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September 1813:

Sebastian dove for cover. While the smoke lingered in the air, concealing his movements, he pushed the other man already under the building's overhang closer to the structure. When there was no reaction, Sebastian shoved harder, commanding him to move. Crawling over the inert form, seeking better coverage for himself, he realized the man was dead.

He reached over and closed the man's eyes. If he got out of this, he would see if the man carried anything that he could send back to his family. If he got out of this, he reminded himself. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air reminding him that he didn't have time to consider 'after'; all that he had was now.

Reaching for the man's ammunition and his weapon, he added them to his own. You could never have too much of either. Better that he have it than the enemy.

He loaded his rifle and crawled back out to the street. This was not supposed to be happening. He shook his head in disgust. The battlefield lay miles behind them. He was on his way home. He felt the moisture sting his eyes and blinked it away. He needed all of his wits about him.

There were less than a dozen of them who came down to see him off. Most of them he counted as friends. Now they lay dead near him. Sebastian wanted to grieve, but his job was to stay alive.

He aimed his rifle, shot one enemy, quickly ducked out of sight, reloaded and again took his position. This time he moved closer to the source of where the rifle reports originated. The heavy smoke still obscured any shooters, but he did note their direction. Most of the damage had been done in the first few minutes. Now, it was a matter of survival. Unlike the battlefield, Sebastian knew no help would be coming. Damn it! This was not a battleground. This was not supposed to be happening.

"Sebastian Roland!"

He heard his name--a command called behind him--and whirled. He managed to jump and dive out of the way of the shooter's aim directed to his head, but it caught him in the thigh. He hissed in pain, but willed himself to ignore it, seeking cover until he could reload his own weapon.

The last thing he remembered was seeing the shooter smile as he walked toward him. With a sense of despair, Sebastian knew he was lost.

* * *

He did not expect to awaken, but he did, to find that he was onboard a ship. He could hear men talking about him. Arguing about him. He kept his eyes closed, hoping that they would think he was still unconscious.

"He's out, I tell you!"

"I've instructions to give it to him every two hours. And that's what I'm doing."

"Ye'll kill him at that rate!"

"Don't think his lordship will take kindly to that, but don't knows that he'll mind."

Someone wanted him dead? In spite of his profession, Sebastian did not have a death wish! No matter what Robert thought. He squeezed his eyes in pain. That was why he was going home. His brother Robert, the Earl of Sherrington, was dead. Robert who did not have a death wish. Robert who had died when he was thrown from his horse. Robert, the expert horseman.

Then the rest of their words penetrated. They were drugging him! Why?

The next time he awoke he was no longer on a ship. He ran his tongue over his parched lips and struggled to open his eyes, the merest slits, to find that the room was dark. When he moved to stand, he found that he was chained to the bed. Dear God! What was going on? He should be at Sherrington but from the smells and sounds around him, he was not.

Late February 1814:

He was safe! Amelia gave a ragged breath of relief when she saw her father standing outside the house. Dropping her skirt where she had it bunched in her hand, she placed one hand over her heart as if that would slow its beat while she tried to catch her breath from her frantic run through the woods.

"I take it you are fine and the house is not in imminent danger of falling down about our ears," she said when she stood close enough to see that he really was fine, and she had the breath to spare for speech.

Her father wore a rather rueful expression and gave her the lopsided grin so dear to her.

"I'm afraid I shook the mixture a little too vigorously." He shrugged his shoulders. "A bit of a mess, but no harm done."

Except to my nerves, she thought. Leaning toward him, she gave him a peck on the cheek. "You know I do worry about these experiments, Papa." And she did. While she would never discourage her father from pursuing his scientific bent, the path the experiments lead him through and their results quite frightened her. For quite a number of years, there had only been her and her father. He had essentially raised her, and if that raising were a bit more unorthodox than that of her peers, she really didn't have any complaints. She knew that most of the villagers thought her a queer fish, and she rather supposed that was true. But since she didn't fit either into the world of the villagers, nor the world of the titled, she determined to do what she preferred. She gave her head a quick shake, discontinuing that line of thought.

Her father used his chin to indicate the muddied front of her dress. "Looks like you have been digging for herbs again, but I don't see any."

Amelia gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. How could she have forgotten?

"Papa." She grasped his arm, making him loosen his hold on the glass beaker he held in his hand. Fortunately, his reflexes were quicker than hers and he caught it before it crashed to the ground. He scowled at her. "Whatever is wrong with you, Amelia? You know better than to let the glass fall."

And truly she did know that. The lesson had been ingrained into her when she was quite small. The one time she had knocked the glass over and it shattered, her father explained how very long it took for the replacement to arrive from Scotland. To make sure she understood the length of time, he held onto her favorite doll until his glass arrived. The lesson made an indelible impression on the little girl.

This time, she just scowled at him. "Papa, you must listen. The most horrible thing..."

Her father straightened and grasped her arm with his free hand. "Calm down, Amelia. Whatever it is cannot be that bad."

"No? But it is!" She covered her eyes with her free hand. "You are right; I was out gathering herbs when I heard the explosion." It took a moment for her to regain her composure. "I dropped the basket--and--oh. Papa! It was horrible!" Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "I tripped over a body."

His scowl deepened. "What do you mean, a body?"

"I didn't look too closely, because I hurried to get here because of the explosion, but it appeared to be a rather large, dead man."

"I don't like the sound of this!"

She used a shaky hand to brush her hair from her face. "Well, neither do I," she assured him. "I had hoped you would come with me to look closer." Now that she was over the initial shock of finding the body and fear for her father, she steadied.

Her father shook his head. "I think it would be best to send for the magistrate, or even the earl. After all, it sounds as if this body is on his property."

Amelia shook her head. "It is not on his property, but is very close." She knew the exact location of that line and had been excessively careful not to cross it until the old earl had given her permission to do so.

"Papa, please." She gave him a beseeching look. "At least come with me to retrieve my basket, and perhaps cover him up so that the animals don't get to him before the magistrate comes out. You know that could be hours, days even if he is away again."

Her father heaved a sigh, and agreed with her last entreaty. Even he knew that the magistrate did not move with any great amount of speed. "Let me put these away first," he said, indicating his glass and apron. "The mess can wait--it's not going anywhere."

A very few minutes later, father and daughter were headed through the woods, the return path clearly marked by the broken branches of her hurried exit earlier.

"Here," she said as she spied her basket. All of the herbs she had spent the morning gathering were still in the basket, although the lot lay on its side. It only took a second to right it; most of the herbs appeared undamaged.

Once it was righted, she moved a bit slower; she now knew what lay beyond. Her father laid his hand on her shoulder, and gave it a small squeeze of reassurance,

"Just tell me how much further, Amelia. There's no sense in having to look at it again. I can take care of it."

She gave him a grateful nod, and pointed in the general direction. She rather surprised herself when she followed him. Now that she was a bit calmer, she realized she very much wanted to see just who this man was; who it had been. Was it someone they knew?

She stood behind her father, looking over his shoulder at the same scene as before, well-worn boots amid the forest debris. The rest of the body appeared to have sunk into a bed of old leaves, and she wondered if it had lain there for some time for it to be so decently obscured. Although, now that she stepped around her father and looked closer she could see that it really wasn't buried as she first thought. Apparently the wind from the impending storm had blown the leaves over the body making the covering much more superficial than she first believed.

She joined her father in scraping away some of the debris, finally uncovering the man's face, a task she saved for last.

As she looked him over she noted that his clothes were as well worn as his boots. She couldn't tell about the fit of the boots, but the clothes were ill fitting indeed, as if they had been made for a different man entirely. Patches of the original deep blue color of his coat showed through the liberal spattering of mud. Her father made a small noise, drawing her attention back to him. "Well, I would venture to say this man is but the latest casualty of the war."

Amelia frowned at his words. "Whatever do you mean?"

"His breeches look like the cavalry uniform. I dare say the man made it back to England, and found the country has little use for returned heroes. He probably died from starvation or fever. Most of them do, you know."

Amelia shook her head. "That is beyond appalling!"

Her father agreed.

