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Her husband retreated to a room in the front of the house, and she heard the clink of pots and pans and the opening and closing of cupboards.

When he returned, she did her best to swallow some of the soup and bread, but her aching head made her feel slightly nauseous.

She was able to sip her tea, and the brandy warmed her and made her drowsy.

But she started awake at the sound of a door closing.

“Barbara?” her husband called. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Mr. Burrows. I’ve brought some provisions and will start on the washing,” a feminine voice said as it neared. Then a tall girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen peeked her head into the sitting room. She wore a dark blue dress with a white apron and a white cap over her pale blond hair.

As soon as she spotted Marjorie, her eyes crinkled in concern. “Is anything amiss, missus?”

“My wife fell and bumped her head while walking on the beach this morning,” Burrows said. “Could you heat water for her bath?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll help you draw it.” He rose, and Marjorie heard him tell the servant quietly, “Do you mind assisting with her bath? She hit her head quite hard.”

“Of course, sir.”

A quarter-hour later, a large round tub had been placed near the stove in the kitchen, and Marjorie watched as Barbara poured the last bucket of hot water into it.

The steam rose in the already warm kitchen, and for the first time since she’d awakened in the cave, Marjorie didn’t feel chilled.

“Here we are then,” Barbara said. “Towels, washing cloths, soap. Can I help you into the bath, missus?”

“Thank you.” Marjorie dropped her blanket and took Barbara’s hand. She stepped into the tub, sank down, and drew her knees up. The water was blissfully warm, and she felt the headache that had plagued her since waking begin to ease.

“Do you want help with washing, missus?”

What Marjorie really wanted was to have a few moments alone. “No. I have everything I need right here.” Indeed, Barbara had placed the towels and soap within easy reach. “Go ahead and start on your washing.”

Barbara looked out the window. “But Mr. Burrows—”

“I’ll be fine. Go ahead. I know you’ve seen the dark clouds, and I’m sure you want to get the clothes on the line before a rain shower.”

Barbara nodded. “I’ll be just outside, missus.”

“I’ll call if I need you.”

The servant girl stepped outside and a moment later, Marjorie heard the slosh of clothing being dunked in washwater.

She closed her eyes and scrunched down so she might lean her neck against the edge of the bath.

Gently, because she did not want her headache to return full force, she pushed at the blackness in her mind.

The middle of the fog was too thick and dense, but she tried the edges, which were a bit grayer.

She prodded for any memory of her name or her wedding or her favorite color—anything.

But though that gray had given her a blurry image of her mother before, it yielded nothing now.

Her hands on the edge of the tub clenched in frustration, but she forced herself to open them and relax.

Panic and fear would not help her and might, in fact, hinder her memory.

She had no idea how she knew this or if it was even accurate, but she was learning to trust these unbidden thoughts that came to her.

Clearly, she’d had some education and life experience.

How old was she anyway? She tried to remember the way she’d looked in the mirror.

She wasn’t particularly young, like Barbara, but she also hadn’t seen lines or wrinkles.

Mr. Burrows looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, which meant she was probably the same age or younger.

Four and thirty.

Marjorie opened her eyes. The number had come to her as a given, not from the murkiness in her mind—which was frustrating—but simply appearing as though she had always known it. Clearly, pushing at the void in her head would not yield results. Information would come as it chose and when it chose.

She would ask Burrows—her husband, that was—if she was indeed thirty-four.

In the meantime, the water had begun to cool, so she picked up the soap and a cloth and worked at removing the sand that clung to every part of her that had been exposed.

Washing her hair was difficult as her head was so very tender where she’d been hit.

She did her best, though, and when she finally stood to reach for the bowl with the clean water to do a final rinse of her hair, she was proud of herself for having accomplished this one thing.

Except that, as she bent over and emptied the warm water over her, a wave of dizziness hit her hard.

She gripped the edges of the tub and tried to call for the maid.

“Barbara,” she said, but she couldn’t manage to raise her voice.

She sank to her knees in the tub to keep from falling.

That action jolted her already injured knee, and she cried out in pain.

“Barbara!” she called louder, but the girl didn’t come.

Instead, the inner door burst open, and her husband’s voice boomed in the small kitchen. “What happened? Where’s that girl?” His footsteps thudded on the wooden planks as he crossed the room and snatched up a towel, sending the soap flying. “Never mind. I have you.”

A moment later, she was once again lifted into his arms. She was wet and slippery, but he didn’t seem to mind that his fine coat and silk waistcoat were absorbing most of the water. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up at him. His jaw was set, and his gaze straight ahead.

