A man with no past...

...could she hold the key to his future?

Shipwrecked merchant Jack Langdon wakes with no memory and steals a kiss from a beautiful stranger—widow Blanche Tanet. As he recovers in her castle, passion flares between them. Jack’s fascinated by her independence and courage but, discovering his identity is not what it seems, Jack must first uncover the secrets of his own past if they’re to have a future together...

ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or a Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire, with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.

Also by Elisabeth Hobbes

Falling for Her Captor

A Wager for the Widow

The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

A Midsummer Knight’s Kiss

The Danby Brothers miniseries

The Blacksmith’s Wife

Redeeming the Rogue Knight

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Uncovering the Merchant’s Secret

Elisabeth Hobbes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90126-4

UNCOVERING THE MERCHANT’S SECRET

© 2020 Claire Lackford

Published in Great Britain 2020

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.

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To the fabulous staff at The Day Job.

I couldn’t ask for better friends and colleagues.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

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

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
March 1346

‘Are you telling me there is not one single ship that can take me to St Malo before the week is up?’

Captain John Sutton placed both hands on the table, leaned across towards the Harbourmaster seated behind it and tried to keep his temper in check. ‘You assured me I would not have to wait more than two days and that was two days past!’

The Harbourmaster shrugged in an offhand manner. He rolled his eyes to the group of men huddling around the fire with mugs of wine as if to ask them to bear witness to the unreasonable demands of the English traveller. Given John’s inability to establish the existence of any ship, it seemed the Harbourmaster’s office was the centre for a nightly social gathering of local merchants and seafarers rather than a place to organise transport.

John gripped the edge of the table, fingernails digging into the solid oak in frustration. A captain should have command of his own ship, not have to resort to begging for passage on another man’s. Much as he would like to wrap his hands round this Breton neck and squeeze some sense into the Harbourmaster, he doubted he would leave the room alive if he attempted such a thing. He was half-tempted to do it anyway and risk the consequences. Since the death of his wife, he had fought the impulse to gamble with his life until someone ended it for him. Joining Margaret was enticing when he had little to live for any longer.

‘Things are difficult at the moment,’ the Harbourmaster said, shrugging once more. ‘The war with the English has taken its toll on our industry. Many have had to give up their business. Now with matters in Brittany being as they are...’

The Harbourmaster tailed off as John bared his teeth. Matters in Brittany were precisely why John was attempting to make the journey from Concarneau to St Malo in such haste. Although the English and French kings had declared a truce, the issue of the Breton dukedom had not been settled. Charles de Blois and John de Montfort had fought bitterly. The English success at Cadoret followed by the siege of Quimper had caused losses on both sides, but de Montfort’s death the previous autumn had left only a five-year-old heir as claimant. Now was the ideal time to be travelling safely back to England.

‘That is entirely why I wish to leave with urgency. I have a report to give to my associates in Bristol regarding the state of their vineyards. Surely it is in the interest of merchants here that trade between our countries is not disrupted more than necessary.’

John gave a tight smile and spoke loudly so that all in the room could hear his words.

‘I was informed that Concarneau was a thriving port and I would have no difficulty finding a ship to take me to Plymouth. Now I find I cannot even get around the coast of Brittany. Clearly, my information was incorrect and I shall be sure to make it known as widely as I can when I eventually return home so that other travellers do not find themselves caught in the same situation in this dog’s piss of a town!’

There were mutters from the men by the fire who had not missed John’s intended insult—hardly surprising since he had deliberately raised his voice at the end of his sentence. Disparaging comments about the reputation of their home would not be tolerated. John whipped round to look at his audience, fists bunching. He relished the thought of a brawl to rid himself of this frustration. It dulled the ever-present lump of lead in his chest where once a heart had beat.

The Harbourmaster, perhaps prompted by his audience into defending the town against such open criticism, pushed himself from his feet and came around the table. He looked up at John—a good head taller than the Harbourmaster—with an appeal in his eyes.

‘It is only just March, monsieur. Many captains will not risk putting to sea at all until later in the year. If you were to consider taking a slower vessel through the rivers, I could direct you to three captains prepared to leave within ten days.’

The time of year could not have been worse. John’s shoulders sagged as he imagined repeating this ritual daily for the next two months until conditions at sea became more favourable. By then, of course, the de Montfort faction would have rallied and hostilities would begin once more. It would be quicker at this rate to hire a horse and make the journey to St Malo by land.

‘I will return tomorrow and ask again.’ John set his shoulders and adjusted the clasp on his cloak. ‘Perhaps you will have better news for me. Good evening.’

The Harbourmaster’s eyes flickered to the pouch at John’s belt. He had already profited daily from John’s generosity in the misplaced hope that it would speed matters towards a resolution. Not tonight, however. John folded his arms across his body and planted his feet solidly on the earthen floor, making it clear that his hand was going nowhere near his scrip of money. He gave a curt nod and headed from the office into the street, slamming the heavy door behind him.

He exhaled angrily and let off a string of swear words in English, causing passers-by to pause and look at the disturbance before continuing on their way. The short, explosive sounds were perfect for expressing his anger and frustration so well and he felt a little better. It was strange to him that after almost four years of living most of his time in France, his native language sounded harsh to his ears. He spoke French as fluently as any man, which made his task easier. He even dreamed in the language now, but reflecting on how far his self-imposed exile had brought him from home caused an unexpected wave of homesickness and grief to engulf him, making him reel.

A lump filled his throat. He knew from long experience it was an affliction that was best treated with a couple of jugs of wine. Not at the respectable inn where he had taken lodgings, but somewhere less reputable where a well-dressed blond Englishman would cause heads to turn, tongues to wag and, with luck, fists to fly.

He stormed away from the Harbourmaster’s office towards the narrow winding alleys that led down to the port rather than up to the town, intending to find a welcoming establishment in which to drown his frustration, but had not taken more than half a dozen steps when someone fell in beside him. He glanced across and recognised the man as one who had been drinking in the Harbourmaster’s office.

‘What is your name and business, monsieur, that you should need such rapid transport?’

John bridled at being asked in such a blatant manner. His hand instinctively reached for his dagger, but he stopped and withdrew it. He ran his eyes quickly over his questioner’s clothing. The man wore the thick cloak of oiled leather lined with fur and a hat familiar to anyone who had spent time around sailors. Perhaps this man could prove to be his salvation.

‘My name is Jack Langdon,’ John said. ‘I am a simple merchant. An agent for an association of wine buyers in Bristol. They have asked me to assess the current status of production and quality. Now I need to return to England to report on my findings.’

It wasn’t a lie, but nor was it the whole truth. Captain John Sutton, aide to the King’s Lieutenant in France, was no more. Now he was plain Jack Langdon, a merchant who travelled the length of western France and saw plenty to report on his travels that his other masters found of use.

The questioner’s face brightened, radiating honesty that immediately made John suspect trickery.

‘Then it is fortunate we meet, monsieur. I heard what that useless son of a putain told you back there, but he is misinformed. I’m Petrus Nevez. I am Captain of the Sant Christophe. I transport cargo via the coastal route back to my home in Roscoff. I am setting sail round the coast at first light. My ship is a small vessel, but if you can pay then I have room, monsieur.’

John considered the offer. Roscoff was not as close as he needed to be, but it was a damned sight closer than he was now. From there he could find another ship, or if necessary, travel by land to St Malo.

‘You are happy to travel at this time of year?’

Nevez grinned slyly and John wondered if the sailor’s cargo was legitimate or not. That might be something to investigate as he travelled. Smugglers could be useful in a war, if they had the appropriate sympathies.

‘What are your terms?’

Nevez named a price that caused John to wince inwardly. He had little choice, however, so with an enthusiasm he did not entirely feel, he shook hands and memorised the location of the vessel Sant Christophe.

Nevez skulked away towards the port. Not wishing to follow the Captain, John changed his mind about seeking out somewhere to drink and returned to the inn that had been his lodging for what felt like eternity. He settled on to a bench as close to the fire as he could manage and called for wine and something to eat. Jeanne, the youngest daughter of the innkeeper, sashayed over bearing a tray, hips moving enticingly and shoulders pushed back so her breasts jutted forward. She greeted him with a smile that John felt was almost genuine.

‘Did you find your ship, Monsieur Langdon?’ she asked as she handed him a steaming bowl. John ate a couple of mouthfuls of the creamy fish stew before answering. It was excellent.

‘Yes, I did, mademoiselle. Please tell your father I shall be leaving at first light.’

