Читать книгу Loving A Lost Lord - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 14

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 but still serviceable. Not his, he thought; he would make different choices of color and fabric. The garments were well cut and well made, but they reflected a sensibility not his own. Mariah must have brought the clothing while 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 he’d ever owned. He won him at cards, of course.”

Adam’s face lit up. “He’s splendid. Beautiful paces, and spirited without malice. The chestnut mare is also very fine. Another prize at the gaming table?”

“Yes. She’s my mount, Hazelnut. Hazel for short.” Mariah studied Adam, who looked like a proper country gentleman in her father’s clothing, but his face was drawn. “I didn’t expect to find you on horseback. Riding wasn’t too much for you?”

“My strength is not yet back to normal,” he admitted, “but I really wanted to be on a horse again. Perhaps we can take that ride over the estate today?”

“Later, if you think you’re ready, but now Mrs. Beckett would like to feed us both breakfast. Are you ready for an omelet?”

“Definitely!”

He took her arm and they turned to the house. He liked to touch. Again she wondered if he was demonstrating the ease of a married man who was used to having a woman of his own to touch whenever he wanted.

The sooner her gift from the sea recovered his memory, the better for them all.

After an excellent breakfast, Adam withdrew to his bedroom to rest again. In early afternoon, Mariah tiptoed into his bedroom and found him sprawled across the bed on his back. He’d peeled off his boots and coat but still wore his shirt and breeches. He was a fine figure of a man who fulfilled the gentlemanly ideal of fit, well-proportioned elegance. Was he a gentleman by birth? She wasn’t sure, but he had become one.

Thinking she’d let him sleep if he didn’t wake easily, she whispered, “Adam? How are you feeling?”

He woke and gave her a smile that made her feel like the most special woman in the world. “I could manage a ride around the estate.”

She studied him, his visible bruises reminding her of all the ones that weren’t visible. He had taken quite a beating. “Let’s wait till tomorrow for the tour. Better not push yourself too hard.”

“Then I need to find a different physical activity.” He caught her hand and tugged her down so that she was alongside him on the bed. Gaze intense, he said, “I wish I remembered our first kiss. I shall have to start all over.”

Before she had fully grasped his intent, he drew her down and kissed her. His mouth was firm and warm, his tongue gentle as it parted her lips.

Sensation flooded through her, scrambling her wits and judgment. She had been kissed by earnest young men, and more than once had fought off drunks like Burke, but she’d never experienced a kiss like this. She felt his wonder and delight, as if they were new lovers, yet she also sensed commitment and his belief that they had a history. That they belonged to each other.

She gasped as his caressing hands moved down her back, honoring every curve and hollow. Where their bodies touched, she burned. She wanted to melt into him, kiss until they were both senseless.

His right hand slid under her gown and moved up her bare thigh, as shocking as it was seductive. She jerked away from his embrace, her heart pounding. Somewhere inside, her Sarah self was saying, “This is your own fault.”

Mariah couldn’t deny it. If they continued on this path, she would lose her virginity and possibly entice Adam into adultery. She should run screaming from this impossible situation.

He stared up at her flushed face, puzzled and a little hurt. “What’s wrong, Mariah?”

Briefly she thought of confessing, but she couldn’t bear the thought of cutting him loose from what little certainty he had. She struggled for an answer that would put more distance between them while also having some honesty.

“I’m sorry, Adam.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, unable to think clearly in his arms. “This is too…too sudden for me. We’ve had so little time together, and now I am a stranger to you.”

“A beloved stranger,” he said quietly. “And surely I’m not a stranger to you. Or have I changed greatly?”

She shivered, wondering if his feelings were for his real wife and Mariah was merely a convenient substitute. Remembering what she’d said to Mrs. Beckett, she said, “It’s not that you have changed, but that the situation itself is so strange. Will you court me as if we just met? We can discover each other anew.” She took his hand. “Your memory could return at any time, of course, and that will simplify everything. But until that happens, can we begin again?”

He hesitated, and she guessed that he would prefer to get to know her in a more biblical way. But then he smiled and raised their joined hands, kissing her fingertips. “What a wise idea. Miss Clarke, you are the loveliest creature I have ever met. Will you join me for a walk in the garden?”

“I should like that very much, Mr. Clarke,” she said with relief. “We can admire the daffodils and each other.”

He laughed and swung his legs to the floor. He reached for his boots. “I hope you are enthralled by bruises and whiskers. I’m not sure myself what I look like.”

“You are altogether lovely,” she said firmly. And that was most certainly the truth.