Loving a Lost Lord (4 page)

She steered the sailor through the darkened house, occasionally banging into furniture. She hoped her charge wasn't acquiring as many bruises as she was. It was a huge relief to enter the small bedroom. Because the aged housekeeper had been infirm, the bed had been built low. With the last of her endurance, she steered him to it. “You can lie down now.”

The sailor folded onto the bed in an ungainly sprawl and promptly clutched a pillow the same way he'd hung on to his beam. Mariah swung his legs onto the mattress, then used her tinderbox to light a lamp. Even though the room hadn't been used for years, the capable Mrs. Beckett had oil in the lamp and a fire laid in the tiny fireplace. The bed wasn't made up, but there would be blankets in the small, battered wardrobe.

After she lit the fire, she tugged at the pillow he was crushing. “You're safe now.
Safe
.” His grip eased and she was able to remove the pillow and examine him.

She patted his shivering body dry with a thin towel from the washstand. His clothing was so tattered that she was able to examine him fairly thoroughly without stripping off the ragged remnants. Some of his garments were charred at the edges. Perhaps a ship's fire drove him to jump into the sea.

He was massively bruised and had cuts and scrapes beyond counting. There were also areas of blistered and scorched flesh, which fit with the charred clothing. Mercifully, the burns weren't severe. He must have hit the water quickly.

She found no major wounds on his limbs and torso. Though some of his injuries had bled, his time in the seawater had washed away the actual blood and nothing seemed to be bleeding now.

She pulled blankets from the wardrobe and wrapped him in multiple layers. Luckily the fire was warming the small room rapidly and he was losing his deathly chill.

Taking the lamp, she made a trip to her room for dry clothing, then descended to the kitchen. While tea water and broth heated, she brought a pitcher of water and a glass back to her patient. He was sleeping. In the soft light, his complexion and his unfashionably long hair were dark. She was no expert on male whiskers, but it looked as if he had at least a couple of days' growth. If he had been in the water that long, he had to be as strong as an ox to have survived.

It was hard to guess his age under the facial bruises, but she thought he was somewhere around thirty. Though not broadly built, he had a well-muscled working man's body, with calloused hands.

She frowned when she noticed the way his hair matted on the left side of his head. Setting down the lamp, she explored with her fingertips and discovered a long, deep gash that oozed traces of blood.

She swore under her breath as she swaddled his head with another towel. Everything she had done so far was common sense, but the head injury looked serious and she didn't know what to do. She must summon Julia Bancroft now rather than wait until morning.

Mariah brushed wet hair from the sailor's face, wondering where he came from. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, perhaps. She was pulling the blankets up when his lids rose, and he stared at her with mesmerizing green eyes.

After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water had pulled him from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to…perfection.

The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamplight. Wondering if he'd drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those fine spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.

“You're safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was grace. “Do you speak English?”

He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Y…yes.”

“Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink from a glass that she held to his lips. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water when it had almost killed him. And humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn't even drink without help.

When he'd had enough, she took the glass away and gently laid him down again. She wore a night robe, and though it covered her thoroughly, her dishabille was deliciously tantalizing. “Such green eyes you have,” she observed. “They are striking with your dark complexion.”

His eyes were green and the rest of him dark? He shifted his gaze to his right hand and examined it. The skin was medium tan, a half dozen shades darker than her ivory complexion. He realized that he had no idea what he looked like, beyond tan and bruised. Or what he ought to look like.

She continued, “Can you tell me your name?”

He searched his mind and came up with…nothing. No name, no place, no past, just as he had no sense of his own body. That had to be
wrong
. Panic surged over him, more terrifying than the cold sea that had nearly drowned him. He was nothing, nobody, torn from his past and thrust into an unknown present. The horror of that echoed through every fiber of his being. Struggling to master his fear, he choked out, “I…I don't know.”

Seeing his fear, she caught his cold hand between her warm palms. “You've endured a considerable ordeal. After you rest and recover, you will surely remember.” She frowned uncertainly. “Can you have forgotten that I'm your wife, Mariah Clarke?”

“My…my
wife?
” He stared, incredulous. How could he possibly forget being wed to a woman like this? But even though he didn't remember their marriage, his fears diminished as he compulsively clenched her hand. “Then…I am a most fortunate man.”

She smiled warmly. “Rest while I go for tea and broth. I've sent for someone who will know how to treat that blow to your head. With luck, she'll be here soon. By tomorrow, you will likely remember everything about yourself.”

He raised unsteady fingers to the ragged gash that ran down the left side of his skull. He had so many aches and bruises that he hadn't noticed any in particular, but now that she mentioned it, his head throbbed like the very devil. “Tea would be…welcome.”