Jeanne pouted and held the wine cup out. ‘That’s a pity. I shall be sorry to see you leave.’

As John took hold of the cup, she quickly moved her hand so that her fingers were resting against his. She gave him a coy smile that belied the hardness in her eyes.

‘Perhaps you do not wish to spend this night alone?’

John sighed inwardly and disentangled his fingers, placing the cup beside the bowl on the table. ‘Thank you, but, no. My answer is the same as it has always been and always will be. I want no woman in my bed.’

Along with the other daughters of the innkeeper, Jeanne had made the same offer every night since John had arrived. When he rebuffed her every night, she accepted the rejection without rancour and did not waste much time before seeking out another potential customer. This night, she placed the wine flagon on the table and lingered beside him, regarding John with her glinting dark eyes.

‘Monsieur Langdon, you look at me with longing in your eyes, but refuse, even though my price is fair. How long is it since you last had a woman in your bed?’

Too long, was the answer to that question. His grief could have sent him down two paths: spending himself in the lap of any willing woman until their faces and bodies blurred, or provoking fights to make his blood rise and leave him with tangible aches. John had chosen the latter path and it had been a year at least since he had last tumbled into bed with a too-expensive whore in La Rochelle, drunk and unable to resist the lust that consumed him. Two more before that since he had last woken in the arms of Margaret, the wife he still missed.

He examined Jeanne. She was witty and passably pretty. She might once have been beautiful before years of working on her feet and her back had caused the lines round her eyes and lips to harden. He could engage her services and relieve himself of the physical needs that tormented him. He had no doubt she would prove to be an able and entertaining companion for an hour or so, but what then? She might satisfy the needs of his loins, but would not heal the grief that filled his heart.

‘I am sorry, Jeanne,’ he said kindly. ‘I made a vow that I would have no woman but my wife and it is one I intend to keep.’

John reached for the small cross that lay against his skin and closed his fist round it. He rubbed his thumb over the small garnets set into the front, then the engraved initials J and M side by side on the back.

‘Is that your wife’s?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Yes.’

‘She waits for you in England?’

John’s throat tightened. He raised his head and smiled grimly. ‘She waits for me beyond the grave.’

‘I apologise.’ Jeanne’s face was a picture of devastated embarrassment.

John shook his head. ‘No need. You could not have known.’

He lifted the cross to his lips, then slipped it back beneath his clothing.

He pushed his bowl away and stood, appetite gone. ‘Goodnight, mademoiselle.’

He took the flagon with him and went to the small bedroom in the attic. It cost him dearly, but having privacy rather than sharing with nine others in the communal bedroom was worth the expense. He lit a taper and by the dim light he packed away his belongings. He wrote a short note, detailing what he had discovered on his travels, sealed it with his signet ring and addressed it to Masters Fortin and Rudhale at their Bristol wine warehouse. This he would ask Jeanne to send via one of the inland ships that travelled the slow river in case he never reached his destination to deliver his report in person. There was another report for other eyes that he would not trust to the hands of anyone else. He possessed a pair of wooden-backed wax tablets, bound together as a book. If it became necessary, he could apply heat and erase his words. John scratched a few lines swiftly in the code known to no more than twenty men back in England. He wrapped the tablet book safely in a leather wallet and put it in a small document case. That had been a gift from his father, small enough that he could take it travelling with him without too much trouble, and watertight in case he was travelling in inclement weather.

Only after he had made all his preparations to leave did John Sutton allow himself to drain the flagon, lay his head on his arms and let his eyes fill with tears at the memory of his wife who now lay buried beneath the Devonshire soil.

The journey was rough round the end of the peninsula and as they reached the open seas, but no worse than expected for the time of year. All the same, John was glad when they started keeping the long, sweeping curve of land in view.

The cog was similar enough to John’s old ship, The King’s Rose, for him to feel at home. He spent the time drinking, laughing and gambling with the crew and found against all expectations that his spirits were high. It had been too long since he had been merry without the feelings of grief bearing down on him. He’d cut himself off from friends when he had left England in mourning, unable to bear the reminders of happier times. Maybe company was what he had needed after all, rather than isolating himself and brawling with strangers to jolt the numbness in his heart back to life.

Three days out of Concarneau, the weather grew worse. By mid-afternoon on the third day of the voyage, the clouds obscured all light and the small cog creaked ominously on waves that were increasingly violent. Now night had fallen and they were in no sight of the port Nevez had sworn they would make by dark.

John made his way from the small cabin along the planks laid down over the hull to the prow. Nevez and his first mate were gesticulating wildly at each other and the coastline, which pitched and rolled in the distance.

‘What is wrong?’

‘A storm. Worse than I expected,’ Nevez growled.

The wind tore at John’s cloak with violent fingers, trying to pull it from his body. He shivered and took a deep breath of the chilly salt air.

‘We could find shelter somewhere, along the coast,’ he suggested.

A wave crashed over the prow, tilting the cog and causing the three men to lurch against each other.

‘Not here. There are hidden coves where a ship might hide safely,’ Nevez said, adding to John’s suspicions that his host was involved in smuggling, ‘but this stretch of water is the home of pirates.’

‘They sail under the banner of Bleiz Mor along this stretch,’ the first mate added.

John narrowed his eyes. The name was unfamiliar to him.

‘Loup de Mer, Monsieur Langdon. The Wolf of the Sea,’ Nevez explained in a growl. ‘His ships are both known by a black sail adorned by a white pelt. He has preyed on the French ever since they attacked Quimper, but perhaps he will not be particular at this time of year.’

If what Nevez said was true, the oddly named man was a mercenary, rather than a pirate, and one who shared the same sympathies as the English. John reminded himself to make a note in case his masters were unaware of the man’s activities. A grinding sound ripped through the cog and the hull juddered, and John dismissed the thought.

‘We’ve hit something,’ he exclaimed.

‘Impossible. We’re nowhere near rocks.’ Nevez laughed. He grabbed John’s shoulder and pointed. ‘See, the lights on the cliff are close. That is the harbour. We have made better speed than I had thought. We will not die tonight.’

John looked. The light that glowed brightly on the distant shore should guide them to safety. He wished he were in command, rather than a passenger, because the sound was unsettling.

Nevez shouted orders and the Sant Christophe pitched slightly as she turned towards shore. John scanned the blackness. Nevez’s tales of pirates had slightly alarmed him, but there was no sign of any other vessel. He didn’t doubt Nevez’s words.

‘Come below, Monsieur Langdon,’ Nevez suggested. ‘In my cabin I have a bottle of fine wine. Perhaps you could recommend it to your associates in England. I can give you a fair price.’

‘I will shortly,’ John said. ‘I must complete a letter first.’

He went to his quarters in the small area at the bottom of the boat curtained off from the crew. By lantern light, he added a note to the report on his tablets he had been writing on the journey. He noted the mention of the oddly named ‘Sea Wolf’, but paused before committing anything to paper about Nevez. The Captain was most likely a smuggler, but to name him would be a poor way to repay the kindness. In the end, he added a single line about smugglers in general and locked the leather wallet in his document case. He put the key safely in his roll of clothing, nestled beside a thin plaited curl of Margaret’s hair. He rubbed the corn-blond braid between his fingers, sadness and remorse welling up inside him. He still found it unbelievable she was not back in England as she had been each time he had returned. How carelessly he had treated her devotion, never thinking one day she would not be there patiently waiting for him.

A scraping noise made him jump in surprise, dragging him from his memories. It sounded as if something was ripping through the bottom of the boat and the floor vibrated. Cries of consternation came from the deck above and he realised that the scraping was true and the cog had collided with something. He ran up on deck and found Nevez leaning over the side, glaring.

‘That is no lighthouse. This is the work of wreckers. We have been tricked.’

‘What can we do?’ John asked.

Nevez smacked the rail with his fist. ‘Nothing! The hull is breached. There is a small rowing boat, but, other than that, our lives are in the hand of fate.’

Around them, men were throwing barrels and chests overboard and clinging to them in the hope of floating to shore safely.

‘Quick, to the boat,’ Nevez shouted.

‘One moment,’ John called. He was already running across the tilting deck to the galley. The letters to Masters Fortin and Rudhale could be rewritten, as could the report for King Edward’s Lieutenant, but the box also contained certain letters of importance to him from Margaret that he could not bear to lose. He took the steps two at a time and landed up to his ankles in water. He grabbed the document case, grateful it was small enough to stow in a satchel. He slung the satchel across his body so it hung beneath his arm and fastened his cloak over the top. There was no point being safe from drowning to freeze to death.

