He put his hand on the door latch. “I’m glad that you have conquered your fear.”
“Marco?”
“Yes, Mrs. Smith?”
“Thank you.”
He kept his gaze on the white painted door panel. “For what?”
“For understanding.”
“Good night, Mrs. Smith.”
He let himself out onto the landing and went back down to the kitchen where he’d left his cup of laudanum. He swallowed it down in one and retreated to his bedroom. The fire was still warm, and it took him but a moment to strip off his damp shirt and breeches and put them to air.
As he slid between the sheets, he felt the first tug of the laudanum on his senses. Wrapping one hand around his still aroused cock, he allowed himself to fall into a pleasant dream of sharing Amelia’s Smith’s bed. It might never happen, and by God it shouldn’t, because he was a nameless, landless vagabond, but it was far better than his other dreams.
He pictured her facing the storm, her expression wild, and then imagined himself behind her, driving into her as the thunder roared and the lightning illuminated her. She’d looked like a different person in the garden. Could he make her look at him like that?
He groaned as his cock throbbed with urgent need and he tightened his grip. Either the laudanum would drag him under or his imminent release would. At this point in time, he simply craved oblivion.
“May I speak to you?”
Amelia cleared her throat and came to sit beside Marco as he watched the morning tide come in from the heights of the cliff beyond the cottage fence line. The storm had cleared; the skies and the sea were comparatively calm with little white-topped waves scurrying into shore to clatter against the pebbled beach. He’d taken off his coat and was sitting on it. One knee was drawn up close to his chest and his chin rested on his crossed arms.
She sat down next to him and studied the sea until she could form a coherent sentence.
“I would like to explain about my behavior last night.”
He didn’t glance at her; his blue gaze narrowed in the light. “There is no need.”
“There is every need. You must have thought I was behaving like a mad woman.”
“I believe we’ve already discussed this matter. I understand why you wanted to face your fear.” He finally looked at her. “What did you mean when you said you were hiding from more than just the storm?”
She sighed. “I came here after Matthew died. I needed somewhere I could grieve for him in peace.”
“And now?”
She wrapped her shawl more closely around her body. “I feel strangely trapped, as if life is going on without me.”
“Are you still grieving?”
“I’ll never forget Matthew, but it’s becoming harder to imagine him being here, to
see
him clearly. I hate that. I’ve learned that the passing of time can be both cruel and kind to those left behind. He would hate to see me like this—so quiet and uninvolved.”
“Do you have other family you could perhaps visit or live with for a portion of the year?”
“Not really.” To her relief, he didn’t question her further. She stared out over the sea. “I thought maybe of becoming a teacher or something useful.”
“You would be good at that.”
“Thank you.” She risked a smile at him and found him looking right back at her. His blue gaze darkened as he considered her.
“I wanted to kiss you last night.”
She licked her lips. “When?”
“When you were fighting with me in the garden.”
“Not when you had me at your mercy in my bedchamber?”
He stood up and held out his hand to assist her to her feet. “Ah, no, then I wanted to make love to you.”
She rose to face him, and he retained his grip on her hand, his gaze intent.
“Oh.”
“This is when you should slap my face and walk away.”
“Why would I do that?”
His faint smile died. “Because I have nothing to offer you. I haven’t even got a name. Accepting such a man into your bed would be foolish, and I know you aren’t foolish, Mrs. Smith.”
“I went out into a thunderstorm in my nightgown.”
“Because you are a brave and courageous woman who wanted to face her fears, not because you are a fool.” He swallowed hard. “I can give you nothing, and I could leave you with child. I will not do that to you.”
There was a note of finality in his voice that made Amelia reach for her hard-won calmness and common sense.
“Then perhaps we should discontinue this conversation and return to the cottage.” She forced a smile. “Would you like to accompany me to the vicarage and meet Mr. Sherringham and his wife?”
He bowed and kissed her fingers. “I would be delighted to do so, ma’am.”
They walked back to the cottage in silence. Marco held the kitchen door open for her, and she almost crashed into Aunt Betty who was coming straight at her.
“Oh my dear, Amelia, I was just coming to find you! The most calamitous thing!”
