Page 9 of Sweet Duke of Mine

EMERGING

N othing.

No names, places, or… much of anything.

Disappointment swept through him the next morning as he lay on the mattress staring into the darkness. He’d forcefully attempted to search all the places in his mind but had come up empty over and over again. He couldn’t remember... anything, really.

Flashes of faces—there, then gone in an instant. But for similar flashes of a large country manor, he landed on nothing that provided him with any useful information.

Voices sounded just outside the door, low but distinct.

He ran a hand through his too-long hair, exhaling sharply. From the brief rundown Daisy had given him the night before, he recognized what must be her brother chatting with her in the kitchen.

The previous night, after bringing him soup, she had sat with him, speaking in quiet tones, almost like a bedtime story meant to lull him into rest.

She had told him about her brother and his schooling, the soaps she made, the clients who bought them. She had steered her monologue away from his situation, filling the silence with details of her own life rather than pressing him for information he did not have.

He had listened, clinging to every word.

Even now, hearing the soft rhythm of her footsteps, the subtle weight of her presence in the next room, he did not feel quite so… lost.

Daisy Montgomery.

Her name fit neatly in his mind, as though it had been there before—as though he had always known it. In fact, when he grasped at nothingness, he always landed on her.

Wide blue eyes. Curls wild and golden, refusing to be tamed as they framed her face.

The image provided him with something tangible. Something real.

No doubt, it was simply because she had been the one to care for him. Aside from her brother, an eager lad of about ten, she was the only face he knew.

The only face that meant anything.

But this morning, he was ready to end his bedrest.

The pain in his head had dulled to an ache, a far cry from the crippling agony that had held him hostage before. His body protested, his muscles stiff from disuse, but he had been idle long enough.

He needed to see the light of day.

Ignoring the pull of aching joints, he threw back the blanket and sat up. Much better. But he needed to move.

Aside from a few lingering bruises, a collection of aching ribs—possibly cracked—and the dull throb at the base of his skull, he was not as bad off as he could have been.

Grasping the nearest shelf, he pulled himself to his feet, biting back a curse as his muscles protested the movement.

It was a damn good thing he had something to hold onto .

For the first full minute of standing, the world tilted, and his legs held all the structural integrity of pudding.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to steady. His body might be weak, but a man could only lie abed so long.

And considering he had no earthly idea who he was or how he had ended up here, he really ought to do a bit of exploring.

Not particularly concerned with his apparel—or lack thereof—he pushed the pantry door open and stepped into the kitchen.

Under normal circumstances, he would have preferred to don proper clothing first. But considering there was nothing to be done about that at present, and the nightshirt he wore fell past his knees, modesty was a battle already lost.

Besides, Daisy had already seen more of him than any proper lady ought.

The thought humbled him.

Catching sight of her standing at the stove, he recalled that she’d had her hands on him. She had pressed cool cloths to his fevered skin, tended to his wounds…

A familiar sensation stirred to life, this one not humble at all.

Well.

At least one important organ had remained intact.

The timing, however, was spectacularly inconvenient.

He forced his thoughts elsewhere, willing blood to more appropriate appendages. The nightshirt was worn rather thin, and he had no desire to send Daisy—or worse, her brother—into a fit of mortified shock.

Grateful that neither of them had yet noticed his presence, he paused, rifling through information she had shared with him the night before.

The exercise was only partly successful.

Because, as it turned out, his mind was stubbornly preoccupied with the woman moving about the kitchen .

Daisy. Daisy.

She worked with quiet efficiency, her skirts shifting softly with each step, her curls tumbling in a cascade of gold down her back. Some had settled along the curve of her neck, others bounced slightly whenever she turned her head.

The sight was… distracting.

And it wasn’t like him—at least, he didn’t think it was—to be so utterly captivated by a woman.

He had heard tales of military men falling for the women who nursed them back to health, but that wasn’t what was happening here.

No, this was something else entirely.

Daisy Montgomery was a stranger, and yet… not. Who the devil was she?

Yet another question he couldn’t answer.

Before the frustrating thoughts could hit him full force, he closed the door behind him and approached the tall worktable. Against the far wall was a cooking range, a washbasin, and a few shelves filled with neatly stacked dishes. Everything looked well used, but the place was tidy, the tools lovingly maintained, and the setup was meticulously efficient—a reflection of the owner, he surmised.

It did not surprise him.

“You’re awake!” The boy—who bore a striking resemblance to his sister—announced the obvious with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

Daisy whipped around, and he couldn’t help but notice the faint flush that crept up her cheeks.

“What are you doing out of bed?” She scolded him, but he could also see that she was a little pleased.

Because it meant he was getting better, and the sooner he could remain upright for more than ten minutes at a time, the sooner she could be rid of him .

The thought of leaving shouldn’t have knocked the wind out of him as much as it did.