The boat pitched and he had to scramble on to the deck on his hands and knees. The deck was deserted. Nevez’s rowing boat had moved away.

‘Wait for me,’ John shouted.

‘Swim to us,’ Nevez yelled.

John took a running jump into the sea. The waves enveloped him, pulling him down into the black, crushing coldness that left him gasping for breath. He surfaced, his lungs begging for air. As he broke through the water he discovered that, contrary to what he had thought, he cared very much about living.

He had no time to rejoice in this newfound appetite for survival or recover his breath because a large piece of wood struck his shoulder from behind. His arm went numb. He kicked his legs, propelling him towards the small boat. Something tore at his leg and he realised he was closer to the rocks than he realised. The rowing boat would risk being smashed if it came close. If he was near to the rocks, he could not be too far from the shore.

‘Go without me,’ he bellowed.

He could scramble over them towards safety. He aimed for the rocks when something hit him from behind, forcing him head first on to an outcrop. The impact left him reeling. He flailed and was slammed once more on to the rocks. Something warm trickled down his face, but he had no time to examine the wound.

John clambered up the rocks and crawled on his belly in the direction of the light that was burning on shore. Facing brutal wreckers would be safer than a certain death by drowning. After much slipping and sliding that left him grazed and bruised, he staggered on to a beach. He tripped over a body of one of the crewmen who had not survived the waters and gave a sob.

His head was spinning. There seemed to be two moons shining down, but even so he was finding it hard to make out anything in the moonlight. He felt his head and his fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. The sensation made him nauseous.

John staggered further up the beach, but when the hard sand changed, he slipped and lay on the damp shingle. He rolled on to his back, tangled in his cloak, and lay there. Time lost meaning and it could have been a day or a minute before he first heard the voices that called to each other across the shore. The wreckers had come.

Among the coarse sounds, John was convinced he heard soft female tones that did not belong in a place of such devastation and death. He caught a scent of something floral that was at odds with the odours of sea and blood. He decided he must be dreaming, or was at last to be reunited with his wife and a feeling of peace descended on him.

‘Margaret?’ he mumbled. ‘I am ready for you.’

He could not keep his eyes open and had no strength left to do anything but surrender to whatever fate held in store for him.

Chapter Two

The fires had been lit in the church windows again.

Blanche Tanet slammed down her comb as soon as the faint scent of smoke reached her. Her bedchamber on the top floor of the tower room had windows at each side and she could see both shores that the castle overlooked. She leaned out, looking towards the village of Plomarc’h and, sure enough, in the window of St Petroc’s Church, a light shone out to sea. The church was on the clifftop set a short distance from the village. It was visible from the sea, so sailors and fishermen would know they were being watched over, but the purpose of the beacon was far from holy.

Blanche had been preparing for bed, but could not ignore this. She muttered an oath under her breath. She tore off her chemise and began to dress in breeches and a shirt. Over the top of her padded, sleeveless gambeson she threw a heavy cloak, then tugged on her knee-length leather boots. She did not have time to braid her hair, but simply gathered it, twisting and piling it under a wide-brimmed sailor’s hat, and strode down the stairs, gathering a flaming brand from the iron ring in the wall. When she reached the path that led to the beach she broke into a run, arriving on the beach slightly out of breath.

The bodies of drowned men littered the shore. When the moon slid from behind heavy, black clouds, the rocky shore looked like a battlefield. Blanche felt her stomach heave. She swallowed down the bile that rose to her throat and tightened her grip on the torch. She strode to the shore and peered out across the black rocks that glistened wet and sharp, only slightly visible above the surface. The rocks stretched out well into the sea and had been guilty of causing more deaths than Blanche could imagine over the centuries.

Barrels bobbed, surging in and out as the tide dragged at them. Wine. This had most likely been a merchant ship. All around her, the villagers hauled the debris from the sea to carry it away or load it on to the wheeled carts they had brought in preparation for such finds.

Was she the only one who felt a twinge of guilt at the way they treated the dead? A little way along the shore, a short, wide man was standing up to his knees in the water, heaving a cask back to shore. Blanche recognised him. Andrey was her cousin by her second marriage and the Captain of Blanche’s ship White Wolf.

Blanche intercepted him as he dropped his salvage on the shingle and stood upright, stretching his arms to relieve the cricks in his neck.

‘Who ordered the fires to be lit?’ she demanded.

Andrey scowled and spat into the sea. ‘Who do you think? Ronec did.’

Blanche’s fist tightened around the flaming brand she held. Jagu Ronec was the landowner whose property neighboured Blanche’s. He was also the Captain and part-financier of Blanche’s second ship, White Hawk. He was wealthy, powerful and—as Blanche had found out only after she had allied herself with him—cruel and unprincipled. She counted to ten in her head, breathing deeply before she answered, wishing she had never thought to involve him in her crusade against the French forces. Even with this attempt at controlling the repellent emotions Ronec’s name conjured, her voice was tight and full of fury.

‘And you obeyed him?’

‘Not I,’ Andrey said. ‘But the crews are growing tired of waiting for your command to sail and your insistence on only taking French ships. They look to Ronec, anticipating an alliance between you.’

Blanche flushed. There was an implicit criticism in Andrey’s words and it was not without reason. Ronec had already had more of Blanche than she had wanted to give and marriage was an alliance she was determined to resist to the last. The villagers’ discontent was something she would have to address soon. Ronec was not present, of course. He would not venture out to wallow in salt water in the dark when others could do it on his behalf.

‘Take the bodies to the castle,’ she commanded Andrey. ‘They deserve a proper burial.’

Andrey nodded and began relaying the order to the men who had gathered round to watch them speaking. Andrey’s loyalty to Blanche was unquestionable and she knew that the dead would be laid to rest with respect.

Blanche began to roll the barrel up the sloping beach to add it to the pile of salvage. The methods were dishonourable, but she would not let the salvage be wasted when it could be used to improve the lives of the tenants on her land.

The barrel was heavy. Blanche paused for breath beside a corpse that had been washed further up the beach than most. The man was lying on his back, one arm tangled inside a heavy cloak that must have hampered his efforts to swim and should by rights have dragged him to the bottom of the sea. Yet here he was, lying on the beach, his long limbs sprawled out carelessly. He could have been napping on a riverbank on a warm summer afternoon.

He was not a youth, nor as old as Andrey. Blanche guessed he was somewhere around his thirtieth year, only a handful of years younger than she was. Unbidden, her mind went back to her first husband who had died before his time. This man looked nothing like Mael, but the thought of stolen years upset her more than she was expecting, sorrow creeping around her heart like a winding cloth.

She knelt down next to him, barrel of wine temporarily forgotten, and held the brand close to his face. He would have been handsome when alive and it struck her as unfair that he had been snatched from life in such a brutal manner. A deep gash split his right eyebrow and ran across his temple into his sandy-brown hair. It was stark red against the paleness of his skin, though the cold and seawater had staunched the blood flow and now it was a livid, ragged-edged wound.

The laces of his shirt were untied to the middle of his chest. He must have been caught by surprise and had no time to dress properly before the cog was dashed on the rocks. By the flickering light of the brand, Blanche noticed the glint of gold among the fine, light brown hairs. She, reached beneath his collar, hooking her finger under the chain and drew out a delicate cross.

The wreckers would simply rip it from his neck, snapping the chain, but Blanche could not bear to do that with something so beautiful. She stuck the torch into the sand and cradled his head, easing it forward to slip the long chain free. Red stones glinted on the surface. Something this beautiful was too fine to leave for the wreckers to break and waste on drinking, gambling or whoring. Blanche had little care for the treasures she stole from the French beyond what good they could do to aid the cause of Brittany or her tenants, but she was gripped with the need to make sure the unknown man’s treasure survived as a memorial to his life. She would not share this with anyone else so she slipped it around her own neck, tucking it deep into the bodice of her dress where it nestled between her breasts. An odd frisson made her shiver at the feel of the object that had been intimately touching him.

As she rested the man’s head back, his eyes flickered open and he uttered a weak, breathy moan. He was alive! The strength of relief and joy that flooded her heart took her by surprise. He gave a heaving cough and water bubbled to his lips. Blanche pushed her hands against his ribs, pushing upwards to force any remaining water out. He bared his teeth and hissed. Mortified at having added to his pain, Blanche slid her hands gently up to his cheeks and pulled his head into what she hoped was a more comfortable position. His eyes opened once more—a little wider this time—and he peered at her. His eyes were light blue and full of confusion and pain. Though hazy, they were captivating in their intensity and Blanche could not tear her gaze away.

