All she remembers...

...is feeling safe in his arms!

Part of The Governess Swap: Shipwrecked governess Claire Tilson wakes in Captain Lucien Roper’s arms—with amnesia! Her handsome rescuer believes she’s a member of the aristocracy he detests, yet he risks all to see her “home,” where she learns she’s betrothed to a wealthy stranger. Claire is convinced she doesn’t belong here...and Lucien is the only man she trusts to uncover her past and claim her future!

DIANE GASTON’s dream job was always to write romance novels. One day she dared to pursue that dream, and has never looked back. Her books have won romance’s highest honours: the RITA® Award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the HOLT Medallion, Golden Quill and Golden Heart®. She lives in Virginia, USA, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Visit her website at: dianegaston.com.

Also by Diane Gaston

A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

The Scandalous Summerfields miniseries

Bound by Duty

Bound by One Scandalous Night

Bound by a Scandalous Secret

Bound by Their Secret Passion

The Governess Swap miniseries

A Lady Becomes a Governess

Shipwrecked with the Captain

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Shipwrecked with the Captain

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08878-7

SHIPWRECKED WITH THE CAPTAIN

© 2019 Diane Perkins

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jane Austen,

who briefly lived in Bath and in whose footsteps

I was honoured to walk.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
June 1816

Lucien Roper stood at the rail of the packet ship, watching the Dublin harbour recede into the distance. He inhaled the salty breeze and felt the bracing wind on his face. Voices of the sailors tending to their tasks rang in his ears.

Only a few more days, then, with luck, he’d be back on the deck of a ship of his own, with his old crew, and back to the life from which he’d received so much. A fortune in prize money. Recognition and respect. A place he belonged.

A woman’s laugh sounded over his shoulder, its sound so joyous, so unlike his restless mood that he turned, startled. She wore a grey cloak, shrouding her face.

What pleased her so? he wondered.

This was the sacrifice the navy life demanded of him. He was not free to court a young woman with a joyous laugh. Not for him to marry a woman and leave her for his mistress, the sea. He’d seen what happened when a navy man married and he and his wife spent most of their days apart.

As his own parents had done.

It had been a long time since he’d suffered the effects of having an absent naval father. Lucien himself had been at sea for more than twenty years now, since the age of twelve. This was his life and before it, a mere memory.

He was eager to get back to it. His beloved Foxfire had been sold for breaking up, no longer needed now the war was over, and the Admiralty had promised him a new ship. Of course, there were dozens of captains like him, clamouring for a ship, but he’d earned a spot near the top of the list. At least with the wind this brisk they could count on making it to Holyhead by the next afternoon and he’d be in London a few days later.

He studied the sky and frowned. This crossing would be rough. Maybe too rough. Likely their departure should have been delayed a day, but the sooner he reached England, the better.

Still...

He sauntered over to where the packet captain stood.

‘We’re in for a patch of bad weather,’ Lucien remarked.

The Captain knew who Lucien was—a decorated navy captain, a hero of the Adriatic Sea and Mediterranean.

‘What?’ The Captain looked surprised Lucien had spoken to him. ‘Oh. Bad weather. Yes. Must sail through it.’

Lucien had made it through many a storm. He’d make it through this one. He’d prefer, though, that the Captain seem less preoccupied and better able to attend to the weather and what was happening on his deck.

Like noticing the young grey-cloaked woman back away from sea spray and stumble a little.

‘Would it not be a good idea to order passengers to stay below?’ Lucien asked him in a tone more demanding than questioning.

‘Hmm?’ This Captain was as sharp as a slop bucket.

Pay attention, man.

‘The passengers,’ Lucien snapped, gesturing to the young woman, ‘should stay below.’

‘Oh?’ The Captain’s brows rose. ‘Of course. Was about to make that order.’ He called one of his men over. ‘Tell the passengers to remain below.’

Lucien shook his head in dismay and strode away. He traversed the deck and, out of habit, took notice of the seamen preparing for the storm. He scanned the sails and the ropes. All seemed well enough. Shipshape. He glanced back at the Captain who held a hand to his chest and seemed to be studying his coat buttons.

Lucien expelled a frustrated breath. He’d better get below himself before he began barking orders.

He walked to the companionway and opened the hatch. At the bottom of the stairs stood two women, both in grey cloaks. Which was the woman with the captivating laugh? He could not see the face of one, but the other was a beauty. An expensively dressed beauty. He might have spoken to them and hoped to finally see who had uttered such a lovely laugh, but it was clear he’d intruded on them. They stepped aside.

He nodded and passed them, but turned back. ‘You ladies should stay in your cabins. The sea is rough. Do not fear. A seaman will bring your meal to you.’

At least he hoped such an arrangement would be made—if the Captain thought to order it.

Lucien continued to his cabin.

* * *

Claire Tilson had quickly averted her face when the tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered gentleman opened the hatch and descended the stairs. Her heart was already beating fast; this encounter—this lady—had been disturbance enough, but she’d glimpsed the man on deck and he was every bit as handsome as she’d suspected, with thick brows and eyes as light brown and as alert as a fox’s.

What was wrong with her? Taking notice of any man. She’d just fled from the country house where she’d been governess to three lovely little girls, because their father had tried to seduce her—practically under the nose of his sweet wife. He’d sworn his undying love. As if she could trust a man who so ill-used his wife.

Claire shook herself. She need not be distracted. She needed, instead, to address this lady standing next to her, this lady she’d met a moment ago.

This lady who looked exactly like her.

Same brown hair. Same hazel eyes. Same face.

What do you say to a stranger who looked like your twin?

Lady Rebecca Pierce was her name, she’d said.

Claire waited until the handsome gentleman disappeared into one of the cabins near the end of the corridor, but she debated whether it was her place to ask for explanations.

‘We should do as he says, I suppose,’ she said instead. She went to a nearby door and opened it. ‘My cabin is here.’

What she wanted to say was, Wait. Talk to me. Why do you look like me? Where are you from? Are you a relation?

Claire would love to have some family relation to claim her.

She ought not to push herself on a lady, though. She took a step across the threshold.

Lady Rebecca called her back. ‘I would like to speak with you more. I am quite alone. My maid suffers the mal de mer and remains in her cabin.’

Claire glanced down. ‘The sea has never bothered me. I suppose I have a strong constitution that way.’

‘Will you talk with me?’ Lady Rebecca asked. ‘Maybe there is some sense to make of this.’ Her hand gestured between them.

Claire gazed into her cabin, perfect for a poor governess, but unsuitable for a lady. ‘You are welcome to come in, but there is very little room.’

‘Come to my cabin, then,’ the lady said. ‘We may be comfortable there.’

Claire followed Lady Rebecca to her cabin, which included a berth larger than the one in her cabin and a table and chairs that provided a view of the sea through a porthole. As the gentleman had said, the sea was rough, with choppy waves and white foam.

Lady Rebecca waved towards a chair, inviting her to sit. When they were both settled across from each other at the table, Lady Rebecca asked, ‘Where are you bound, Miss Tilson?’

Claire would have thought she’d ask the obvious question, the one that burned inside her—why do we look alike?

‘To a family in the Lake District,’ she responded. ‘Not a family, precisely. Two little girls whose parents were killed in an accident. They are in the care of their uncle now, the new Viscount Brookmore.’ And with any luck at all, the Viscount wouldn’t often be in residence.

‘How sad.’ The lady frowned sympathetically.

Yes. The little girls were alone in the world. Claire knew how that felt.

But she did not wish to dwell on gloomy feelings, not when her life might improve. ‘And you, Lady Rebecca? Where are you bound?’

‘To London,’ she replied.

‘London!’ Claire smiled. A city of shops, palaces, theatres and town houses in picturesque squares. The Tower. Westminster Abbey. Hyde Park. ‘How exciting. I was there once. It was so...vital.’

‘Vital, indeed.’ Lady Rebecca, looking like Claire herself, appeared scornful.

Claire peered at her. ‘You sound as if you do not wish to go.’

The lady met her gaze. ‘I do not. I travel there to be married.’

Claire’s brows rose. ‘Married?’

Lady Rebecca waved a hand. ‘It is an arranged marriage. My brother’s idea.’

There were worse things than an arranged marriage. ‘And you do not wish to marry this man?’

‘Not at all.’ Lady Rebecca straightened in her chair. ‘May I change the subject?’

Claire blinked. She’d forgotten herself and had spoken out of turn, as if they were equals. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’

Lady Rebecca shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will tell you the whole story later.’ She leaned forward. ‘For now I am bursting with questions. Why do we look alike? How can this be? Are we related somehow?’

The same questions Claire longed to ask.

They discussed possible family connections, but came up with none that connected them.

It would have been more of a surprise if they had been relations. Lady Rebecca was the daughter of an English earl whose estate was in Ireland and Claire was the daughter of an English vicar who’d rarely travelled out of his county.

They had both grown up in English boarding schools, however, although Lady Rebecca’s was a rather progressive school in Reading and Claire’s Bristol school had catered to girls like her, who would eventually have to make their own way in the world. It was through her boarding school that Claire had procured the governess position in Ireland.

Lady Rebecca blew out an exasperated breath. ‘We are no closer to understanding this. We are not related—’

‘But we look alike,’ Claire finished for her. ‘An unexpected coincidence?’

Lady Rebecca stood and pulled Claire towards a mirror affixed to the wall.

‘We are not identical.’ Claire was almost relieved to find some differences. ‘Look.’

Claire’s two front teeth were not quite as prominent and her eyebrows did not have Lady Rebecca’s lovely arch, and Claire’s eyes were closer together. Still, the differences were so minor as to be easily overlooked.

‘No one would notice unless we were standing next to each other,’ she admitted.

‘Our clothes set us apart. That is for certain.’ Lady Rebecca turned from the mirror and faced Claire. ‘If you wore my clothes, I’d wager anyone would take you for me.’

Claire admired the travelling dress Lady Rebecca wore, a vigonia-wool confection with ribbon trim at the hem. She’d also admired Lady Rebecca’s cloak, grey, like hers, but of a much finer wool. ‘I cannot imagine wearing fine clothes like yours.’ She sighed.