“What’s wrong?”
Amelia guided the older woman to sit at the table and sat beside her. Marco sat down, too.
“The letter!” She waved something in Amelia’s face.
“Who is it from?”
“My solicitor. His son has recently taken over the practice. I have never met the man. He doesn’t sound very sympathetic to our plight at all.”
“What does he say that has upset you so badly?”
“He says that Matthew’s younger brother is trying to break the will and take back this cottage!”
Amelia took the letter out of Betty’s shaking hand. “May I read his exact words?”
“Go ahead. It won’t change anything.” Betty’s handkerchief appeared, and she dabbed at her eyes. “What is to become of us? Where will we live?”
Amelia read the letter carefully and then passed it over to Marco.
“I’m not certain that Jonathan can overturn the will, Aunt. He would have to take the matter before the courts and that costs money.”
“But Mr. Wilkes the younger is saying that Jonathan might have just cause because Mr. Wilkes
senior
interpreted the dictates of the will far too liberally and in my favor.”
“That still doesn’t mean that Jonathan will succeed. He is very fond of you.” Amelia looked up at her aunt. “Perhaps we should both write to him and see what is amiss.”
“I shall do that immediately,” Aunt Betty declared. “I’m quite certain this is a mistake.”
She picked up the letter and disappeared down the hall muttering to herself. Amelia stared after her until she heard the parlor door close.
“Do you think Jonathan Smith will succeed?”
Marco’s quiet question made Amelia sit up straighter. “I don’t know. Jonathan is a senior clerk at a shipping company about ten miles from here. He is the father of a large and growing family, and his wife is a shrew.”
“So she might be the one pushing for this change.”
“I would imagine so.” She sighed. “She is only doing what she thinks best for the future of her family. I can’t say I blame her.”
“You are too kind.” He stood up. “Do you still wish to go to the vicarage or do you intend to write your letter first?”
“I’d rather go for a walk than sit here and worry.”
“Then I’ll put on my boots.”
Within the quarter hour, Marco was strolling alongside Mrs. Smith enjoying the freshness of the sea air and the sense of freedom. Whatever had happened to him in the past few years, he knew that such peaceful habits such as walking in the countryside had been denied him. He’d never again forget to appreciate the smaller things that made life bearable.
And perhaps revisiting the village where he had been found might jog his mind into remembering something important, like why he’d been left there or who he was. The frustration of knowing nothing was grating on his nerves. If he could only regains some sense of self he might leave the sanctuary of Dove Cottage and make his own way in the world again. If he stayed much longer he might never want to leave…
“The Sherringhams are a nice enough couple. He tends toward pomposity and she has a tendency to blurt out the first thing that comes into her head, but they mean no harm.”
He smiled at her, jolted out of his desperate thoughts. “You are remarkably forthright, Mrs. Smith.”
“I survived in a company of soldiers for far too long. I forgot how to be anything else but blunt and to the point.” She shrugged. “I do try very hard to be polite to everyone.”
“Apart from me.”
She glanced up at him. “You are a soldier and a blunt man yourself. Sometimes when I’m with you I forget to act like a respectable widow.”
“I’m glad of that.” He hesitated. “I’m still finding it hard to get my bearings in English. Deciphering what people
mean
as opposed to what they say is proving more difficult than I anticipated.”
“Then perhaps I should stop teasing you as well.”
“Please don’t.” He let his gaze follow along the rutted path, automatically accessing the possibility of an ambush. “You speak the truth to me. I value that immensely.”
Ambush…
He stopped walking as the memory of discharging rifles in an echoing mountain pass and the screams of his companions shuddered through him in minute bloody detail.
“Marco?”
She had taken his clenched fist between her hands and was rubbing his fingers.
“I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“There was an ambush in the high mountain pass. I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Perhaps that’s when you were taken prisoner.” She kept holding his hand. “Do you wish to return to Dove Cottage?”
He took a deep breath. “No, I think I’m fine now.” He started walking again and automatically tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’ve learned not to force my memories. It seldom helps, and I end up with a headache.”
“How horrible for you.”