While he had been speaking, Amelia studied the man's face, thin to the point of gauntness. His cheekbones threatening to rip through the thin covering of his skin--or it would have threatened if he were alive, she thought. His features were strong. His hair was dark, but that may have been from being unwashed. She felt unbidden tears well in her eyes for this man she never knew. She could see that although his face had been ravaged by hardship or illness, he was still in the prime--had been--in the prime of his life. Had he been making his way home to his family? His wife? Did he have children? She couldn't help but feel the country he had defended had sorely used him, if what her father said had been the fact, and she had no reason to believe otherwise.

"Do you have any idea who it could be?"

Her father shook his head, but started patting the sides of the man's breeches, looking for a pocket. "Perhaps he has something on him that will give us a clue, a letter or some direction." When he patted the left side of the trousers, Amelia was startled to hear a groan. Quickly, she looked up at her father to see if he had made a sound, but he too stared at the man in front of them.

"I don't believe he's dead, after all," her father said.

"Well, we can hardly leave him here, not when there's any chance he may be alive! Let me go back and get the wagon, Papa."

"Good idea. But be quick. And Amelia, if you can find something to keep him from moving too much in the wagon, that would be best. There must be something lying around." She started to turn away, when her father's voice stopped her. "If Thomas is about, send him."

Already on her way, she didn't bother to respond, but ran as quickly as she could, once again tearing through the branches she had broken in her earlier run.

In spite of her best efforts, it still took more time than she desired. The fact that the man lay in the woods meant that she could only bring the wagon to a certain point before the woods became impassable. They would have to drag or carry him through the thickest part.

In that, she was pleasantly surprised. Her father greeted her at the forest clearing, the man lying at his feet.

"He is not very heavy," he commented as he again carefully lifted the younger man and placed him in the back of the wagon. "There doesn't appear to be much more to him than skin and bones." When Amelia made to climb up on the seat, her father suggested she ride in the back, "It wouldn't do to have him fall out of the back after all the trouble I went through to get him this far."

The ride home took only a matter of moments, but it allowed enough time for her to get a closer look at her soon-to-be guest.

She really had to agree with her father--there wasn't much to the man in his present condition. Impulsively, she reached out and moved his tangled and matted hair from his face; it was far from clean and she shuddered to think of what might be living in it. Moving his dark hair she felt its stiffness from dirt and perspiration.

Resisting the temptation to pull her hand away, Amelia finished the task and pushed his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his head, and allowing her to get a good look at his features. His beard and mustache covered a good portion of his lower face, obscuring his lips, chin and lower jaw. His brows were dark slashes against the gray of his skin. His lashes were dark too, and looked absurdly thick; his nose straight, a fact that surprised her since nothing else appeared to be. What she could see of his cheeks were either gray or bore faded bruises.

When her father turned into the drive near the cottage, the wagon tilted, shifting its occupants. Amelia lost her balance and fell against the man lying there before she could catch herself. She was appalled to be able to feel his ribs through their clothing, and even more so when she heard a slight groan from between his parched lips. "Papa, he is definitely alive," she called to her father as she righted herself. As soon as they pulled into the yard Amelia jumped down from the back of the wagon and met her father as he came around the side.

Looking around at the empty yard, she turned to frown her puzzlement to her father. "Where is Thomas?" she asked, referring to the stable hand.

Her father looked a bit sheepish, but answered, "Out and about, I suppose. I'm sure he'll show soon."

"Not soon enough," she snapped. Caught up in his own work, her father seldom paid attention to all that went on around him. Turning toward the orchard, which lead to the village, a favorite haunt of Thomas's, she put her fingers to her lips and gave a series of shrill whistles. Her father winced at the sound.

"Was that necessary?"

"Of course." She turned back to face him. "He may not be overly fat, but I am not certain I am strong enough to help lift him," she said, tilting her head toward the man in the wagon.

As if aware of being discussed, the man started to move around, his low, pitiful groans reminding them of his plight.

Walking quickly back to the wagon, Amelia instinctively reached out a hand and patted the man's shoulder. He appeared to calm, but she had no idea how long that would last.

"Perhaps if I take his feet, and you his shoulders, we will be able to move him." She looked at her father for guidance.

"You'll do fine." He sighed and came to stand next to her. "Actually, since I've already moved him once, I think I can manage to do it again."

Amelia looked at her father, and gave him a fleeting smile. "I am sure you can. I was thinking more of his comfort than your strength." And that was true. But what her father had said was also true. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He was broad of shoulder and lean. Yet, she knew his strength was amazing and much more like that of a much younger man. Hi physical strength was probably due to the few days a week he would tear himself away from his laboratory and help out in the actual running of the small cottage and yards that were their home. With his head full of thick hair, she could see why the women were attracted to him.

She put her hands on her hips. "Well, do you want my help or not?"

"No. Go in and turn down a bed for him in one of the spare rooms. Surely Mrs. Brown has at least one ready for unexpected guests."

Nodding in agreement, Amelia headed for the house. How like the man not to even be aware of what went on in his own household. Mrs. Brown had left several weeks ago; it was only in the past few weeks that they were able to find someone to replace her. Quickly, she ran up the stairs to double-check the rooms, even though she was reasonably sure she would not find one ready. Choosing the bedroom closest to her own, she gathered the fresh laundered sheets from the armoire and quickly made up the bed. She had just stepped back from her task, when she heard her father's booted feet on the stairs.

"In here," she called out as she turned down the duvet and added another coverlet. Heaven knew he was so thin there would be nothing on his bones to keep him warm.

Her father eased the man from his shoulder, laying him on the bed. He looked at her as he straightened. "We need to get him out of these clothes." Then, looking at his daughter, he shook his head. "I do not know what I was thinking, Amelia. I will get him out of these clothes, you go and heat some water for a bath."

Agreeing, she headed for the stairs. Once in the kitchen, she quickly set about filling a kettle with water and heating it. She wanted to run back up the stairs and help her father with the invalid. On the other hand, she wasn't sure how close to him she wanted to be. There was little doubt in her mind that he was not long for this world. And while she had seen her share of animals dying, she was not sure how well she would take watching the same lifelessness come over a human being. She busied herself searching out some broth from their luncheon earlier. Surely there would be some left. She rather wished Mrs. Simpson had not gone out today. Even if she had discovered him but an hour earlier, at least one of the village lads would have been about to help. Since they had already left for the day there was no sense in calling for them, she thought as she set the broth in a pot to heat it. She would have the job done by the time she would be able to fetch someone for the task. She sighed, eyeing the large kettle of water that she had set to heat before she went out. She had intended it for her own bath, but had a feeling it would be quite some time coming. At least the water should be plenty warm by now. Well, that was one thing to be thankful for, she thought as she reached for a towel to lift the heavy pot. Carrying it up the stairs to the water closet she was equally grateful her father had insisted on installing one in the cottage. Pushing past the chamber door with her hip, she stopped short of pouring the water into the large tub and straightened. She had been so intent on her task that it took a moment for her to recall that the man they had brought home hovered near death. He was in absolutely no condition to be climbing into a tub no matter how fine. The man would have to be given a bed-bath. She hastened into the room with the stranger, where her father stood waiting.

"Glad you didn't take too long," her father said. He turned toward the bed and motioned with his head that she should put the pot near the basin. Without being told, she added some of the hot water to the cool water standing ready in the pitcher, mixing them together with the small towel she had brought in for bathing. She rubbed some of the bar soap on it before handing it to her father. For the first time since she had entered the room, she looked directly at the patient. He did not look any less scraggly with his jacket and shirt off. The sheet only covered him midway to his chest and she could see the fine black hairs of his chest curled and matted with perspiration. His ribs stood out against the sheet, too well defined for such a large boned man. Where the sheet ended she could see the top of a purplish bruise superimposed on a much older one. But his pallor held her attention most of all. If possible, his color had changed from the sickly gray to white. He was whiter than the sheet.

Her father grimly took the cloth from her hand. "I'd just as soon wash a breathing man rather than a corpse."

Amelia stepped even closer to the bed. She feared her father was already too late.

As if he could read her thoughts he gave her a grim smile. "He is alive. Just barely."

Amelia took the cloth from him. "Perhaps it would be best if I bathed him."

"It's not right for a young girl to do such a task." He drew the cloth across the man's forehead. "You see if you can find him some broth or something."

