Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney
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he slept.
Unless his tastes had changed along with his memory vanishing. A disquieting thought. He preferred to believe that he was the same man he had always been even if his memories were temporarily unavailable. He needed to believe in something.
He believed that he was a lucky man to have won a wife like Mariah.
Warmed by the thought, he dressed in clothes suitable for the country. The process confirmed that the garments weren’t his. He was a little taller, a little leaner in the waist, and the coat and boots had shaped themselves to a different body. But overall, the fit was decent. Much better than the rags he’d been rescued in.
He guessed that the garments were his father-in-law’s. He tried to visualize Mariah’s father and came up with a male version of her, with blond hair and warm brown eyes. Invention, not memory. Of the real Charles Clarke, he found nothing.
Curious to explore the home he’d never seen, he left his room. Soon the household would be stirring, but all was quiet as he made his way outside. The manor house had a lovely view west to the Irish Sea, with distant islets and perhaps a mainland peninsula. Sunsets must be memorable.
He found a lane that led from the manor to the shore and walked down to a thin crescent of sand and shingle. This had to be the way they’d come after Mariah had pulled him from the sea. The distance seemed short now. The other night, it had been endless.
He inhaled the salty air, waves lapping within a yard of his feet. Was he a sailor, a man of the sea? He wasn’t sure. He knew the sea well, loved being near the water even now, after he’d nearly died in those dark depths. But he didn’t have the sense that his life was built around the sea, which would be the case if he was a sea captain.
Now why did he automatically think he’d be a captain? He suspected that he was used to giving orders.
As he climbed the lane back to the house, he found himself breathing hard and his limbs trembling. Though his mind was alert, his body hadn’t fully recovered from its ordeal.
Rather than return to the house, he headed to the out-buildings beyond. A small paddock adjacent to the stables contained several horses. One, a bright-eyed blood bay, trotted toward him enthusiastically.
He smiled and quickened his step. Horses were definitely a subject he knew.
On the way downstairs for breakfast, Mariah stopped by Adam’s room to see how he was doing. Her heart jumped when she tapped on the door and looked inside to find the room empty. What if he had wandered off during the night and become lost? What if he’d been drawn down to the sea again and been swept away by the tide?
She told herself not to be an idiot. Adam had been quite rational in the intervals when he was awake, so likely he’d risen early and decided he was well enough to leave his bed. A check of the wardrobe proved that some of her father’s clothing was missing.
Hoping Adam had gone no farther than the kitchen, she headed there and found Mrs. Beckett baking oatmeal scones flavored with dried currants. Mariah took one, so hot it scorched her fingers. As she buttered it, she said, “Mr. Clarke is up and about. Has he made his way down here?”
“Not yet.” The cook eyed her severely. “You never mentioned that you had a husband.”
“I’d seen so little of him that I didn’t feel very married,” Mariah said, her conscience nagging. Horrible how one lie begat a whole swamp of lies. “We’re going to have to get acquainted all over again.” She bit into her scone. “Delicious!”
She suspected that Mrs. Beckett had questions about this suddenly revealed marriage, but the older woman didn’t pursue the matter. “What does Mr. Clarke like to eat? If he’s up and about now, he’ll be ready for a proper meal.”
“Light food would be best today,” Mariah said, since she hadn’t the faintest idea what Adam’s tastes were. “Perhaps a hearty soup and a bit of fish for dinner.” She scooped up two more scones. “I’ll see if he’s outside.”
“If you find him, I’ll make a nice herb omelet for his breakfast.”
“I’d like one of those, too.” Mariah kissed the cook’s cheek as she headed for the door. “Mrs. Beckett, you are a treasure!”
The older woman chuckled. “I am indeed, and don’t you forget it.”
Outside, Mariah scanned the slope down to the sea, but didn’t see Adam. She turned to the stables, scones in hand. In her experience, it was a rare man who wasn’t drawn to the nearest horses, so the stables were her best guess. Hartley Manor had the usual workhorses, plus two excellent riding horses that her father had won at cards.
She was taking another bite from one of the scones when her father rode around the corner of the stable.
She cried out and pressed her hands to her mouth, the scones tumbling to the grass as she almost fainted from shock.
Adam catapulted from the horse and darted toward her, concern in his vivid green eyes. “Mariah, what’s wrong?”
Adam. Not her father—Adam. Shaking, she choked out, “I…I thought you were my father. You were wearing his clothing, riding his horse, Grand Turk. For a moment, I was sure you were he.”
As Grand Turk ate her partial scone from the ground, Adam enveloped her in his arms. There was a faint scent of her father in his garments, but the embrace was definitely Adam.
“My poor darling,” he said softly. “You’ve had a very bad few weeks. I’m sorry that I startled you so.”
She burrowed against his chest, painfully grateful for his support. “I…I still haven’t quite accepted that Papa is gone,” she explained. “If I had seen him dead, it would be different, but hearing a report isn’t the same.”
As Adam stroked her hair, she realized there was something unfamiliar in the way he held her. The embrace wasn’t lust, and it was more than the comfort of a friend. It was…intimacy? Adam thought of himself as her husband, and he was acting with a protective tenderness that took for granted the fact that he had a right to hold her.
The thought was as disturbing as his touch was pleasant. He moved so naturally into the space of a husband that she had to wonder if he really did have a wife somewhere. A wife who was as desperate to learn his fate as Mariah was desperate to be truly certain what had happened to her father.
Shielding her thoughts, she moved away from him. He scooped up the other scones before Turk could eat them. The scones were still warm as he offered her one. “How did you learn of your father’s death? Is there a chance the report was wrong?”
“I heard the news from George Burke.” Seeing Adam’s expression, she smiled humorlessly. “No, he’s not a reliable source, but he had the ring my father wore all the time. It was convincing.”
“Having met the man, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he stole the ring,” Adam said before biting into his scone.
“He’s probably capable of that, but soon after I received a letter from our London solicitor confirming Papa’s death.” She bit hard into her scone, chewed thoughtfully, then said, “The most convincing proof is that I haven’t heard from my father in so long. He had been writing me several times a week. Then…nothing. He simply wouldn’t stop writing like that if he were well.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I do believe he’s dead, yet it seemed perfectly natural that he come riding toward me on Turk.”
Adam ate the last of his scone. “I think it’s natural to hope against hope that a mistake has been made. That tragedy can’t strike us.”
“Do you know that from experience, or are you just wise?”
He looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t gamble that I possess great natural wisdom.”
She chuckled. If Granny Rose had sent a faux husband, she had picked one with a sense of humor. “Do you like Grand Turk? My father said he was the best horse