Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney
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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