The vicarage came into view beside the tall steeple of the grey stone church. The house was built of the same stone, but was of much later date. Mrs. Smith unlatched the gate and waited for him to join her on the path.
“It is a fine church.” Marco tried to speak normally.
“The original is Norman and the steeple is a recent addition. I’m not too fond of it myself, but the parishioners seem to like it. The vicarage was rebuilt by Mr. Sherringham who is sure to mention to you that he is the fourth son of the cousin of an
earl,
so do prepare yourself to be suitably impressed.”
Marco found himself smiling. “I will remember that.”
“After we’ve paid our visit here, we can go into the village proper to post Aunt Betty’s letter and see if we have any mail.”
“That sounds most agreeable, Mrs. Smith.”
She glanced up at him. “Your manners are quite exquisite, Marco. I suspect Mrs. Sherringham was correct, as you aren’t a common man at all. Do you remember where you went to school?”
He considered the questions as she knocked on the front door. Had he been to school?
“I believe I went somewhere. I have vague memories of other boys and being beaten…” He stopped talking as other more recent memories of savage beatings overwhelmed him. He grabbed hold of the doorframe and pressed his fingers hard into the wood to stop himself from falling into the blackness.
“Marco?” He shivered as a cool hand touched his cheek. “I’m so sorry, are you quite well?”
He concentrated on digging his fingernails into the wood until they hurt and took several deep breaths.
“I’m fine. I apologize for worrying you.”
The door abruptly opened, and he found himself staring down into the worried face of a young maid in a crisp white cap.
“Ooh, is he all right, Mrs. Smith?” the girl asked.
“I believe the walk has tired him out a little, Mabel. Perhaps we should get him into the drawing room.”
Mrs. Smith took his elbow in a firm grasp and led him into a large, gracious room facing the back of the house.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Marco could hardly hear her quiet voice as she lowered him into the nearest chair. “May I crave your indulgence while I attend to Marco? His strength has momentarily deserted him.”
“Oh dear!” He looked up as a small woman fluttered toward him, her hands clasped to her bosom. “He isn’t sickening for something, is he? Because I do have my darling children to consider.”
“No, he isn’t sick. Just rather overcome by the heat. I’m certain he’ll be just the thing in a moment or two.”
He wished he had Mrs. Smith’s confidence in his ability to recover. All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head and pretend the world no longer existed. After a moment or two, he managed to raise his head and forced himself to acknowledge the others in the room.
“I do apologize,“ he murmured. “The walk tired me more than I anticipated.”
A cup of tea was placed beside him, and Mrs. Smith patted his shoulder. “Have some tea, sir. You will feel much better in a moment.”
He did what she told him simply to have something to occupy his hands. But after a few sips of the highly sweetened tea, he began to feel better.
“Thank you.” He risked as smile at his hostess who sat anxiously regarding him from the edge of her chair. “That is most welcome. I do apologize again, Mrs. Sherringham.”
“I am just pleased that you are all right, Mr. Marco.” She shuddered. “How horrible would it have been if you had collapsed on the walk when poor dear Amelia was the only person with you?”
He assumed Amelia would’ve found a way to save him, but he refrained from saying so and simply agreed with his hostess. After another cup of tea he was able to sit up and take more part in the conversation, which consisted mainly of Mrs. Sherringham’s complaints and Mrs. Smith’s commiserations. He’d met many women like Mrs. Sherringham, beautiful, but rather empty headed, her focus on her family and husband rather than the more complicated aspects of politics or wars. Most men preferred their womenfolk to be like that. He’d always preferred a woman who spoke her mind. Like his grandmother…
Another clue to his former existence, an image of a woman who looked rather like him, which instantly disappeared. She’d like Mrs. Smith. He was quite certain about that.
After a while, the vicar arrived to shake his hand and exclaim over his recovery. He was also offered a selection of recent newspapers to take back to the cottage with him, which he accepted with the necessary gratitude. It was still hard to read without getting a headache. Even worse, sometimes the words floated around and made no sense. But he needed to understand what was going on in his world; it would make it easier for him to leave and decide what to do. There might also be important clues to his identity—although he wasn’t sure of his social class, everyone else seemed to be convinced he was a gentleman.