Page 2 of Waylaid by a Rogue

She gaped at him in astonishment. “That is impossible. You are a grown man. How can you not remember your own name or where you hail from?”

“I do not know,” he answered again. “All I can recall is that I was on my way somewhere and that it was very important I get there quickly.”

“But you do not remember where?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He adjusted the blanket over his lap and looked at her with sudden interest. “If you will take me wherever you are going, I am sure someone will recognize me.”

Artemisia laughed. “Why on earth should they?”

His brow furrowed. “In all honesty, I don’t know. I am confident I was—am—well-known.”

“I don’t know you,” she pointed out.

“But you could,” he smiled roguishly. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed of his nudity. His self-assurance was both attractive and irritating in equal measure.

She hated to admit she found it charming, but then, Artemisia had always had a weakness for roguish men. That was how she’d wound up married, after all. After three years of daily arguments that sometimes led to passionate bedsport, but more often ended in screaming and tears, Mr. Longwood had done her the great favor of crashing his carriage into a tree and dying.

Artemisia had learned the hard way that rogues were much more fun to be around in small doses than in large ones. Once delivered from her unhappy marriage into a joyous widowhood, she had sworn off matrimony forever.

But that didn’t mean she had renounced men entirely.

She leaned forward and propped her chin on her fist. “I could get to know you better, sir, but first, you would have to know yourself.”

“I suppose that is a stumbling block,” he said seriously, stretching out his arms along the back of the squabs. “What a shame to meet such a beautiful woman and not be able to introduce myself.”

Artemisia laughed. “What do you say we start by giving you a name?”

“Certainly. What do you suggest?” His lips quirked up in a half-smile.

“John?”

“Boring.”

“Aloysious may be more your preference, then.”

“Too ostentatious.”

“Percival,” she suggested. He made a face. She tried other names. Her passenger bluntly rejected each one, until she said “Henry.”

“That will do.” He sat back and repeated the name several times, testing it on his tongue. “Henry can be either a surname or a given name.”

“Is it your true name?”

“I don’t believe so,” he said thoughtfully. “But I cannot rule it out, either.”

Moments later, the carriage rumbled up to a tidy inn. A jaunty mermaid with an enormous bosom was painted on the wooden sign hanging out front.

“Well, then, Henry. We have arrived.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Now if I only knew where we were going.”

Upon arriving at the Mermaid’s Rest, Artemisia was dumbfounded to discover that the inn had no extra beds.

“Not even a single bed in the garret?”

“Nay, madam. We’ve only four cots in the attic for servants. We don’t get many fine ladies such as yourself.”

Artemisia noted the slight but said nothing. She supposed she was being a bit high-handed, demanding two rooms when she had only sent ahead to reserve one. It wasn’t the innkeeper’s fault that every other space had been taken by other travelers. She was probably grateful for the business.