Come the Dawn by Christina Skye Read Free Book Online Page B

of a vast mahogany desk, alongside visiting cards, correspondence, maps, and vellum invitations.
    Something tore at India’s heart. She remembered laughing at Devlyn’s description of the ordered chaos of his study. It was like him somehow, at least like the man he had been, reckless and exuberant and endlessly clever about anything he put his mind to.
    Not at all like this hard-eyed stranger before her.
    “Sit down, my lady.”
    “I’ll stand, thank you.”
    “Sit down.” He studied her rigidly. “Please.”
    India sank into a tufted velvet wing chair opposite the cluttered desk.
    “Forgive me. I shall try to put this as plainly as I know how, Lady India.”
    “Lady Thornwood,” India corrected fiercely.
    His eyes glinted for a moment. “As you say.” Silently the earl tipped several inches of brandy into a glass and drank deeply. Only then did he turn back to India. When he did, the mask had fallen back into place, shielding his feelings. “Delay will only make this more painful. I am Devlyn Carlisle, yes. I am a week returned to London, yes. Beyond that, however—” He turned away, studying the rows of gleaming crystal decanters on the wine table as if they were utterly unfamiliar. Indeed, he looked at the whole room as if it was unfamiliar, India thought. “In short, I came home, and yet I did not come home. I have no recollection of being Devlyn Carlisle. I have no recollection of what made this man laugh or cry. Or love…” As he spoke, his long fingers traced the edge of his jaw, where a scar gleamed like a silver crescent in the candlelight. “I was cut down at Quatre Bras, so I am told.”
    At his words, a ragged sound spilled from India’s lips, but the earl resolutely ignored it, his eyes locked on the goblet in his hands. “Afterward I had no memory of the French blade that wounded me, or of the two days I spent in a pile of wounded bodies. Perhaps it is just as well. I was left for dead and was too weak to correct the impression. Eventually an English officer found me and carried me off to an overworked surgeon, who wrestled me back from death. All this I know only from reports. My own memory begins several months later, when I awoke covered in dirty bandages in a smoky farmhouse somewhere near the French border.”
    “But what happened to take you there?”
    “I cannot tell you that. Beyond those few facts, I can tell you nothing at all. All those months are missing in my mind. You claim that I am your husband and I cannot dispute it. You claim we were in love, and I cannot dispute that either. But the deepest truth is that I am not that man, nor ever will be again. I am a stranger to you — even as I am to myself.”
    India’s hands began to tremble. “You … remember nothing?”
    “Nothing.” Thornwood shook his head grimly.
    India could only stare at him. Could what he said possibly be true? Did he truly remember nothing of their meeting in Lady Richmond’s rose garden after that chance encounter on the street, or the whirlwind courtship that had followed? Had he forgotten the shock of sweet passion, the swift flare of hunger, the wrenching pain of parting? Was this truly no more than a cool stranger who looked out at her from those well-loved features?
    India trembled, gripping the arms of the wing chair.
    The movement made Thorne frown. “I am sorry to break it to you this way, my lady. If what you say is true, this must be a grave shock.”
    Again the emotionless words, every one a knife tearing at India’s heart. “But it has been over a year. You still can’t remember?” Something cool touched her fingers. India looked down to see a wineglass pressed to her hand.
    “Drink. Then we will talk,” the unsmiling stranger who was her husband ordered.
    India took a sip, letting the comforting heat burn down her throat. Blindly she watched Devlyn, who turned away to pace the firelit room.
    Every movement was achingly familiar, yet now she imagined there were subtle