Scandalous. Part 4

"You think they planned on my escaping? Intended for me to?"

"Seems unlikely, doesn't it? But perhaps they were just being very careful."

"And why would they have captured me? They're bound to have thought they would make money from it somehow."

"Perhaps they were trying to ransom you."

He nodded slowly.

"Or maybe you had to be somewhere on a certain day, and they were delaying you so that you would not make it. Someone paid them to hold you up for a week, say."

"Why?" he returned skeptically.

"Say you were going to testify at a trial. What if you knew something that would free an innocent man, and someone didn't want him freed? Or maybe you had the incriminating evidence that would put someone in jail, and he didn't want you to show up with it."

His eyebrows rose lazily. "You have a vivid imagination, I must say."

"There must be some reason for it. What happened to you wasn't exactly ordinary."

"Well, delaying me for a few days wouldn't do the trick. I could finish my task whenever they released me. Someone might have to sit in prison a few days longer or be free for another week, but the only way you could stop it for sure would be to kill me."

"Perhaps the person was squeamish. Or maybe he thought you would take this as a warning, and that now you would refuse to go. Anyway, I never said that the person was smart. Only wicked."

"I guess that's true." He smiled faintly.

"Or perhaps it would give them enough time to get out of the country, or destroy evidence, or something, and maybe that was all they needed."

"Or it could be that I am one of them, and we had a falling-out." He gave her an expressionless look.

Priscilla wondered if he was trying to frighten her. What he had said did, a little, but more because of the flat way he had said it and the blankness of his face than because of the words themselves. However, she was not about to reveal that he had rattled her. Priscilla prided herself on her calm even in the face of chaos, a state her family often seemed to find itself in.

So she merely returned his look, saying coolly, "I rather doubt it. A falling-out would have been a bit more violent, I should think. If you had stolen something of theirs, or double-crossed them, say, I shouldn't imagine they would simply tie you and up and sit around looking at you. Do you?"

A reluctant smile touched the corners of his mouth. "You have me there."

"It would seem to me that the task before us is to find out who you are and what you were doing in this area."

"Before us?" he repeated.

"Well, you arrived here asking for help, after all. I can hardly turn you out, unclothed and ill, to fend for yourself, especially with two blackguards after you. Anyway, as I was saying, if we can determine who you are, I think it would go a long way toward explaining why those two men are after you."

"And, how, madam, do you propose to do that, considering the fact that I have no means of identification on me and no idea who I am?"

"I can tell that you are getting tired and cranky. No doubt you ought to sleep. Just leave it to me. I shall do a little investigating."

Tired he might be-and Priscilla was sure he was, given the pale, drawn look of his face-but the hand that lashed out and grasped her wrist was certainly quick and strong enough. "What do you mean, 'a little investigating'?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "You cannot go out there poking around with two ruffians on the loose."

Priscilla raised her eyebrows in her best grande dame manner and glanced down pointedly at her wrist. Her pose seemed to have little effect on her patient; he simply continued to hold her wrist captive and glare at her.

"I think, sir," she began frostily, "that it would be best if you released me. Now."

"Not if you're going to run out and do something foolish," he retorted.

"I rarely 'run out and do something foolish,' as you say." Priscilla knew that wasn't strictly true; she wouldn't be a Hamilton if she always acted in a sedate and conventional manner. However, she was not about to let this man paint her as a silly little thing who would make a mess of whatever she tried to do. "I shall plan quite carefully before I attempt any investigation."

"No investigating," he responded flatly. "You could get hurt. Look at what happened to me, and I'm twice your size."

"Size is not always what's important. Sometimes it's better to be clever than huge."

His eyes widened, and for a moment Priscilla thought he was about to start raging at her subtle insult. Instead, he began to laugh, and his hand fell away from her wrist. "You have an answer for everything, don't you? Some man will have his hands full with you."

"I doubt that, sir," Priscilla retorted crisply. "I would not have a man who did not respect my capabilities."

"I'm sure of that," he agreed, still smiling faintly. "Now that I have been sufficiently rebuked for being the large and undoubtedly slow-witted creature that I am, let me point out to you that your cleverness does not change the fact that there are two rough characters about looking for me. And if you start snooping around, they may very well notice and realize that you know something about me. And believe me, cleverness doesn't stop a fist very well."

"I don't intend to go 'snooping around', as you so elegantly put it. I will not be obvious about it. They won't even know. I shall simply make a few calls around the village and listen to the gossip. If anyone knows of a stranger around here, I will hear about it. I won't even have to ask. Believe me, an American of your size-indeed, of any size-in Elverton is definitely fuel for gossip."

