One large hand rose to slide around her nape, drawing her to him. Into a kiss.
His lips closed over hers, just as she felt his other hand close about hers, locking her fingers around his erection. She tightened her grip—and sensed the hitch in his breathing. Sensed that, with her touch, she held his attention, his entire focus, absolutely.
She drew back from the kiss enough to breathe across his lips, “So teach me. Show me.”
A command of her own, one with which he complied.
He kissed her, all hot tongue and ravenous lips, while he guided her hand, showed her how to please him.
His hand drifted from her nape, down her back, to her waist. Then further to cup her bottom and knead. Then he urged her closer.
He was raising her skirt, and she was curious and eager to learn what it would be like to indulge in broad daylight, when a knock fell on the door.
Releasing him, she whirled to face the door as Molly called, “Miss, are you done with that basin yet?”
“Ah . . . almost.” She swallowed desperately, fought to strengthen her voice. “I’ll be finished in a moment. I’ll bring it to the kitchen when we’re done.”
“All right, miss.”
Soft footsteps receded down the corridor. Linnet breathed freely again.
Then she whirled—and discovered Logan reaching for his shirt.
She looked down. His breeches were closed. For one crazed moment, she didn’t know if she was grateful or not.
Then she looked him in the eye. “Just as well—I have to work with the donkeys this morning.”
He arched a brow, then pulled his shirt over his head. His expression when his head emerged was harder, bleaker. “I have to remember—if I’m a courier, then there’s some place I’m supposed to be, and no doubt people waiting for me to arrive.”
She frowned, then backed a step so he could stand and tuck in his shirt. “You can’t force your memory—you need to stop trying.”
He said nothing, just shrugged on his coat.
She stifled an irritated humph, then reached for the basin and lifted it. Cast him a deliberately challenging glance. “I could use some help, if you’re up to it.”
He looked at her—directly enough for her to wonder what she’d said—but then his lips thinned and he waved her to the door. “Donkeys. Lead the way.”
She did, waiting by the door for him to open it, then carried the basin back to the kitchen.
Five
D onkeys, Logan learned, were integral to life on Guernsey. They were the favored beasts of burden, better than horses on the rougher island lanes, more agile than bullocks, and, so he was informed, essential for transporting goods up and down the steep streets of St. Peter Port, the island’s main deepwater port, capital, and center of commerce.
Wrapped in Linnet’s father’s cloak, he trudged with Linnet and Vincent across frost-crisped fields, counting the shaggy brown-gray beasts.
When they finally returned to the stable yard, Vincent clapped his gloved hands, his breath fogging around his face. “I make that twenty—maybe twenty-two—we can send to the fair.”
Linnet had been making notes in a small ledger. “Let’s send the twenty-two. We’ll sell them for certain, which is better than us having to carry any extra through to next spring. Our breeding stock’s sound—we don’t need to adjust this year.”
Vincent nodded. “I’ll get the boys to bring them in to the holding pens next week—spend the weeks after that making sure they’re in prime shape and looking their best for the fair.”
Linnet grinned. “You do that.” Shutting her book, she glanced at Logan. Her eyes scanned his face. “Now we’re out and about, we may as well check the goats.”
He merely arched a brow and, resignedly saluting Vincent, who grinned in reply, trudged obediently in her wake as she headed back out of the yard, taking the track along which the boys had driven the wagon to market.
Lengthening his stride, he drew level with his bossy hostess. “Where does this track go?”
“A little way along, it joins the main road that runs along the south coast, then turns up to St. Peter Port.” She stopped at a gate in the fence, unlatched it, then led the way through.
He followed, relatching the gate before tramping after her. The paddock was rougher, more rocky. A wooden-beamed structure, a long, low, open-sided shed, nestled in a dip ahead, a stand of trees behind it. “So you breed goats, too?”
“Not so much breed as husband.” She halted on a low rise and pointed to a herd grazing some distance away. “Goats have always run wild on the island, and in large part still do. Most fences aren’t high enough to keep them in. But in winter they come down from the heights for feed and shelter.”
“They’re golden.” Logan studied the unusual coat color displayed by most members of the small herd.
“Most of that lot are Golden Guernseys.” Linnet had her book out again. She looked down as she made a note. “The color comes and goes depending on how much they breed with the other goats—there are several varieties on the island.”
“Do you send goats to market, too?”
“Some, but usually not as many in a year as donkeys. We take what we need, and then whatever seems appropriate to cull goes to market in St. Peter Port. Given there’s so many goats about, it’s only in the larger towns that there’s any real demand.”
They walked a number of the rougher paddocks, counting numbers. In one field, Linnet wanted to get a closer look at some kids.
Hanging back and watching as she coaxed the young ones to her, Logan heard a snort, looked, and saw a buck lower his head, paw the ground.
Linnet fell back as Logan abruptly appeared beside her, startling the kids away, but then she saw that his right hand was wrapped about the horns of a twisting, irate buck—who had been about to butt her.
She blew out a breath as Logan shoved the animal away. The buck snorted, eyed him evilly, but then harrumphed and turned away.