‘You must wear them, then.’ Lady Rebecca’s eyes—so like Claire’s eyes in colour and shape—brightened. ‘Let us change clothes and impersonate each other for the voyage. It will be a great lark. We will see if anyone notices.’

Claire was horrified. ‘Your clothes are too fine for you to give up. Mine are plain.’

‘Precisely.’ Lady Rebecca crossed her arms. ‘But I believe people pay more attention to dress than to other aspects of one’s appearance. Perhaps even more than one’s character. In any event, I think there is nothing undesirable about wearing a simple dress.’

Claire’s dress was certainly simple. A plain brown poplin.

She touched the fine wool of Rebecca’s travelling dress. ‘I confess, I would love to wear a gown like this.’

‘Then you shall!’ Rebecca turned her back to her. ‘Unbutton me.’

They undressed down to their shifts and swapped dresses, acting as each other’s maids.

‘Fix my hair like yours,’ Lady Rebecca said.

Claire pulled Lady Rebecca’s hair in a simple knot at the back of her head, feeling inexplicably sad to make Lady Rebecca as plain as she.

‘Let me do yours now.’ Lady Rebecca removed Claire’s hairpins and her hair fell on to her shoulders. She brushed Claire’s hair high on her head and, with a little pomade, twisted curling tendrils around her face.

Claire and her likeness gazed in the mirror again and laughed. They had indeed traded images.

There was a rap at the door.

‘Answer the door as me.’ Lady Rebecca grinned.

Impersonate a lady? ‘I could not.’

Lady Rebecca gave her a little push towards the door. ‘Of course you can!’

Claire straightened her spine as Lady Rebecca sat back down at the table.

Taking a deep breath, Claire opened the door.

It was a seaman deftly balancing a tray as the boat continued to pitch. ‘Some refreshment, m’lady.’ He took her to be Lady Rebecca!

The lovely clothes made Claire feel like a lady. ‘Thank you.’

Would he also assume Lady Rebecca was the governess? Claire gestured to her. ‘Miss Tilson passes the time with me. Will you bring her food here for her?’

‘That I will, miss.’ The crewman stepped into the cabin and placed the tray on the table right in front of Lady Rebecca. He returned a moment later with two more trays. ‘Your maid, miss?’

Claire looked to Lady Rebecca for guidance, but the lady turned away.

Claire finally answered, ‘My—my maid is resting. Perhaps you might leave her tray here, as well? We will tend to her.’

The seaman bowed. ‘Very good, miss.’ He placed both trays on the table.

When he left, Claire put her hand on her chest to still her rapidly beating heart.

‘I was afraid he would notice we look alike,’ Lady Rebecca said. ‘He must have glimpsed me when he left the trays.’

The crewman had taken no more notice of Lady Rebecca dressed as Claire than the handsome gentleman had done in the companionway.

Claire knew why. ‘A governess is not important enough to notice, my lady.’

She joined Lady Rebecca at the table and they continued to talk as they partook of the bread, cheese and ale the crewman had brought. Claire relaxed in this woman’s company. She forgot their difference in status and felt as comfortable as if they were sisters.

Rebecca was apparently feeling a similar kinship. ‘I believe we should call each other by our given names,’ she said. ‘It seems silly to be formal to one’s mirror image.’

Claire was flattered. ‘If you desire it...Rebecca. Then I am Claire to you.’

‘Claire!’ She grinned.

Claire felt emboldened. ‘Might you tell me now why you do not wish to be married?’ Marriage was what every woman wanted, was it not? ‘Now that we are no longer formal?’

Lady Rebecca—Rebecca, she meant—turned solemn. ‘A woman gives up everything by marrying. Any wealth or property she might have. Any right to decide for herself what she wishes to do.’ Her chin set. ‘If I am to give up everything, it should be to a man who loves me and respects me and will not confine me.’

Those were lofty sentiments. But life rarely fulfilled one’s deepest wishes. ‘And this man?’ Claire asked.

Rebecca grimaced. ‘I met him only once. He merely wished to assure himself I could produce an heir.’

‘But, of course he would want an heir,’ Claire responded. ‘Especially if he has a title and property.’ Gentlemen, especially peers, needed an heir.

‘He does.’ Rebecca tapped her pewter tankard with her fingernail.

‘Is the gentleman wealthy enough to provide for you?’ Claire asked.

‘He is said to be prosperous,’ Rebecca replied. ‘He must be, because he is willing to marry me with a mere pittance for a dowry.’

She certainly did not look as if she had a mere pittance for a dowry.

‘Will you tell me who he is?’ Claire asked.

Rebecca shrugged. ‘Lord Stonecroft.’

This was not a name Claire knew, but, then, why would she?

‘Baron Stonecroft of Gillford.’ Rebecca said the name as if biting into rancid meat.

‘Ah.’ Now Claire understood. ‘You were hoping for a higher title than baron. I mean, you said you are the daughter of an earl.’

Rebecca sniffed. ‘I care nothing for that.’

Then, what? ‘Did he seem like a cruel man, then? Is that your objection?’

Rebecca sighed. ‘I do not believe there is precisely anything to object to in him. I simply do not wish to marry him.’

‘Refuse, then.’ Surely this lady had choices.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. ‘My brother—my half-brother—says I am too much of a burden for him to wait for me to find a husband I would like. I’ve refused every offer he’s arranged for me. This time he made certain. I will be turned out without a penny if I do not marry Lord Stonecroft.’ Her face turned red. ‘I’ve no doubt he means what he says.’

Claire knew how it felt to have no choices. Her heart wrenched in sympathy. ‘How sad. One would hope a brother would understand. Family should understand, should they not?’

Rebecca gave her a curious look. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters? Any family at all?’

Claire’s throat tightened with emotion. ‘I am alone in the world. Any relations are too distant to be concerned with me.’

‘My parents are gone,’ Rebecca responded in a like tone. ‘And my brother might as well be dead. He said he never wishes to see me again. Ever. Even if he visits England. He made that very clear.’

Another way they were alike. Both alone. Both without parents. Lady Rebecca went on to say her father died two years before, her mother, a decade ago.

At least she’d known her mother. Claire’s mother had died giving birth to her; her father, over five years ago.

But Rebecca had one choice Claire would probably never have. The chance to make a good marriage. ‘I think you are fortunate to marry, Lady Rebecca—Rebecca,’ she finally said. ‘You have little money or property, correct? You can only gain by marrying. You’ll gain a home of your own to manage. Children of your own. Comfort and security. Even status and a respectable position in society.’

It sounded like a wonderful choice to Claire. She yearned to have a man to love her—that is, the right man, one she was free to love in return. She suspected she would even enjoy the pleasures of the marital bed, because sometimes when seeing a handsome man—like the man who’d spoken to them in the hallway—she’d wonder how it would be for him to kiss her or hold her.

Could men sense such impulses in her? It often seemed the wrong men paid her attention.

How much easier it would be to simply be married. To have such security.

She opened her mouth to speak of this to Lady Rebecca, but the lady’s expression had turned desolate.

Claire wanted only to comfort her now. ‘Perhaps it will not be so onerous to be Lady Stonecroft.’

Rebecca gave a polite smile. ‘Perhaps not.’

Claire changed the subject, to save Rebecca more discomfort. They talked about their interests. What books they’d read. What plays they’d seen. Their favourite pieces of music. From time to time, Rebecca convinced Claire to impersonate her and check up on her maid, Nolan. The woman accepted her as Rebecca, each time.

* * *

They talked until night turned the angry sea dark. It felt lovely to Claire. She’d not had such a friend in a long time.

But Rebecca’s eyes, so like Claire’s, grew heavy and, as they talked, she tried to stifle yawns.

Claire, feeling guilty for claiming her company for so long, stood. ‘I should return to my cabin so you might get some sleep. I’ll help you out of your dress, if you help me out of this lovely gown.’

Rebecca rose and turned her back so Claire could untie the laces at the back of the plain dress she had owned for years. It had been such a pleasure to wear something a bit decadent, if one could call wool decadent. Ladies who frequently purchased new dresses did not realise how it felt to wear the same drab garments, day after day.

As Claire loosened the laces of the dress, Rebecca turned to her. ‘Let us see how far we can carry this masquerade. You be me tonight. Sleep in my nightclothes, in this bed. And I will continue being you.’

Claire blanched. ‘I cannot allow you to be closeted in that tiny berth they gave me!’

‘Why not?’ Rebecca looked defiant. ‘It will be an adventure for me. And you will have the comfort of this cabin as a treat. When Nolan enters in the morning, we shall discover if she still believes you are me.’

She pulled out her nightdress, made of the softest of muslin. ‘Here.’

Claire fingered the fine cloth of the nightdress. ‘Perhaps. If you desire this.’

‘I do desire it,’ her likeness insisted. She helped Claire out of her dress. ‘I desire it very much.’

* * *

By morning, though, the weather had worsened and the boat pitched and rose even more fiercely than the night before. Claire was awoken by Rebecca knocking on the door of her own cabin. She rose and had difficulty crossing the room to answer the door to admit her new friend. They looked even more alike, both in their nightclothes, their hair loose about their shoulders.

‘I checked on Nolan,’ Rebecca said. ‘She is even more ill today. I also saw the seaman who brings our food. He said we must stay below.’ She lifted her arm. ‘I brought your bag.’

Claire had packed a clean shift, her brush and comb, and a small bar of soap for the boat trip. The small trunk that held the rest of her clothing was stowed away. The dress she’d wear again today was draped over one of the chairs.

‘We can help each other dress,’ Rebecca said.

Dressing was a challenge, though. They had difficulty staying on their feet and the pitcher of water for washing had mostly spilled on to the floor. They managed to get into their shifts and corsets, and Claire reached for her dress.

Rebecca stopped her. ‘Oh, do let us continue our masquerade. It was such a lark.’

Claire did not need much convincing. She’d relish wearing Rebecca’s lovely dress again and having her hair in curls.

As the day crept on, though, their impersonation of each other was forgotten. It was clear the ship was in very rough waters. A seaman did attend them, bringing food and drink, but his face seemed pinched in worry.

‘A bad storm brewing,’ he told them.

* * *

Lucien had spent most of the day on deck, though he had no control over the lack of decision by the Captain. Curse naval discipline! It was clear to him that the ship could founder at any moment. The time was past to do anything to prevent it.

