Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney
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replied. “Likely he was below decks in the engine room. He spent a good bit of his time there.” He touched his bandaged head. “My wits were scrambled and I don’t recall seeing anyone but Davy. I was surprised later to learn that two of the others also made it to shore.”
Randall geared himself up to ask the hardest question. “Have you heard of any bodies washing ashore in that area?”
“There are so many islands that a body could end up in a thousand places and never be found,” Mactavish said. “But my best guess is that Ashton’s body was trapped in the wreckage of the ship.”
It sounded likely. Randall asked, “How many casualties were there altogether?”
“Four, including Ashton. One body washed ashore near Troon, the mainland opposite Arran.” Mactavish sighed heavily. “So far as I know, the others are still lost.”
And might never be found. Randall went back to what the engineer said earlier. “Since the Enterprise was close to shore, is there any chance of salvaging the wreckage?”
Mactavish looked thoughtful. “’Tis possible. I’d be right interested to find out why the engine exploded.”
“We’d need a salvage ship with a good strong crane and an experienced crew,” Masterson said. “Do you know who might be capable of a job like this?”
“Jamie Bogle in Greenock is the man to see. He’s got the best salvage equipment in Scotland.” A spark came into Mactavish’s eyes. “I should like to see the salvage.”
“That could be arranged.” Kirkland regarded Mactavish narrowly. “If you’ll be looking for a new job, my Uncle Dunlop has a shipyard and is looking for engineers with steamship experience.”
“You’re nephew to George Dunlop?” Mactavish looked startled, and his wife, sitting quietly to one side, sucked in her breath. They must be worrying about money now that Mactavish’s job had blown up, leaving him crippled. The engineer glanced at the stump where his right hand used to be. “I…I canna be doing the work I did before.”
“Hands can be hired. My uncle is interested in a man’s mind and experience. I’ll let him know that he might hear from you.” Kirkland reached inside his coat for a small notebook. “Now, what are the names of the other survivors, and do you know where they’re to be found?”
By the time they left, Mrs. Mactavish was happy enough with her visitors to have served them tea and cakes. Back in the carriage, Randall asked, “Is your Uncle Dunlop really looking for engineers with steamboat experience?”
“If he isn’t, he will be,” Kirkland replied. “He became one of the best shipbuilders in Britain by hiring good men. He’ll be happy to have this one.”
Randall settled back in his seat. They might not be much closer to finding Ashton, but at least someone had benefited today.
Chapter Seven
He was a boy roughhousing with other boys. “See, this is how you throw someone.” He demonstrated on a blond lad, using the methods he’d been taught to toss his opponent onto a bed.
The blond boy was first shocked, then gleeful. “Show me how to do that!” he whooped.
“Me too, me too!” echoed from the others in the room. He had been pleased to demonstrate, knowing that his fighting skills not only were fun and useful, but earned him respect.
A tall, forceful woman entered the room as two of the boys were flying through the air at the hands of two others. Instant silence except for the flopping of small bodies onto mattresses.
She surveyed the scene, and he could have sworn he saw amusement in her eyes. “I see I shall have to set you lads to playing ball games before you kill each other from an excess of energy. You’ll have to play with the village boys, though, because there aren’t enough of you in the school for a proper game of football or cricket.”
A dark-haired boy with darker eyes said, “We’ll be better. Blood will tell, my father says.”
“Not on an athletic field,” the woman said, unimpressed. “It will do you good to be defeated by boys with more skill than breeding.” Her stern gaze went to each of them in turn. “Time you got some sleep, and no breaking of the furniture!”
They all nodded solemnly, then broke into giggles after the woman was safely away. There was no more tossing, though. The broad, cheerful-looking boy with brown hair brought out a tin full of ginger biscuits, which they shared as they sprawled on the beds and talked. Some talked more than others.
He couldn’t remember names, or any of the conversation. But he felt the good will and affection that flowed among them.
Friends. He had friends.
Adam awoke early, smiling with pleasure at the lingering remnants of the dream. A cautious stretch confirmed that the bruises and sore muscles hadn’t yet healed, but overall, he felt very well. He prodded his memory, wondering if that dream had been a piece of his past, or just a dream, inspired by his confrontation with George Burke.
His earliest real memories were still of being in the water, drifting ever closer to death. He recalled nothing before that, though the events since Mariah pulled him ashore were clear.
Clearest of all was his fear when she was assaulted by her would-be suitor. He still wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength to heave Burke across the room. But he knew that if necessary, he would have smashed through locked doors to get to Mariah.
Most vivid of all was the peace he felt when he and his wife lay down to rest after Burke departed. She had left him after an hour or two, with a gentle touch to his hair. Perhaps a kiss? He’d like to think so.
He had slept for most of a day since, with occasional periods of waking, during which he ate, drank, and used the chamber pot. He also hazily remembered a visit from Mrs. Bancroft, who had changed his bandage and pronounced that he was doing well.
Now he was fully awake and no longer felt like an invalid. He swung from the bed and got to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, then managed to walk to the washstand without incident. He grimaced when he saw his reflection in the small mirror hanging above the basin. He looked like a proper ruffian. His chin was covered with dark stubble, bruises were turning from purple to unpleasant shades of green and yellow, and the bandage around his head had a rakish tilt.
He tested the beard thoughtfully, wondering how many days’ growth it was. Impossible to tell without knowing how fast his whiskers grew, but he suspected they were quite vigorous. After washing his face, he searched for a razor, without success. He’d ask Mariah for one.
Without conscious thought, he folded down to sit on the worn carpet on crossed legs. Resting his hands palm up on his knees, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He had already fallen into a rhythm of slow breathing before he really thought about what he was doing.
Clearly, sitting like this was something he did regularly, but he was quite sure that the people around him would think such behavior odd. So what was he doing?
Meditating. The word snapped into his mind. With the ease of long practice, he stilled his thoughts and brought his awareness to the center of his being. Despite the dark curtain across his past, he was alive and well and safe. For now, that was enough.
A few minutes of quietness left him feeling focused and ready for whatever might come. He suspected that he meditated every morning after washing up. The water splashed on his face must have triggered a well-established pattern. As he stood, he wondered what other habit patterns would appear.
In the absence of memory, intuition must be his best guide. Already there had been times when a particular subject had felt familiar. He was sure he knew something about agriculture. What else did he know?
Horses. He was quite sure he knew about horses.
Ready to explore, he investigated the small wardrobe and found a variety of clothing, worn