Page 6 of Enthralled

“We talked about this,” he says with gentle sternness. “We agreed that you wouldn’t come back here anymore.”

My head whirls while my stomach knots. When did we agree on anything? When did we even have this conversation? I can’t remember. So I lean forward, press my forehead against his shoulder, and simply let him hold me close. Ignoring the curious stares of onlookers, he turns me gently, guides me out of Clamor Street and back to more reputable parts of town. There he finds a stone bench and guides me to sit, his manner all solicitation and concern. Just like the Danny I remember . . . from when I remember anything at all.

“I thought you had work,” I say when at last I’m able to speak again.

“And you plotted to sneak away while my back was turned?” he supplies with only a trace of bitterness. He’s removed his gloves and now holds my hands between his, transferring his body heat directly into my numb skin. Frowning suddenly, he turns my hand over to reveal the slice along my palm. “How did you get this?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. The words simply won’t come. In silence I watch as Danny, ever the doctor, draws a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and fashions a bandage. When he is done, he presses my hands between his again and looks into my eyes. “I finished what I needed to and thought I’d come home and steal you away from Kitty’s fussings for a bite of lunch on Trisling Row. Only Kitty told me you’d come here.” Deep wells of love and worry brim in his gaze. “Please, Clara, we talked about this. Don’t you remember? We agreed that it was time you let Oscar go.”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t remember. Not at all. In fact . . .” I bite my lip, dropping my gaze to my hands, trapped in Danny’s grasp. I want to pull free but fear what will happen if I try. “I don’t remember a great many things. There’s just . . . emptiness.” I force myself to look at Danny once more and let the questions tumble out. “Why am I living in your house, Danny? When did these wedding plans begin? Why is Oscar so angry at me, and who is . . . who is . . . ?” I cannot speak that last one out loud. I cannot ask whose voice is in my head, clearer than any dream or memory. I cannot ask because something about that voice stirs heat inside me that a bride should not feel for someone other than her intended. Am I really so disloyal?

Danny studies me closely, his own expression closed. It’s like shutters have slammed behind his eyes. He draws a slow breath before finally speaking. “You’ve been sick,” he says, choosing his words with care. “For weeks. Gray fever. It nearly killed you.” He leans closer, cupping my cheek with his warm hand. “I took you home to make certain you received proper care. And then you never went back. You’ve been with us ever since and . . . and it only made sense that we should wed. As we’ve always planned to.”

His words wash over me, a shower of reason in the desert of my confusion. It all makes sense. Of course I’ve been ill. That would explain the weakness in my body, the nausea. It would explain the blankness in my head, the great empty space which feels as though it’s been hollowed out. So why can’t I believe it? Why do Danny’s words sound so rehearsed?

I squeeze my eyes tight, pushing into the darkness inside my head. Somewhere in there is my last clear memory. What is it? Where was I, and who was I with? There’s something . . . something . . .

The front door crashes wide.

A figure looms in the opening.

Oscar screams. Dad curses, his voice breaking in terror.

“He’s dead.” I whisper the words. Then slowly I look up at Danny again, my brow puckered with a question. “Dad . . . he’s dead.”

“Yes, Clara.” Danny’s cheeks are pale save for two red spots from the cold. “He’s been dead for some while.”

“How did he die?”

“Don’t think of it. Don’t try to remember.” He reaches out, intending to pull me against him. Part of me longs to give in, to let my head rest on his shoulder, to let my body relax into his embrace. To take the comfort he so readily offers and let these shadows fade. But I must know. I must remember.

“How did he die, Danny? Tell me. Please.”

Danny licks his lips, chapped and colorless. “There was an accident. A bad one. You were there. You saw it happen. Your mind must have blocked the memory, and maybe that’s for the best.” He takes my hands again, pressing hard, unaware of the pain shooting through my wounded palm. I grind my teeth. “Don’t try to remember, Clara. Don’t go back to that place. Stay here. Stay with me.”

This time when he tugs, I allow myself to go. I lean against his chest, right there in the middle of the busy street, heedless of any onlookers. “I want to help you,” Danny murmurs and presses a kiss to the top of my head. I left my bonnet behind, somewhere in the house. I don’t even remember taking it off. My hair is flyaway, falling from its messy bun, but Danny doesn’t seem to mind. “I want to comfort and care for you to the end of your days. If you can’t trust anything else in the worlds, you can trust my love for you.”

My heart hitches. That word again—worlds.Why do they keep saying it? Danny and Oscar both. What worlds are they talking about? It doesn’t make sense. Ice washes through my limbs. I grow stiff in Danny’s arms. He must notice, for he draws back and peers into my face again. His expression is gentle, searching. But whatever he sees brings a sharp line between his brows.

Suddenly he leans forward and catches my lips with his. The kiss is not gentle. It’s hard, claiming. I put both hands against his chest, shocked and ready to push away, but then . . . then . . . A scent of ink and parchment and some strange foreign spice seems to fill my nostrils. And the lips against mine aren’t hard and rough but full, sensual. Hungry. They move, urging my mouth to respond in kind, and a deep, yawning need awakens inside me. I whimper softly and wrap my hands around that neck, twine my fingers in lengths of long, silky hair as I pull him closer, closer. I don’t care where we are or who might see. I don’t care about anything in that moment other than my desire forhim.

Danny breaks away abruptly. “Clara!”

The spell shatters. I stare up into the face above mine. Danny’s face. My fingers are not twined in long strands of inky blackness but wrapped around Danny’s neck and shoulders. And the eyes gazing down at me aren’t intense and violet but blue, wide, and startled.

Danny blinks several times, struggling to catch a breath. Then gripping my hands, he pulls my arms away from his neck. “I wish the wedding was behind us,” he growls, his gaze dropping to my still-parted lips. “I wish we were gone from here, on our wedding trip. You shouldn’t kiss me like that. Not here, not in a public street! Not when I can’t take you home and . . .”

He doesn’t need to finish; the burn in his eyes more than communicates everything he isn’t saying. Pulling himself together, he rises from the bench and straightens his jacket. Then, all politeness and calm, he offers me his hand and tucks my arm into the crook of his elbow. “I promised Kitty I’d bring you home in time to finish that hem,” he says, “and I am nothing if not a man of my word.”

So we are back to being ourselves. Danny Gale and Clara Darlington. Strolling through the city. Away from Clamor Street. Away from Oscar. Away from all those dark and dangerous half-memories.

But my heart will not slow its throbbing rhythm. Though I try to listen to Danny’s conversation, try to offer intelligent responses, my trembling fingers rise surreptitiously to my lips. And I wonder . . . I wonder . . .

Who exactly did I just kiss?

The wedding gown is complete, the hem pinned, trimmed, and stitched until it just brushes the floor when I wear my white heels. Kitty sits back, pins in her mouth, and smiles, satisfied. “There,” she says. “What do you think?”

I look down at myself, clad in this rich satin frock. Kitty has worked wonders on it with all her minor adjustments. An added ruffle here, a new cut to the sleeves, a line of buttons down the back. The overall effect is quite stunning.

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