"American?" He seized on her words. "How do you know that I'm American?"

"From listening to you speak. You obviously are not from England. I have never heard anyone from any part of this country with that accent. Haven't you noticed how differently we speak?"

"Yes, I suppose I have, but I didn't pay attention to it. It seemed rather minor compared to the fact that I don't know who or where I am."

"Well, I do know where you are. The village of Elverton, in Dorset, England, where you obviously are not a native. Of course, you could be some other sort of colonial, but I think not. I met an American once, a colleague of my father's, and he had that same sort of flat speech."

"American," he repeated thoughtfully. After a moment, he shook his head. "It doesn't spark a memory. Boston, New York, Philadelphia...none of them make me think of home."

"Perhaps not, but it proves my point," Priscilla pointed out excitedly. "You're obviously more familiar with those cities than I. Their names came immediately to your tongue. You must be from the United States."

"Then what am I doing here? In...what did you say? Elverton?"

"Yes. My supposition is that you were merely pa.s.sing through, perhaps going to or coming from a port in Cornwall, say. If anyone here had been expecting a visitor from the U.S., I would have heard all about it at least three times over. This is probably just where they happened to waylay you. But if you were in Elverton any time in the last few days, you will have been seen and speculated on, and I shall hear all about you within three minutes of calling on the vicar's wife."

He frowned. "I still don't like your walking about unprotected."

"Why would those men attack me?"

"They obviously suspected that I had come here, or they wouldn't have been knocking on your door last night. Perhaps this is the only house close to where I escaped. Or maybe they followed my trail here. G.o.d knows, I crashed through enough brush and stumbled through enough creeks to leave a track anyone could see."

"That's true," Priscilla mused. "They may still be suspicious of this house. But if that is the case, then it is you, here, who are in danger, not me. They would be trying to get into the house and seize you again, not pounce on me going to the vicarage."

"Don't worry about me," he replied. "Give me that pistol you were brandishing last night, and I'll stand firm against them."

"Doubtful. It hadn't any shot in it, you see. It's one of a pair of my great-grandfather's, and Papa only keeps them for sentimental reasons. I doubt they would fire, and we haven't any b.a.l.l.s and powder for them, anyway."

"So you bluffed me." Again a smile played about his lips.

Priscilla shrugged. "I didn't think you intended to harm me, anyway."

"Still, I was a stranger, and out of my head. What if I had called your bluff?"

Thinking of what he had done while he was out of his head, Priscilla had to blush. His eyes went to her cheeks, and color tinged his face, too. She wondered, wretchedly, if he remembered kissing her.

She glanced quickly away. There was a long, awkward silence, and finally, he began, "I-I hope I did nothing untoward last night in my fever. I-My memories are blurred, you see. I am not sure what I dreamed and what happened."

"Nothing happened," Priscilla a.s.sured him hurriedly, and hoped that he believed her. "You were out of your head and said a few things. Most of them I couldn't even understand."

"That's all?" His voice sounded doubtful.

"Of course. What else could there be?" Priscilla gave him a brief, impersonal smile to back up her words. Let him think it was all a dream. That would be the easiest way to deal with it.

He smoothed a hand across his face in a weary way. "Good. I wasn't sure. The dreams were so vivid...."

"'Tis often that way in a fever, I think. Now, I think you should go back to sleep. You are looking rather tired."

"Yes, perhaps I will." His slight smile was tinged with embarra.s.sment. "I feel a perfect fool-worn out by a few minutes of talking."

"You will be better soon, I imagine."

"Why don't you wait until I am? Before you go visiting, I mean. Then, at least, you'd have some protection."

Priscilla gave him a pointed glance. "The same protection you had?"

He flushed. "d.a.m.n, but you've a wicked tongue on you. No, it would not be the same. Obviously I was not prepared for anything to happen before. This time I would be. I'm not a bad man in a fight."

Looking at his sculpted chest and arms, Priscilla felt sure that he was right. "Be that as it may," she said, "I have no wish to find myself in a fight, and since you are the man they are searching for, I would think that having you with me would be the surest way to bring those two ruffians down on me. I will be much less noticeable by myself."

"You have an answer for everything."

"I try to." Priscilla grinned. There was something quite enjoyable about verbally sparring with this man. She rarely had anyone upon whom she could sharpen her wit, now that her brothers were gone. Her father, intelligent though he was, was usually too much in his own world of thought to trade quips, and Miss Pennybaker was far too easily hurt.

As she turned to leave the room, she heard the sound of her father's voice. "I say, Mrs. Smithson, have you a jar, oh, about this tall and this wide? Has to be wide at the mouth, as well."