"It will be ready shortly," she told him. She took a step away from the bed trying not to shake her head in amazement. She loved her father dearly, but there were times he drove her to distraction, like whenever his sense of propriety raised its head. Thankfully it was not often. Who did he think helped Mr. Greene, the apothecary in the village? She knew that intellectually he comprehended it, but somehow he still managed to suppress the facts.

She watched as her father drew the cloth across the man's eyes and cheeks.

"When you are finished bathing him, I could shave him," she offered. "That would certainly make him more comfortable."

"Hmmm." Her father appeared distracted. "We shall see." He ran the now cooled cloth down the man's arm. It surprised Amelia to see how long and straight the limb was; not deformed as she half expected. She didn't mistake the shudder that rippled through the man's frame this time. Her father tossed the small towel in the vicinity of the basin where it landed on the stand with a soft plop.

"I fear he has a fever. I have no experience with that. Perhaps you had best call for Mr. Greene."

Amelia reached for the cloth and stepped around her father, giving her access to the man lying there. "I have worked with Mr. Greene many times, Papa. We can send for him, but truly this is all he would recommend." Thankfully, Mr. Greene studied modern methods and agreed that bloodletting was best left to butchers.

Sighing, her father took the cloth from her hand and took over his duties again. "I can't like you doing this. I will finish, but I fear by the time I am done, he will be a corpse."

Patting her father on the arm as she passed, she hoped he was wrong. It seemed they had gone through a great deal of trouble over this man. She sincerely hoped he lived to be able to tell them how worthwhile it was. She bit her lip at that petty thought as she entered the kitchen, but truly, she felt she deserved to know the reason for finding him as such--that much of the story at any rate. Taking down a sturdy earthenware mug that her father much preferred to the china, she ladled some of the hot broth into it. Perhaps the man's wife would have been delighted to do such a task. She hoped he lived long enough to at least tell them who he was or where he came from. Someone would miss him.

When she returned to the room with the tray holding the broth, she set it on the small table and looked at the man again. He looked to have even less color than when she left, if that were possible.

"Help me to remove his trousers," her father said. As he started to remove the sheet from the man's form he stopped abruptly and gave Amelia a rueful smile. "Not a very fatherly thought there, is it?" He heaved a sigh and started to cover the man's chest again. "I'd best wait for one of the lads."

"Do not be absurd," Amelia said, her voice brisk and no nonsense. "Mr. Greene always let me help no matter what the task." She could have sworn her father winced, but then he instantly returned to work. In spite of her brave words, Amelia was glad her father was the one to unfasten the man's pants and ease them over his hips. She merely had to tug from the bottom of the legs. Hastily, her father pulled the sheet over the lower portion of the stranger's body, but only managed to cover part of him before he stopped to frown. Making sure that the man's private parts were covered, he motioned Amelia to come around the side of the bed to see what held his attention.

Quite large and raw looking, the wound covered a good portion of his upper thigh, and she wondered how they had not noticed it; wondered even how it had been possible for him not to have bled all over his trousers. A closer examination showed her that while the wound looked untreated and quite red, it was healed.

Her father leaned down for a closer look, and probed near the wound with his finger. The man's leg jerked in reaction. Amelia hastily looked to his face only to find that he had not even opened his eyes.

"I cannot like this," her father said. He lightly traced a wide circle around the wound. "The dirt alone on this looks as if it is quite old. Would not be at all surprised if this is causing an infection."

"It is rather dirty," Amelia admitted. As she looked at the expanse of the man's leg visible to her, she thought that was an understatement. The dirt was not on the surface, but pore deep. The dampness, combined with the dirt and unwashed body could hardly be called pleasant smelling. She wrinkled her nose in reaction, but still leaned closer. It certainly would not be the first time she had to deal with such a situation. "It could be infected from the inside. Or perhaps he is unconscious from the pain of it. It does look raw."

Her father pulled the sheet up, forcing her to step back. "More likely the man is unconscious from lack of nourishment. If we take turns keeping watch, perhaps he'll waken for one of us and we can spoon some broth into him."

"I think he needs more than that."

"Much more, undoubtedly," he agreed. "But it will be a start. Besides, if he hasn't eaten in some time I doubt he can tolerate anything more." He moved to sit in one of the chairs next to the bed and picked up a book stacked on the floor next to the table. "I'll take the first watch, and perhaps some time after supper you can take a turn."

Nodding agreement, Amelia left the room, sighing as she did so. Of course her father would take the first watch, which meant she had to get busy cleaning the mess of his explosion. He was probably already buried in one of the numerous books of theory that he left all over the house, when she would have to clean up the practicality of that theory.

Carrying the dustpan and broom into the lab, she began setting it to rights. As she swept up the glass, she was careful not to cut herself on the fine shards. She could not be sure how many beakers and vials were broken this time, but it looked like a fair number. Good thing her father had learned it was much more useful to him to buy duplicates when he placed an order, thereby almost always insuring a spare or two. Idly, she wondered if they should start ordering a spare set for the spares. She would have loved to leave the mess for Mrs. Simpson to clear, but one thing she had learned over the years was that some of the chemicals her father used were rather corrosive.

Heaving a sigh as she disposed of the pieces of glass, she looked about the room. She admired her father's passion for experimentation. Really, she did. She just wished she were not always the one to have to clean up after one of his less well-enacted experiments. She gave a start of guilt, and wielded the broom with a little more force than necessary. She simply had to give up that line of thought. It would only serve to make her crazy. Heaven knew she had already run herself around in that mental circle too many times to count.

Since she was already in the lab, she set about cleaning the rest of it. She knew better than to touch anything she thought her father even might be working on, but everything else was fair game as she dusted and polished. It wasn't that she minded keeping house for her father; just at times she wished it were her own home. She nearly smiled at the thought. Heaven forbid that she be like her friend Charlotte, always chasing after men. Charlotte's one goal was to marry, and Amelia had a feeling it mattered little who the woman decided on. Amelia did want to set up her own home, but if it could not be with someone of her choosing, then she would just as soon be alone. One good thing about living with her father, he had no problems in letting her pursue her own interests. In fact, he strongly encouraged her study of herbs and made certain she had the latest information and any periodical that would be of interest. And hadn't he made that trip to Kent with her just so she could hear the latest research? No, she supposed if she were not going to live on her own, living with her father was the next best thing.

She removed the needed beakers from the supply closet and placed them on the bench close to her father's experimentation area, and gave a quick count to the number remaining before closing the door. She would soon have to place an order for more. Now, if Papa were married, she would not have to deal with that. His wife could take care of the house.

Finishing, and noticing that the sun was starting to set, she hurriedly left to get her own supper, then head upstairs to their guest continuing to mull over her thoughts. Perhaps that really was the answer. Find a wife for her father. Definitely a matter she could put her mind to.

After shooing her father from the room, Amelia took his place close enough to the patient that she could keep an eye on him and periodically run a cool cloth over his forehead. After repeating the action several times, he showed no signs of becoming cooler. Soaking and wringing the cloth still again, she ran it over his limbs and abdomen. The first time she ran the cool cloth down the man's arm, she held back a smile, thinking of her father. He knew that she assisted Mr. Greene whenever necessary. It probably never crossed his mind that she would see naked children, boys and girls. She really did not understand Mr. Greene either, and had mentioned it on numerous occasions. Why would he let her tend to the little boys and not the men? They were the same, after all. It was not that she particularly wanted to tend the men, but there were times the apothecary could use the assistance. Actually, if she were honest with herself, she always asked because she liked to watch Mr. Greene get flustered and the tips of his ears turn red.

She heard a moan, and looked down at her patient and frowned. She had not noticed this particular bruise on his chest earlier as it was more faded than the others. She stilled her hand, then tossed the cloth into the basin before drawing back the cover from his chest--and gave an involuntary gasp. The man's chest bore more bruises than she had ever seen in one place on a body. He looked as if he had been kicked and dragged, face down, over rocky terrain. Surely nothing else could have made such bruises.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she hastily blinked them away while busying herself straightening and drawing the light cover up under his arms. He did not look much better than earlier, but at least he smelled somewhat cleaner although he had not yet been truly bathed. She smoothed the man's hair from his forehead, allowing any cool breezes to catch. Instinctively, she let her fingers wander across his forehead, unconsciously soothing his brow. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she abruptly stopped. Dropping her hand to her side, she stepped back toward the chair, then immediately halted.