He ran over to the Captain. ‘Give the order to abandon ship! Get these passengers into the boats while there is still time.’ They were near the coast. The boats might make it to shore.

‘Yes, yes.’ The man’s face was ashen. He suddenly clutched his arm and his face contorted in pain. He collapsed on the deck.

‘Blast,’ Lucien cried. He grabbed one of the men to attend to the Captain and another to see that the order to abandon ship was given. He ran to the cabins to get the passengers to safety.

Suddenly there was a loud crack and Lucien watched lightning travel down the main mast. It split in two and crashed on to the deck.

Time was running out. He dashed back to the cabins and burst into the next one.

He found the lady and her companion. He’d learned the lady was Lady Rebecca Pierce, sister to the Earl of Keneagle. Certainly that had been a surprise. The other woman was a governess. But he had no time to lose.

‘Come above,’ he commanded. ‘We must abandon ship. Bring nothing.’

Lady Rebecca jumped to her feet, but the governess defied his order and pulled a reticule from her satchel. He’d still not seen her face.

‘Come on!’ he ordered.

When they reached the stairs, the governess shoved the reticule into the lady’s hands. ‘Here. Take this,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to get Nolan.’

‘Miss!’ Lucien yelled to her. ‘We must leave now.’

‘I will be right behind you,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘Blast!’ He pushed the lady up the stairs and seized her arm when they climbed on deck.

The deck was in shambles. Ropes and sails and smashed wood everywhere. The main mast lay like a fallen soldier in the midst of it all.

‘To the boats!’ he ordered, still gripping her arm.

He pulled her over the debris to the railing, but as they reached it, the ship dipped. A huge wave, as tall as a mountain rose above them.

God help them. Lucien wrapped his arms around her.

The wave engulfed them and swept them into the swirling sea.

Chapter Two

Lucien held on to her as the roiling water pushed them into its depths along with pieces of the broken mast, barrels and other rubble.

Nearly twenty years at sea in all kinds of weather, all kinds of battle, he’d be damned if he’d perish from crossing the Irish Sea in a packet boat.

A large piece of wood smashed into them, hitting her on the head. She went limp, but Lucien hung on to her. He let the sea do its will, pulling them deeper and deeper. With luck it would release them. His lungs ached, but he forced himself to wait. He hoped she was not breathing in too much water.

After an eternity, the sea let go. He kicked them to the surface. When his face broke through, he gulped in air. Lady Rebecca remained limp.

Was he too late?

Lucien resisted panic. Their lives depended upon him remaining calm.

Part of the mast floated nearby. Still keeping hold of her, he swam to it and laid her over it. He blew into her mouth, a trick an old sailor taught him years ago. She coughed and spewed water and mumbled something unintelligible.

He expelled a relieved breath. She was alive.

It was fortunate the debris that had hit them had knocked her unconscious. She might have struggled otherwise. He might not have been able to keep hold of her.

A piece of rope floated nearby. Lucien grabbed it and tied her to the mast, doing his best to keep her face above the water.

A bolt of lightning lit the sky and he could see the ship a distance away heading towards the rocky shore. The sea pulled them further from it, but into calmer waters. He looked around him for anything that might be useful. A small floating barrel. A large piece of canvas sail. More rope. A hatch door appeared, a piece large enough to hold them both. He took a chance she’d be secure enough on the mast and swam to the door, pulling it back to her. He strained to place her on the door. He gathered the other items he’d collected before climbing on to the door himself.

The storm had cleared, but the shoreline narrowed into no more than a thin line against the sky. He wrapped them both in the canvas sail and held her against his body to keep her as warm as possible. They’d be on the water all night, he guessed.

Lucien doubted anyone would search for them, but perhaps some vessel would sail near enough to find them.

He gazed down at her, still unconscious, but breathing. She had a lovely, refined face.

How ironic that, of all people, he should have saved the granddaughter of the Earl of Keneagle, the Earl who’d cheated his mother’s family of their fortune, impoverishing them and changing the course of their lives. His mother’s life.

But what of the governess? Had she survived?

Lucien hoped so.

* * *

Morning dawned to clear skies. Lucien’s arms ached from holding Lady Rebecca the whole night. She’d struggled against him, but never gained full consciousness. The night had been dangerously cold, but soon the sun would warm them.

Before it, too, became an enemy.

At least he had the piece of sail to shade her.

She seemed to be merely sleeping now. She’d been lovely enough in her travelling finery when he’d encountered her in the companionway, but she looked more appealing to him now, with curls gone and her expression vulnerable. Was she the lady with the lovely laugh? It could have been the woman with her, the governess. He hoped her running back to find someone else had saved her. He could not have held on to them both.

He glanced away. He’d never been tempted by aristocratic ladies, those few he’d encountered. They seemed shallow and silly, too eager for pleasure and too ignorant of how the rest of the world lived. He’d seen privation and could never forget how wretched life could be. As a boy, he’d heard the story over and over, how the Earl of Keneagle had impoverished his mother’s family. How his mother had lost the chance to marry a title. How she’d had to settle instead for his father, a mere captain in the navy, like Lucien was now. Even though his father had risen in rank and had provided well enough for her, his mother preferred the company of the local Viscount when his father was away at sea—which he’d been for months, even years, at a time.

Lucien had grown up feeling a responsibility to his Irish relatives. They had been the reason he’d sailed to Ireland, to provide financial help to his uncles, who struggled to make ends meet. Lucien could afford to help them. He’d squirrelled away almost all of his prize money over the last twenty years. Thank God it was safe in Coutts Bank in London and not at the bottom of the Irish Sea.

Like he and Lady Rebecca might be if the sea claimed them.

His lids grew heavy and the rocking of their makeshift raft lulled him.

‘No!’ Lady Rebecca pushed against him. ‘No!’

Fully awake now, he tightened his grip on her. ‘Be still,’ he ordered. ‘Do not move.’

Her lovely eyes flew open. ‘What? Where am I?’

‘You are safe, my lady.’ She would panic, certainly. He kept her restrained. ‘But we are on the open sea.’

‘On the sea?’ Her voice rose in confusion and she struggled. ‘No! Let me go!’

‘I cannot. Not until you are still.’ He forced his voice to sound calm. ‘You are safe if you remain still.’

The waves bobbed them up and down and slapped water on to the raft. The canvas covering them fell away and Lucien blinked against the blazing sun.

Her head swivelled around and her voice became more alarmed. ‘No! Why am I here?’

‘Do you remember?’ he asked. ‘We were on the packet from Dublin to Holyhead. There was a storm—’

She raised a hand to her head. ‘I was on a packet ship? Where is it now?’

He didn’t want to tell her it had probably crashed into the rocks and that some people would not have survived. ‘We were swept away from it.’

‘But someone will find us, won’t they?’ she asked. ‘Someone will be looking for us?’

More likely they’d think they’d perished. ‘Many ships cross the Irish Sea. Chances are good we’ll be rescued.’ Chances were at least as good as finding a needle in a haystack.

She scanned the horizon again as if a ship might magically appear.

‘I don’t remember being on a ship,’ she finally said accusingly.

Perhaps that was a godsend. ‘Best not to remember.’

She looked at him with hysteria in her eyes. ‘You do not understand. I don’t remember the ship. I don’t remember anything.’

‘You suffered a blow to the head. It happens sometimes to have difficulty remembering.’ Or perhaps it was the trauma itself, of the storm, of being swept into the sea. He’d heard stories of soldiers in battle forgetting where they were. No one had suffered a similar affliction on his ship, though, and they’d been through plenty of trauma. ‘Try not to worry over it, my lady,’ he reassured.

She peered at him. ‘Why do you keep calling me “my lady”?’

He gaped at her. ‘I was told you are Lady Rebecca Pierce. Was I misinformed?’

‘Lady Rebecca Pierce,’ she repeated in a whisper. Her voice rose. ‘Is that who I am?’

He searched her face. Her distress seemed genuine. ‘You do not remember your name?’

‘I do not remember anything!’ she cried. ‘My name. Why I am here. Why I was on a ship. Why you are here.’

None of that mattered at the moment. They were in a battle with the elements. If the wind stirred the sea again, they might be tossed off this makeshift raft. If they could not shield themselves, the sun could burn their skin. And if they survived today, would they survive another cold night? They had no food, no water. How long could they last without water?

But he did not tell her any of that. He held her closer. ‘Try not to fret. It will not help. It is important to stay as calm as you can.’

She leaned against him and turned quiet again. He knew she must be cold so held her closely.

After a time she spoke. ‘Do I know you?’

‘We met briefly on the ship. I am Captain Lucien Roper. No reason for you to know me.’ Except that her family had ruined his mother’s family, but what use was it to tell her that? ‘I am bound for London.’ Or will be if they survive.

She stirred a little. ‘I wonder where I am bound.’

Claire pressed her cheek against his warm chest. She was cold and her head ached and her situation terrified her. She was adrift on the sea with a stranger, a man who stirred some unsettled emotion inside her, an emotion she could not name.

Was she to die in the arms of a man she did not know, without even knowing her own name? Her past?

Was she Lady Rebecca Pierce, as he’d said? The name meant nothing to her, but then, her mind was a blank when she tried to think of something, anything, about herself.

There was only this man. His chest was firm and warm and his manner confident and able. He’d covered their heads with the canvas again, but she could glimpse the sea from beneath it. The vast empty sea.

The sun’s reflection on the water hurt her eyes, but when she closed them the rocking of their raft seemed even more pronounced.

Would they die here? she wanted to ask him. But that was one question the answer of which she feared the most.

Had other people died? Had there been someone on the ship she knew? Someone dear to her? She tried to conjure up a feeling of attachment to someone, anyone, but there was only this man. Only he seemed real.

Maybe he knew. ‘Was I with anyone on this ship?’

He hesitated before answering. ‘I saw you with another woman. She was in the cabin with you.’

‘Who was she?’ A mother? A sister? Did she belong to anyone? If so, had they survived?

‘I did not learn her name.’ He sounded regretful about that.

‘Was she related to me?’ She wanted to belong somewhere, to someone.

‘I do not think so,’ he replied. ‘She was dressed plainly and I was told she was a governess. I never saw more than a glimpse of her.’

A governess? Was she connected to this governess in some way?