"I might could find you something, Mr. Hamilton, providing you sit down and eat your luncheon first. It's been waiting for you this half hour or more."

"Is it that time already?" Florian advanced farther into the kitchen, until he was visible in the doorway. He was looking at his pocket watch in some amazement, as though unable to understand what had happened to the hours. "I suppose I am a bit hungry. Why don't you fix me a tray, and I'll take it out to the laboratory with me?"

Mrs. Smithson was obviously accustomed to this argument, for she folded her arms across her chest and shook her head firmly. "I know what happens then, sir. I go out later and find half the food still on the tray, 'cause you've gotten all wrapped up in them heathen experiments of yours and forgotten all about your food. If you was in charge of your food, you'd be dead within a week, and that's G.o.d's truth."

"No doubt you're right," Florian agreed pleasantly. He turned and caught sight of his daughter in the smaller side room. "Priscilla! There you are. I'd been wondering where you were. What are you doing in here?"

He advanced farther into the room, looking faintly puzzled. His hair was sticking up here and there all over his head, as usual, and there were strange yellowish smears across the front of his shirt. His fingers, too, were stained yellow, along with a few orange and black marks. His waistcoat hung unb.u.t.toned, exposing the smudged shirtfront, and a half-tied ascot dangled loosely over one shoulder.

Priscilla glanced over at their visitor and found him eyeing her father with great curiosity.

"Oh, it's you!" Florian exclaimed, delighted at finding their late-night visitor suddenly before him. "I had forgotten you were here. Feeling better, I hope."

"Yes," the man on the cot answered, somewhat warily. "At least I'm conscious now."

"I knew Priscilla would set you to rights. She's good at that sort of thing. Always knows what to do."

"So I've found." The visitor cast a sardonic look at Priscilla.

"I am Florian Hamilton," Priscilla's father went on in a friendly manner, stepping forward to shake the other man's hand.

The stranger propped himself up on his elbow and returned the handshake, saying, "I only wish I could return the favor and tell you my name."

Florian looked puzzled. "What do you mean? Is it a secret?"

Priscilla chuckled. "No, Papa. What he means is, he doesn't know what his name is. He can't remember anything, including who he is."

Florian's face brightened. "Amnesia?" He looked back at the patient with something close to glee in his expression. "Are you serious?"

When the stranger nodded, Florian beamed. "Fascinating. I've read about it, of course, but I've never actually met anyone who suffered from it." Eagerly he pulled the chair up to the edge of the bed and sat down. "Have you no memory whatsoever?"

The stranger looked somewhat taken aback by Florian's enthusiasm. Priscilla explained, "Papa is a scientist. He is interested in all sorts of phenomena."

"Oh, yes," Florian agreed. "Right now I'm concentrating on chemical reactions. But the human brain is always fascinating. Now, is there anything you do remember?" He patted his pockets and finally pulled out a sheet of folded paper, then a pen.

"Nothing before a few days ago," Priscilla said crisply, and went over to put her hand on her father's arm. "For pity's sake, Papa, put away your notes. The poor man is tired, can't you see? Let him go to sleep now. He's had a very rough night. Later you can ask him all your questions."

Florian looked pained, but he stood up, reluctantly. "Very well, if you insist, my dear." He turned away, saying to Priscilla, "But what do you think caused the amnesia, Pris? The fever?"

"Wait!" Their visitor spoke up, and they turned back to look at him. "I do have one thing I would like to discuss with you, sir."

"Really?" Florian looked pleased and started back toward the chair, reaching in his pocket again for his notes. "About your condition?"

"No." He smothered a smile as Florian's face fell. "It's about your daughter."

"Priscilla?" Florian looked perplexed. "Well, you had best speak to her about that, wouldn't you think?"

"No. I mean, I have already talked to her about it, and she refuses to listen to reason."

Florian's face cleared. "Oh. That. Well, I'm afraid you'll find that Priscilla always knows her own mind. Not much use trying to change it."

It was the other man's turn to look taken aback, but he continued gamely, "But, sir, you can't allow her to walk into danger!"

"Danger!" Florian turned toward his daughter. "Priscilla, what's he talking about? What danger?"

"There is none, Papa," Priscilla began soothingly.

The man on the cot snorted derisively. "Two men bashed me on the head, stole all my possessions and held me prisoner for days, and you say there's no danger?"

Florian's eyes widened. "All that happened to you?"

"Yes. That is the sum total of my memory-being held captive by two scoundrels, until I finally escaped. Miss Hamilton says they came here looking for me."

"Indeed they did," Florian replied. "My, I am certainly glad we decided not to tell them anything about you. Aren't you, Priscilla?"