First Meet!
Mariah Clarke is a new heiress and newly alone, and she needs a man to stand between her and the former owner of her estate, who had lost his estate to Mariah’s father at cards. So she goes into her night time garden to pray for help.
For an instant Mariah imagined a real husband—not Burke but a man who fit her dreams. Ruthlessly she suppressed that image and concentrated on asking for mental and emotional strength.
As the pungent scent of the burning incense faded into the wind, she stepped into the gazebo and sat on one of the stone benches that circled the interior. She leaned back against the wall, feeling peaceful. Her night braid had come undone and her hair was drifting around her shoulders, but she felt too lazy to redo it.
As a child, she’d had few playmates—that’s why she’d invented Sarah. But she’d had her grandmother, and they did everything together for many years. She’d nursed her grandmother in the old woman’s final illness, and her father had appeared at the end to help. She and Charles had mourned together, and then he had taken her with him on his restless travels around the British isles.
Now they were gone and she was truly alone for the first time in her life. That was why George Burke was looking treacherously attractive. He did seem to like her, and it was very appealing to be wanted.
But not by George Burke. Though she’d like a husband some day, she wanted a reliable, kind man like the local vicar. Whom she had been avoiding since her father’s death, because of her complicated situation. She really couldn’t be glancing coyly at the vicar under Burke’s nose when she was claiming to be married. Closing her eyes, she rested.
Hold on hold on hold on…. In the far corner of his spirit to which he had withdrawn, he was aware that the end was near. He had been clinging to life for an eternity, and soon the sea would claim him. By now, he no longer cared if he lived or died. Almost, he didn’t care.
A voice in Mariah’s head brought her sharply awake. Go to the shore. The internal voice sounded like her grandmother, and it was filled with urgency.
Not stopping to question, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and raced down the lane at a tomboy’s speed. The full moon light was bright but uncanny, and she felt a chill, as if she had entered a world where magic could really happen.
Waves crashed hard on the narrow beach, which was a mix of sand and shingle. She halted, wondering what madness had brought her here in the middle of the night. Then she saw a dark object floating not far off shore, every wave bringing it closer.
Curious, she studied it. Good heavens, was that a head? Perhaps a corpse?
She gagged at the thought, wanting to run away. But if this was a drowned man, it was her Christian duty to bring him ashore so he could be properly buried. The tide would shift soon and she couldn’t be sure the—object—wouldn’t be washed out again.
She pulled off her slippers and wrapped her shawl around them. After setting the bundle above the water line, she waded into the waves. She was almost knocked off her feet, and the water was cold. Luckily, she managed to regain her feet before she went under entirely, but by the time she reached the floating object, she was soaked to the skin.
Hoping the sight wasn’t too ghastly, she looked closer and saw that it was indeed the body of a man. His arms were locked around a large chunk of wood, perhaps a piece of beam. Wondering if he could possibly be alive, she caught hold of the wood and towed man and beam ashore, fighting rough water all the way.
A last wave helped lift him onto the sand above the tide level. His clothes were tattered to the point of indecency, with shirt and trousers reduced to rags. Shivering, she knelt beside him and cautiously spread her hand across his shirt. To her amazement, there was a faint, slow heartbeat. The man’s flesh had a deathly chill from the water and there were lacerations and other marks on his skin, but he lived!
His hair and complexion looked dark in the moonlight, so she guessed he was a foreign sailor. Since water lapped around his feet, she took hold under his arms and dragged him onto the coarse sand. As she pulled, he began coughing convulsively.
Hastily she let go and the sailor half rolled onto his side, spewing water. When the violent fit ended, his breathing was rough but he was undeniably alive. Relieved, she wondered what to do. She didn’t want to go for help and leave him alone, but the faster she got him indoors and warm, the better.
Hoping he could walk, she leaned over and asked, “Can you understand me?”
After a long moment, he nodded, head bent.
“If I help, do you think you can walk to my house? It’s not far.”
He nodded again. Though his eyes were closed and he shivered with cold, at least he had some awareness of his situation.
She brushed the sand from her feet and put her slippers back on, then knelt and draped his left arm around her shoulders. “I’ll lift as best I can, but I can’t manage without your help.”
She lifted and he struggled. Between them, he got to his feet, swaying. She used her free hand to wrap her shawl around his shoulders, hoping the heavy wool would dispel some of his chill. “We’re on our way. It’s not a very long walk.”
He didn’t reply, but when she started walking, he followed her lead. Their floundering progress through the sand was excruciating and the breeze sliced through wet clothing.
Matters improved once they reached the path. A pity it was all uphill. But with her under his arm and taking half his weight, the sailor managed to keep moving.
He used a railing to drag himself up the steps into the house while Mariah supported him on the other side. They staggered into the house, Mariah wondering what to do next since he surely couldn’t manage another flight of stairs to the guest bedrooms. Then she remembered a small chamber at the back of the ground floor. Once it had been used by an elderly housekeeper. The room was shabby and under furnished, but there was a bed. It would suffice.
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 onto 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 chest at the foot.
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 chest 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 still slept. In the soft light, his complexion and the 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 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 callused 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 waiting 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 pulled himself from the death-like trance that had allowed him survive in cold water 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 lamp light. 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 hispered,
“Y…yes.”
“Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink. 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 seas 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 possible 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.