Was there anyone who cared for her? Who would search for her? All she could conjure up was a feeling of being alone. She lifted her arms, wanting to press her fingers against her temples. On one of her arms dangled a lovely but sodden red-velvet reticule.

She stared at it. ‘Is this mine?’

‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘The woman with you handed it to you as we left the ship.’

Who had she been? Why would she hand her a reticule?

Claire strained to remember, but nothing came.

She shook her head. ‘What happened to her?’

‘I do not know,’ he replied. ‘She hurried off to find someone else and we never saw her after that. We climbed up on deck.’ He paused. ‘Then the wave came.’

The wave that swept them into the sea? How could one forget such an event? How could she not know who’d sailed with her?

How could she not remember her own name?

She shivered and stared at the water. How easy it would be to slip beneath its surface and join the void, so like the void in her mind.

Lucien Roper tightened his arms around her again, stilling her trembling, reminding her that she was someone, even if she could not remember who.

And, no matter what, she wanted to live.

‘Do you know anything about me?’ she asked him.

He paused before answering. ‘Very little. That you sailed from Dublin. Your name. That you are sister to the Earl of Keneagle.’ His voice stiffened.

She did belong to someone! ‘Do you know the Earl of Keneagle?’

He shifted his body a little. ‘He is an Irish earl, that is all I know.’

‘Then someone will look for me.’ She relaxed against him again.

‘These waters are well travelled,’ he said.

He did not sound convincing.

The waves beneath them rocked them like a bumpy carriage ride and the air smelled of brine. Her skin itched from the salt. They’d lapsed into silence. Only the slapping of the water against their raft made a sound.

The emptiness was driving her mad. She needed memories, any memories.

Even his would do. ‘Will you tell me about you, Lucien Roper?’

He stirred a little. ‘I am in the navy.’

‘The navy?’ Keep talking, she wanted to beg. He was her only reality at the moment. He and some brother she could not remember. A governess who’d been her companion.

And probable death. ‘What do you do in the navy?’

He shrugged. ‘I am a captain.’

‘Do you have a ship?’ Captains had ships, she somehow knew.

His ship, his home, was likely scrap by now. ‘Not at the moment. I’m bound for the Admiralty to be given a new ship.’

How could she know what the navy was and nothing about herself?

Maybe if he kept talking...

‘Are—are you on half pay?’ she asked.

* * *

Half pay, Lucien thought. She obviously knew what half pay was.

He nodded. ‘Until I’m given a new ship.’

‘You had a ship? What happened to it?’ she asked.

‘The war is over. The navy does not need so many ships. It was sold.’ He could not bear to tell her the Foxfire would be broken up. The ship had more life in her.

‘How sad for you.’ Her voice sounded genuinely sympathetic. ‘What was the name of your ship?’

‘The Foxfire.’

‘A lovely name,’ she remarked. ‘What kind of ship was it?’

‘She was a Banterer-class post ship with twenty-two guns.’

‘How impressive sounding,’ she said. ‘I know nothing of ships—at least nothing I can remember—but I know of the war somehow. I know it is over. Is that not strange?’

Strange that she remembered some things and not others? ‘I suppose it is.’

‘I—I cannot remember anything to do with me.’ She said this quietly, but he heard the pain of it in her words. She moved enough to look him in the face. ‘Would you tell me more about you? About being in the navy, perhaps? I need to know that there is more than us drifting on this water. I need to know someone has memories.’

His heart resonated with her pain. The fact that they were drifting on these boards in the middle of the sea would be terrifying enough without amnesia on top of it. She might be a spoiled aristocratic lady, but at the moment she did not know even this. And, although he would not say it to her, she must realise they faced probable death.

If talking about himself would ease her anguish, he would talk about himself.

‘My father is an admiral,’ Lucien said. ‘My grandfather was an admiral. I was always meant for the navy, as well. It is in my blood. And I’ve done well in it.’

‘How long have you been in the navy?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-one years. Since age twelve. At fifteen I was in the Battle of the Nile. At twenty-two I was at Trafalgar and, since then, countless encounters with French, American and Danish ships. Mostly in the Adriatic Sea and the Mediterranean.’

‘You did well in the war, then.’ Her sympathy seemed genuine.

He gazed out to the horizon. ‘I also sent good men to their deaths.’ He closed his eyes and saw the carnage of battle. He saw his quartermaster blown apart. His midshipman, a mere youth, set afire. Why had these memories come and not the glory of capturing enemy vessels?

‘Did you earn prize money.’

There it was. He should have known she would ask about his money. A man’s monetary worth was of prime importance to aristocrats.

‘I did well enough.’ Good enough for him to retire, if he chose to—if they ever made it to shore again. Good enough for him to pay his uncles’ debts and set them up more securely. They should have no financial worries now.

‘And you will be given a new ship?’

‘So I have been told.’

If they survived, that was.

* * *

As the day wore on, the sun warmed them as he’d expected. It dried the canvas and most of their clothes. Lucien scanned the horizon for ships, to no avail. Lady Rebecca remained calm, eerily calm, as if detached from the danger they were in and the suffering they would endure if rescue did not come soon. She must be as hungry and as powerfully thirsty as he was, but, unexpectedly, she did not complain. Instead, she asked more questions about his life and Lucien found himself telling her things he’d never shared with anyone.

Like being left to his own devices as a young boy in a village outside Liverpool. How his mother, in her loneliness when his father was at sea—which was most of the time—sought amusement elsewhere by pursuing the local Viscount, who took his pleasure from her when the fancy took him. His mother was always too preoccupied by this love affair to bother much with a little boy or to make certain his nurses attended him. Lucien told her about how he’d been left to his own devices, sometimes to cope with situations he was too young to understand. His mother seemed happy when he was sent to sea.

He told her how his life changed after that. He’d loved the structure of rank and the discipline the navy required. Every man had his place and his duty and together they conquered the enemy and the sea itself. The sea, which so often was beautiful. A beautiful, if often treacherous, mistress.

Lucien shared with this woman what he’d never spoken of with anyone else. How he loved the sea.

He didn’t tell her that he’d be happy to die at sea and be sent to his rest beneath its depths.

Not yet, though. He wanted to live. He wanted her to live.

The sky darkened as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. Lucien continued talking, recounting his experiences at sea and his ship’s victories. He left off the close calls of horrific storms and the carnage of battle.

She listened and asked questions that showed some knowledge of naval matters, not entirely without memory of facts, at least.

He’d thought about telling her of the connection between their families, of how her grandfather had cheated his grandfather out of his property and fortune, but what good would that do? She had enough agony without him adding to it.

Her predicament almost made him forget his thirst, his hunger and the dire consequence of spending another night floating to nowhere.

He kept his eye on the horizon as he talked. His years at sea had given him sharp vision for which he was grateful.

Suddenly he saw a shape form in the distance. It sailed closer, but still too far to notice them, a mere speck in the vastness. He watched it, saying nothing to Lady Rebecca. Why spark an expectation that likely would never come to fruition?

He eventually could tell it was a two-masted ketch, a fishing boat, likely. And it looked as though it was sailing straight for them.

Lucien waited as the ketch sailed closer. Odds were still greatest that it would pass them by, but his heart beat faster.

He quickly tied the rope to the latch on the door that was their raft. ‘Hold on to this,’ he told her. ‘And be still. There is a ship. I’m going to stand and try to signal it.’

‘A ship?’ Her voice rose.

In hope, he supposed. ‘With luck they will see us.’

When she’d secured herself he carefully rose to his feet and waved the piece of sail that had sheltered them. He waved the canvas until his arms ached with the effort. From time to time the waves threatened to knock him off balance.

The ship came closer and closer. It still could miss them, though. Lucien knew how easily their small raft could be a mere speck, but he continued to wave the canvas.

When he could faintly hear voices from the ship, he shouted to them, ‘Ahoy! Ahoy!’

Lady Rebecca added her voice to his.

Finally a voice from the ketch returned their call. ‘Ahoy! Ahoy! We are coming.’

Lucien sat down and again put his arms around Lady Rebecca. ‘They see us, my lady. We are rescued.’

Chapter Three

It took another hour for the ship to approach and lower a boat to row out to them, but Claire did not mind the wait. They were rescued.

Soon enough they were safe on board the ketch and greeted by a man who introduced himself as Captain Molloy.

Lucien immediately told the Captain, ‘The lady needs water and food.’

Claire had not realised the strength of her thirst until Lucien mentioned it.

Lucien.

She could not think of him in more formal terms than his given name. He’d saved her life and he was the only person she had in her memory.

He kept an arm around her, though she thought she could walk on her own.

‘We’ll get you both below.’ The Captain ushered them towards a hatch. ‘What vessel are you from?’

‘The Dun Aengus,’ Lucien replied. ‘Packet from Dublin to Holyhead.’

Captain Molloy walked them to his cabin, a tiny space, but one with a table, four chairs and a berth. Anything else in the room must have been stored behind the cabinet doors which lined the walls.

One of the men brought water. Claire nearly pulled the tin cup from the man’s hands.

‘Take small sips,’ Lucien warned her. ‘You’ll want to keep it down.’

She nodded.

He watched her drink before taking any water himself.

‘Can we find the lady some dry clothes?’ Lucien asked the Captain.

Captain Molloy signalled to his man, who nodded and left. ‘We’ve been out only a few days, so there should be enough clean clothes to be found.’ He nodded to Lucien. ‘For you as well?’

‘I would be grateful.’ He took another small sip of water. ‘You are fishermen?’

‘That we are,’ the Captain said. ‘We’re after cod and haddock.’

Claire saw concern flash on to Lucien’s face.

‘I am afraid you will be with us for a bit.’ The captain looked apologetic. ‘We’ll be at sea for three weeks at least.’

‘Three weeks?’ She gasped. It seemed so long a time.

But why was she concerned? She knew of no other place she must go, no other place she belonged. She might as well be at sea.

‘My lady, you will have the use of my cabin.’ Captain Molloy glanced over at Lucien. ‘We’ll find a place for you, as well.’ He looked away and muttered, ‘Although I cannot imagine where.’

Claire spoke up. ‘I do not wish to trouble you so. Is there not room for Lucien here with me?’

She was not entirely selfless. She dreaded being alone with the emptiness in her mind. He was her one link to her previous life, the life she could not remember.