"Do...n' t s..s..stop."

Raspy and halting, it took her a moment for her to realize the voice actually came from the man lying in front of her.

"You are awake." She didn't know what to think. She never expected him to wake, certainly not at this time of day or at all if she were truthful. When she saw his lips move, she leaned closer to him, trying to hear what he said.

"C...c..cold." Already, his voice weakened, the word a mere whisper in the darkness. Nodding her understanding, she reached for the heavy coverlet at the foot of the bed and pulled it over him. This was not a good sign. The man still burned with fever, yet he shivered and complained of the cold. From her experiences with the apothecary, she knew this was a definite turning point. She just hoped it was one in the right direction. She bit her lip, debating the merit of calling her father.

Touching his forehead, the heat of him again startled her. She had thought he could not possibly be any hotter than he had been earlier, and found herself mistaken. This time it seemed worse--his skin was hot and dry. She studied him a moment before judging that he would be perfectly safe to leave for the time it would take to fetch some cool water for drinking.

She nearly dropped the pitcher and glass as she made her way back to the room and heard the most horrible screaming. Watching the man thrash his head against the pillows, she hurriedly placed the pitcher and glass on the dresser. Placing her cool hand on his heated flesh seemed to calm him. While keeping his hair from his brow she watched the door, waiting for her father to make an appearance. Perhaps he would be able to help her in calming him. Although the scream hand sounded loud to her, Amelia realized that in truth it must not have been loud at all. Either that or her father was totally engrossed in whatever he was doing, and at the very least it would take fireworks going off in the same room for him to notice anything. Actually, they had done that. Determined to further study the fireworks, her father had hired one of the Italian masters to help him. One thing led to another and the next thing Amelia knew, the house rocked from the explosion. That time the windows had to be replaced. Her father hadn't yelled too much about broken beakers after that incident.

"Arretez! Arretez!" The man's voice directed her attention back to him. He appeared even more agitated than earlier. She frowned at his use of French. Not just use, she told herself, but his accent was French.

Another scream. This one not so loud, but strangled, and somehow more horrible for that. The man's eyes were open, but he appeared to see things visible only to him. Then they closed and there was silence. Amelia studied him closely, watching for the very slight rise and fall of his chest.

Both she and her father had assumed the man English. His uniform belonged to the British cavalry. But with all of the hair, his features were difficult to see; it was entirely possible that he was French.

When she could think of nothing else to do to make him comfortable, she picked up her book and sat in the chair close to his bed to read, pausing periodically to wipe down his brow.

"How is he?" her father asked. She hadn't heard him arrive until he stood there, framed in the doorway.

Amelia shrugged as she looked up at her father. "Not very well. Did you hear him call out earlier?"

Her father shook his head. "Was he conscious, or say anything important?"

"No, but I am wondering if we are not wrong in thinking him English," she said, quickly recounting his earlier episode.

"It is definitely possible. Although I am not sure that we will ever know." He leaned close and gave Amelia a quick peck on the cheek. "I'm off to bed. Call me if you need something."

* * *

It was dark, and God! He was so warm. He hadn't felt this warm since before he left home, nor this safe. He gave a mental frown, trying to recall exactly where home was and if he was there now. He knew he was indoors, in a house. The warmth would feel good if he would not feel so warm, too warm. He tried to move the covers and realized he could not. He closed his eyes again, surprised at the sense of safety he felt despite the fact that he could not move. He felt secure. He turned his head and again caught the slightest hint of a light scent. He worked his fevered brain, trying to recall what it signified.

He did not awaken until sometime later when he heard voices. He turned his head, tracking the source of sound with his eyes. Again he caught the scent. He identified it this time--lavender. In his mind, he had a flash of lavender fields. His mother had often filled the house with fresh cut lavender. From eyes barely open a slit, he saw the woman and her husband standing in the doorway. He watched the man bend and give his wife a kiss on the cheek before leaving. He took a deep breath, trying to gather her scent to himself, as if that alone would heal him. And then he started coughing. Deep, agonizing coughs that racked his thin frame. Instantly, the woman turned and came to his side. Her husband stood close behind. Between the two of them, they managed to lift him somewhat, to allow him to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He didn't want to open them again, but he could sense their concern.

"I'm okay." Even to himself, his voice sounded horribly weak.

When he next became aware of being awake, he could see the faint light of dawn creeping through the window, its gentle light bathing everything inside in soft gray. He drew his brows together, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Again, the scent of lavender drifted towards him, reminding him of home. Yet, not even recalling the day before, or days before that, he knew this was not his home. So, where was he?

Experimentally, he lifted one hand, turning it in the ghostly light. It looked terribly dirty. He hoped the light deceived him. He turned his hand, palm up and stared at it. While not nearly as dirty as the back of his hand, it bore a strange pallor. He wondered if he were ill. He moved his legs about under the covers. Aside from the sharp pain in his thigh, he did not feel too badly.

"You are awake!"

He turned his head at the sound and realized the woman from the previous night was still present. She stood in her rumpled dress and hurried to his side. She placed her hand against his forehead, and his eyelids drooped of their own accord, comforted by the scent of his childhood. He breathed deeply before opening his eyes to find her looking at him strangely.

"How do you feel?"

He thought about that for a moment before answering. In the end, he could only croak out one word: "bad." He could not make his lips form the words of what he really felt: as if he had been thrown from his horse and dragged through several miles of woods.

She smiled, and he watched the room grow brighter for it.

"I imagine you do," she said, reaching beyond him for a washcloth. She folded it, and ran the cool cloth against his forehead, smoothing his hair away from the wetness. Knowing the state of his hands, he shuddered to think of what his hair must be like. She smelled so clean he could not let her get this dirty tending to him. He made a weak effort to reach up and grasp her arm, staying her.

She looked at him in surprise. "I can stop if you want. Truly, you are not nearly as hot as you were yesterday."

He frowned at her words. "Yesterday?" He managed to rasp out. He knew it had been longer than one day since he left home. Again, it flashed through his mind, that unsettling feeling that he did not know precisely where home was.

"We brought you here..."

"Where is here?" His words ended in a whisper and his eyes drifted closed as if this small question took more energy than he had. "Not...home." His fingers pulled at the coverlet, but he hadn't opened his eyes again.

Amelia brushed his hair from his brow and noted that he seemed even cooler in the few moments since she had last checked. "No, you are not at your home. We would have been happy to take you there, but we are not at all certain as to where that is." His eyes opened at that, and he stared at her, but she had no clue as to what he could be thinking. "If you would like to tell us, we could see that you are conveyed there."

He frowned at her words and merely shook his head.

Looking down at him, she patted his arm, telling him that she would send for some broth, or maybe gruel now that he was awake, and perhaps that would help.

The moments she was gone were not ideal ones, at least not mentally. Where was home and why the deuce did he have trouble remembering it? Surely if he were gone for days someone would come looking for him. He didn't feel as if were alone, and that no one would care where he was. He raised a shaky hand to his eyes. They felt as if they were filled with grit and would never be clear again. For that matter, neither did he. Perhaps when the woman's husband returned he could beg a bath. He may not recall where he lived, but he certainly knew that his present condition was not normal for him!

He must have dozed off because the slight sound of voices coming up the stairs brought him suddenly alert. To his surprise, the husband carried the tray in and made a space to set it.

"Mrs. Simpson will be up shortly, son." He looked at him quizzically. "I see you are awake. Amelia said as much." He pulled the straight back chair closer to the bed. "Do you have any recollections?"

He started to shake his head, but the effort was almost more than he could bear.

"Hmmm." The man had turned the chair around and laying arms on the chair back he stacked his fists one on top of the other and rested his chin on them. "What about your name? Perhaps we could ask around, see if you are from the area."

His eyes widened, and then closed. Surely he had a name! Why couldn't he think of it? As if sensing he was becoming agitated, he felt the other man's hand on his arm.

"Take it easy. I dare say it will come to you. In the meantime, I hear Mrs. Simpson on the stairs. She'll help you with the gruel. Maybe once you get something in you it will help."