“I'll only be gone a few minutes,” she promised as she whisked away.

He stared at the ceiling after she left. He had a
wife
. He hated that he remembered nothing about that vision of loveliness who had saved his life, nor about being married. It was easy to imagine kissing her, and a good deal more. But of actual memories he had none. It seemed damned unfair.

He spent her absence searching his memory and trying not to knot the sheets with nervous fingers. He recognized objects around him. Bed, blanket, fire. Pinkness in the sky outside. That would be…dawn. Oddly, a second set of words shadowed the first.
Palang. Kambal. Aag.
He was quite sure the words meant the same as the English ones that came to mind, so he probably knew a different language, though he had no idea what it might be.

But he had no personal memories. Again he fought the rising fear. The emotion was a screaming, vulnerable awareness that he was alone and so helpless that he didn't even know what might threaten him.

Strangely, deep inside he sensed that this was not the first time he had been torn away from himself. Perhaps that was why his fear was so great. But he could remember nothing about that other situation, whatever it might be.

He had survived that earlier loss. This time he had a wife who told him he was safe. Surely she would look out for him until he was strong enough to look out for her.

For now, he remembered the most basic fact of all: that he was male and Mariah Clarke was female.

 

Mariah clattered down to the kitchen, knowing she was blushing beet red. Why on earth had she blurted out such an outrageous claim? To tell the poor man she was his wife! The words had just popped out, almost as if Granny Rose had spoken for her.

But he had looked so stricken to realize he remembered nothing. Terrified, in fact. When she thought about her fears of being alone in the world, she understood. It was bad enough to be alone, with no known kin and few friends, but at least she knew who she was. To have lost one's very identity…She shuddered at the idea.

A bizarre thought struck. She had done the wishing ritual, asking for help. Within the hour, this unusual man was delivered to her, a gift from the sea. She'd even heard her grandmother's voice urging her to run to the shore. And she'd swear it was Granny Rose who spoke the words about her being the man's wife.

Mariah had originally told George Burke she had a husband, to discourage him. Could the sailor, a stranger she could claim as her spouse, be the answer to her wish? Was she being guided by Granny Rose, or simply insane?

Her Sarah self was quite clear: she was insane. But she didn't feel mad. Granny Rose had not been a witch or a seer, but she had been very perceptive and she believed in intuition. If something felt wrong, it probably
was
wrong, even if the reasons were so subtle that it was hard to identify them. Mariah had had a bad feeling about her father leaving for London, and she'd been right about that. Every day she reread the letter from the London solicitor, hoping the words would change, but they never did.

Equally true was that if something felt right, it probably was, if one was thinking clearly. Intuition had led her to the sailor, and intuition told her she would be wise to take advantage of this opportunity to acquire a pretend husband to dismiss George Burke once and for all. It had felt right to offer the sailor the reassurance that he was not alone in the world. She had seen from his expression that her words had dispelled much of his fear.

For his sake, it would be best for him to remember his life. But she remembered a thatcher in her grandmother's village who fell from a roof and cracked his head and never could remember a thing that had happened before that day. He had continued to live a fairly normal life and quickly relearned thatching. His wife had confided to Granny Rose that there were some things she was glad the old boy had forgotten. Perhaps the sailor would end in the same condition.

If he didn't regain his memory, she would eventually have to tell him they weren't wed, but for now, she would not deprive him of that comfort. And if he did recall, she would explain that she said she was his wife so he wouldn't feel so alone, or compelled to leave her care. Those were good reasons. Downright noble, in fact.

Her conscience reconciled, she made a pot of tea, adding lots of sugar to sweeten it. The chicken broth was also hot, so she poured some into a mug, then set everything on a tray. When she entered his room, she said cheerily, “Here you are. Which do you prefer first, tea or chicken broth?”

“Tea, please.” He had good manners and was well spoken, too. Mariah guessed he'd had some education and he sounded English, despite his foreign appearance. She stacked two pillows behind him, then poured half a cup of the sweet tea.

He swallowed deeply, then gave a sigh of pleasure. “What did we do before tea was discovered?” He drank the rest more slowly.

“We suffered greatly.” She refilled the cup. “Mint tea is nice, but not the same.”

“Mariah,” he said hesitantly, as if studying how the name felt in his mouth, “what is my name?”

She'd thought about this in the kitchen. “Adam,” she said promptly. The name of the first man. It seemed suitable for a male born of the sea with no memory of the past. “Adam Clarke.”

“Adam!” His expression lightened with recognition. “Of course.”

Surprised, she asked, “You remember that is your name?”