Blanche’s hat had become dislodged when she had jerked in surprise. She pulled it off. As her thick, black locks fell freely about her, the man smiled and whispered something in a language she thought was English.

‘I don’t understand,’ she replied in Breton, then repeated it in French.

He reached a hand out towards her hair, fumbling and clumsy. Blanche instinctively recoiled, as she did at the advances of any man, but as his fingertips brushed against her cheek with the lightest of touches, her heart fluttered.

His strength was almost spent and his arm was seized with a tremor that made it shake violently. He could not be long for this world and the awakening was only delaying the inevitable. Blood loss and shock would claim him before the night was out. Already his hand was so cold with the clammy texture of a corpse. Instinctively, Blanche wanted to pull away, but remorse and guilt flooded her once more. Her people bore the responsibility for his death, so the least she could do was bear the discomfort and act as witness to his passing. She owed him that much. She covered his hand, holding it to her cheek and feeling the quiver that raced along his arm.

He tried to pull her down towards him, tilting his head back and parting his lips as if he intended to kiss her. His fingers scrabbled deep into the hair at the nape of her neck, causing her to shiver at the intimacy of his touch. Her heart drummed a march in her breast.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, stroking the matted hair back from his brow.

His eyes focused again and locked on hers and he bestowed on her a smile of such overwhelming tenderness that she wanted to weep. Tenderness. So long since anyone had looked at her in such a way. Blanche closed her eyes wistfully. She bent her head and kissed his forehead with the lightest of touches. His head came up and his mouth found hers with a swiftness she would not have anticipated in one so close to death.

His lips tasted of salt and moved over hers with a fierceness she had never encountered before. He was fighting to the end; a dying man’s final attempt at comfort or a sweet memory to take beyond the grave. There was desperation beneath the desire, drawing her to him and leaving her powerless to resist its pull. She kissed him back, letting her lips form the shape of his in a moment of mutual sorrow.

She felt the moment his strength gave out. Her eyes filled as she drew away and laid his head gently down.

He smiled once more.

‘My angel. I am ready to come to you,’ he whispered in French, then closed his eyes.

An angel?

Blanche smiled at the thought, though tears smarted in her eyes. He thought he was speaking to someone else. If only the man knew what kind of woman was peering down at him, he would not use such terms. She was Jael. Jezebel. She was the Magdalene at her worst.

His hand went limp and she placed it across his chest. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the wound on his head, probing as gently as she could so as not to cause him more discomfort, though she suspected he was rapidly slipping beyond such experiences. The wound was deep and she felt the hardness of bone. His chest heaved and he groaned, twisting on the sand. There was still strength in him. If his body was as strong as his kiss, there might be hope...

‘Andrey, come help me,’ she shouted. ‘This one is a survivor.’

Andrey stomped over and looked down.

‘Huh, better to finish him off quickly,’ he said, reaching for the curved dagger at his belt.

Blanche threw herself in front of the man, arms out, and stared up at Andrey defiantly.

‘No. We’ll take him to the castle and give him a place to rest.’

Most likely he would not survive the night, but she could not leave him here for such a sad and lonely end.

Andrey looked appalled. ‘We have no idea who these men are. He could be a spy for Charles de Blois. Do you really want to give shelter to such a man?’

Blanche stood, curling her fists. She placed them on her hips and lifted her shoulders back. Though she was only a woman, she had learned that to mimic a man’s posture somehow garnered more respect and granted her authority that using her femininity did not.

‘It is my home. I will not be argued with.’

Andrey still looked unhappy. Blanche softened her stance and smiled.

‘I know what you say is wise, but look at him. He can be no danger to us, even if he is a spy, in this condition. Fetch a cart and help me carry him, but be discreet. I want as few people to know as possible. That will ensure word does not travel.’

Especially to Ronec’s ears. Andrey met her eyes and Blanche knew he had the same thought. He nodded his head, seemingly satisfied by this precaution.

She bent down once more as Andrey stomped off, and took the man’s hand. It would be sensible to at least try to find out what allegiance he might have.

‘What is your name?’ she asked. ‘Can you speak?’

He opened his eyes and muttered a word that was no word.

‘Your name,’ she repeated, leaning close so that her ear was close to his lips. ‘Who are you?’

He muttered something that may have been Jacques, then his eyes closed and his mouth went slack.

Andrey brought the cart and began to rearrange the contents to make space. Blanche pushed the man’s cloak back and saw he was wearing a satchel. Blanche eased it free. It contained a small, shallow casket made of dark wood.

‘At least we’ll have some spoils,’ Andrey said with a grin.

Blanche held it to the light. It was plain and looked well used. Probably a document case, but maybe a jewel casket.

‘It may contain the key to learning who he is,’ Blanche mused.

‘Key! Not one I’ve found.’ Andrey laughed. ‘Best break it open.’

Blanche put the bag and casket on to the cart.

‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Keep it safe for now.’

If the man lived, she would ask him herself. If he didn’t, then she would permit Andrey to open it and put an end to their curiosity. She helped Andrey lift the man, slipping her arms in the crook behind his knees, and made sure he was laid carefully on to the cart. His long legs were crooked, reminding her of a discarded marionette, and she straightened them before putting the box beside him. She followed the cart up the beach and along the rutted track that led to the sea gate of the castle. In the courtyard she paused, as the first seeds of doubt began to grow.

‘We won’t put him in a bedroom,’ she decided. ‘There’s a small storeroom in the cellars of the outbuilding. Take him there.’

She saw that the man was taken where she instructed and a pallet with a mattress was provided. She dismissed Andrey and his suggestions that she call a servant to tend the injured man.

‘The fewer people who know, the safer it will be for all of us.’

In truth, she felt responsible and wanted to tend the man herself. The moonlight shone through the small, barred window, falling across his face, which even in the dim light she could see had a deathly pallor. She loosened his wet shirt and eased it off his body, thinking how long it had been since she had undressed a man and how welcome it was knowing this one was in no position to paw at her or expect a candle’s worth of rutting. She pressed her palm over his heart. The beat was barely perceptible beneath the mound of his chest. He began to shiver, tremors passing through what Blanche recognised was a powerful frame. She drew a sheet high up to his chin and covered him with a pair of wolf pelts. She spooned weak ale laced with something to ease his pain between his lips.

If he survived the night that would be miraculous, but she left him and went to her own bed satisfied that she had done what she could.

Chapter Three

Long fingers of light fluttered across the wall. They played over his legs and moved slowly, languidly up his body until they reached his face and began to climb stealthily upwards. Because of this, he knew time was passing, but his limbs felt heavy and he had no desire to move. He was lying on a mattress, though the lumpy sack filled with stale-smelling straw hardly dignified the description. Everything was unfamiliar. This was not his home.

His head ached as if he had been beaten around it repeatedly and his muscles felt torn, but he didn’t know why. He reached a hand up to touch the main source of the dull throbbing on his temple and discovered his arm was weak and the effort brought a sweat to his brow. He succeeded in feeling his head. It was bandaged, which meant he had suffered an injury of some sort, but he had no idea what or how he had come about it. Nor did he have any idea how he came to be in this place.

The last thing he remembered was—

And there he was forced to stop, because although he had the vague sense of scents and tastes, and the sound of screaming and splitting wood in his ears, he had no recollection of what had happened. He knew for certain he did not know this place, but how he knew that, he was unable to explain. The smell was musty and old with a hint of yeastiness to the air. If he didn’t know better, he would say he was in a bakery or storeroom.

He rolled his head to look at the source of light and realised the narrow slit of window was barred. Panic constricted his chest as he realised he must be a prisoner. The fact he had no idea who his captors were, or why he had been imprisoned, increased the terror tenfold. The agitation heated his limbs and he felt his blood spring to life as it surged around his body. He took a deep breath and decided he would hammer on the door until someone came, but when he embarked on this plan his legs buckled before he had crossed half the small space, and he crumpled to the ground. He lay in a heap on the cold stone floor, noticing now that he was naked from the waist up. So, he was in a barred room with a stone floor and a small door. That probably meant the ground floor or cellars. Which meant a big building. The effort of coming to this conclusion made his head reel and did not, in fact, help him in any real way, but a small part of him cheered in satisfaction that he had noticed the surface he was lying on. He had not lost all his wits.