‘I cannot stay here,’ Lucien protested. ‘Your reputation—’

‘My reputation cannot matter here.’ She turned to Captain Molloy. ‘Can it, Captain? No one will speak of this, will they?’

The Captain answered eagerly. ‘I’ll see they don’t.’

A muscle in Lucien’s cheek tensed. ‘As you wish.’

‘Well, that is settled.’ The Captain clapped his hands together. ‘I need to return to my duties. Food and clothing will be brought to you shortly.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Claire said.

He bowed to her, a gesture of respect that seemed foreign to her.

After he left, she lifted her cup to sip more water, holding back from gulping the whole contents at once.

Lucien frowned. ‘Are you certain about sharing the cabin, my lady?’

‘They saved us, Lucien.’ Was it not the least they could do in return? ‘I cannot repay them by causing more discomfort.’

He nodded. Grudgingly, she thought.

The reticule still hung from her wrist. She untwisted its strings and slipped it off.

‘Look inside,’ he said. ‘Its contents might tell you more about yourself. Spark a memory, perhaps.’

It looked as alien to her as this fishing boat cabin, but she loosened its strings and reached inside to pull out the contents.

A small purse filled with coin. A tortoiseshell comb. A white enamel etui painted with exquisite flowers and containing a tiny scissors, needles, pins and hairpins. A linen handkerchief with an embroidered edge and a monogram—R.P. Rebecca Pierce. The name that didn’t seem like her name. The items that didn’t seem like her possessions.

‘Nothing looks like mine.’ She trembled. ‘It is as though I have never seen these things before.’

He moved closer.

If only he would hold her. She’d become accustomed to his arms around her.

Instead he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Too much has happened. Your memory will return in time.’

At the moment, he was her memory.

A few minutes later, one of the fishermen brought two tankards of ale and bread and cheese, which she ate slowly, as Lucien directed. When another man brought clothes, Claire looked down at herself. The lovely travelling dress she wore seemed as unfamiliar as the fishing boat. It had laces at the back.

She glanced over at Lucien. ‘I fear I must ask for your help.’ She turned her back to him.

He stood. ‘You could not have undone this by yourself. Might you have been travelling with a maid?’

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her insides twisted in pain. ‘Do you suppose I was?’ She turned back. ‘Did she die?’

Did someone who tended to her needs die and she did not even remember them?

His hand flattened against her shoulder and his voice softened. ‘We survived. Others would have, too.’

‘I cannot remember.’ She also could not remember if another man had ever touched her so—so gently.

He loosened her laces and stepped back. ‘You’ll want me to leave. Give you some privacy.’

‘No!’ she cried, then felt guilty for it, but she had a dread of being alone. ‘Just—just turn your back.’

He did as she asked and she slipped off the dress. But there were her stays. They tied in front, but she could not undo the knot.

‘Lucien, I need more help.’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘My stays. The knot is too tight.’

He turned again and stepped towards her. His gaze was downcast as he worked the knot, his gentle hands touching her even more intimately.

His touch was more quenching than the cup of water.

Her breath quickened and her breasts rose and fell. He was only inches from her.

He made quick work of her stays, though, and stepped back once more. ‘I’ll turn around again.’

She slipped out of her stays and removed the rest of her underclothes, aware she stood naked in the presence of a man.

* * *

Lucien clenched a fist, letting his fingers press into his flesh. Being so close to her in her undressed state had stirred him. The sounds of her removing her underclothes aroused his senses even more. He was only too aware of the vision she must present in her nakedness.

And of how it felt to touch her.

In the past twenty-four hours he’d rarely not been touching her, but his fingers brushing against her skin stirred him as a man, not a rescuer. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, true, but this situation certainly did not warrant such a response.

And she was the last sort of woman he needed to be aroused by—the aristocratic daughter of the family he’d been raised to despise. Besides, she was much too vulnerable for a gentleman to take advantage.

‘I am dressed,’ she said. ‘You may turn around now.’

He turned. She’d donned the loose shirt and breeches the fishermen wore and held the rough knitted stockings that covered their legs and feet.

‘I must remove my half-boots, but I’m well covered now.’ She sat in one of the chairs.

For the first time he noticed her half-boots. Something about them... They looked worn, not at all what he would have expected her to wear.

She removed one and held it up. ‘I have no memory of these.’ She shrugged and set the shoe aside. ‘You must change now, as well. I promise not to look.’

He smiled. ‘Will you help me if I cannot undo my buttons?’

She coloured. The flush on her cheeks only made her more lovely.

Lowering her gaze, she said, ‘Of course I will, if you need me.’

He coughed. ‘It was a jest, my lady.’

She turned her chair away from him and quickly donned the stockings. He continued to watch as she then busied herself taking pins from her hair, most of which had already fallen to her shoulders in tangles. It was remarkable that any pins remained. She took the comb from her reticule and started working on her hair, one strand at a time.

Lucien forced his eyes away and changed into the clothes the fishermen provided.

He hung their old clothing and her reticule on pegs on the wall and joined her at the table.

She looked over at him and smiled. ‘These clothes are remarkably comfortable, although I feel a bit as if I am in my nightdress.’ Her face fell. ‘How is it I remember how a nightdress feels and I do not remember owning one?’

He had no answers for her. ‘When we are back on land you can consult a physician.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I would fear he’d send me to Bedlam.’

Such a worry was not unfounded, but surely her family would not allow such a thing. He’d not allow it.

‘We are likely to be on this boat for three weeks,’ she said after a time. ‘Is that not what the Captain said?’

‘It is,’ he responded. ‘We must make the best of it.’

Her expression turned determined. ‘I am glad of it. I am certain I can manage such a small world.’

‘And, who knows?’ he added. ‘Perhaps your memory will return by then.’

She detangled her hair strand by strand and it calmed Lucien to watch her. When done, she put her hair in a plait.

She held the end of her plait in her fingers. ‘I suppose it will only come loose again without a ribbon.’

Lucien rose and picked up the neckcloth he’d taken off. He cut the edge with the knife they’d used to slice the cheese and ripped a long strip.

He handed it to her. ‘This should work.’

‘But you’ve ruined your neckcloth.’ She reached for it.

He laughed. ‘I’d say the sea ruined it already.’

She wound it around the end of her plait and tied the ends with a bow.

They finished the rest of the bread and cheese and soon Lady Rebecca’s eyelids closed and her chin dipped on to her chest.

She jolted awake.

‘You must go to bed.’ Lucien rose and helped her to the Captain’s berth.

She curled up beneath the blanket, her eyes blinking in an effort to stay awake.

‘Sleep now,’ he murmured.

She seized his hand. ‘Where will you sleep, Lucien? There is only one berth.’

He tried again. ‘I should not sleep in this cabin with you, my lady. It is not proper.’

‘I do not care.’ She gripped harder. ‘To tell the truth, I am a little afraid to be alone.’

She looked very afraid.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a bed for myself on the floor.’

* * *

Lucien waited until she was sound asleep before gathering their dishes and slipping out the door. He found the galley and the Captain, who again said how pleased he was that he did not have to squeeze his men any more than merely finding another berth for himself. The fishermen managed to give Lucien another blanket and he returned to the Captain’s cabin.

She still slept.

Dead tired himself, Lucien formed a hammock of sorts with the blanket. As soon as he was settled in it, he, too, fell asleep.

* * *

He was awoken by Lady Rebecca’s cries. The room was pitch black.

‘No! No! Stay away! Stay away!’ She thrashed around in the berth.

He made his way to her in the darkness and held her arms to still her. ‘Wake up. You are having a dream.’

Her thrashing stopped and she threw her arms around his neck. ‘Lucien! I was being chased and then I was in the water and you were too far away to reach me.’

He unwrapped her arms from around his neck. ‘Only a dream.’

She kept hold of his hand. ‘Yes. A dream. I am awake now.’

‘Who chased you?’ Someone from her past? This was hardly the sort of memory he wished returned to her.

‘I do not know. It was as if the blackness pursued me.’ She trembled. ‘I am quite recovered now.’

He remained at her side. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, but her hand trembled.

The nightmare was still with her then. ‘I’ll sit beside you for a while,’ he told her.

Her hand seemed small and vulnerable in his larger one.

In the darkness he heard her murmur, ‘Everything was black, then all I could see was you.’

He sat with her until her hand relaxed and her breathing came soft and rhythmic.

When Claire woke the next morning, Lucien was gone. She sat up quickly, her heart pounding.

She was alone!

But she remembered where she was—on a fishing boat—and she remembered Lucien.

She remembered, too, that he’d woken her from that terrible nightmare and remained beside her in the narrow berth. She also remembered how she’d thrown her arms around him.

Her cheeks burned.

Although she could not remember who she was or anything about her past, she knew with certainty that it was shameful of her to embrace a man like that. Even if he had been a perfect gentleman.

Perhaps she was wanton. Could that be? Could it be she’d already compromised herself and that was why she’d felt no hesitation to insist he share the room with her? She might be a lady, but was it possible she was anything but ladylike?

She glanced down at herself and realised the fisherman’s clothes she wore had come loose of her makeshift belt. Standing, she straightened her clothing, but the breeches seemed ready to fall down at any moment. She remembered the etui from the reticule—she could not think of it as her etui or her reticule. She found it hanging from a peg. She took the pins from the etui and used them to fit the breeches to her body.

The door opened.

It was Lucien. ‘I have brought you some breakfast.’

He’d brought a steaming bowl of porridge and a mug of warm cider. How kind of him.

‘Thank you, Lucien.’

Her appetite was hardy. Was she always a big eater? Scenting the porridge, she remembered how it tasted—but she could not remember a time she ate porridge.

She felt Lucien’s gaze upon her as she ate.

She swallowed a spoonful and looked up at him. ‘I am sorry I woke you last night.’

He paused before speaking. ‘How do you fare this morning?’

She laughed lightly. ‘I wish I could say I feel quite myself this morning, but I do not know who myself is. I do feel rested, though.’

He nodded.

‘And you, Lucien,’ she asked. ‘Are you well?’

He waved off her question. ‘Very well.’ He leaned forward. ‘Rest today, if you need to, but I want to assist the fishermen. There are only five of them, including Captain Molloy. I am certain they can make use of me.’