But whether it was regret at leaving the comfort of Daisy Montgomery’s care, or outright fear at facing the unknown, it didn’t signify.

He’d relied on this woman for everything these past days—food, care, answers she couldn’t provide. He couldn’t go on like this.

His gaze flicked over the kitchen, taking in the well-scrubbed work surfaces, the wrapped cakes of soap waiting for delivery, the simple but tidy surroundings. She worked hard to keep her shop running, to make ends meet, to pay for her brother’s education.

And he was an added burden she had not asked for.

When he settled his affairs, he would find a way to repay her.

“I can’t lie abed indefinitely,” he said simply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weakness still lingering in his limbs. “I need to find some answers.”

Then he glanced down at himself, taking in the threadbare nightshirt that, while clean and serviceable, left much to be desired in terms of propriety.

“Although I suppose I’ll have better luck if I can borrow a pair of breeches.”

Daisy opened her mouth—likely to protest—but before she could speak, the shop bell jangled, signaling a customer.

But the footsteps that followed did not stop in the outer room.

They moved closer and closer to the kitchen.

With deliberate. Purposeful. Strides.

He barely had a moment to react, but even if he’d had his full wits about him, he wouldn’t have hidden. Because hiding wasn’t in his nature .

And yet, how could he know that, but not know his own bloody name?

“Miss Montgomery?” A sharp, reedy voice pierced the quiet. “ If the mountain won’t come to Mohammad, then Mohammad will …”

A woman appeared at the threshold, her small, sharp eyes narrowing behind thick spectacles, which she promptly lowered to the tip of her hawkish nose. She took her time looking him over—from the nightshirt to his exposed legs—before finishing, with ominous finality:

“.. .come to the mountain .”

Must come , he mentally corrected her. Mohammad must come to the mountain…

Well, at least his brain wasn’t completely useless. He’d only forgotten the important matters. Like who he was. Where he lived. His entire damned life up until this moment.

Having no plausible explanation for his presence or his lack of trousers, he wisely held his tongue.

He might have misplaced his identity, but he hadn’t forgotten the value of discretion. And if Daisy had already devised some explanation, anything he might say to the contrary would only worsen her predicament.

The older woman standing in the threshold, however, had no such reservations.

“What sort of immoral behavior are you exposing young Gilbert to? He’s naught but a child!” Her voice rose an octave, shaking with righteous fury. “I would think that you, of all people, would know better than to…” The quivering hand she clutched over her chest made it seem as though she might faint dead away.

He doubted it.

“As I live and breathe,” she continued, each word landing like a gavel striking a courtroom bench, “your dear Aunt Theodora would be rolling in her grave to witness such goings-on.”

Her bright, beady gaze returned to him, pinning him with all the force of an executioner’s axe, and then swung back to Daisy.

“Pray tell, why is there a naked man standing in your kitchen?”

“He isn’t naked, Mrs. Farley!” Daisy’s brother, Gilbert, pointed out while Daisy stepped forward as if to shield him.

"Wait. Please." Daisy lifted a hand, her voice steadier than he expected, but edged with wariness. "This isn’t what you think it is."

But even to his own ears, she sounded uncertain. Apologetic.

Because of him.

His very presence had placed this woman—his savior—in a precarious situation.

"Oh?" Mrs. Farley’s voice dripped with disapproval. "Then, by all means, enlighten me."

He opened his mouth—only to realize he had nothing to say.

Curse it all, he didn’t know his own name, much less a plausible explanation that might appease this fire-breathing octogenarian.

Daisy, however, was scrambling, her eyes darting about the kitchen as though the perfect excuse might be hiding behind the sugar tin.

Mrs. Farley’s lips pursed into a thin, judgmental line. “I should have known something like this would happen the moment your aunt passed.”

Daisy’s head snapped up. “That was nearly four years ago!”

Mrs. Farley sniffed. “What difference does that make? I imagine this unseemly side of your character would have come to light eventually. ”

Daisy’s nostrils flared, but Mrs. Farley charged ahead.

“I warned Theodora. I told her, 'That girl needs a husband before she gets too old.' But no, she insisted you knew what was best.” She wagged a gnarled finger. “And now, left to your own devices, you’ve fallen into a life of sin.”

“I have not fallen into a life of sin!”

Mrs. Farley arched a brow, clearly unconvinced.

Daisy’s jaw tightened. Then she lifted her chin and declared, “This man is… my husband.”

He blinked.

Husband?

Did she just say husband?

“Mr. Alastair… William…son,” Daisy finished, her voice almost too smooth, as if she hadn’t just shattered his tenuous grip on reality.

She turned to him, her expression daring him to argue. “Alastair, this is my neighbor and very dear friend, Mrs. Farley.”

What. The. Hell.

His first instinct was to demand answers—loudly—but he bit it back. Think. Observe. Why hadn’t she informed him of this rather pertinent fact earlier?