He cried out in English, but when no one answered, something in the back of his mind told him this was not the only language he could use. He repeated his words in French, gratified that the words came as easily. Still no one came, so when he felt slightly stronger he crawled his way back on to the pallet and pulled up the sheet and furs. He lay there shivering, his mind in turmoil, knowing that he had no choice but to wait until his captors deemed it fit to visit him. He slept again.

When he woke it was daylight now. The sun was a warm orange and there was a faint scent of sea in the air, accompanied by a hint of sweet blossom. He inhaled deeply, taking pleasure from the only thing of beauty in his life that he could clutch on to.

A metallic scraping sound caught his attention and he realised it was coming from the other side of the door. It was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. He looked to the door slightly too sharply and the movement caused his head to spin. Lights burst behind his eyes and he blinked furiously to clear them, so that when the door opened he was lying with watery eyes and staring at the ceiling so he did not immediately notice who had entered.

Someone walked to the corner of the room and he heard a pot of some sort set down on a table he had not noticed earlier. He waited patiently to see what would happen. An instinct was telling him to try overpowering whoever it was and try to escape, but he knew he didn’t have the strength to do anything of the sort. He opened his eyes and craned his head weakly. A short girl in a plain gown was placing a jug on a small table.

‘Where am I?’ he asked in English. ‘Help me!’

His voice was rasping from the dryness of his throat. The girl shrieked and jumped back and the jug toppled over. Before he could speak again she had fled from the room, banging the door behind her. He heard the bolt scrape, confirming he was a prisoner. He groaned weakly and licked his lips, thirsty beyond endurance and with a belly that ached from emptiness. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but his head began to spin and he lapsed into a fitful sleep.

He was awakened once again by the bolt drawing back and someone entering the room. The person began to hum softly in a voice that was soft and female. This time he had the sense to remain silent and lie with eyes half-open. It was a different woman this time, taller and dressed in a deep brown, flowing surcoat. She was standing by the small table doing something Jack could not see. She came to the bed and he realised that she had a cloth and a bowl of water. Another servant of whoever was holding him, he suspected.

He closed his eyes so she would not realise he was awake. She unwound the bandage from around his head and bathed the wound, then moved from working on his head to tending the grazes on his body. She slid her cool hand slowly up the length of his bare belly with the softness of a lover beginning a caress. He drew a sharp breath as an overwhelming sense of pleasure combined with the sting of the cuts. Realising he could no longer feign sleep, he opened his eyes.

‘Ah, you are awake again,’ she said in what he recognised as the Breton dialect.

That mended another rip in the cloth that was his mind. Now he knew which part of the world he was in. She did not sound particularly happy at the discovery.

‘You frightened Marie,’ the woman said. She was looking at him severely so his first impression was of forbidding black eyes. ‘She ran to me crying tales of nonsense words growled at her.’

He swallowed and opened his mouth to try explaining what had happened.

‘Don’t try to speak,’ she instructed. ‘Wait there.’

She moved to the table and came back bearing a wide-rimmed earthenware cup. She slipped a hand beneath his neck and raised him slightly to cradle his head, then held the cup to his lips. It turned out to be cider and he drank greedily until the cup was empty.

Her cool fingers trailed across the back of his neck as she withdrew her hand and laid his head back. He shivered once more with unexpected desire and gave a soft moan. She must have interpreted this as pain because she peered down at him and concern banished the severity of her expression. Something woke inside him as her face filled his gaze: a deep sense of familiarity and the certainty that he had seen this face before. The memory fluttered from him like moths circling a lamp and evading fingers trying to seize them, leaving only vague shapes and the sensation of intimacy. Like the moths, he felt pulled towards her flame. His lips twitched.

‘Can you speak now?’ she asked.

‘I did not mean to frighten her,’ he croaked.

‘I’m glad to hear it. I would not like to think I am giving shelter to one who would terrorise girls.’

They were strangers, then. So why did he feel such a connection to her? He furrowed his brow.

She gave a brief smile. ‘Think nothing of it. Marie is silly and jumps if the kitchen cats mew behind her.’

With an effort of will he was able to focus on her with a little more clarity now, though his eyes kept blurring. From the high singing voice, he had thought she was not much older than a child, but now he saw she was past her youth. A few faint lines had begun to appear at the corner of her eyes and mouth and a short frown line ran between her brows to the top of a straight, sharp nose. The severe expression must be habitual.

He reassessed his opinion that she was a mere servant. Her surcoat was plain brown with wide sleeves, but the close-fitting green kirtle beneath had a wide band of embroidery around the straight neck and wrists that spoke of quality. Beneath the linen band across her brow, there was a glint of gold combs that swept her black hair up into rolls at each side of her head. They looked expensive, indicating wealth, and she wore rings on three of her fingers.

More than that, the way she held herself and the expression on her face suggested she was used to any command she issued being obeyed. She was clearly waiting for him to respond. He tested his tongue and found it looser.

‘My head aches,’ he said in a croaky voice. ‘I do not know this place. What happened to me?’

She frowned, deepening the small line between her straight black brows.

‘Do you remember anything of how you came to be here?’

He knew better now than to try to shake his head and simply murmured, ‘Nothing, madame. I remember nothing. What can you tell me?’

She did not answer and her eyes narrowed. He rose up as best he could and clutched at her hand and felt her fingers straighten. Her eyes widened and without knowing why he put a hand to her cheek. Immediately, the gentleness with which she had nursed him was gone, replaced by ice.

‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, her face becoming thunderous. She leaned closer to him and with a twist of her wrist she had slipped from his grip.

‘Pardon me,’ he said. He fell back on the pillow, panting slightly from the effort it had cost him. ‘But, please, if you can tell me anything, I beseech you to do so.’

‘I will tell you what I can. Be warned, monsieur, no man touches me without my consent, even an invalid.’

‘I understand.’

She gave a brief, tight smile of approval and settled back on to her knees, arranging her skirts with practised elegance, then rested her hands neatly in her lap.

‘You were on a ship.’

She paused and looked away. Her face closed down. She looked wary and, despite her sharp, striking features, this uncertainty gave her an air of fragility. He waited, examining her in the bright sunlight as her eyes darted quickly around. He wanted to stroke her arm and encourage her to continue, but her warning rang in his ears.

‘What do you know?’ he prompted.

‘There was a shipwreck. We found you on the beach among the debris and the dead.’ She leaned closer and her eyes raked over him, scrutinising him so intimately he imagined he was being undressed. ‘Do you really remember nothing? What is your name?’

And this was when he truly began to panic. With rising terror, he realised he did not know the answer.

‘I can’t remember!’

He heard alarm in his voice, but the woman looked suspicious. Her expression became stone.

‘Are you sure?’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you a spy? How do I know you are telling the truth?’

He reached out to clutch her sleeve to emphasise his integrity, but remembered her warning in time to stay his hand in mid-air. They both regarded it. He clenched his fist, holding it to his side, then lowered it to the fur. Their eyes found each other’s and the woman nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them. In any other circumstances he would find the situation extremely erotic, but the fascination he had for her had to compete with the disorientation, weakness and confusion he felt.

‘I have no proof, but believe me, please. I am telling the truth. I cannot remember who I am.’

He ground his fingers into the thick white pelt that covered him and gazed at her, willing her to believe him. She eyed him steadily, her dark eyes moving slowly over his face, up to the wound on his head and down again, further over his body. It made him feel uneasy to be examined so frankly by a stranger. More than that was the fact of her sex. The fascination he felt for her was being pushed deep inside him by a stronger, more painful emotion that cautioned him to resist and retreat. The presence of a woman felt even more unfamiliar than the unknown surroundings, but it came to him that it was not just her. He would not feel easy with any woman at his bedside, but did not know why. It was slightly reassuring because the warning voice meant that deep down inside him, some knowledge of himself still existed and could hopefully be unearthed.

‘Shall I suggest some names and see if anything seems right?’ the woman asked.

He nodded slightly.

She spoke names, pausing after each to give him time to respond and looking questioningly at him. ‘Philippe... Michel... Charles... James... Jacques...’

A dart pierced his stomach.

Jack.

That had a familiarity where the others did not. She stopped and her head tilted to one side.

‘You are Jacques? Or Jack, as you are English, I suspect. You muttered something on the shore when we found you which could have been that.’

‘You were there?’ He raised himself to his elbows, more astonished by this revelation than a possible nationality and name.

‘I was.’ She pushed herself to her feet and walked away, gracefully crossing the room to the table. She stood with her back to him, wrung out the cloth and returned. She pressed it to his forehead and used the motion to lay him back down again.

‘It was I who found you. You were the only survivor that we found.’