The husband patted his arm, and made to stand and move away, but he stopped him, grasping his arm in turn. "Bath." He could only manage the one word, but it seemed to be enough. "Ah, must be feeling more the thing if you would like a bath. You eat, and then I will have Thomas set about heating water." He left when an elderly woman entered, tut-tuting over his condition.

The next time he woke, the shadows in the room were longer and the woman sat nearby. Her lavender scent reached out to him. He must have made some sound or movement, causing her to look up. Immediately, she came to stand by his side and placed her hand on his forehead.

"Well, you seem much improved. Still a little warm, but I do not think it is anything much." She readied a glass and came to raise his shoulders from the bed so that he could drink the water she held out to him.

He barely gasped his thanks before lying back down. She looked down at him with some amusement. "You know, if you truly plan to bathe you must practice sitting up. Let me adjust your pillows."

Evidentially it didn't matter what he thought because she bent to do it any way. This close it was impossible not to inhale the lavender scent of her. But even that did not bring to mind where he lived; just that same elusive memory as earlier.

She pulled the straight chair closer to the bed. "So, have you remembered your name?"

He frowned for a moment, and then it came to him. "...Bastian. Sebastian."

"Well, Sebastian, do you have another name to go with it?" Because he had said it in the French manner, she did likewise.

He knew that he did, there was much more, but he could not recall it.

She frowned this time. "I don't like to see your family worried, but that is neither here nor there right now. I suppose our first task is to make you well."

"No. Bath first."

She grinned at him. "Perhaps we shall make a bargain: you eat more gruel and I will have Thomas reheat the water and ready you."

He gave her a tired smile, closed his eyes and sank back against the cushions.

As she sat down to her own dinner, Amelia brought her father up to date in the sickroom, not that there was much to tell.

"I thought perhaps I should send Thomas for Mr. Greene when he is done assisting Sebastian with his bath."

"Whatever you think is for the best, m'dear," he said.

Amelia gave a silent sigh of frustration. She could tell that she did not have her father's complete attention; she wondered if she had any of it at all.

"I just read the most fascinating piece of research..."

He probably had not heard one word that she said! "And you are quite anxious to apply it," she finished for him.

He gave her an indulgent smile. "Right as always. So, if you will excuse me, I am going to work in the laboratory a bit."

"Perhaps you should wait until morning."

"Nonsense. With the new gas lighting it is quite bright in there."

Amelia just nodded. Her father was proud of his new lighting. She still did not trust it, and expected the lighting itself to cause a few explosions. She watched her father leave the table. Instead of going through the doorway, he stopped and looked back. "And have Thomas give the man a shave, Amelia. You should not be doing such things."

Amelia's mouth dropped open, then quickly snapped shut. When would she ever learn what her father thought? Still, once she left the table she went in search of Thomas to pass on his additional duties and went to the parlor with the instructions that someone notify her as soon as Thomas had completed his ministrations.

Too restless to work on her embroidery, she searched around the room until she found one of her father's subscriptions. It should be dry enough to relax her. As she read over the information, she had the horrible sensation that this formed the basis for her father's latest idea. Heavens! It sounded like an outright recipe for disaster. Only Mrs. Simpson's arrival allowed her to tear her gaze away and leave the room, uttering a quick, silent prayer that she was mistaken in her father's plans.

* * *

Amelia hardly recognized the man lying in front of her. His eyes were closed, and his evident sheer exhaustion and gauntness were her only clues that this was the same man she had left. His hair had not yet been cut, but it looked soft. She could see now that his jaw and chin were square and firm. His lips looked almost too wide for his thin face, with the bottom lip somewhat fuller than the top.

The clean nightshirt Thomas had helped him into--her father's from the looks of it--made him look more comfortable. Placing the back of her hand against his forehead she was further pleased that he did not feel overly warm.

He opened his eyes as she removed her hand. She was satisfied that his eyes looked clear. So clear, in fact, that the brightness of his silver gaze startled her.

"You seem more the thing," she said, stepping away from the bed.

He raised a hand and moved it between them, studying it for a moment. "Not sure I would go that far, but certainly cleaner." The long sentence seemed to have tired him, and he closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again.

"I imagine it will be some time before you regain your complete strength. Have you remembered anything more? A name? A place? If you even have family?"

Sebastian shook his head wordlessly from side to side. "Nothing. I wonder if 'Sebastian' is even my name. It seems there is something different, but I cannot re..."

He never finished. A horrendous explosion rent the air. Amelia stood, completely shocked. She sincerely hoped her father had not managed to kill himself this time. The sound had been enough to rock the very foundation of the house. But her guest's reaction proved even more alarming.

She could hear Mrs. Simpson and Thomas running, Thomas calling out for water to be brought to the laboratory. "Mon Dieu!." She heard Sebastian shout--at least she supposed it was intended as a shout. Sebastian had thrown himself from the bed, grasped her around the waist and pulled her to the ground with him. The landing had been painful for her, but for Sebastian, who was nothing but skin and bones, it could have only been devastating. His breathing was harsh in her ear, and when she tried to push against him, he did not budge. He was still a very heavy man.

She turned her head, a difficult feat since he had it firmly covered. At first, with his utter stillness, she thought he had knocked himself unconscious. But, slowly he raised his head, allowing her enough room to maneuver her own. She could see that he was still dazed. She struggled to rise, but found that he had her in a much firmer grasp than she would have supposed given his ill health. "You have to let me up," she said as she pushed against his shoulders. When she finally could move, she turned her head and blinked at the large amount of male leg quite visible to her. With his somewhat healthier color, it looked changed from even a few days ago. She gulped. Definitely different than the boys she normally tended. She looked up to his face and saw that his eyes were still wide and unfocused. She pushed at his shoulders. He made no move when she called his name. Grasping his jaw, she directed his face to her. His skin felt cold to her touch and briefly she worried about a set back. But if she did not move soon and see what happened to the house this time, she may not have to worry about anything at all!

"Sebastian." Her voice held command, and she watched his eyes focus as he looked down at her. "You have to let me up! I must see to the damage."

He rolled off of her, his hand covering his eyes. Amelia lay her hand over his arm. "Sebastian. All is fine. You have to get into bed again, though."

"The noise..."

"Is horrendous, I agree. But there is nothing to be frightened of." She stood, and leaned to help him to his feet and back into bed when she became aware of his trembling. The man was not at all strong. In the few minutes of struggle, she had only managed to get him upright. She was relieved to see Thomas at the doorway just as she wondered how to move Sebastian any further. Immediately, he came over and helped her get the invalid back in bed where he belonged. Shivers wracked Sebastian's body; from shock she had no doubt. She instructed Thomas to heat a brick and tucked the covers closely about him.

"The noise...battle..."

Immediately Amelia leaned over to shush him. "There is no battle, Sebastian. You are entirely safe. The noise was merely one of my father's experiments." She heard Thomas snort behind her as he stroked the fire in the room, and ignored him. "Lucky he didn't burn down the house," Thomas said under his breath, though Amelia heard him quite clearly, and tended to agree with him. If she had not been so concerned about her patient, she would have done what she started to do--see that the house still indeed stood. When the brick was heated, she lifted the covers and tucked the brick under Sebastian's feet before tucking the covers close. She turned to leave, but only made it to the top of the stairs before her father came into view, looking much worse for the wear.

"Whatever were you thinking?" she immediately demanded.

Her father had the nerve to give her a tired grin. "Don't believe that was the answer."

Determined not to be swayed by his charm, Amelia answered him in a frosty voice. "Apparently not," she said. She just knew he referred to his latest test.

Her father loosened his cravat as he made his way down the hall to his own rooms. "It will make you happy to know that I will not be doing any experiments for some time."

She merely raised an eyebrow at that. She had heard him swear off at other times.

"I managed to break all of the glass and a good part of the work room now needs repairing." He opened the door to his room and stepped in.

For her part, Amelia did all she could not to break into a huge smile. Thank goodness they would now have some peace.

* * *

The next several days were quiet. Her father confined himself to scholarly pursuits within the pages of his book or subscriptions most of the time. Amelia took turns with Mrs. Simpson in caring for their patient and life pretty much settled into a routine, although Amelia did wonder if their guest would ever manage to stay alert and awake long enough to answer any questions. Mr. Greene had come by at her request and cared for the wound, ensuring that there was no infection.