“Thank you.” She caught Logan’s eye. “I’d forgotten about him.”
He frowned. “I take it you usually do this—checking the animals—on your own.”
“Generally.”
“So what happens if one of them mows you down?”
“I pick myself up, brush myself down, and put salve on the bruises later.”
Falling into step beside her, he shook his head. “Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to land on their arses in goat shit.”
“Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to sleep with strangers, either.”
That shut him up. Head high, she led the way on and around to the pastures where the dairy herd grazed.
While she walked among the animals, checking their condition, noting which calves were showing most promise, he stood to one side, watched.
“I didn’t see a dairy among the outbuildings.”
“It’s a separate building.” She waved to the north. “It’s on the other side of that hill.”
“All part of your estate?”
When she nodded, he asked, “How many people does the estate employ?”
“Outside the house, fifty-three.”
Logan knew that was a significant number—fifty-three outside employees would translate to forty or more families dependent on the estate. Not a small number. “That must make the estate the biggest employer in this region, if not on all of Guernsey.”
“Both.” She looked up, smiled pointedly. “Hence my comment about Queen Elizabeth.”
He inclined his head. She saw herself as responsible for the welfare of a large number of people, and in fact she was. Logan didn’t know why, but he understood that—the concept of duty.
Letting his eye rove over the cows, placid and large, he said, “The cows and cattle around Glenluce are different breeds—Ayrshire for dairy, Black Galloway and Belted Galloway for beef.”
“I’ve seen Ayrshires, and the Blacks. Are the Belted much different?”
“Other than the white band, not th
at I ever heard.”
Eventually they trudged back to the house. It was the smells that stayed with him the longest, that teased his memory the most. He’d been familiar with the scents of donkey, goat, and cow, but . . . his memories suggested much drier, dustier versions, but that made no sense, not if those memories came from Scotland.
He felt Linnet’s gaze on his face, glanced up and met it.
She searched his eyes, then looked toward the house. “At least you’ve had some fresh air.”
L uncheon was being served as they walked in. Logan spent the meal chatting with the men, mostly about land and farming.
When the meal ended and the other men rose and left, Linnet cocked a brow at him. “You’re not a farmer.”
Although she’d been talking with the children, she’d lent an ear to his conversations with the men.
He grimaced. “I know only the general things one knows from growing up in the country—the rhythm of the seasons, the weather. But I don’t feel any connection to farming itself, the mechanisms, the details.”
“Your hands aren’t the hands of a farmer.” Linnet pushed back her chair and rose. “I’m going to go out riding.” She met his gaze as he got to his feet. “Given the distance you walked this morning, you should probably rest.”
One black brow arched. “On your bed?”
She ignored the suggestion in his eyes. “Riding might jar your head, and it will stress the wound in your side. It’s healing nicely—no need to tempt fate.”
He held her gaze, the midnight blue of his eyes pronounced as a frown formed in the dark depths. “I want to ride.” He shook his head slightly. “Don’t argue—I’m fairly sure I ride. A lot.”
Not a little exasperated, she held his gaze, searched his eyes . . . read his determination and the underlying need to remember. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “But first you have to let me rebandage your chest.”
L ogan suffered through the rebandaging—anything to get on a horse. The more he thought of riding, the more he wondered that he hadn’t thought of it before.
He felt as eager as a child anticipating a treat when, finally, he strode beside Linnet down the long central aisle of the stable.
“We’ve plenty of hacks—we all ride. You can—”
“This one.” Logan halted before the door to a large stall containing a massive gray stallion.
Linnet backtracked to halt beside him. “That’s Storm. My father bought him as a colt, but never got to ride him. We use him mostly for breeding.”
“But he’s been broken to the saddle.” Logan unlatched the stall door, pushed it open.
“Yes, but he’s not been ridden much. He’s so damned strong, even Vincent has to wrestle with him.” Linnet frowned as Logan walked straight to the big stallion’s head, placed a hand on the horse’s long nose, then reached up to scratch between his ears.
Logan flung her a glance. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m damned strong, too.”
Not a point she could argue. Resisting the urge to waste her breath lecturing him, trying to get him to choose a safer mount, she shook her head and stepped back. “The saddles are through here.”
Vincent was busy saddling her roan mare, Gypsy. Before she could stop him, Logan selected bridle and saddle and carried them back to Storm’s stall.
She leaned on the stall door and watched as he readied the big horse—who gave every sign of cooperating, almost certainly eager to run—and gave thanks she’d insisted on bandaging Logan’s chest again. Yet his movements as he settled the bridle, then hefted the saddle to the gray’s broad back, were practised and economical; he’d clearly performed the task countless times.
Vincent came up, leading Gypsy. He raised his brows when he saw Storm saddled. “That’ll be interesting.”
“Indeed.” She hoped it wouldn’t prove too interesting. Logan getting thrown wouldn’t help at all.
But as he led Storm out of the stall and into the yard, and she followed with Gypsy, she sensed in him nothing but supreme confidence. Then he planted his boot in the stirrup, swung up to Storm’s back, gathered the reins as the big stallion shifted under his weight—and even she ceased to doubt.
He grinned at her. Grinned like a boy.