“Not exactly remember,” he said slowly. “But it feels right.”

“Do you remember anything else?” If he regained his memory quickly, she could abandon the pretense they were married. If that happened, she would ask if he would pose as her husband long enough to get rid of Burke. Her Adam seemed an agreeable man, so perhaps he would cooperate from gratitude.

He shook his head, expression darkening. “No, nothing. Though the name Adam feels right, Clarke feels less familiar. Neutral.” His mouth twisted. “Everyone around me will know more about my life than I do.”

“Actually, no. I've only lived in Hartley for a couple of months and you've just arrived here, so you are unknown in the neighborhood.” He was mostly bare under the blankets, so she tried not to notice what a handsome pair of shoulders he had. She had seen very few bare male shoulders in her life, and the sight was remarkably appealing. Struggling for decorum, she continued, “My father won the manor at cards, which is why we came here as strangers to the region.”

“Was it your father whom you sent for help?”

She bit her lip. “I wish it was, but he was killed near London several weeks ago.”

“I'm so sorry.” With quick sympathy, Adam took her hand. His cool grip was comforting. “It is maddening that I can feel your sense of loss, but not picture his face.”

“You were not well acquainted with him.” Remembering what she had told Burke, she added, “We are distant cousins who were both already named Clarke.”

“So upon marriage, you became Mariah Clarke Clarke,” he said, with a glimmer of a smile.

“At least I didn't have to remember to change my signature.” She smiled, glad to learn he had a sense of humor, and it had survived his situation.

His gaze caught hers, the green eyes compelling. “Tell me more about myself.”

She hesitated, thinking how quickly the situation was getting complicated. “I think it better if you remember on your own. There is much I don't know about your background. We were acquainted only briefly before becoming husband and wife.” An amazingly brief time—less than an hour. She continued, “I don't want to plant memories that might turn out to be less than correct.”

He looked as if he was about to protest, then exhaled roughly. “That is sensible, I suppose. My mind is so empty that I had best take care how I fill it.” He still held her hand, and his thumb stroked her palm gently. It felt entirely too good.

She removed her hand and offered him the broth. “How long were you adrift?”

“It seemed like…forever. I remember at least two nights, two dawns. Perhaps more. It all runs together in my mind.” He sipped the chicken broth cautiously. “I knew the cold water was deadly, so I slowed my breathing and retreated to a quiet corner of my mind to preserve myself.”

“Slowed your breathing and retreated in your mind?” she asked, puzzled.

He looked equally puzzled. “This is not something you do? It seemed very natural to me.”

“I've never heard of such a thing, but it seems to have worked.” Despite his flawless English, she wondered again if he was a foreigner. Retreating into a corner of one's mind to survive dangerous conditions seemed…rather foreign. But it must have worked for him to have survived for so long.

He asked, “Why was I at sea?”

Again thinking of the rapid lies she had offered George Burke, she said, “You had been away on the Continent and were on your way to join me here. You must have been shipwrecked near the end of your journey.”

She was relieved when they were interrupted before he could ask more questions. Julia Bancroft entered the room, escorted by Tom Hayes, the groom who had brought Julia to the manor. “I came as soon as I could, Mariah. This is the injured man?”

Julia set down her satchel of medicines and approached the bed. Adam's spurt of energy was gone and he now looked utterly exhausted. Mariah said, “Mrs. Bancroft, meet Adam Clarke.”

Adam said in a thin, rasping voice, “My apologies for not rising to greet you, Mrs. Bancroft.”

Julia smiled as she bent her dark head over him. “There is a time for gallantry, Mr. Clarke. This isn't it.” As Mariah held the lamp close, Julia examined his injured head. “This is a nasty gash.”

“I'm not so badly injured, ma'am,” Adam protested. “My wife has taken good care of me.”

Julia's glance shot to Mariah. Mariah shook her head slightly, wanting to defer questions. Understanding, Julia asked, “Could you find Mr. Clarke a clean nightshirt? The warmest one available.”

Mariah nodded and left. After learning of her father's death, she had entered his bedroom and touched his belongings, inhaled his scent, which made her think of safety. Then she had left, weeping, unable to dispose of his possessions. Now she was glad, because his garments could be used by Adam, who was of a similar size and build. She collected a heavy flannel nightshirt and a worn but warm wool banyan that would be useful when Adam was able to rise from his bed.

By the time she returned to the sickroom, Adam was asleep, his face gray with exhaustion. Julia rested her hands on his chest, her eyes distant and her expression intent. When Mariah entered, Julia returned her attention to the room. “I was praying,” she said simply. “I thought it couldn't hurt.”