“Where are you carrying me?” she asked.

“To bed.”

Heat shot through her again, and she couldn’t help but notice the feel of his hand on her upper thigh.

That arm supported her legs while his other was under her back.

The towel he’d grabbed was slung over his shoulder.

He could have looked down at her and had an unobstructed view of her nudity, but he seemed to be determined to look everywhere but at her.

Marjorie didn’t know if it was the dizziness or the brandy or simply exhaustion that caused her to lift her arms and wrap them about his neck.

He did glance down at her then, but his gaze flicked right back up as he carried her through a doorway and into what was presumably their bedchamber.

She was beginning to get used to being carried by this man. She was beginning to like it. Was that why she’d married him? Was he a gallant gentleman who had swept her off her feet—literally and figuratively? Was that what made her fall in love with him?

He set her on the bed, and she didn’t immediately release her arms about his neck, which forced him to bend down with her.

His face was very close to hers, and she decided that most likely what had started her falling for him were his eyes.

They were so lovely and when he looked at her, there was a softness in them that made her feel.

..the word mushy came to mind. Yes, she felt mushy inside.

“You’ll catch your death of cold if I don’t cover you,” he said, gently pulling back.

Still, without looking at her body, he took the towel from his shoulder and placed it over her.

“Dry off while I look for something for you to wear.” She dried off as directed then wrapped the towel about her body.

A large window was opposite the bed, and she had a view of the ocean with the sun sparkling golden on the blue expanse.

The window framed a truly lovely picture.

Meanwhile, Burrows stood looking down at the contents of a large portmanteau on the luggage stand in the corner. “I don’t see a nightgown,” he said.

“What about a robe?” she asked. “Do I wear a robe?”

“I don’t know.”

Marjorie frowned. “You don’t know what I wear to bed?”

He went stiff, and she felt fear shoot through her at the idea that he might not be who he said he was.

But then he turned, and his smile was twisted up at the corner—a rather rakish smile, if she were to describe it.

“I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to what it is you’re wearing.

I’m more concerned with how quickly I can remove it. ”

Her cheeks heated at his tone and the warm look in his eyes. She averted her gaze, feeling suddenly shy, and that was when she spotted the robe on a peg on the wall. “There,” she said, pointing. “I believe that must be my robe.”

“Ah, yes. This does look familiar.” He took it down and brought it to her, holding it out so she might put her arms through it and cinch it at the waist. Once she was dressed, she sat on the edge of the bed and used the towel to dry the ends of her hair.

He pulled the drapes closed on the window, took the damp towel, and helped her slide under the covers. “Comfortable?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Try and rest,” he said. She knew he was about to leave her, and she reached for his hand before he could escape.

“Simon?”

His hand in hers clenched.

“I apologize. Do I not call you Simon?”

“Of course, you do. We’re so newly married, I’m used to you being more formal. But I like when you use my name. What is it?”

“What if...” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What if I don’t ever remember who I am? What if my memory doesn’t return?” She whispered the last few words as the thought was too horrible to speak aloud.

Simon placed his other hand around hers, cupping it warmly. He made to sit on the bed beside her, and she scooted over to make room. “I’m certain that won’t happen.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I still don’t recall anything really.

I’m afraid I never will.” She hadn’t meant to start crying, but a tear managed to slip down her cheek.

She felt mortified as they continued to glide down her cheeks.

She couldn’t seem to make them stop. Oh, God.

Was she the sort of woman who wept all the time? She dearly hoped not.

Simon’s eyes widened. Clearly, he was surprised by her tears—in fact, he looked almost stunned.

But he recovered quickly, gathering her in his arms and soothing her by rubbing her back and stroking her hair.

Finally, she ceased weeping and rested her head on his shoulder.

He held her lightly, still patting her back.

No wonder she loved him. He was patient and caring.

“Will you lie with me?” she asked.

His entire body went rigid, so rigid that she pulled back to look at him. He released her and put his hands out between them. “Marjorie, you’re injured and exhausted. Now might not be the time—”

“I meant, just lie next to me in bed. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ah—er, of course.” Awkwardly, he stood, removed his boots and coat and lay down on top of the covers on the other side of the bed.

His arms were at his side, and he looked almost afraid to touch her.

Once again, she had the niggling feeling that something was not right.

But then he turned to her and opened his arms, and that seemed real.

She slid over and let him embrace her, closing her eyes as his scent enveloped her.

“Don’t worry about anything,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”