She had not expected him to help catch fish, not a captain in the navy. How good of him. Did he always consider others, perhaps even over himself? How could she be selfish enough to insist he stay with her?

Just because she was afraid to be alone.

‘I do understand.’ She took a nervous breath. ‘I will amuse myself somehow.’ She managed a smile.

His eyes pierced into hers. ‘I will check on you, my lady. Or make certain someone else does.’

She lifted her chin and nodded, hoping she looked braver than she felt.

* * *

Lucien had expected her to complain and demand he remain with her. It was clear that she did not want to be alone. But she had not. And why had she insisted he stay in the cabin with her? If it became known, it would certainly ruin her in her aristocratic circles. Was it her memory loss? Did she not remember how important reputation was for an earl’s daughter?

Spending the night in the same room posed a different problem for Lucien. The intimacy of sleeping near her fuelled fantasies of sharing her bed, of tasting her lips, of feeling her naked skin next to his. He would never seduce her, though, would he? It would be taking advantage of her in the most reprehensible way.

Over the years he’d met many high-born men who’d boasted about conquests, usually leaving the lives of lower-born, but respectable, young women in tatters. Even Lucien’s mother had been an easy conquest for Viscount Waverland.

Not that she’d been anything less than willing.

In any event, Lucien had no patience for aristocrats who called themselves gentlemen and behaved like rutting animals around any woman dazzled by their status.

And he refused to sink to their level.

He watched her finish her porridge. He could at least keep her company that long.

‘Do you know about fishing, Lucien?’ she asked between spoonsful.

He gave a dry laugh. ‘Very little. But there must be something I can do.’

She blinked up at him. Her eyes were a remarkable mix of brown circled by green. ‘You could captain the ship, could you not?’

‘I could, but this boat has a captain.’ Although if he had taken over from the Captain of the Dun Aengus, perhaps the ship would not have foundered.

There was no reason to doubt the Captain of this vessel, though. He and his crew depended upon the sea for their livelihood.

‘I know nothing of fishing,’ Lady Rebecca said. ‘They use nets, do they not?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, they do, so you do know something of fishing.’

She lowered her gaze to her bowl and carefully scooped out another spoonful. She lifted it to her mouth.

Lucien looked away. Her lips had become a distraction, one he could not resist for long. He glanced back.

Her expression sobered. ‘I cannot understand why I know so many things, but I do not know anything about me.’

‘Take heart in that,’ Lucien replied. ‘If you remember those things, then surely your memory of yourself will return.’

She took another spoonful of porridge. He looked away again.

‘I am becoming accustomed to not knowing.’ She averted her head for a moment before turning and looking directly into his eyes. ‘It is as if my life started on the raft when I woke.’

He reached over and put his hand on hers. ‘I believe you will recover your memory.’

She merely continued to stare into his face.

He withdrew his hand and stood. ‘I should go on deck.’

A look of panic flitted across her face, but she quickly forced a smile. ‘Yes. I believe I will see if our old clothing needs mending. I think I remember how to use a needle and thread.’

Lucien was surprised that her first idea was to do something so useful. ‘I will come back to check on you, as I said.’

He turned to leave, but Lady Rebecca stopped him. ‘Wait a moment, Lucien.’

Just when he thought she would not become demanding.

She gave him a determined look. ‘I—I wish you would not call me “my lady” or “Lady Rebecca.” It simply does not feel right to me.’

He stood at the door. ‘That is who you are.’

‘What I mean is, I am not formal with you. I call you Lucien. I realise I never asked if I could call you Lucien. Is it offensive to you? Should I call you Captain Roper?’

Her use of his given name could be meant as condescending, but, if truth be told, he rather liked the sound of his name on her lips.

‘Call me what you wish,’ he responded.

‘Then will you call me something less formal as well?’

His brow furrowed. ‘I think not.’

Her head turned as if she were flinching from a blow. ‘I see.’

‘Lady Rebecca.’ The name did not rest easy on his tongue. ‘It is better if I preserve the formalities.’ It helped him keep his distance. And keep his hands off her.

She seemed to force another smile. ‘Of course. If that is what you want.’

Chapter Four

That first day Lucien did indeed check on her when he could and he was surprised that she worked so diligently at mending their clothes. She even found a brush and tried to brush away the salt and seaweed that clung to the cloth.

When finished she held up her dress and his coat to show him. ‘They still look like they’ve been in a shipwreck.’ She sighed.

‘At least they can be worn,’ he responded.

She’d done an excellent job.

* * *

On the second day Lucien felt badly about leaving her with nothing to do.

‘I will find something,’ she assured him.

* * *

At mid-morning he looked up from his toil to see she’d ventured on to the deck.

She sought out Captain Molloy. ‘What might I do to help?’ she asked him.

‘You wish to help, m’lady?’ The Captain laughed. ‘We will find you something.’

He soon had her carrying water to the men and serving food in the galley.

* * *

But at the end of the day when she had swabbed the deck, cleaning off the fish parts that littered the boards, Lucien approached her. ‘You are not required to work.’ He frowned. What lady swabbed up fish guts? ‘Especially tasks like this one.’

She stopped mopping and faced him. ‘I like helping. I like being a part of it all.’

And she quickly became a part of it all, as if she were another crew member, not a lady. The others began to depend on her. Seeing her on deck became familiar. At night they both slept soundly, fatigued from the labour of the day.

* * *

Claire relished the days at work. The ship became her world, a world that remained in her memory as did the men’s faces and names. It was as if her world—and her mind—was complete.

At the centre was always Lucien. It was his presence that made her secure, like an anchor secured a boat. As the days wore on, his face became shadowed with a beard making him look as swarthy as a pirate. The Captain and the other men wore beards as well, though none as dark and dashing as Lucien’s.

She watched him help haul in the nets and load the fish into the hold. She silently prayed for his safety when he climbed the tall mast to untangle the rigging.

At night the blackness of the cabin reminded her, though, that most of her life she could not remember. It helped that Lucien was near. He stirred within her a yearning she did not quite understand, a desire to feel the strength of his arms around her, the warmth of his breath, the beating of his heart, as she had on the raft.

Some of her dreams were of him, of his bare skin against her bare skin and his lips against hers. What did it mean that she dreamt so? It made her blush to think of it.

Of being so intimate with him.

Other dreams were no more than jumbled images that slipped from her mind by morning. She much preferred the days of toil and people she recalled from day to day.

* * *

By the third week, the boat’s hold was filled with fish and the Captain set sail to Ireland, a place she knew about, but of which she had no memory. The wind would carry them to port this very day.

She donned her mended dress with Lucien’s help and folded the clothes the fishermen had lent her. ‘I will miss these,’ she said to Lucien. ‘They are ever so much more comfortable than wearing this dress and stays.’

He smiled. ‘I’m glad to be out of mine.’

His were soiled and smelled of fish and sweat.

She took his borrowed clothes from his hand and folded them with the others. No doubt some fisherman’s wife would be laundering them soon.

She tied the ribbon around her plait and remembered how he’d torn it from his neckcloth for her. How nice it was to have memories.

She felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I will miss this boat.’ She blinked them away. ‘I suppose because it is so familiar now. I do not know what happens next.’

He gazed at her, sympathy in his eyes. ‘You’ve endured a shipwreck and three weeks on a fishing boat; you will be up to whatever comes next.’

She was not so certain. ‘You are right. I must buck up, mustn’t I?’

She would not tell him what she feared even more than the unknown was losing him, but she’d been enough of a burden to him already. He had a life to pursue, a new ship, plans he’d talked about with her, this next phase in his life.

From above them they heard a voice cry, ‘Land, ho!’

His face appeared strained. ‘We should go up on deck.’

She nodded and picked up the reticule that seemed to be her only possession.

They made their way to the deck and stood at the railing. A narrow line on the horizon slowly formed into land.

‘Where will we sail into?’ Claire’s heart beat faster. Would she remember anything once they landed?

‘Bray,’ he responded.

‘A fishing village, is it not?’

‘You know it?’ His brows rose.

She gazed at the land, now rising green. ‘I know of it, but I do not know why.’

She had asked him many things about his life over the last three weeks, because, of course, she knew nothing of her own life, but she’d never asked him what would happen when they reached shore. That was as black to her as the night, as black as her past. As long as they were on the boat she’d been content to avoid the topic.

‘You will travel to London, I expect. For your new ship.’ She watched the shore coming ever closer, not daring to look at him for fear she’d crumble. ‘Will you catch another packet from Dublin?’

He would leave her and be as distant and unattainable as her past.

He paused before answering. ‘I will see you safe to your brother, first.’

She swallowed. ‘No, Lucien. I have troubled you enough. I am certain I can manage.’ Somehow.

* * *

‘I will see you safe to your brother,’ Lucien repeated. ‘I’ll not leave you on your own.’

Lucien had no desire to meet the present Earl of Keneagle, but he could not simply leave Lady Rebecca to fend for herself. True, she could mail her own letter to her brother and arrange her own transportation to his estate, but how difficult would it be for her to not even know if a man standing before her was her brother or someone else?

‘We will travel together to Dublin and contact your brother from there,’ he said to her. ‘I will be able to draw funds from the bank there as well.’ He’d dealt with a Dublin bank to transfer funds to his uncles. ‘We should be able to purchase whatever we need, as well.’

She lifted her reticule. ‘I have some money. Perhaps I have other funds to repay you.’

He shook his head. ‘I am well able to afford whatever we need.’ What else did he need his money for?

He leaned his arms on the railing.

‘We are getting closer to land,’ she said in a shaky voice.

* * *

Soon enough the ketch was moored at a dock and they were saying goodbye to Captain Molloy and his men. To Lucien’s surprise, Lady Rebecca hugged each man who, after three weeks, like him, was rather reeking of sweat and fish.

Captain Molloy pointed. ‘Walk to the top of that street and you’ll find the inn. My cousin runs the place, Niall Molloy, so give him my name and he will see to your needs.’

Lucien shook the Captain’s hand. ‘We owe you a great debt of gratitude.’

The man looked abashed. ‘Aw, ’twas nothing. You more than earned your keep. The lady, too, poor bhean.’

Still, Captain Molloy and his men would each receive a generous gift from Lucien as soon as it could be arranged.