Her full lips twisted down with sadness and Jack—as he decided must suffice for now—was filled with warmth for her compassion. Who had time to grieve for strangers? He could remember nothing of the men who had perished, though he must have known them, and remorse chilled him.

‘I thought you were dead, but then you opened your eyes,’ the woman said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she was recounting a day at market. ‘I was unsure if you would survive, but we brought you back here anyway and hoped.’

We? Did she have a husband? A woman of her age usually did, unless she was widowed.

‘Whose house am I in?’ he asked. ‘Where is its master?’

Her lips twitched and once again she paused before answering, filling Jack with the suspicion that there was an undercurrent he was not aware of.

‘You wish to meet the master of this house? You have no idea whose house you are in, but you assume naturally that there must be one.’

Jack said nothing, wondering if his assumption was wrong. This woman was fascinating. Perhaps she was the mistress and sole chatelaine of wherever he was.

‘Shall I call you Jack?’ she asked.

He nodded. The shape of it felt well enough in his mouth and he would be content to live under that name for the time being. If he discovered another, then he would relinquish it. If he never recovered his memory—and the thought of that made him want to scream with horror—a plain name would suit an unknown man.

‘You should sleep again,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll have food sent to you as well as water to bathe in and clean clothing.’ Her gaze raked him once more. ‘We didn’t want to touch you too much for fear of injuring you further, but I can imagine some fresh attire would be welcome.’

She wrinkled her nose slightly and Jack realised with a sense of shame that his body and hair felt filthy. There was an odour clinging to him that had the taint of seawater and stale sweat. Bathing was suddenly the most enticing thing he could think of.

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘On the shore...’

The woman raised her eyebrows.

‘Monsieur Jack, you have been unconscious for five days.’

Five days! His head swam and he shook his head, causing waves of dizziness to envelop him. ‘How?’

‘A fever took hold of you. I thought you would die. It was only last night that it broke and you were able to rest.’

She looked thoughtful, then placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. His skin flamed beneath her touch. Even with the deep sense of unease that had cautioned him to keep his distance, he did not want to discourage her from touching him in the slightest. Quite the opposite. He watched her face to see if she was equally affected. She slid her eyes to his and smiled like a cat watching a mouse and his heart gave a violent thud.

‘Your heart is strong, monsieur, even though you are weak. I think you are strong when you are well, yes?’

Jack flexed the muscles in his arms and felt them tighten easily. He felt weak and ill, but there was strength in his body that would return in time. His heart was racing, but that was from the sensation of her hand on his flesh.

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.

She nodded in the manner of a queen receiving homage from a subject, then left. Jack listened for the sound of the bolt being drawn across, but heard nothing. He had been a prisoner before, but apparently was no longer. Or perhaps the woman rightly suspected that even if he had the inclination to roam about, he didn’t possess the strength yet.

It was only as he finished the cider and lay back to try to sleep again that it occurred to him he had not asked her name, nor had the bewitching creature given it.

Chapter Four

Blanche walked to the end of the passageway. She took three breaths to regain her composure before she smiled down at Andrey who was sitting on a stool.

‘That was interesting,’ she said. An understatement, indeed.

Andrey grunted and sheathed the sword that he was conspicuously wearing.

‘What did you find out?’

‘Very little.’ Blanche frowned. ‘He claims to have no memory of who he is or where he is from.’

‘Do you believe him or do you think he is lying?’

Blanche considered the conversation that had taken place. The man’s—Jack’s—air of confusion and the look of horror that had crossed his face when he had been unable to supply a name had appeared genuine. The film of perspiration that had arisen across his brow and chest could not have been feigned. Her hand twitched as she recalled the shape of his chest muscles beneath her palm, firm and smooth. A younger body than she had touched for so long. It had taken control not to explore further down to his belly and beyond and see if everything was as well toned. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.

‘I believe him. More’s the pity,’ she said. She looked back at the door to the storeroom. A twinge of guilt took her by surprise as she considered what an inhospitable room it was for a man in his circumstances to find himself. A bare room, little more than a cell. She had not bolted the door, but she wondered if he was aware of that, or if he even suspected he had been confined at all. There were other, better rooms and other beds. She blinked, surprised at the direction her thoughts were taking. It was that kiss which had done it. She should never have yielded to the temptation on the beach.

‘We’ll have to keep him here a little longer.’

‘Why?’ Andrey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘He has no money, no possessions.’ Her conscience gave a twinge; there had been a box somewhere and she had the cross in her room.

‘He has no name.’

‘Assuming he is telling the truth,’ Andrey said.

‘Assuming that.’ Blanche sighed, wishing she had never brought him to the castle. ‘However, we cannot send him out to wander the countryside like a vagrant. Who knows whom he might encounter? Here he is safe from harm.’

‘And causing harm,’ Andrey pointed out. ‘Marie didn’t like him.’

‘He made her jump, nothing more,’ Blanche said. Andrey was protective of his wife to the point of inanity and Marie’s reaction to being surprised would not have helped Jack endear himself.

They walked back up the stairs and out into the courtyard. The window that was high in Jack’s room was at ground level in the wall of the storerooms so a breeze could keep grain fresh. If Blanche knelt down beside it, she would be able to look over his bed. Was he sleeping now or lying awake, wondering who and where he was? The fever that had almost claimed his life had been fierce, and his skin had burned even as he shivered. His muscles did not lie—he must be strong indeed to have fought that off.

She decided against looking in case he was awake and saw her.

‘Put a guard on his door,’ she told Andrey. ‘Someone loyal to you.’

She straightened her sleeves and thought back to the way Jack had seized her by the wrist. He had moved so quickly, but there had been no panic in her. The abhorrence she usually felt at being touched without permission had been mild and she had snapped at him as a matter of course. When the impulse had clearly filled him to try to touch her for a second time he had stayed his hand and that had endeared him to her even more.

‘A pity he has no memory,’ she mused to Andrey. ‘I would like to know who he is and what he is doing.’

She crossed the courtyard from the building where Jack was being housed and climbed the outside stairs to the main tower of the fort. She paused as she always did and pressed her palm against the door. Compared to the grand home that she had shared with her second husband, Yann, it was small, but it belonged to her and no one else. Jack had believed the house belonged to a man, naturally, and the knowledge rankled. But why would he not?

She lifted her head, proud to have done something so few women would dare to try or succeed in doing. There had been times after Yann’s death when her courage to continue down the path she had chosen had wavered. But she had continued, and Bleiz Mor lived and fought, her name a tribute to the wolf pelts that had decorated their walls.

‘Brittany will triumph,’ she whispered to Yann’s ghost. ‘You did not die in vain.’

She climbed the stairs to her private room on the top floor of the tower and sat in the high-backed chair at the window, shivering a little in the breeze that crept round the threadbare screens. Winter had not fully loosened its grasp, but each time she considered spending some of her plunder on her own comfort she thought of the widowed women who struggled in bare cottages to feed fatherless children, or the men toiling to grow crops in fields turned to battlefields. She did not need it as much as they did.

She turned her attention to the cross that lay on the table. Keeping this was an indulgence. She had examined it over and over in the days before Jack regained consciousness and could picture it with her eyes closed. It was engraved on the back with the initials J and M on either side. She had been right to suspect his name might begin with that letter. She wondered who M was and a little jealous flame flickered in her breast. She hoped it was his family name and not that of a wife or lover. Perhaps he would remember if she showed him the cross. She would wait until he was well rather than risk agitating him now.

She held the cross tightly and pursed her lips. That was not the only reason for delaying. If his memory returned and he was proved to be a supporter of Charles de Blois, there were matters she would have to face. Taking a man’s life in combat or on the seas was one thing, but callously executing him in her own home after giving him care and shelter was entirely another. She worried she was allowing her sense of sympathy for his injuries and pity for his circumstances to cloud her judgement. Perhaps he thought a woman would be more easily tricked or cajoled into believing his lies, or that her opinions were of no consequence. He would not be the first man who had tried to dismiss her in such a way.

She walked behind the tapestry screen and into the shallow alcove of the window and glanced out over the sea, deep in thought. She occupied the whole of the top floor of the tower as her bedchamber and private solar. From her window, and hers alone, high on the highest floor of the tower, it was possible to see that the coast with its shallow inlets and jutting rocks dipped in more deeply and curved round behind the cliff in a loop.

It was in this concealed cove, safe from the tides and from passing eyes, where her two ships rested at anchor. She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt air in the back of her mouth and feeling the wind enfolding her. She had not sailed since the night before Jack’s shipwreck.