She must have known his name then. Likely his entire history.

Rage simmered beneath the surface, a slow burn. He’d be angry later— very angry. But for now…

For now, he felt something else: Relief.

It was absurd. Infuriating. But undeniable.

He had nothing—no memories, no identity, no sense of self whatsoever.

Now he had a name.

Alastair Williamson .

The syllables settled into his mind like an ill-fitting coat. Familiar, but not quite right. He turned the name over, testing its weight, waiting for it to spark recognition .

Nothing.

And yet…

Having Daisy as his wife felt plausible.

It explained her willingness to care for him—the intimacy with which she had done so. It made sense of the undeniable pull he felt toward her.

But what else was she keeping from him?

Were they estranged? Had they had a falling-out? Had he wronged her?

Had she wronged him?

His jaw tensed. They would have a very serious discussion about all of this the moment their guest departed.

For now, he did what any gentleman in his position would do. He stepped forward.

“I apologize for my attire, madam,” he—Alastair—said smoothly, shooting Daisy a pointed, suspicious glance.

She, however, very deliberately kept her gaze elsewhere, her attention fixed on the elderly woman.

“My wife and I weren’t expecting company so early this morning,” he finished.

At that, Daisy’s lovely complexion flushed pink. He didn’t miss the way her hands twitched slightly at her sides.

Interesting.

Alastair wasn’t, in fact, wholly opposed to the notion of being married to the spirited blonde he’d come to know since waking up.

Despite how little he knew of her, this woman made up his entire world.

“Your husband?” Mrs. Farley squawked, adjusting her spectacles as if inspecting him anew. “But you are Miss Montgomery , not Mrs. Williamson, and you’ve never mentioned him—not even a word. How can this be?”

Had she kept his existence a secret?

“He—Alastair has been away,” Daisy said, stepping forward and winding her hand firmly around his arm. “I wasn’t sure when he would return… or if he would. And it was simply easier this way.”

With admirable dramatics, she lifted her chin and sniffed loudly.

“But where have you been, young man?” Mrs. Farley’s sharp gaze cut back to him. “Are you a military man?”

Curious to hear the answer, he remained silent.

“Not the military,” Daisy said quickly. “But he worked on a ship—er—importing and exporting and… whatnot.”

He arched a brow. Whatnot?

“It was attacked by pirates,” she added solemnly.

Pirates.

Alastair pressed his lips together, willing himself not to react.

Daisy clutched his arm tighter, sending him a subtle warning squeeze.

“I hadn’t heard from dearest Alastair for nearly a decade,” she continued with feeling, “but now he’s returned, a little battered, but he is safe now. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

Mrs. Farley narrowed her eyes, visibly sifting through the details.

Alastair exhaled slowly. Good God.

She was making this up. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew her. And she was lying.

Why, though? And just how much of this tale was falsehood, and how much was truth?

Were they… not husband and wife? Or was she only lying because she was ashamed of the real reason he’d been gone?

The two of them would definitely have a much-needed conversation after this.

Mrs. Farley’s eyes remained suspicious, but perhaps a smidge less so. “Why didn’t your aunt mention this when I encouraged her to find you a husband? ”

“Out of respect for my sensibilities,” Daisy answered solemnly. “Alastair is, in fact, the very reason she resisted your suggestions.” Daisy swiped the back of her hand across her eyes as though holding back tears. Alastair noticed that her brother was looking almost as fascinated with his sister’s tale as himself. “Aunt Thea knew how devastated I was at his disappearance.”

“Hmm, a decade you said? You must have married awfully young, then. What were you, all of six and ten?”

“Seven and ten, actually. And I was old enough to fall in love,” Daisy returned.

Alastair glanced down at her. Of all the announcements she’d made this morning, this particular one rang true. And although her cheeks were pink, her eyes blazed like blue fire.

He inhaled a sharp breath, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle filled his senses.

Was she telling the truth? Had he fallen in love with this woman ten years before? But he couldn’t get any reliable answers as long as they had an audience.

“So, you see,” Alastair said. “Everything is quite above-board.” Or was it?

Mrs. Farley studied each of them but then finally dipped her chin in approval.

“I’ll come for tea this week,” Daisy said. “I promise.” All along his side, Alastair could feel Daisy relax beside him, a near-silent sigh of relief escaping her.

She’d been afraid—for her reputation? The realization only deepened his determination to solve this puzzle.

She released his arm then and, chatting about recipes and tea, steered Mrs. Farley out of the kitchen and out the front door. Only after they’d disappeared did Alastair turn to Gilbert, who was looking more than a little entertained by the entire exchange.

“We’re brothers then, eh?” Alastair cocked a brow .

“Maybe.” Gilbert proved quite loyal to his sister, clamping his mouth shut and backing out of the room.

Leaving Alastair to wait for Daisy.

Who was, apparently, his long-lost wife.