Once Sebastian did awake, he appeared much more lucid, although he still had trouble remembering more than his Christian name. When Amelia came in to check on him, he was sitting up, well propped with the pillows, and speaking to her father in a calm manner, in a very decidedly British accent unlike his earlier one in French. While he had not been well enough to really eat much, she saw that the gauntness of his face was less pronounced and he looked healthier.

"So, what are we discussing today?" she asked as she stopped by her father's chair.

"I was right," her father crowed.

"About what, this time?" Nothing pleased her father more than knowing he was correct about something.

"Sebastian was in the dragoons. Toulouse."

"You have remembered something, then?" She directed her question to the invalid.

"Not much, I admit. Just that I was in the 13th Light Dragoons. I remember the last charge." His eyes focused inwards and she could see that he really was not paying much attention to the others in the room. "I remember some of the men. Some were good friends. Old friends." He frowned. "But, I cannot recall what happened to them." He gave a shuddering sigh and paused before continuing. "A few men fell. We had some new men. I did not know them--didn't trust them." His voice began to fade, and he plucked at the coverlet, though his face showed little agitation.

Amelia rested her hand on his, staying his action. "There is no need to remember right now."

He shook his head in denial. "Perhaps there is something I will remember of myself."

"Perhaps," her father said. "But, Amelia is right, there's no need for you to remember everything right now." He rose from the chair and put it back toward the corner of the room. "Now, if you feel up to it, what do you say that Thomas and I help you out of bed tomorrow?" Before Sebastian could speak, her father waved his hand and headed for the door. "Never mind, I can see that it would please you very much." Before he walked out the door, he stopped to call for Amelia.

"I'll be down in a moment."

Once her father had cleared the room, Sebastian looked up at her. "Is he always like that?" When she made no response, he continued, "I mean, making arrangements without waiting to see if they are agreeable?"

Amelia gave a lighthearted laugh at that. "Nearly always. The good part is that he never waits for an answer, and if it does not work the way he said, he seldom remembers that either!"

Sebastian grinned at her. He had no idea if his good humor was due to her presence or the fact that he would get out of the blasted bed. He was about to go mad if he stayed much longer, and he told her so.

"Then you must be feeling much better! I will have Thomas come by after breakfast..." She stopped when he shook his head back and forth.

"I would much rather come down for breakfast."

"Nonsense. That's much too long of a day, and frankly, should you tire, I'm not sure when I could spare Thomas to help you back into your bed."

"I will be fine." When she opened her mouth to protest, he continued. "I will be down for breakfast--with or without assistance."

Far from the breakfast room being empty, Amelia found her father and her friend, Charlotte, sitting at the table. She nodded to both and made her way over to the sideboard, although she really did not address Charlotte until she was seated.

"Out riding early, I see," she said motioning to her friend's riding habit. She didn't wait for Charlotte to answer before starting on her toast and eggs.

"It's much too lovely a day to stay indoors," Charlotte said. While her remarks were addressed to Amelia, she focused her attention on Amelia's father.

Amelia looked out the window, at the bright blue of the sky and the fluffy clouds. She grudgingly admitted that Charlotte was right.

When she received no reaction from Michael, who went back to reading his paper as soon as Amelia entered the room, Charlotte gave up almost all appearance of a coquette and looked at her friend. She rested her elbow on the table and dropped her chin into her hand, a favorite habit from when they were children.

"It really is a lovely day, Amelia. You and your father could join me. You are already dressed for it."

Amelia refrained from responding as she desired. As if her old friend really wanted her company. She had made no secret of pursuing Amelia's father. Amelia had counted Charlotte as a friend for many years, at least until the other girl got it into her head that she should marry Michael. Amelia supposed part of the blame could be heaped on her own head. If she had not insisted Charlotte help her in finding her father a wife, or touted his good points, Charlotte would never have thought of the idea on her own. She followed Charlotte's gaze as it rested on Michael. Charlotte was not for him. Just watching her friend firmed Amelia's plans to find a suitable wife for her father even if she had to go to London to do so.

That thought lasted all of a moment before she recalled their guest above stairs and that she would not be going anywhere just yet. Hastily, she looked away from the direction of the stairs. It would not do for Charlotte to discover there was a man on the premises--one that was not a relative. Once the thought of him was in her mind, it was difficult to dislodge it. She wondered if he would come down the stairs today as he stated.

"The fresh air will do you good," her father said without lifting his head from the paper. Amelia pushed her eggs around the plate before agreeing. As Charlotte had said, she was dressed for it. No matter that she had planned a solitary ride.

As the women headed over the meadows and away from the bordering earl's property, Amelia found herself glad she had come. The air was clear and crisp and did much to blow the air of tiredness from her. When they reached the crest of the hill, they stopped and gazed on the valley below before dismounting. Amelia's cottage nestled like a small jewel in the expanse of grass surrounding it. All about them the farms looked well provisioned, but there was an air of neglect about them. She had worried when the old earl died. Until then all of the farms had been prosperous and the tenants cared for. She frowned, remembering the rumors about the new earl. Well, the second new earl, she corrected herself.

"Whatever are you frowning about now, Amelia?" Charlotte joined her friend and followed her line of vision. "Everything looks the same. Remember how we thought it would change with the new earl?"

Amelia nodded. "It does look fairly well the same," she agreed, "but there's a difference. Can you not feel it?" She studied the other woman next to her. Being from the village, and the local squire's daughter, Charlotte was far from ignorant, and far more concerned about the villagers than she often admitted.

Charlotte shrugged. "There probably would have been less difference if it had not taken so long to find the new earl." Charlotte said.

"True. Such a pity the title had to go out of the Roland family."

"Well the new earl is his cousin," she said.

"Just barely! I believe he's the son of the old earl's cousin, thrice removed. I dare say our mounts are more closely related to each other than the new earl is to the old."

Charlotte gave a girlish giggle, but quieted when Amelia didn't join in. "Why does it bother you so?"

Amelia did not immediately answer. She walked her horse to where she had spied a low rock earlier that she could use as a mounting block. Once she had done so, she waited for Charlotte to follow suit before continuing their conversation.

"I am not precisely certain," she finally said. Looking at the village below them once again, she shook her head. " I daresay I am being fanciful, but I cannot believe he can care about them." She motioned to the village with her chin.

"But it is not your village, " Charlotte pointed out. "There is no need for you to concern yourself with it."

Amelia bit back the comment that Charlotte, or more accurately the squire, should be concerned with those who lived in their village.

"No, it's not," she agreed. "But how long will it be before Farmer Dick has to sell his produce elsewhere? Even now, Smitty has had much less work than in the past."

She pulled on her mount's reigns, heading for the village. She waited until Charlotte caught up before breaking into a trot.

There were times Amelia loved life in the village; it gave her a freedom she knew she would never have in Town. She had heard many of the other locals talk about their own trips there. Yet, there were times when she would have vague recollections of her life in London. She had been quite young then, but they had left an impression, for she had spent more time with adults than most children had. The only time she had been childlike was when she had visited her grandmother's estate. But after her mother left, those visits had come to a screeching halt. Now, they were the vaguest memories and she would not even be able to say precisely where the estate lay.

She had very little complaints about the lifestyle they now lead; in fact, she really knew no other. Periodically she grew restless, but her father seemed well satisfied--a little too satisfied to her way of thinking. Her eyes narrowed as she studied her friend, now riding slightly ahead of her. Aside from the age difference, and how uncomfortable Amelia would feel, the young woman simply would not suit her father. Amelia wanted someone who would care about him, not what he could offer. Some one to keep after him, and in doing so, give her the freedom to do as she pleased.

She looked at Charlotte again, as her friend, and realized that she could perhaps address two issues at the same time. She could go to London, with Charlotte as a companion. That way she could get the younger woman out of her father's way and look for a suitable wife for him.

Amelia toyed with the subscriptions on her father's desk as she approached him in the study. "I was thinking that I should very much enjoy going into Town."

Michael leaned back and ran his hand down his face before sitting forward and placing his elbows on his desk. "That seems a strange request from you, Amelia. What has brought this on?"

How could she answer? She could hardly state her true intentions.

She was saved from answering when they both heard the sound at the same time and turned toward the open door.