Although she was still furious at the way the villagers had defied her and lit the church lights, she knew they were growing restless with the continued assaults on houses loyal to the de Montfort cause. She had sworn vengeance on the French, yet had kept her ships at harbour since the night of the shipwreck, the thought of more death turning her stomach in a way that was new and unpleasant. News had come to her earlier in the day through the network of men in her pay of a French ship making its way along the coast. It would not be allowed to pass further up the coast.

She summoned Marie—the only person Blanche permitted inside her private sanctuary—and sent orders down to Andrey to ready her two ships, White Wolf and White Hawk, by dusk.

She descended to the large room on the ground floor where her household ate and joined them, passing around the tables to speak with each man and woman. Like her, everyone here had lost someone dear to the French after the siege of Quimper or in other battles. Like her, they had sworn to wreak revenge on those who had taken arms against the rightful claimant to the dukedom of Brittany, but only Blanche had the determination and courage to do what she had done and rebuild her life stronger than she had been before. They loved her for it and were fiercely loyal. She had no fears that her identity would be revealed by anyone within the walls of the castle.

She could not help but feel proud of what she had accomplished as she looked round the room. Lamps burned brightly on every table, richly coloured tapestries hung along each wall and they drank from ornate goblets. Anyone who visited would be awestruck by the riches on display and understand that Blanche Tanet’s spirit had not died when her husband Yann had been executed.

She stood on the raised dais before the fire, knowing that her silhouette before the flames was dramatic, and waited for silence.

‘Luring the ship on to the rocks was cowardly and short-sighted. We could harm our allies as much as our enemies. That must not happen again.’ She waited while the inevitable muttering subsided. Jagu Ronec was sitting beside Andrey, his face thunderous. Blanche smiled at him warmly, despite the stirrings of anxiety inside her, and addressed her next words of flattery to him.

‘You are all brave men, strong and determined, and have no need of such tricks. Tonight, my friends, we attack the French ship that is sailing down the coast from Concarneau. I wish you success. We will win and Brittany will triumph.’

She held her goblet aloft, fingers closing round the jewelled stem, and led the toast. The wine they had salvaged from the wreck was excellent quality. She stepped down and spoke to Ronec.

‘I’ll sail with you tonight. White Hawk leads the advance.’

Ronec’s eyes gleamed. Blanche hid her revulsion as his lips brushed the back of her hand. If she had been more far-sighted, she would never have thrown her lot in with him, but it had seemed a good idea given that he was her closest neighbour and a friend of her first husband. He was fiercely passionate about the cause, but lacked the acumen to come up with such a bold venture himself. A week of nights in his bed had been a price she had reluctantly accepted in return for the money she had needed and the provision of a crew, but he clearly expected the transaction to continue even after he had paid her what she needed for White Hawk. That she had staved him off for over a year was a source of amazement to everyone, most of all to Blanche, and it was a constant worry that she could not hope to do so for ever.

The assault was a success. White Hawk lay in wait for the French cog while White Wolf came from behind. When the sail was hoisted it caught the wind, the square billowing out, proudly displaying the symbol of the wolf pelt. She saw White Hawk do the same. Blanche’s mood lifted, as it never failed to once she felt the waves lifting and breaking. The symbol of Yann’s favourite quarry now struck fear into the hearts of the foe who had taken him.

The crew were suppressed with ease and little bloodshed. Blanche strode back and forth before the bound crew who knelt on the deck at sword point. Dressed in Bleiz Mor’s disguise, the sense of power never failed to thrill her. Even in the height of summer, she wore a thickly padded gambeson beneath a heavy leather jerkin. As well as protecting her, it gave her a masculine shape. The impression was of a stocky man. To complete the disguise, she wore a low-brimmed hat and grotesque jongleur’s leather mask in the form of a wolf’s upper face. It added an air of menace and ensured that any opponent would not realise he was facing a woman. She suspected she could forgo the padding and still go undetected because how many women ever faced and defeated men as she did?

‘Thank you for your donation to our cause,’ she smirked. ‘John de Montfort will be grateful for your weapons and the people of Brittany will eat well with your wages.’

The Captain stared at her with hatred in his eyes, but his defiance subsided as she stood over him. She tore the hat from his head and grasped him by the hair, ready to slit his throat, but stayed her hand on seeing the shock of unkempt blond hair and the crisscross of scars on his brow. He reminded her too much of the man lying in her storeroom.

‘Let them live so they can pass our message to their commanders,’ she said. She waited until the crew had been thrust into the rowboat and tossed the flaming brand on to the deck of Charles Roi herself.

Both of Blanche’s ships returned home wealthier than when they had left. Cheered by the thought of gold, Ronec had barely objected when Blanche took the opportunity to tell him of the survivor’s presence. It had been fortuitous.

It was almost dawn when Blanche returned to the castle, the scent of woodsmoke in her nostrils and cries for mercy in her ears. As soon as Ronec left to return to his own home, Andrey spoke to Blanche in an undertone.

‘The guard I left on the stranger’s room came to speak to me. Your survivor has been creating quite a disturbance. He has been demanding to speak to you.’

‘Demanding?’ If he was capable of such, then he must have made a swift recovery since Blanche had spoken with him.

‘Requesting, then. But forcefully and frequently. He has eaten and bathed so he no longer stinks.’ Andrey frowned. ‘I am not happy with him being here. We should slit his throat, or at the very least surrender him to someone who has more proficiency in discovering the truth. It would gain you some credit.’

Blanche recoiled. ‘You mean torture? No.’

Andrey grinned. ‘Are you showing mercy again tonight, Cousin? Since when have you shown compassion to your enemies? You have cut down men in their dozens without a second thought.’

Blanche closed her eyes. She smelled the iron odour of blood, felt the cold steel in her hand. Each man she had cut down in the assault on Charles Roi had been one strike against Charles de Blois and his army in revenge for the loyal Bretons who had died. Why did the existence of one stranger attack her conscience so powerfully? Her strange compassion to the surviving crew was his fault.

‘We are in a war. I will kill when I know the men are my enemies,’ she said brusquely. ‘I don’t know that this man is. He may be an ally or, if he does follow de Blois’s cause, he may be a useful hostage. We can hand him over at any time.’

She glanced towards the building where Jack was being housed. She had few servants, but even at dawn the building was buzzing like a beehive, alive with the sounds of daily life. A visitor listening to the chatter of maids washing could believe he was in just another household, not the stronghold of a feared pirate.

‘He might respond better to a man asking questions. Not all men think women worth speaking the truth to.’

Maybe it was time for Jack to receive a visit from the Sea Wolf. This would test him and allow Blanche to see whether she received the same declarations twice.

‘I will speak to him once more.’

Andrey looked her up and down. ‘Like this? What if he recognises you?’

Blanche gave him a tight smile. ‘It isn’t likely. He’ll see what he expects to see—a man in a mask. Why would he assume I’m a woman beneath the disguise when I do something so unwomanly? He’s only seen me briefly in any case.’

She made her way instead to the storeroom. Andrey’s guard was sitting at the end of the corridor, dozing. He jumped at her sharp whistle.

‘Has he been any trouble tonight?’ Blanche asked.

The guard shook his head.

‘Wait here for my word,’ Blanche instructed, taking the lantern from the table. She pulled her mask on, tipped the brim of her hat lower over her face and swung the door open.

Jack was lying on the bed, stretched out on top of the furs. His hands were behind his head and one long leg was bent at the knee, crooked over the other. He appeared to be asleep and looked much as he had on the beach the first time Blanche had seen him. She was half-tempted to try to wake him and see if he repeated his kiss and in turn regained some memories, but as she stepped over the threshold his head jerked up.

‘Madame, is that you?’

His tone was eager. Blanche paused, wondering what in her step had made him recognise her? She lowered her voice more, making it into a husky snarl.

‘No.’

Blanche hung the lantern on a hook beside the door and stood, arms folded and legs planted apart. She stuck her hips forward and lifted her head. The mask would disguise her face and as always she spoke in a deep growl to hide the feminine tones.

‘My men tell me you have been calling for her. Why? Is there something you need?’

Blanche swept a hand around the room, taking in the mattress with fine furs. She looked pointedly at the table where an uncorked wine bottle stood beside an empty wooden plate. She knew he had been sent water to bathe earlier in the day.

Jack set his jaw. ‘I have no cause to complain of my care. I have everything I need except my freedom.’ Jack’s expression became bullish. He lowered his hands and sat upright, swaying slightly. ‘Are you the master of this house?’

