Eileen Wilks - The Loner And The Lady

“I—” She stopped. Blinked, and fumbled mentally through the clouds that hid her memory, and came up with handfuls of fog. “I was going to say that I used to,” she said slowly. “It was there for a minute, the knowledge that I used to read fantasy. But it’s gone.”

Thank goodness …

“But for a minute you knew,” he said softly. “That proves your memory will come back.” He supported her neck with one of his big, fascinating hands while the other urged her to lie back on the nest of pillows he’d built for her. “All you have to do is take it easy. Everything will come back in time.”

He probably thinks he won that round, Sophie thought as Seth pulled the covers back up, his hands gentle, his face far too controlled. After all, she was lying down again, resting, like he wanted.

But that wasn’t because of anything he’d done. Her own mind had distracted her after the glimpse of her past vanished back into whatever limbo it came from.

I was glad, she thought, bewildered, as Seth left on quiet feet. I was glad I couldn’t remember who I was.

What was wrong with her? What kind of person was she? She craved a man she didn’t know. And apparently she would prefer anything—or nothing—to reclaiming her own identity.

In the morning after breakfast, Seth excused himself to go up on the roof and check out possible storm damage since, he said, the radio had reported the passing of the storm cell that had dumped all that rain on them. His guest managed not to comment on the foolishness of a man with a bad leg climbing around on the roof. At least he didn’t seem to be limping today.

She took advantage of his absence to check something else out.

“Sophie.” She said the name out loud, weighing it on her tongue. She smiled. “Sophie,” she said again. A friendly name. Comfortable.

Her hand went to the delicate chain around her throat and the locket suspended there, with that name engraved in flowing script. She liked the feel of the dainty necklace, liked that one tangible link with her past.

Surely “Sophie” was a diminutive of some other, longer name. “Sophronia?” She had to smile at that one. Surely not. “Sophia,” she tried, but the name sounded heavy and formal, and she couldn’t summon any recognition.

She felt decidedly ambivalent about her name hunt. Part of her wanted to know. Part wanted to hide, wanted to lie here in Seth’s bed where she felt safe and curiously free.

A loud clatter overhead recalled her to what she was supposed to be doing, and she started unbuttoning the shirt she’d slept in. Seth’s trip to his roof gave her privacy to change into another of his shirts and the pair of panties that he’d washed out for her.

Why did she find the idea of Seth washing her panties more embarrassing than the idea of Seth washing her?

Sophie sighed as she drew the blue cotton down her arm. It was a nice arm, she thought. A little scrawny, maybe. Pausing with the shirt half off, half on, she made a muscle and giggled at her nonexistent biceps.

Apparently she was not into bodybuilding.

She glanced up. Continued sounds reassured her that Seth was still busy with his roof. In the bath last night she’d been so aware of Seth looking—or studiously not looking, at first—that she hadn’t especially taken note of her body herself.

Sophie slipped the shirt all the way off and looked.

Her breasts were small. Her nipples were rather large, a sort of blushy tan color, but. the breasts themselves were definitely on the small side. Oh, well. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about sagging when she got older.

She frowned. Someone had said that to her. Someone, a woman quite a bit older, when Sophie was…was…but the thought trailed into a wisp. Vapor.

Maybe she was already “older.” What an unsettling idea!

She stretched a leg out. She had pretty good muscle definition in her legs, she thought, but that didn’t give her much of a clue as to her age. A dedicated runner or aerobics teacher might stay fit and firm well into her forties.

“I don’t want to be forty,” she muttered. She wasn’t supposed to be forty. She was—well, she didn’t know, but surely not forty.

She had to smile at herself. How absurd. She was more upset at the possibility of having passed her fortieth birthday than at her missing memories. Did she know on some level that she wasn’t that old yet? Or was she feeling a purely human resentment at the passing of years?

She managed to squirm into her panties without making her head explode, and the bit of throbbing the movement excited eased off quickly. Pleased, she studied both legs.

Well, she thought, flexing one knee, she did have rather nice legs, whatever her age was. Her thighs were firm, and her calves…she ran a hand up from the ankle, and grimaced. Good muscle definition, but bristly. Maybe she could borrow Seth’s razor later.

Or maybe she could borrow it now.

She glanced guiltily at the roof. She really shouldn’t borrow his things without permission, but if she asked he’d probably insist on carrying her. She wasn’t sure if the injury to his leg was temporary or permanent, but she didn’t want his overly developed sense of chivalry making him hurt himself. Besides, she needed to be alone. It wasn’t just a razor she wanted to find in the bathroom.

She needed a mirror.

She swung her legs off the bed. If she took it slow, she reasoned, walking to the bathroom shouldn’t be too hard. Her head was much better today.

She scooted to the edge of the mattress and stood. The room moved.

It was a strange sensation. She clasped her hand to her head as if she could stop the slow gyrations of the room by clutching her head. Maybe it worked. After a moment, the world did steady itself and she started moving.

Her legs were mushy. Spaghetti al dente. She decided it would be wise to have something to hang on to, and swerved to take advantage of the furniture that lay between her and her goal. She paused to catch her breath, gripping the back of the couch where Seth had slept last night. Ridiculous to be all winded from such a tiny bit of exertion, but the room chose that moment to do its dance again. Black fluttered at the edges of her vision while the floor stood itself up on end and smacked itself against her outstretched hand, then knocked the breath from her lungs.

“Sophie!”

She didn’t think she passed out again, but there didn’t seem to be any time between hearing Seth cry out her name from the doorway and feeling him gather her up tenderly against him. Cursing her the whole time.

“…what the hell you thought you were doing? Of all the fool ideas—does that hurt?” He ran his hand up her legs. “You’re a complete idiot, you know that?” He gently eased her head back against his shoulder to study her face intently. “Your pupils look the same,” he muttered.

She wished he’d go back to touching her legs. The shivery sensation she’d had when his hands skimmed up her bare calves was fading. But this position had possibilities, too. His dark hair was tied back, emphasizing the elegance of the bones that underlay both sides of his face, the smooth and the damaged. His face was so near, with her head pillowed on his shoulder. He’d hardly have to move at all to…

To kiss her. Seth couldn’t believe he was thinking about kissing her when one minute ago she’d nearly killed herself, toppling over just as he came inside. Lord, but he’d probably lost five years off his life. She’d scared him that badly. But right now her body was warm and soft against him and her lips were so near, gently rosy and curved up in that smile of hers, as if she knew what he was thinking and liked it, liked the idea of his mouth on hers. Her eyes had the slumberous look of a woman who wanted a man.