Blowing an errant strand of hair from her face, she climbed the mounting block and clambered into her sidesaddle. She preferred to wear breeches and ride astride, but increasingly no longer did. She missed the freedom. Leading the way out of the yard, she was conscious of a spurt of envy.
Storm and his rider easily kept pace as she headed out along the track. Storm tried a number of his usual tricks, but each time was immediately brought into line; encountering an invincible hand on his reins, he quickly desisted and settled to the steady pace.
She glanced at Logan, found him riding easily. “We’ll be able to gallop once we turn into the fields.”
Expectation lit his face. “Lead on.”
She did, through the soft light of the winter afternoon, with pewter clouds scudding across the gray sky. Following her usual circuit around the estate’s perimeter, checking the fences and gates, they galloped several times, cantered for most of the rest.
He grew more and more silent, more clearly absorbed with his memories.
When, with the light fading around them, they clattered into the stable yard, and Vincent and Young Henry came running to take the horses, he halted Storm and, for the first time in over an hour, met her gaze. “I was in the cavalry.”
She nodded, then wriggled and slid down from her saddle. He dismounted, handed over Storm’s reins, then fell in beside her as she walked to the house.
When she glanced at him, arched a brow, he frowned. “It’s not like with the dirk—this time it’s coming in bits and pieces, lots of snippets. Like bits of a jigsaw that I have to arrange to see the whole picture.”
She looked ahead at the house. “Just let it come. And if you can’t make sense of one piece now, set it aside for later, when you’ll have more pieces to work with.”
He grunted, and followed her into the house.
When, washed and in a fresh gown, she came down to dinner, she found him in the parlor, standing before the sideboard where they’d left his dirk, the saber, and the wooden cylinder. He had the saber in his hand, was experimentally wielding it. He looked up, met her eyes. “This is mine.”
She merely smiled, and with her head directed him into the dining room.
He remained quiet and withdrawn during dinner, stirring himself only to apologize to Gilly for not hearing her question. The others understood he was wrestling with his memory and largely left him to it.
But at the end of the meal, when they all rose to repair to the parlor, he halted behind his chair, blinked.
She paused beside him, laid a hand on his arm. “What is it?”
He looked at her, refocused on her face. “The mess—I remember. I used to be in the officers’ mess.”
“You’re a cavalry officer.” She didn’t make it a question; the guise fitted him all too well.
Slowly, he nodded. “In the Guards—I’m not sure what regiment.”
She patted his arm. “Come and sit by the fire, and tell us what you can.”
Somewhat to her surprise, he fell in with that plan. He sat in the armchair to one side of the hearth, the one opposite hers, with the children sprawled on the floor between them.
Logan looked at the eager, innocently inquiring faces looking up at him. “I’m a cavalry officer in the Guards.” Or was, yet he felt the occupation was still his. “I don’t know what my current rank is, but I was a captain during the Peninsula Wars.”
“Did you fight at Waterloo?” Will asked.
He nodded. He could remember that terrible day, still hear the screams of men and horses, the obliterating roar of cannon. “I can’t remember all the details yet.” He felt sure he eventually would. “We were, at one point, caught up in the defense of Hougomont, but otherwise . . . it was a very . . . messy day. Most maj
or battles like that are.”
“Were you in Spain?” Brandon’s eyes were huge.
Logan nodded. “Both early on—before the retreat from Corunna—and later, when we returned.”
Linnet stirred. “My father captained one of the ships that helped with the evacuation at Corunna.”
Logan glanced at her. “It took a lot of ships to get the army—what was left of it, at any rate—away.” Without prompting, he drew them a word sketch of what it had been like—the panic and confusion, the horses that had had to be left behind.
Recalling and retelling it embedded the memory more firmly in his mind—back into the slot where it belonged. Encouraged, he told them of subsequent battles, after they’d returned to hold Portugal, then fight their way across Spain—Talavera, Cuidad Rodrigo, Badajos, Salamanca, Vittoria, the crossing of the Pyrenees, the battle outside Toulouse. “We returned home after that, but then went back for Waterloo.”
He frowned, then shifted as Muriel handed him a cup of tea. Thanking her, he sat back and, grateful, let Linnet, who had noticed his sudden halt, distract the children.
Once the children had gone upstairs, and Muriel and Buttons had followed Edgar’s and John’s lead and left, too, Linnet arched a brow at him.
He grimaced. “I don’t know if it’s simply that Waterloo was a hellish nightmare—that the day was disjointed, with us being sent first here, then there—but . . .” He drew in a breath, let it out in a frustrated sigh. “I can’t see the faces. I know I fought alongside men I knew—who I knew well, comrades for years—yet I can’t see their faces, not clearly. And I can’t remember any names.”
Linnet studied him for a moment, then rose. “As you’ve just proved, your memory is returning. The details may be hazy and incomplete, but with time they’ll come clear.”
When he didn’t respond, just frowned at the floor, she inwardly sighed. “I’m going to do my rounds. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She headed for the dining room.
When she returned from checking the windows and doors on the ground floor, he was sitting where she’d left him, but was now turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands.