Page 2

S he didn’t remember how she ended up in the sitting room before the fire.

She simply took the hot mug of tea pressed into her hands and sipped it, feeling the warmth of the beverage thawing her insides as the fire did the same to her frozen body.

Her name was Marjorie Burrows, and she was married.

The revelation had not shaken free any memories clawing at the locked door of her mind.

What about her parents or siblings? Oh, God. Did she have children she’d forgotten?

Her hands shook, rattling the cup against the saucer and Mr. Simon Burrows—her husband —took it from her hands. “You’re still shivering. You should remove those wet clothes.”

Marjorie nodded and rose. She peered down at the dress, trying to remember how to remove it.

“I’ll—I’ll fetch you a blanket,” Mr. Burrows said, moving out of the room and into another in the back of the cottage. Was that their bedchamber? Did she sleep with this man every night? Why had she been out last night?

Though her mind couldn’t recall how to manage the gown, her fingers seemed to have a memory all their own.

She began unhooking the fastenings and small buttons.

Clearly, this gown was made so that the wearer did not require a maid to help her undress.

Were they too poor for a maid? A glance about the cottage told her it was modest but well-furnished.

Marjorie tried to concentrate on the gown.

She was able, with great effort, to unfasten the material at her neckline, but her cold hands were clumsy and her fingers raw from scraping along the rough rocks of the cave.

She fumbled with the fastenings mid-chest as the wet material stretched tight as it dried.

Mr. Burrows returned holding a dark blanket, and she gave him a look of frustration.

“I cannot seem to manage. Could you assist me?” Her cheeks colored as she said the words, though surely, as her husband, he had seen her in far less than the stays and chemise under this gown.

His gaze went to her breasts and then quickly to her face. “Perhaps if you warm your hands by the fire for longer?”

In answer, she held out her hands, palms up, to show him the cuts and abrasions, which were now beginning to swell.

He swallowed. “Very well. I’ll...undress you, er—dear.” He laid the blanket on a chair and approached. She couldn’t help but notice his hands shook slightly as they reached for the fabric. Was he apprehensive? Why? As her husband, he must touch her regularly.

Then he took hold of the fabric of the gown and began to open it. He moved efficiently, his large hands surprisingly gentle and competent. Soon enough he was able to untie the sleeves and remove the bodice. From there, it was easy to loosen the skirts and step out of them.

She was colder now, but she felt free. The wet fabric had been heavier than she realized.

She reached for the hooks and eyes of her front-fastening stays, but her fingers could not curl about the small closures.

She looked up at Mr. Burrows. His eyes were locked somewhere above her head, so he hadn’t noticed her struggles.

“I apologize for asking again,” she said, “but could you assist with the stays?”

“Of course.” He took a breath, seemed to steel himself, and glanced down. His hands hovered just an inch from the stays, and she looked into his eyes. His gaze met hers. He cleared his throat. “With your permission?”

“Yes.”

Something was very strange. Somehow she knew that wives were the property of their husbands.

Why would her husband ask permission to touch her?

She did not remember him at present, but he was acting as though he hardly knew her .

And then an answer occurred to her. “Mr. Burrows, how long have we been married?”

His hands dropped, almost as though he were relieved not to have to touch her. “Not long. Er—just a few days now.”

“So this is our honeymoon?” She looked about the cottage. “We wanted to stay near the sea?”

“Yes, we both like to walk along the beaches of Cornwall.”

Cornwall...something about the name shot a glimmer of light into the darkness clouding her mind. She took a shaky breath as her body began to shiver again.

“I apologize. I should work faster.” All deliberate speed now, Mr. Burrows took hold of the material of the stays and began to loosen it.

She looked down at his hands, trying to recover any memory of him touching her like this before.

Perhaps it was because their marriage was so new that she couldn’t recall.

His fingers were within one side of the sturdy fabric to keep it in place as he dealt with the fastenings.

As his hand slid down, she felt those fingers brush the curve of her breast. Heat shot through her at his touch, and her nipple hardened.

She inhaled sharply, and he glanced up at her.

Her gaze locked with those sea-blue eyes of his, and she desperately wished she could remember their marriage—more precisely, the time spent in the marriage bed.

Did she always feel like this when he touched her, this slow heat spiraling through her, making every inch of her come alive?

Heat flooded her lower belly, and she pressed her thighs together at the rush of need that coalesced there.

“My hands must be freezing,” he said.

She nodded, her mind too jumbled to form coherent speech.

His hands were not cold, though. He must know that was not the reason for her reaction.

His gaze lowered as he returned his attention to her stays.

Marjorie closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like if he’d slid his hand to the side and cupped her breast.

“There.” Her stays opened, and she slid the straps off her shoulders and dropped them on the floor.

“I’ll let you...” He fetched the blanket again and handed it to her, then turned to give her privacy as she removed the rest of her wet clothing.

Was she shy? Was that why he was overly courteous?

Or was it just that they were newly married?

She was glad of his solicitousness. She didn’t want a stranger watching her undress—at least, that’s what she said in her head. Her body had other ideas.

She wrapped the blanket about her body and sat down by the fire.

Mr. Burrows gathered her wet clothes. “I’ll leave these for the servant girl to launder.

Once you’re warm, we should get you in the bath.

I would have done that first, but I have to draw the water, and it will take time to heat it.

” He reached for her tea, and she took it and sipped.

“I’m feeling much better now,” she said. “I can almost feel my toes again.”

“Is everything coming back to you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. I—I try to remember, but...the only way I can begin to describe it is as a black cloud in my mind. I can’t see past it.

Somehow, I know things like how to unfasten my gown or what everything is called—but I don’t have any memory of who I am or who you are. I don’t remember this place at all.”

“And you have no memory of last night?”

“None. I woke up in a cave as the tide came in. When you found me, I’d only just stumbled out. I think I hit my head. I have a knot the size of my fist, and my head is pounding.”

“Allow me?” At her nod, he rose on his knees and parted her hair. He blew out a breath. “You are fortunate that didn’t split your skull.”

“My mother always said I was hard-headed.” Marjorie put a hand to her mouth, and Mr. Burrows grabbed her shoulders.

“Your mother? You remember her?”

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure her mother’s face. An image floated before her for an instant, but it was vague and blurry. She sighed and opened her eyes. “I cannot remember her.”

“But you knew what she used to say to you. The knowledge is in there,” he said, tapping her forehead lightly. “You just can’t access it at present. I’m sure it’s a temporary effect of the blow to your head. In a few hours, everything will come back.”

Marjorie wanted to believe him. In fact, she prayed he was correct. But something he’d said struck her as odd. “Blow to my head? You think I was struck?”

“I didn’t say that. You said you hit your head.”

“I meant I was probably exploring the cave and hit my head on a low overhang. But a blow to the head is something else. A blow to the head is a deliberate act.”

He gave her a long look. “You might not remember who you are, but you haven’t changed much. You were always good with details.”

“So you think I was struck by someone?”

“No. I think it’s exactly as you say. You were exploring the cave and knocked your head on a low-hanging rock.

” He ran his hands up and down her arms, which was a reassuring feeling.

She trusted this man. She could feel it in the way her body relaxed at his touch and the sound of his voice.

But something about his eyes made her think he wasn’t being completely honest with her.

“Why was I exploring the cave alone?” she asked. “You said—before—I was out all night. How long was I lost?”

“We can talk about that later. Right now you should eat. The landlord sent soup and bread for supper last night. I’ll warm what’s left and make you another cup of tea—perhaps add a splash of brandy to it.”

She reached up to touch the raised, tender spot on her head. “Should we call for the doctor?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m sure with food and rest you will be yourself again in no time. I’ll ask the servant girl if the landlord has any feverfew. That’s good for an aching head.”

She nodded, though she didn’t agree she would recover so easily.

Shouldn’t a doctor be consulted if one lost one’s memory?

She might have argued if something inside her hadn’t rebelled at the idea of involving a doctor.

She didn’t know why, but her belly tensed, and her chest tightened at the thought of the doctor.