He climbed off the boat and on to the dock, turning back to help Rebecca disembark. She jumped the gap and landed in his arms. She felt too good in his arms.

She found her footing and turned back to say a final goodbye.

He offered his arm. ‘Your legs may take time to get used to land.’

‘I will miss the crew.’ She allowed him to steady her as they walked away from the dock up the street.

On the small boat, they were rarely not in someone’s company.

‘At least you will have a room of your own in the inn,’ Lucien reassured her.

She sighed. ‘It will seem strange after the fishing boat.’

They found the inn and entered its public rooms, seeking out the innkeeper who was serving ale to several men seated at tables.

‘Niall Molloy?’ Lucien asked.

‘That I am,’ he answered.

‘We are off your cousin’s boat,’ Lucien told him. ‘Rescued at sea from the wreck of the Dun Aengus.’

The man’s bushy red eyebrows rose. ‘From the Dun Aengus? We heard news of it. Finn picked you up? Is that not a jest? My cousin. Imagine. How long before Finn rescued you?’

‘The second day,’ Lucien replied.

‘I imagine that was time enough.’ He wiped his hands.

Lady Rebecca broke in. ‘Can you tell us about the shipwreck. Did—did many die?’

The innkeeper lowered his head. ‘All but a handful, reports say. Maybe a dozen survived, as I recall it.’ He smiled. ‘A dozen plus the two of you.’

Her face pinched in pain.

‘Well, sad it is, but the sea giveth and the sea taketh away.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You need a room? What else may I do for you?’

‘Two rooms,’ Lucien said. ‘But, for now, a good meal.’

The man laughed. ‘Finn’s food not the best, eh? I guarantee we will show him up.’

He gestured for them to sit at a table separate from the other diners and quickly served them large tankards of ale and mutton stew.

The other men seated there did not hide their curious glances.

‘Am I not presentable?’ Rebecca asked. ‘They keep looking at me.’

Lucien turned and glared at the other patrons and they quickly averted their gazes. ‘Presentable enough. They probably are not accustomed to seeing a lady here.’

She looked up, her eyes questioning. ‘Should I not be here, then? If I do not belong here?’

He must remember that much would be new to her. ‘You can certainly be here.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because I am happy to be eating so well.’

So well? Compared to the last three weeks, perhaps, but surely this food was as beneath her as the simple fare on the fishing boat.

She dipped her spoon into her stew and lowered her eyes. ‘They are staring again.’

He shrugged. ‘More likely, then, it is your beauty that attracts them.’

Her eyes flew up and were filled with anxiety. ‘My beauty?’

‘You are a beauty,’ he said. ‘Did you not know that?’

She blushed. ‘I—I have not seen a mirror since—since the shipwreck. I do not know what I look like.’ She dropped her spoon and lifted her hands to her face.

The innkeeper entered the room. ‘Stop acting the maggot, fellas. Leave the lady alone.’

‘No harm in lookin’,’ one of the men grumbled.

‘Yeah?’ the innkeeper said. ‘I’ll give ye a knuckle supper if ye do not stop.’

Rebecca lowered her gaze again. ‘I am causing commotion.’

Her distress disarmed him. ‘It is mere banter. Do not pay it any mind.’

Lucien tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew. She took careful spoonfuls, as if made self-conscious for being an object of attention.

It had never occurred to him that she would not know what she looked like. Was it possible she had no memory of her appearance?

She placed her spoon on the table and folded her hands in her lap.

He put down his piece of bread. ‘Would you like to see your room now?’

She’d want to be away from the staring eyes. Or where she could look in a mirror.

She set her chin determinedly. ‘Yes.’

He called the innkeeper over.

‘My wife will take you to the rooms,’ the innkeeper said.

A kindly faced woman with hair as red as her husband’s met them in the hall. ‘I am Mrs Molloy, I am. My husband told me you were in a shipwreck and Finn saved you. Finn is a good man.’

‘A very good man, ma’am,’ Lucien agreed.

She took them up a flight of stairs to two rooms side by side. She opened the doors to both of them and gave them the keys.

* * *

Claire noticed right away there was a mirror above a bureau.

‘Shall I come and help you undress when the time comes?’ Mrs Molloy asked.

Claire forced her gaze away from the mirror. ‘That would be very kind.’

‘Anything else we can do for you?’ the woman asked.

Claire responded. ‘I can think of nothing—’

Lucien interrupted her. ‘Baths? May we arrange baths?’

Mrs Molloy smiled. ‘To be sure you’ll be wanting baths after what you’ve been through. Would you want your clothes laundered, as well?’

‘I am not certain they are salvageable,’ Lucien said.

‘We’ll just have to find you something else to wear, won’t we?’ She patted his arm and left.

Claire could not take her eyes off the mirror, but she hesitated.

Lucien took her by the arm. ‘Delay never helps.’ He walked her over to the mirror and stood her directly in front of it.

His grip gave her courage. She lifted her head and looked in the mirror.

‘What do you see?’ he asked.

She laughed in relief. ‘I see me! I feared I would see a stranger, but I look like me. Same brown hair, same eyes, same nose that is unfashionable, same lips. I look like me.’

Was she a beauty? If so, she disliked the stares of men.

Except for Lucien. That he thought her beautiful made her feel warm all over.

His reflection was behind hers, his expression unreadable. He was so very handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair and beard dark as the night, eyes as brown and alert as a fox’s.

Alert as a fox’s. Where had that thought come from? She inhaled a quick breath. Had she remembered him?

She opened her mouth to tell him she might have had a memory, but shut it again. How could she explain it was all about him?

Instead she turned to face him. ‘Brilliant of you to ask for baths, Lucien. A bath will seem like heaven.’

She remembered how pleasant it was to lie in a warm bath, to rub soap against her skin and to feel clean again.

She just could not remember a time or place before this when she’d taken a bath.

The bath was in a room close to the kitchen, so the hauling of water would not be too onerous for the maids and the water would remain hot. Lucien allowed Lady Rebecca to go first and he went in search of Mr Molloy, mostly to distract himself from thinking of her naked in the tub, stroking her skin with soap.

‘Molloy,’ he said, finding him back in the public rooms. ‘I need your assistance. We have nothing. Where can I purchase necessities?’ He had some coins that had remained in his pockets, sufficient to buy what they needed.

‘You’ll be wanting Brady’s store.’ The innkeeper directed him to the place.

He purchased a razor and comb for himself, toothbrushes for them both, a hairbrush and hairpins for Rebecca. And ribbons.

Mrs Molloy made good her promise to find them clothes.

* * *

By the time the sun had set, the last vestiges of the sea were washed away and clean clothes replaced ones ruined by salt water.

‘It feels wonderful,’ Rebecca said. ‘I wonder if I have ever had a bath that felt as glorious or clothes that felt as good against my skin.’

He could agree. He was glad to be rid of his beard and the only clothes that would feel more right to him would be his uniform.

They returned to the public rooms to dine. The rooms were more crowded than before, with both men and women sharing food and drink, but the people were warm and welcoming. Their story of surviving the shipwreck had spread and they spent the meal answering questions about the event.

Lady Rebecca, so at ease among these simple villagers, surprised him at every turn. When had he known any aristocratic lady like her? Even his mother, who merely aspired to the aristocracy, looked down her nose at those she perceived as inferior. Of course, Lady Rebecca did not remember being of high birth. That must explain it.

They were treated to endless tankards of ale and the inn’s brew was particularly hoppy and refreshing. All the voices in the room grew louder as the night wore on, but Lucien could hear Rebecca’s laugh above the din.

A lovely sound, one he remembered from the packet. So she had been the lady with the captivating laugh. She swayed and caught herself by leaning against a table.

Lucien came to her side. ‘It is time to retire, my lady.’

She nodded with a grateful look and coloured with the hum of approval that followed in their wake.

‘I feel so unsteady,’ she said as they entered the hall and started up the stairs.

‘It is the ale.’ He kept a firm hold on her.

‘It was quite delicious ale, was it not?’ She reached for the banister. ‘I wonder if I liked ale before, because I quite like it now.’

‘I noticed, my lady.’

She stopped on the stairs. ‘It feels so odd for you to call me “my lady.”’

‘Because you do not remember,’ he said.

‘I do not like it.’ She leaned against him and tipped her head up to look him in the face. ‘It makes me different from everyone else.’

‘That is not so bad a thing,’ he reassured.

‘I suppose I am different.’ She kept staring into his eyes. ‘I have no memory.’

‘Even so, you have done well in every situation you’ve encountered,’ he told her.

‘Have I?’ She smiled and swayed closer to him, tantalisingly close.

He took a bracing breath and eased her away. ‘It is time you were abed.’

Her eyes widened and her lips parted.

God help him.

He clasped her arm. ‘Come.’

After a few steps, she leaned against him again, but he managed to walk her to her room without taking her in his arms and pressing his lips against hers.

He took her key and opened the door. ‘I’ll send Mrs Molloy to assist you.’

She put her arms around him and pulled him inside the room. ‘You could assist me, Lucien. Like before.’

His head dipped down and she reached up and brushed her lips against his.

God help him.

Before he lost all control, he gripped her upper arms and eased her away. ‘No.’

She put her hands to her temples. ‘Did I just kiss you? Forgive me, Lucien. I cannot imagine why I acted that way. I am not so scandalous, I would hope.’

‘You merely had too much ale.’ That did not explain his desire, though.

‘Perhaps I am scandalous.’ She sat on the bed. ‘Then it would do no harm for me to kiss you again, would it?’ She half-reclined on the bed, resting on her elbows.

Was she trifling with him now? He’d once been propositioned by a countess looking for a new plaything. He’d easily turned down that woman. It was proving more difficult to resist Lady Rebecca.

‘Perhaps you are virtuous,’ he countered, ‘and need to preserve your reputation.’

She sat up. ‘You are correct, of course.’ Her enticing hazel eyes looked up at him, shining like exotic jewels.

He turned and walked to the doorway. ‘I will send for Mrs Molloy.’

‘Goodnight, Lucien.’ Her voice was low and soft, stirring him even more.

He managed only a nod before closing the door. He needed a barrier between them this night.

