”
“I’m afraid not. The last thing I remember was leaving my hotel.”
“That is not unusual, given what happened. You were wandering about on the mountainside and fell, striking your head. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past day and a half.”
Jenna stared at him. That was a shock.
She raised her hand to her head and felt the bandage at her temple. “I don’t remember—except that you were here when I woke earlier.”
“Ah.” His dark eyes were suddenly wary. She had the impression of shadows flickering through their depths. “So you remember that,” he said. He lifted a red glass goblet from somewhere out of sight and held it to her lips. “Drink this. It will ease the pain.”
“Not if it will put me to sleep again. I need to sort things out. Is this some sort of hospital or rest home? Are you a doctor?”
He laughed and suddenly looked younger. “The answer to both your questions is no, mademoiselle. This is my home.” He made her a low bow. “Philippe Beaumont, at your service.”
“I’m Jenna. Jenna D’Arcy. I wish I could remember . . .”
She frowned as images tumbled through her mind, like out-of-focus photographs in a stranger’s album. Night . . . a narrow track . . . trees . . .
His eyes fixed on hers with peculiar intensity. “So you do remember something of it, mademoiselle?”
“Jumbled bits and pieces.” She shook her head to clear it. Pain exploded behind her eyes, leaving her shaken and dizzy.
Philippe watched her with concern. Her skin had gone as pale as her gown, and her lovely face was drawn. With her blue eyes shadowed and her hair in a wild corona of curls, she looked touchingly young and vulnerable.
“Don’t try to force your memory,” he advised. “The important thing is that you continue to rest and recover.”
He lifted the red goblet once more. “Drink this down, if you please. It is an old family recipe, and heals the body as well as soothing the mind. When you’ve slept a bit you’ll feel much better.”
She didn’t refuse this time, but sipped the bittersweet brew. It smelled of oranges and honey and something distinctly medicinal. “I hope when I do wake again that I’ll remember more.”
He took the empty cup from her hand. “Sleep is a great restorative. But you must understand it is very possible that your memory of the accident and its aftermath may never come back in its entirety.”
At least he sincerely hoped, not anytime soon.