A long time later Josie lay against him, tired but curious. ‘Conan?’ She murmured his name.
‘Go to sleep,’ he rasped. ‘It takes the male of the species a little longer to recover than the female; I need a rest.’
‘No, not that.’ She nuzzled his neck. ‘But I was wondering. Have I ever done this with anyone else?’ She could not imagine she had shared such bliss with anyone other than Conan. ‘I can’t believe I have but I don’t know.’ His arm tightened around her, and she felt a brief tension in his hard body.
‘You were a virgin when we first met,’ he stated emphatically.
‘I’m glad.’ She sighed deeply, snuggling into him. ‘I might have lost my memory, but I knew you were my soul mate,’ she murmured, and in minutes was asleep.
But if she had seen the expression on Conan’s face she would not have slept so trustingly.
‘The March wind will blow and we will have snow.’ Josie murmured the proverb to herself as she gazed idly out of the drawing-room window, watching the snowflakes dance past and fall gently to the ground. She stirred restlessly on the sofa as the baby gave her a mighty kick. Usually the feel of their child moving inside her brought a smile to her lips, but not today.
For the past couple of weeks she had lived with a constant sense of foreboding. She’d told herself it was just nerves. Tonight she was hosting her first dinner party since her accident, but as far as her memory was concerned it was the first dinner party of her life. A wry smile twisted her lips; her inability to remember was preying heavily on her mind. Resting her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes against the nagging pain behind them, and let the events of the past few weeks run through her mind.
After the first evening back from the hospital, when she had shared her husband’s bed, Josie had been happy. Conan was a wonderful husband. Kind and attentive, he always attended the antenatal classes with her, cradling her head in his lap while she practised the breathing exercises. Her visits to the hospital were the same—Conan went with her; nothing was too much trouble for him. Every night without fail he delighted in massaging her swollen stomach with oil, and every night they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Life was perfect, except for her amnesia. Her brows drew together in a deep frown; she hated the word. But she was fast reaching the conclusion that Conan didn’t care if she never recovered her memory. It was the only bone of contention between them. When she questioned him, he answered, but reluctantly, she could tell. His eyes avoided hers or he laughed off her queries. Lately she had caught him watching her quite a few times with a dark, brooding intensity that sent a chill down her spine. They did not make love quite so often, but when she challenged him he always gave her a glib excuse. One of his top executives was stuck in America, so Conan was working harder than usual. He was also concerned about the baby, or more often he was concerned about her, but none of the excuses quite rang true.
Josie bit her lip. Perhaps it was her over-active imagination, but she could sense something was troubling him. And last Saturday night had only added to her disquiet.
Every week Conan took her out to the theatre or to a film and dinner, or maybe they would go shopping. The room set aside for the nursery had been decorated, and they had happily chosen all the furnishings together. But last Saturday evening, after they returned from seeing a new musical, they had had their first real argument.
Lying on the sofa with Conan beside her, cradling her aching feet in his lap, she asked, ‘Did you really enjoy the show?’ It had been a very avant-garde type of musical.
He squeezed her toes. ‘The lady in blue paint was quite explicit. Blue was definitely the colour for what she was doing,’ he opined dryly.
‘What was she doing?’ Josie asked. As she remembered it, the woman simply had pranced around naked but for paint, with another woman in a black body stocking.
‘If you don’t know you’re even more innocent than I thought,’ Conan chuckled.
‘Typical of a man—never answer a direct question. I’m sure a woman friend would have explained what the dance was all about and we would have had a good giggle.’ The thought gave her pause, and, glancing at Conan, she added, ‘Do I have any friends?’
With Jeffrey to watch over her and Conan to love her, Josie had not let herself think too much about her memory loss. Dr Ferguson had told her to carry on with her life, avoid stress, and allow her memory to return naturally.
‘I don’t know,’ Conan said tersely. ‘As I told you, ours was a whirlwind courtship; we met and married in weeks.’
‘I know.’ Josie sighed. ‘You said I was born in London, but we met in the country, and my father moved in with yours when we married. I get postcards from both of them, they’re obviously enjoying the cruise. It all seems so cosy, but I can’t help feeling—’
‘But nothing, Josie. Don’t try and force yourself to remember, and anyway I thought I was enough for you,’ he prompted flashing her a brief smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
‘You are,’ she quickly assured him. ‘But I just wish I knew—’
‘Stop it, Josie.’ He cut her off again, and, placing her feet back on the sofa, he stood up.
‘No,’ she’d snapped back. ‘It’s all well and good for you to tell me not to try, but I’m sick of not knowing who and what I am. I spoke to Dr Ferguson yesterday, and he seems to think any day now I’ll remember, but...’ It was late, she was tired, and her hormones were haywire. ‘I feel like a fat, useless lump, hidden away in the house to be trotted out on a Saturday like a child receiving a treat.’ She sounded like a shrew, and she knew she was being unfair, but she didn’t seem able to stop.
‘You spoke to Dr Ferguson yesterday?’ Conan enquired grimly. ‘You had no appointment.’
‘I telephoned.’
‘You shouldn’t have wasted his time; don’t do it again.’
Her head shot back and she stared up at him. ‘How dare you tell me what to do?’ she cried, incensed by the anger in his tone. Her loving husband had a temper, it seemed, but so did she. ‘I might be your wife but I am not a child to be told what to do—by you or anyone else.’ She struggled to her feet and glared at him.
‘No, but you are with child,’ he shot back, and, as though he’d realised that his tone had upset her, he added quietly, ‘And you are not fat, or useless. You’re a beautiful, glowing girl, and my wife. So please don’t excite yourself, Josie; it isn’t good for you or the baby. I thought I was protecting you by keeping what are, after all, strangers to you from visiting. But if it will make you happy I’ll invite a few mutual friends around for dinner next week.’
Josie should have been satisfied, but later, as she lay next to Conan in bed, tired in body and mind but unable to sleep, she felt a growing fear for the future. Conan had massaged her stomach as usual, and kissed her lightly, before turning over and going to sleep. But she had sensed a change in him, a mental distancing of himself from her. Eventually she did sleep, but her dreams were filled with weird pictures of an ultra-modern naked blue lady, plus ancient portraits of total strangers in costumes from the last century.