Pain and a beastly horse

*Zac*
All I want is to bury myself, bury himself in woman after woman, bury myself and forget
… forget what I can’t remember.

So why the bloody hell don’t I turn my horse in the direction of the nearest village where I Can find a tavern and a willing wench ? Why am I riding into the countryside like I have the devil on my tail, where I will find no solace ? Because I can’t sleep with another woman when the mother of my child is smelling so enticing and smiles so sweetly and laughs so softly.

It was the laugh that had done me in. I desperately want to remember hearing it before. Had we laughed in bed? Had she been comfortable with our intimacy?

Only one night. I need to ask her why.

Had I left her feeling abandoned while I flitted on to another flower, or had the roar of cannons torn me from her bed?

I had sat at that blasted table and studied her features, every movement, every expression, every nuance, searching for the smallest glimmer of familiarity. I am not greedy. I will happily take crumbs.

I had watched her fingers dancing over the table, signaling for bread, lifting a fork, holding a knife, carrying red wine to her lips, and I had wondered if they had danced over me, bringing pleasure. I had wanted them to skim over me again, to caress and stroke. I want to know if I had a pet name for her. Red, perhaps, in honor of her hair. Had I teased her about its brightness, or had her eyes always held the majority my his attention?

Had I looked into them before war had torn away her innocence? Or had I always known them as they are now, with the haunted shadows weaving in and out? I had seen her stiffen at my mother’s intrusive questions, and even though I desperately wanted to know the answers as well, I had put a stop to the inquisition. I might have known her reasons at one time. I might have known her dreams and her hopes.

Why is she not more comfortable with me? Had we parted in anger? Or had I broken her heart?

She certainly hadn't kissed me as though I have. She had been eager, but there had also been a hint of shyness. Perhaps it is because of the length of time we have been separated. I had hoped that the kiss would spark my memory, but more than that, I had simply wanted to kiss her, to know how it might affect me.

It had very nearly dropped me to my knees. No other woman has ever affected me like that, no other have ever made me not want to waltz into lovemaking, but to rush headlong toward pleasure. I had not wanted to hold back. I had wanted to sweep her into my arms and carry her up the stairs to my bedchamber. I had wanted to take her someplace where I knew we would not be disturbed. I had almost forgotten what had brought her here in the first place.

We have been intimate before. Would she detect the uncertainty in me? Did we use to share little jokes? Does she have a preference for a particular position? Is there one she hates? Would she deduce by my actions that I am not familiar with her?

What do I know of her? What does she know of me?

The not knowing, after only a few hours, is driving me to madness. I should confront her, tell her everything. She wouldn’t be quite so enamored of me then, not when she learns the truth. What do I owe her? Marriage? My name?

The tension shimmering through the dining room had been almost unbearable, everyone waiting for confirmation that I had been restored to normalcy.

My family had struggled to engage both Miss Dawns and myself in conversation. My family, who is so very skilled at walking through social situations unscathed, seems to stumble tonight.

Draco has the devil’s own tongue. My mother is herself an artist, an artist at deflecting conversation from her faults and scandals when it suits her, luring others into revealing their darkest secrets when she longs to know what they are. During dinner she had stammered around like a schoolgirl at her first tea party.

All the while, Miss Dawns had squirmed in her chair, obviously wishing to be elsewhere. She had avoided my direct gaze, studied her place setting as though she had never encountered china or cutlery and was striving to unravel the mystery of each.

I had made her uncomfortable with my intrusive staring, but I had been unable to direct my eyes away from her.

It doesn’t help matters that my leg aches unmercifully, to such an extent that I can barely tolerate my trousers touching it. Riding is excruciating, but I desperately need to escape. And at the moment I don't really trust myself enough to shift.

My mother seems to believe I should marry the girl who serves as a constant reminder of all I have lost.

But I can’t marry her without revealing the truth regarding my injury, it wouldn't be fair to her not to tell her that I am nothing but half man and then she would look upon me with the same pitying expression that I truly hate. And other doubts would surface. What if my memory loss is not related to the battle but to some deficiency in me, some madness?

Rain begin falling, pattering on my coat, beating out a steady staccato that adds a haunting element to the thud of the horse’s hooves as we make light work of rapidly distancing me from my home. I can’t get far enough away, quickly enough. I know I will have to return and face the dilemma before me. Even if we do not marry, I will make arrangements to see after the boy’s welfare as well as hers. What sort of life would she have then? Men would see her as nothing more than a whore. No man would ever want her as his wife. I would be condemning her to spinsterhood.

She deserves better.

Doesn’t she? My conclusions are drawn after only a few hours of knowing her. What do I truly know about her? What if Draco has read her better? What if he can see her more clearly? My thoughts have been in a fog ever since I woke up in that damned military hospital.

I urge my horse up the hill. At the top, I draw the gelding to a stop and dismount. My right leg buckle and my knee hits the ground hard and torturously, shooting pain straight to my hip, before I can catch my balance. I roar out my frustrations, competing in volume with the thunder rumbling across the sky, as the anguish spikes. I try to rub out the agony, but it only increases with my touch, as though I am digging the blade of a knife into it.

I wouldn’t mind the scars or the discomfort so much if I knew that I had given as good as I got.

I have been making some progress toward letting the mystery of the past two years go. I clearly can’t reclaim them. Maybe I don’t really want to. I want nothing more than to heal and then get on with my life. But Miss Dawns, Calliope, Callie had arrived and suddenly the past two years have become unbearably important. What other mysteries reside within the murky depths? Are there other children, other women I should remember? Or had she been the only one?

Only one night with one woman. Unlikely. Not in the span of two years. Not with my sexual appetites. Before I had awakened on that damned filthy mattress, I had barely been able to go a night without playing a game of seduction. Would she expect me to give up my nightly debaucheries?

A forced marriage had certainly never been my goal in life. I doubt it has been hers either. She has probably dreamed of heartfelt declarations and a bent knee. I had intended to die a bachelor. I have no title, no property, nothing to leave to a
son.

But suddenly I have one. And a woman whose reputation is in shambles because of my actions.

The rain pouring around me can’t wash away my doubts or my burdens. I have to face them. Tomorrow I will offer to marry Miss Dawns. It will certainly be no hardship. The kiss in the library had proven there is a spark between us that could be ignited into a roaring blaze with only a bit of kindling. Perhaps once she knows my intentions to do right by her, we will regain whatever comfortableness we have once shared.

Perhaps if I pretend all is well, it will be.

Wearily I battle the pain and shove myself to my feet. Without my cane, I am fairly crippled when the agony is as great as now. Staggering forward, I fight to keep my balance as I make my way to the horse. It shies away. I curse. I try to charm it. I try to gently call it as I limp toward it. Thunder booms and it skitters away.

I drop my head back and allow the rain to beat unmercifully on my face. With the increasing torment of my leg, I couldn’t walk all the way back. I need the damned horse. Why the bloody hell had I ever dismounted? The throbbing ache I had experienced in the saddle is nothing compared with what is coursing through me now.

With renewed determination, I take a deep breath, struggling to ignore the shards of pain, and hobbles after my beastly horse.