Chapter Five

When Claire woke the next day her head ached and she wished there was one memory she could banish from her mind. She’d acted like a brazen trollop with Lucien. Goodness! She’d wanted him to kiss her and hold her and spend the whole night in her bed. She still could feel his breath against her lips and the warmth of his touch.

Surely that was brazen? Was she truly such a woman?

She tried again to remember something about herself that could answer that question.

There was nothing.

Lucien hired a carriage to take them to Dublin. Claire felt almost as grief-stricken saying goodbye to the Molloys as she’d felt leaving the fishermen. Captain Molloy, his cousin, Mrs Molloy, the fishermen and the others at the inn were the people in her life, the only ones, except for Lucien. Now she was headed to a city she did not remember to eventually reunite with a brother who was a complete stranger to her.

After the buildings of Bray receded into the distance and she’d wrestled her emotions into some sort of order, she became aware of how close Lucien was seated next to her and of how comfortable it was for her to be beside him. She did not want to face saying goodbye to him, but that would come soon enough.

Lucien was everything to her. She, on the other hand, was merely an obstacle to his returning to London and back to the life at sea he so loved.

She must take care and never let it slip that she wanted him to stay with her longer.

She looked out the window at the countryside rolling past. Had she seen it before?

She did not know.

Their journey would take half the day and so far Lucien had said little to her. Of course, she, as well, only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. What could she say? That she regretted trying to seduce him? Or that she regretted not succeeding? Perhaps she should say she was sorry to be such a burden.

* * *

After changing horses one last time and taking some refreshment at the coaching inn, they finally reached the bustling streets of Dublin.

‘I wonder if I will remember anything here,’ she murmured, more to herself than to him.

‘Perhaps something will spark a memory,’ he responded.

She studied the scenes passing by her window. ‘Nothing I see is a surprise.’ Not the wagons or carriages or riders or people walking. ‘I simply cannot remember another time I saw such things.’

His eyes looked sympathetic and she felt a pang of guilt.

‘I do not mean to sound as if I am complaining,’ she explained. ‘What is important is that I am alive. I owe that to you.’

He averted his gaze. ‘And the fishing boat.’

‘And the fishing boat,’ she agreed.

The carriage pulled up to a large red-brick town house.

‘We are here,’ Lucien said.

A footman emerged from the building and opened the carriage door. Lucien climbed out and turned to help her disembark, then he reached in and picked up the two small parcels that contained their meagre belongings.

They wore the clothes that the Molloys had found for them. The clothes they wore in the shipwreck were gone. The footman looked them up and down with haughty contempt, no doubt due to those plain clothes of a simple fishing villager.

‘Your luggage?’ the footman said with a sneer.

‘We have none.’ Lucien turned to the coachman and paid him out of some coins he took from his pocket.

The man grinned. ‘I thank you, sir!’

Lucien then straightened and glared at the footman with an expression that would make any man quake. ‘We require two rooms and I am well able to pay.’

The footman nodded curtly. ‘Follow me.’

They entered a large hall with marble floors covered in part with a brightly hued floral carpet that looked like it came from the looms at Axminster.

Axminster? Somehow she knew such carpets were made at Axminster. That was not a memory, though. It was knowledge.

Along the walls were pale green sofas and tables with brass embellishments. It was all quite opulent and Claire had the sense she’d never seen anything go grand.

But that was not a memory, was it? More like an absence of memory.

There also was an impressive mahogany desk and a finely dressed man rising from its chair.

Lucien strode over to him. ‘Mr Castle.’

The man peered at him for a moment before gasping. ‘Captain Roper? You are returned.’ He continued to look puzzled.

‘Unexpectedly,’ Lucien replied. ‘Forgive our simple clothing.’ He turned to Claire. ‘Lady Rebecca, let me present Mr Castle, the hotel owner. I stayed here when previously in Dublin.’

Before the shipwreck, he meant.

‘Mr Castle.’ Claire curtsied.

Lucien turned back to Mr Castle. ‘This is Lady Rebecca Pierce, the Earl of Keneagle’s sister. We will need two rooms, Mr Castle. And a great deal more.’

Mr Castle’s gaze darted between them. ‘Your luggage?’

Lucien was quick to reply. ‘We have none. Our ship to England foundered. We survived, but lost everything.’

‘Foundered?’ Mr Castle turned to her, an expression of sympathy on his face. ‘Oh, my. Were you on the Dun Aengus? We heard it wrecked. What a terrible ordeal. The hotel will assist you in any way we are able.’

‘We are most in need of clothing.’ Lucien gestured to the plain brown, ill-fitting coat he wore.

‘I will make enquiries as to how we might attire you quickly.’ Mr Castle took keys from a drawer in his desk.

‘That would be so kind of you,’ Claire said.

Mr Castle smiled and signalled to the footman to escort them to their rooms on the second floor.

Their rooms were again next to each other. Lucien would not be so far away.

He stood in her doorway. ‘I will leave you here to rest. There is time for me to visit the bank.’

Her stomach fluttered.

How silly to have nerves simply because he was leaving her alone. This was not some wilderness—or the open sea—but a respectable hotel.

She could try to do something useful. ‘Perhaps I should write to my brother. There is bound to be pen and ink somewhere.’ She began opening drawers until finding the one with paper, pen and ink. ‘What should I say? I don’t have his direction.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘Or his given name. He will think me odd to call him Lord Keneagle.’

He remained in the doorway.

She turned to him and made herself smile. ‘But you must go.’

He hesitated longer before finally speaking. ‘I will write to your brother, if you like.’

‘Would you?’ Her muscles relaxed. And she hadn’t realised she’d been tense. She caught herself, though. ‘I cannot ask you to do so much for me.’

‘I offered.’ He shrugged. ‘I will write it before I go to the bank and have it sent by messenger.’

* * *

Lucien returned to his room and opened the desk there, removing a pen, ink and paper.

It made sense for him to write the letter, even if it was to the descendent of the man who’d created the genesis of his mother’s unhappiness.

Perhaps his own, as well.

Neither he nor Lady Rebecca had anything to do with that event, however. They’d not even been born. It was his mother who’d kept the angry fires burning all these years.

He uncapped the ink and dipped the quill into it. As concisely as he could, he described the shipwreck, Lady Rebecca’s amnesia and their whereabouts in the weeks since.

The Earl would send for her, Lucien was certain. Would he send someone to accompany her? Without a memory it would be hard for her to travel alone. Perhaps Lucien would be compelled to go with her and see the estate that had reaped the benefits of his family’s financial demise.

He finished the letter and wrote its direction on the envelope.

Leaving his room, he made his way back to Mr Castle’s desk. ‘There is something you can do for me, Mr Castle.’

‘I am at your service.’ The man smiled.

He handed Castle the letter. ‘Send this by messenger. To the Earl of Keneagle. Make certain it reaches his hands.’

Mr Castle took the letter. ‘It will be done.’

Lucien left the hotel and walked the two miles to Number Two College Green, the Bank of Ireland.

The clerk he had dealt with before greeted him with the same level of surprise Mr Castle had shown. ‘Captain Roper? I thought you were already in England.’

Lucien repeated the story of the shipwreck, explaining his duty to see the Earl of Keneagle’s sister back safely to her family. He did not mention her amnesia.

‘I need access to funds,’ Lucien explained. ‘All was lost in the shipwreck.’

As well as seeking funds for his own use, he arranged for generous rewards to be sent to Captain Molloy and his fishermen. And to Molloy’s cousin and his wife as well. When everything was settled, he returned to the hotel.

* * *

When he entered the hall, Mr Castle called him over.

‘I hired a messenger for you. He has started the journey.’ He handed Lucien a piece of paper. ‘And I procured the name and direction of a second-hand shop that sells clothing that should meet your standards. I can arrange a hackney coach to take you there today, if you like.’

They desperately needed clothes. What Lady Rebecca wore now was serviceable, but certainly inappropriate for an earl’s daughter.

‘I am very grateful, Mr Castle,’ Lucien responded. ‘I will ask the lady what she wishes and have your answer directly.’

He hurried up the stairs and knocked on her door.

She opened it. ‘Lucien. You are back.’

Had she expected he would leave her alone all day? ‘Mr Castle has found a shop where we might purchase clothing second-hand. We can go there right now, if you desire it.’

Claire did not mind the clothing she wore. The dress fit her well enough, even though it was nothing like the dress she had worn during the shipwreck. That dress must have once been very elegant. It would be expected of her to wear fine clothing, she suspected.

‘I will get my hat.’

Claire donned the bonnet Mrs Molloy had given her and returned to the hall with Lucien.

‘I sent a messenger with the letter to your brother,’ he told her as they waited for the hackney coach. ‘He should receive it tomorrow.’

That gave her a whirlwind of nerves and no pleasure. Meeting her brother and losing Lucien.

‘I do appreciate that, Lucien.’ Although she felt disingenuous saying so.

‘And I have arranged ample funds,’ he added. ‘We can purchase whatever we need.’

She lowered her gaze. ‘You must let me repay you.’

He shook his head. ‘I said before. No need.’

But there must be some way to repay him.

* * *

When they entered the shop, a male clerk greeted Lucien by name. ‘Captain Roper? Mr Castle said to expect you today or tomorrow. What may we show you?’ Obviously Mr Castle had provided his name when he arranged the visit.

‘We need everything,’ Lucien said.

A female clerk took Claire in hand, while Lucien went with the man.

‘You were in a shipwreck, we were told, my lady,’ the woman said. ‘How very frightening for you.’

Perhaps she was lucky not to remember it. ‘Yes. But we were saved.’

‘Well.’ The clerk pressed her hands together. ‘We shall have to find you a new wardrobe. You will see, of course, that all our garments are clean and mended.’

The items were, indeed, almost like new, but Claire had no idea what to select. She feared the cost as well. These appeared to have been very expensive dresses.

The clerk suggested she at least purchase two of everything. Two shifts. Petticoats. Stays. Stockings. Another pair of walking boots and two pairs of slippers. Another nightdress to add to the one Mrs Molloy had given her. A robe to wear over it. A shawl. A cloak. The list seemed staggering.

* * *

After nearly an hour she’d selected the other necessities, but still had not settled on dresses or hats. She loved the finest dresses, much like the one she’d been wearing when she woke up on the raft, but her eye kept being drawn to more sensible, simple, nondescript designs.

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