‘No. You have met its mistress, Madame Tanet.’

She watched as he digested this information. When he looked back at her, his eyes were sharp.

‘She is your wife?’

Blanche laughed. ‘Madame Tanet is a widow. She belongs to no man.’

Jack cocked his head, his eyes flickering with interest. Blanche’s palms grew sweaty inside her leather gloves. Most women did belong to someone and Blanche woke every day knowing how fragile and unusual her independence was.

‘Then how come you are here?’ Jack asked.

‘The lady and I have come to an arrangement that works well for both of us.’ She thickened her accent as an extra precaution until she sounded more like the common fishermen in the village.

Jack’s eyes widened, then narrowed slightly. Interesting. He was obviously speculating what sort of arrangement it was and no doubt coming to the conclusion Blanche expected. Knowing he had no suspicion of whom he was talking to gave her a rush of pleasure and power. She drew her sword, but held it at her side. Jack’s eyes followed the movement and his powerful shoulders tensed.

‘Madame Tanet tells me you claim to have no memory of who you are.’

He gave her an angry glare. ‘I do more than “claim”.’

He was dressed now, wearing one of the servants’ loose tunics and breeches. The tunic was tied by two points, leaving the top two open. Blanche tried not to look too obviously at his chest. He swung his legs over the bed and indicated the table.

‘May I have some paper and the means to write?’ he asked.

‘You can write?’ Blanche raised an eyebrow. ‘You know this, yet you do not know your name?’

He looked perplexed. ‘I know some things, though I don’t know why or how. I can speak. I can dress myself, as you can see. I hoped if I had the means to write or draw, some memories might come to me.’

He probed carefully at the edge of the bandage. His hands were long, with slender fingers and well-kept nails. She knew from nursing him there were old callouses on the ridge at the base of each finger that had started to soften. If he was a sailor they would be hardened. He was a mystery. Solving it teased her intriguingly.

‘Who are you?’ she breathed.

He looked surprised and Blanche realised with alarm that she had almost let her guise down for a moment and revealed her true self.

‘Tell me the truth,’ she said, more sternly. ‘I have no time for men who speak falsehoods to me.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, his voice rising in frustration. He bunched his fists, pressing them to the side of his temples, then pounded them on the wall in frustration. His expression darkened and he looked unexpectedly dangerous. He stood and faced Blanche, arms crossed and head high. His sleeves were rolled up and his arms were toned, but did not have the deep tan of men who were used to working outside all day. Good arms. Strong arms, Blanche thought, then despised herself a little for noticing such a detail.

‘I have told you what I told Madame Tanet. Present me with another visitor and I shall swear the same to him. Where am I? I have told you everything I am able, yet no one will tell me where I am or who is keeping me here.’

He stepped towards her and she raised the sword. ‘Do not move.’

‘Who are you?’ Jack growled. ‘You come in here, threatening me with a sword. I demand to know why I am being kept here.’

‘I’m not threatening you,’ Blanche snarled. ‘This is for my protection.’

‘Against what?’

Jack curled his lip. He spread his arms wide and turned in a slow circle, giving Blanche a perfect view of his tall, strong body. He would conquer her easily if he decided to attack. She gripped her sword tighter. When he faced her there was no fear in his eyes, only anger held in check. If she held a sword to his throat, he would not quake like the Captain of Charles Roi had.

‘I have no way of attacking you or defending myself. Until this morning I could not even raise myself from the bed. You are treating me poorly, monsieur, and I would like some answers. If I were myself again and in possession of a weapon of my own, I would take them from your lips at sword point.’

‘If you were yourself, you would not need to fight me for the answers,’ Blanche pointed out. She lowered the sword, her hand trembling a little as the thought of what he had already done to her lips sent a shiver through her belly. ‘But you obviously think you are capable, which tells us both something about you, does it not?’

He glared at her, then spun away and walked to the window, his frustration clear. Being a storeroom, the window was high set and narrow. He raised himself on to the balls of his feet, craning his head to look out, and grabbed hold of the bars as if he intended to pull his entire body off the ground. His arms were muscular and Blanche considered that he would have no problem doing that.

‘What do you see?’ Blanche asked, curious to discover what would command his attention. ‘Tell me what it tells you.’

He looked over his shoulder at her. Light drenched his hair, picking out the blond among the sand and casting shadows over sculpted cheekbones. ‘Is this a test? Will I earn my freedom if I pass?’

She cocked her head to one side and gestured. Their eyes locked and for a moment she was fixed by the certainty Jack recognised her, despite the mask, but he looked away. He was silent as his head moved from side to side. Blanche held her breath.

‘There is a rounded tower on the building opposite with a window set high into the top. I know I am below ground here because I can see doorways and steps.’

He sniffed. ‘From the smell of grain I think this is a storeroom, not a cell.’

He breathed again, more deeply and slower. His shoulders lifted and his torso expanded. He had a powerful body, Blanche thought. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to run her hands over the solid muscles of his back that moved beneath the tunic, imagining them to be as solid and sculpted as those in his chest. She took a step closer.

‘I can smell the sea,’ Jack murmured. ‘And when it is quiet in the night I think I can hear the waves.’

He let go of the bars and dropped on to his feet with a lightness that took Blanche by surprise, and stood upright.

‘I already know I am by the coast because Madame Tanet told me they had only brought me a short way. Where is she?’ he asked.

Blanche was struck by the eagerness in his voice. He obviously found her attractive from the way his eyes filled with life. She wondered how deeply the memory of their kiss was buried and what it would take to make it resurface.

‘You’d like to see her again?’ she asked. ‘A pretty woman, isn’t she, for all that she is older than you, I think? Don’t men your age hanker after young virginal girls?’

‘I don’t hanker after anyone,’ Jack snapped. He raised his head and his eyes were hard, though pain whispered at the edge of his voice. ‘I would like to see her again because she was kind to me when I woke and I believe it is down to her I owe my life. I would like to thank her.’

Blanche sheathed her sword and adjusted her cloak and gloves.

‘Perhaps you will see her again. However, I will pass any messages on to her that you wish. I will leave you now. I have matters to attend to.’

‘Am I a prisoner?’ Jack asked, anger in his voice. ‘Is the door to be bolted once more?’

Blanche jerked her head up in surprise. She had not drawn the bolt when she had left, which meant that if he knew of its existence he had either opened the door or had heard it before. Which in turn meant he had been feigning sleep when she entered to bathe him. Her sense of fairness told her he had perhaps half woken and was lapsing in and out of sleep and had not intended to deceive her. The contemptuous part of her that knew what she did of men was unsure.

Jack flexed his arms. ‘I have been still and sleeping for too long and ache to stretch my legs.’

Blanche looked at the limbs in question that he now planted apart. They were long and lean with—she couldn’t help but notice—a sizeable bunching of cloth between them. She had thought her desire for men had been ground out of her by the degrading exploits she had put herself through since Yann’s death, but to her consternation, heat rose to her face. Images of lovemaking began to bud in her mind like wild blooms after the winter frost.

‘You stay here for now. For your safety as much as anything else. Madame Tanet had to fight to bring you here and her men will not trust a stranger as readily as she will. These are difficult times.’

She hammered on the door with a fist. Jack tensed, looking as though he was about to spring forward, but when she held out a hand he stood back. He clearly didn’t like the answer. She didn’t blame him.

When the door opened, Blanche dropped into a low bow, sweeping the hat from her head with a flourish, and swept out. She bolted the door, taking care to make as much noise as possible so Jack knew what she had done.

She leaned against the door and pulled the mask from her face, then fanned her neck with her hat and faced Andrey who was waiting at the end of the passageway.

‘I think he’s telling the truth.’

‘Did you mention what we found in the barrels?’ Andrey asked.

Blanche shook her head. What they had discovered had been surprising, but it had not seemed an appropriate time to throw it in his face. It had been interesting to see how Jack’s manner had been when he believed he was speaking to a man. He had been polite, yet this time she had sensed an undercurrent of belligerence he had not shown to Blanche. She’d half expected him to attack her even without a sword in his hand.

She believed his memory loss was true, however, though how to help him regain it was going to be a challenge. And she did want him to. He fascinated her beyond explanation. She would have to think about it, but now she craved her bed.

‘I want one more interview with him later on,’ Blanche insisted.

She pressed her ear to the door and could hear Jack muttering to himself but could not make out his words. She wondered what he would be like in a fight. She wondered what he would be like in bed. She wasn’t sure which excited her more.

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