Amelia made to rush to their guest's assistance, but her father put his hand on her arm, staying her. "He needs to do this himself," he whispered.

When he had not been at breakfast, Amelia figured he was still too weak. She had not had a chance to make any inquires about him before now. Amelia gulped and willed the flutterbys in her stomach to settle. It would do no good to show her panic that Sebastian was going to pitch head first down the stairs. Thomas was with him and offered support should he need it. At last, he stood at the bottom of the stairs, not too steady, but in one piece. She and her father met him.

He stood tall, and somewhat to her surprise, he did not look as absurd as she would have thought with him wearing her father's smaller clothing.

"Sebastian," Michael's voice rang out in the silent hall. "Delighted you could join us." His voice held warmth, and no surprise, Amelia noted.

The man turned his head with painstaking slowness, as if any sudden movement might knock him off his feet. He inclined his head to Amelia.

It was hard to ignore his paleness, or his unsteadiness. She stepped forward and looped her arm through his, letting him lean on her smaller form should he wish it, and guided him toward the parlor. "Cook will send up some tea for us."

When they entered the room, she directed Sebastian to the chair closest to the window, where the sunshine poured into the room. Satisfied when he moved his face toward the light, she watched him let the warmth caress his much too pale face.

It amazed her that he looked so much improved from the last time she saw him. He was still painfully thin and fragile, if one could refer to such a large man as that.

Wanting to give him time to recuperate from his journey down the stairs, Amelia addressed her next remarks to her father, pointing out the plants that could be seen from the window and the work that needed to be done.

"Since I can't do anything else, I may give Henry a hand."

Amelia started. She could not imagine that Henry would be well pleased with that plan! "Do you think that is a good idea? You know what happened the last time you helped in the garden." Amelia frantically searched for another general topic. All too well she knew how once her father got into the garden, he had a sudden desire to redesign it. And when he grew tired of that hobby, she had to direct Henry to move everything back to its original place.

Michael waved away her complaints. "It will be good for me. Something for me to do while I wait for my next shipment of beakers." He patted his chest. "Fresh air and all that. You are always saying I do not get out enough."

"Gardening is not exactly what I had in mind," she said wryly.

Her father was saved from commenting when Mrs. Simpson arrived with the tea. Amelia poured, handing the men their cups and passing the tray of biscuits. She shot her father a meaningful look when she noted that Sebastian handled everything as if quite comfortable with the ritual and not intimidated by the exquisite china, something she knew that men from different backgrounds often were. Not gentlemen, she reminded herself silently, but many of those who even aspired to that level. Her father had started on his second biscuit when he noticed that Sebastian had not taken any.

"I think you will find one of Mrs. Simpson's biscuits quite easy to digest," he told Sebastian.

Sebastian inclined his head, but made no move to take any.

Frankly, Sebastian was not at all sure that he could! The trip down the stairs had tired him more than he would have thought possible. Certainly even more than the miles they had traveled in the cavalry. He studied the cup in his hands, letting the couple's voice wash over him. The scene soothed him by its very English-ness. He let the warmth of the tea in the cup warm his hands. He felt that until he had arrived at this house, he had not been warm in a very long time. He frowned, trying to recollect just how long he had felt that way, and more importantly, why?

"The tea is quite delicious," he addressed no one in particular. It would not do to stare at the man's wife, and he was afraid that if he glanced in her direction, he would be hard put to tear his gaze away. "Much better than the chicory root on campaign. No matter what my batman said, it just was not the same."

"You have remembered something, " the man--Michael--exclaimed. He had got that much in his few moments of wakefulness. And Thomas, the servant, though he knew he could not ask questions of him. He didn't remember how he knew that, just that he did.

Sebastian looked up then, meeting the man's gaze. "So, it seems. I cannot remember much," he told him. "Just fleeting memories."

"It will come." The woman's voice was soothing. He had to face her or appear utterly churlish. Some part of his mind registered that it was a good thing he even recalled that much of his manners. It was something of him. She looked beautiful in her sprigged muslin day dress.

"You have experience with this type of injury?"

She cocked her head to one side, and studied him. Her brown hair was bound, but strands of it escaped, falling over her shoulder, accentuating the long line of her neck. "Not much with loss of memory," she said. "I have read some of the studies in different journals."

The man chuckled, drawing his attention. "Amelia reads all of my journals almost as thoroughly as I. Understands them a lot better than many of the men I know." The man pointed to a corner of the room that boasted a bookshelf overflowing with journals of all types. "Help yourself if you are so inclined. I find that I like to read in here more than in the library most days. Hence, some of the materials never make it back."

Sebastian inclined his head. "I should like to do that." Something else he remembered about himself, he thought. He not only could read, but he enjoyed it.

This time when the woman offered him a biscuit from the tray he took it, telling himself that he might be able to eat it if he took small bites. He remembered too that he had always enjoyed cook's biscuits. He frowned again as he bit into the biscuit. But a moment later, the woman's laughing voice attracted him.

"You looked quite fierce," she said. "Truly, you do not have to eat if you do not wish it."

He felt his eyes widen. Not wish it. Mon Dieu! Would he ever feel that he had enough food in him? He must have made an instinctive reaction, because her eyes widened, and then sought her husband's gaze in silent question.

"Mrs. Simpson can bring you something more to your liking," Michael said. "In fact, we were hoping, now that you are below stairs, that you will be able to join us for supper."

Sebastian laid the half eaten biscuit on the plate, more as a test of will than because he did not care for it. "That would be fine," he answered the couple. He just hoped he lasted that long.

"We keep country hours here," Michael said. "So, supper is not far off. I am certain you will feel more the thing after a home cooked meal in you instead of that nursery stuff you have been on."

Sebastian gave him a weak smile. He had been grateful for the nursery fare. He had a strong suspicion even that was more than he had been accustomed to, though why that should be, he could not recall. Too many of his memories were like a watercolor left in the rain, all of the elements were there, but they did not seem to fit together well.

Michael placed his teacup on the tray and stood. "I am for a walk in the garden," he addressed the remaining pair. "Anyone care to join me? Amelia?"

She shook her head and Sebastian watched the sunlight dance over the surface of her hair.

"Not today. I think I shall keep Sebastian company," she said.

And he was grateful for it.

When they finished their tea Mrs. Simpson arrived to remove the tray. He watched her, willing her not to leave. He was positive Amelia would follow the housekeeper's suit and leave him to his own devices. Not that they were many at this point, he thought.

"Would you like me to read to you," she asked. "There are journals here if you are interested, but if you would prefer something else, I can retrieve it from the library."

He stood slowly so as to test his balance. Certain that he would not fall on his face, he made his way to where she stood near the bookshelves. Now that he stood next to her, he could see she was not nearly as tall as he had supposed. Probably the difference in views, he thought wryly. Indeed, she barely came to his chin.

"What types of journals are here?" He didn't quite trust his balance enough to lean over and look through the shelves himself.

Amelia bent to retrieve a sampling, showing him copies of the Gentlemen's Magazine and The Edinburgh Review. "Some of these are not very recent."

He took one from her hand and leafed through it until he found one that caught his attention. "This one sounds interesting."

She looked at him closely. "Well, I guess we know that you can read."

"I guess we do!" He reached for the journal in her hand, touching her as he did so. That fleeting touch was enough to tell him that her hands were soft, but strong and capable, not like those of a drawing room miss. Even with the few servants that he had seen about the place, there was no doubt in his mind that she must perform many of the duties herself. But she was no miss, he reminded himself. If she were his wife, he would not allow it.

He looked down in to her puzzled green gaze and realized that she must have either asked him something, or waited for him to say something. He wish he knew what.

"Would you rather read it yourself?" she finally asked.

Sebastian shook his head. "I am not as well as I thought. It would be quite pleasant if you would read it to me. If you do not mind, that is." He could have bit his tongue. He wanted her to stay and wished he had not given her an opportunity to say no. Then he wondered if that was his normal personality; it did not seem to be. It felt awkward for him to beg.

She took the journal from his hand and pointed to the chaise near the window, "Have a seat."

He did as she suggested, glad when she pulled the other chair close to the chaise so that she would be very close. He frowned at that. Should she be so close? Would her husband mind?

He had not even realized that he spoke aloud until she laid the journal on her lap and studied him.

"I am not married."

