The Loner And The Lady. Eileen Wilks
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don’t know.” How very peculiar, not to know how she drank her coffee. And yet she’d known, when she smelled the coffee, that she wanted a cup. “You can give it to me without and we’ll see if I like it that way.”
“You don’t seem very upset about your lack of memory.”
She wasn’t, and that, surely, was odd. But it was good just to lie here and not hurt. Too pleasant for her to waste energy worrying. She smiled. “I feel so much better than the last time I woke up, I guess it doesn’t seem worth getting upset over. After all, like you said, my memories will come back soon.”
He frowned. “You’ll need some breakfast to go with the coffee. I hope you like your eggs scrambled.”
“That sounds fine.” Did she like scrambled eggs? Did she like eggs at all? The idea of eating them didn’t disgust her, so she supposed they’d be okay.
When Seth moved she automatically followed him with her eyes, turning her head slightly on the pillow to keep him in sight.
Ouch. Well, it could be worse—had been, in fact, much worse. The swift stabbing pain that accompanied her head movement faded to the same dull ache she’d woken with. She ignored it in favor of studying the cabin…and Seth.
Seth was easy to watch. He got a bowl from the cabinets, moved out of her line of vision, and came back with several eggs cradled in one hand. He had big hands. Long fingers, like a pianist. He cracked the eggs into the bowl, stirred them, and carried the bowl to a large, modern stove, limping slightly.
She was curious about her rescuer, about his big hands and his big, athletically graceful body. Watching Seth was better than struggling with the clouds in her brain. Something about the way he moved, an athletic economy unimpaired by his limp, fascinated her, reminded her of—
Pain lanced through her skull, turning her so quickly away from.the memory that she lost the thread of thought. She blinked, dazed, grateful for the easing of the pain.
She looked away from Seth and her fascination with him. When she moved her head again, cautiously, it didn’t hurt too much, but her hair tugged at her scalp. She reached up and gingerly felt around the sorest place on her head, just above her left ear, and grimaced. Half her hair seemed to be caked together with what she was afraid was dried blood. Her blood.
She went back to her inspection of the cabin. By careful degrees she was able to move her head around on the pillow, taking in most of her surroundings. -
This was not a typical log cabin. The roof rose to a peak in the center, where a metal chimney carried aloft smoke and cinders from the big central fireplace. The oddest thing, though, was the shape, and the lack of interior walls. The cabin’s exterior walls defined five different living areas. Five sides…a pentagon. Like in Washington, D.C. Or like the basis for inscribing a pentagram, the shape used by witches and warlocks when casting their spells.
She didn’t think the cabin had much in common with the Pentagon, no more than her host had in common with the regimented warriors and drones who peopled the Defense Department. He did, however, have something of the look of a warlock. Brooding and mysterious.
Somehow even that thought wasn’t enough to disturb the inexplicable comfort she’d awoken with, a lazy sense of safety that she knew made no sense.
But then, she thought, watching Seth scrape the contents of a skillet onto a plate, her sorcerer had used his powers to save her, not to harm her.
Seth walked toward her, carrying a speckled blue plate that made her think of cowboys and camp fires. He set it, and the mug of coffee he held in his other hand, on the square table next to the bed. Then he turned away.
“Seth?” she said, when he went to a tall chest against the wall. “I, ah, I hate to bother you, but I don’t think I can sit up without a little help.”
He turned around, holding a blue shirt identical to the one he was wearing. “I’ll help you sit up and get this on.”
Get the shirt—oh, no. Tentatively she moved her leg and felt the sheet beneath, sheet and blankets above—all directly against her skin, nothing in between her and them, which meant…She moaned, grabbed the covers with one hand and pulled them up to her nose. That made her head hurt, so she squeezed her eyes shut.
A thread of humor laced his voice. “I think I’m the one who’s supposed to close my eyes, not you.”
He was amused? She opened her eyes and frowned.
If he’d been amused, he didn’t look it now. His face was as impassive as ever, frustratingly so. And she was still naked, quite entirely naked, whether her eyes were open or closed. She sighed. “Do we know each other at all?”
“We do now.”
“That’s a lousy answer,” she said, but she let go of the edge of the covers. There wasn’t much point, was there? He’d undressed her and—oh, Lord! That horrible bedpan yesterday! If she’d been in any shape to pay attention, that should have clued her in to her lack of clothing. “I guess I’ll need some help.”
He sat on the bed beside her. With one arm he scooped her upper body off the bed. The covers fell to her waist. The movement made her head pound and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She tried to help him get her arms into the sleeves, but she was so dratted weak, her efforts were probably more hindrance than help. When she looked down to button the shirt, she got dizzy and nearly toppled over, so he took over doing that, too.
She closed her eyes again. Illogical, maybe, but it gave her the illusion of privacy. It also left her oddly attuned to his scent, a unique blend of soap, coffee and male…to the movement of his hand…a sensation of warmth, the slight rasp of the cotton against her skin, her nipples, as he tugged button and buttonhole together…the careful way his hand shifted to avoid touching her breasts.
By the time he finished, her head pounded miserably. She was dizzy. And aroused.
She knew she should have felt embarrassed. He’d probably noticed her involuntary reaction to the intimacy of being dressed by his careful hands. But embarrassment, like fear, seemed like too much effort. So she just smiled at him when he settled her against the pillows he’d arranged to prop her up.
“Whew.” Her heart thudded in rhythm with her head. “May I have some of that coffee now?”
He looked at her doubtfully, but whatever his objections, he didn’t voice them.
He helped her hold the cup. The coffee was strong, dark and hot. His hand on top of hers, steadying the mug for a few sips, was strong and warm, too. He set the mug down and held the plate of eggs and buttered bread for her, but she managed the fork herself.
Apparently she wasn’t a fussy eater. The overcooked eggs went down fine. At least a reasonable portion of them did—he’d given her enough to feed a fullback.
Once she persuaded him she really couldn’t eat any more, he gave her three aspirins and made her drink half a glass of water before he’d let her have the few last sips of coffee.
“Thank you,” she said, leaning back fully on the pillows. So many questions…they’d seeped in while she ate. “I have a lot to thank you for.”
He didn’t help her. Just sat there and watched her with his dark, dark eyes.
She licked her lips nervously. “How long have I been here?”
“Yesterday and last night. Part of the night before. I found you stumbling around Old Baldy in the middle of a storm.”
“What’s Old Baldy?”
“A mountain. Not especially high. Fifty years ago the top of it sheared off in an avalanche, so that today it looks bald. What do you remember?”
“You.” And the bedpan. She bit her lip and glanced around. “I remember waking up in this room. Where are we?”
“The Davis Mountains, not far from McDonald Observatory.”
“Near