She looked at the titles through the journal, reading several out loud, but he could not seem to concentrate on them. Not married! Then, whom was she living with? "Michael is your brother?" Even asking it, he felt foolish. Someone as beautiful as Amelia would not be living with her brother. But if Michael was not her husband, the only other conclusion he could draw was that he was her lover, and he could not bear that thought.

Her laughter prevented him from thinking any more along those lines or any other.

"I apologize for laughing," she told him. "I forget that we did not have a very ordinary meeting. There is no way that you could know that Michael is my father."

Sebastian's eyes narrowed. Used to summing people up quickly, he did not sense that she was lying, but he could simply not picture Michael in the paternal role.

She marked the pages of the journal with her finger, then closed the cover and leaned back in her chair.

"There is no reason to feel badly. Most people have a hard time seeing my father in that role. And truthfully, it is not one that he plays often."

Sebastian leaned back in the chaise, feeling more at peace than any time since had come below stairs. Giving him a sunny smile, she turned back to the journals and let him choose an article. The next thing he knew, Michael was waking him to join them at supper.

He felt more than a little self-conscious sitting at the table, without having changed his clothing. Though what he would have changed into, he had no idea. Nor was he so certain that was what he had done in the past. He just knew that this did not seem the norm, and so he apologized to his host. By the time dinner ended, he was more than ready to seek his bed.

Sebastian nodded his thanks, but could not stop his gaze from wandering to Amelia. She nodded to him. He would have liked to speak more to her, but he could not remember the last time he had been so tired. He gave a wry smile. Remembering anything would be good.

Amelia could not resist looking in on their guest on her way to bed. She told herself she would do as much for any guest, especially an ill one.

Standing outside of the door to his room, she hesitated, with her hand on the knob, biting her bottom lip in indecision. What if he were awake? What if he were? Her inner voice mocked her. She would do it for anyone, wouldn't she? To avoid answering the question even to herself, she turned the knob and pushed the door open, slowly as to make as little noise as possible. The air left her lungs in a soft whoosh. He was asleep, rather soundly too from the soft snoring that drifted across the room. Closing the door as silently as she had opened it, Amelia left the room.

* * *

After her ride the next morning, Amelia made her way to the breakfast room. "You are early this morning," she said to Michael as she made her way to the sideboard.

"Yes. Well, it's not if I can do any experimenting today," he said.

Amelia chuckled at the remorse in his voice. "There are plenty of other things around here that need your attention."

Michael laid the journal on the table near his half empty plate. "So you keep saying." He waited until she seated herself before he continued. "I am not exactly certain what you would like me to do, Amy."

She gave a half smile at her father's use of his pet name for her. "You could go into the village. The people there do look up to you, papa."

"That's foolish. This is not my village." He took a sip of the coffee that he favored. "Besides, the earl is nearby. It is his land after all. Or it was." He took another sip.

"I have heard that they do not quite care for the new earl."

"I had forgotten that. Shame it had to go out of the family like that."

Amelia stopped in the middle of bringing the teacup to her lips. "You almost sound sympathetic. I thought you detested most of the earls?"

"I suppose I am over most of my anger." Michael shrugged. "There's no denying who you are. Neither is there any denying that a lot of them are still looby!" He wagged his finger at Amelia. "That does not mean that I am ready to take up my seat in the House of Lords," Michael told her.

"But you have thought of it?" Amelia pressed.

Michael gave a rueful smile. "Let's say that I have received quite a few letters that are changing my line of thought."

"I suppose at least one of them is from Aunt Emmetrude." Her father's sister and her husband were their only relatives to Amelia knowledge. Her father said very little about his title or his holdings. For him, they occurred in another lifetime. The little Amelia did know was due to her aunt.

Michael nodded. "But it's the one from Whitehall that concerns me more. I find that the older I become, the more I see that I cannot escape who I am and what I must do." He took another sip of his coffee, then waved his hand. "But enough of that this morning. Tell me your plans."

"But yours are so much more interesting!"

Michael again wagged his finger in front of his daughter's face. "None of that!" He pushed himself away from the table. "If you have nothing planned, come and join me for a stroll about the garden." His expression was more serious than Amelia had seen it in some time. Without a word, she stood and joined him.

"When did you get the letters, Papa?"

"The time is not important. What is important is what I am going to do about it?" They continued their conversation as they headed out to the garden. There was a definite nip in the air and not much to actually see in the garden, save for the earliest of spring plants, but it was quiet. Amelia looped her arm through her father's. "I know it's not easy for you, Papa."

"No, Amy, it's not easy. It has never been easy." He stopped in front of one of the stone sculptures that dotted the garden, but didn't seem to see it. "I never wanted the title, Amy, but I see that I owe more to the people under my care." Amelia squeezed her father's arm, and he put his hand over hers, patting it.

"Why are you bringing this all up now?"

Michael shrugged. "Too much time on my hands I suppose." He looked her in the eyes, "Or it could have been the summons I received."

"A summons!" That sounded serious.

Michael gave her a rueful smile. "Close enough to it. I have indeed heard from Emmy."

"Aunt Emmy is a dear." A genuine smile crossed her features.

"You think that because she is your aunt and not your sister." He turned so that they were headed back to the house.

"I have obligations, he said."

Amelia looked at her father. "You do, Papa. There are not many men who would give up their heritage."

He heaved a heavy sigh. "I suppose not, but I was not raised to it, Amelia. I never looked to the land. I only ever wanted to do my experiments. David loved the land. And Emmetrude." He stared into the distance for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts or remembering something from his past. He heaved a sigh and continued. "All that I can say in my defense is that in spite of my selfishness, I have kept the estates in good repair."

Amelia said nothing. She had only the vaguest notion of her father's background, thanks to Aunt Emmetrude, since her father never shared it. But her father's apparent remorse was a different story.

"But why does it bother you so, now?"

"I am not getting any younger."

Amelia looked at him with a critical eye. No, but he was a man in his prime and she could think that any number of women would be interested in him. But that was neither here nor there at the moment.

"But why now, Papa?"

"Because Emmy is right. It is time. There are things that need my attention, the attention of all the peers, really."

"Does that mean you have to go to London?"

"I am afraid so," Michael said. He stopped and looked at Amelia. "I know I have been remiss in many of my duties, m'dear. To my credit, I have kept abreast of what goes on politically. Nor have my tenants suffered."

On one level, it did gladden Amelia's heart to hear he had not totally discounted his past. "Should I tell the house to pack for London?"

"Not just yet. You may decide whom you would like to take with you. Remember Stretton House has its own servants." He shook his head. "I shall hate to leave my laboratory."

Amelia patted him on the arm. "You can set up another. You have done it before."

They both turned at the sound of hooves pounding into the courtyard. Rather than entering the house, they went around to the side yard and watched as Charlotte dismounted and handed the reins to one of the grooms. She directed a wide smile to Michael as she strode toward the house.

"Oh, Amelia, the most wonderful thing," Charlotte gushed catching up with Amelia.

Giving Amelia a quick peck on the cheek, Michael made his departure.

Amelia did not miss the relieved expression that crossed his face, nor did she miss the disappointment on her friend's. Charlotte appeared content chasing Michael now when she thought the cottage his only holding, but if she ever found out how influential was Michael's birthright, Amelia knew the woman would be unstoppable. She did not plan on letting the other woman know any sooner than necessary. And certainly not without another attraction in place.

The women entered the house and made themselves comfortable in the library. Even as Charlotte shared her news that her mother would surely consent to a ball, and possibly even send Charlotte to London, part of Amelia's mind wondered how their guest was getting along. She thought that he might come downs the stairs again. That would lead for awkward questions and even more awkward answers.

She became more concerned when a short while later there was a horrendous crash and what sounded like muffled cursing.

"What is that?" Charlotte asked, half rising from her seat. Amelia was already at the door. She heard the scuffle of feet as Thomas and her father ran up the stairs. It was not so much that she did not want to tell Charlotte, but if Charlotte knew, then it would not be long before the entire village knew. She knew that could be to Sebastian's benefit, but she did not think he belonged there. Even to herself she denied that it was because she would be reluctant to see him leave.

She turned to face her friend, her hands still on the door as she sank back against the door frame. "We have had our own bit of adventure.

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