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W hat the devil was Simon supposed to do now?

He was lying in bed with her when he had ten thousand other things he should be seeing to, especially given that everything was falling apart.

Not that he minded holding her in his arms—no, he didn’t mind that at all—but this wasn’t the way he wanted her.

She didn’t even know who he was. Or who she was!

If he’d envisioned a nightmare scenario, it couldn’t have been much worse than this.

Simon gently untangled her from his arms. She made a soft sound, and he looked down at her in the shadowy room. She didn’t open her eyes. Her breath came soft and even, indicating she was finally asleep.

Holy hell, but she was beautiful with her dark hair splayed across the pillow and her sooty lashes a shadow against her too-pale skin.

Her pink mouth, usually pursed with annoyance or concentration, was soft and full in sleep.

As much as he’d wanted to kiss that mouth before, he was desperate to kiss it now.

But he was a gentleman. He would not take advantage of her. She had no idea who he was, and even if she thought she wanted him, she couldn’t know what she really wanted in her current condition.

Simon rose, gathered his coat, boots, and her portmanteau and tiptoed out of her room.

He closed the door quietly then went to his own chamber.

A quick look in the mirror showed him his shirt was wrinkled, his cravat a limp wreck, and his waistcoat still damp from her bathwater.

No. He would not think about baths or bathwater or soft feminine curves dripping with said water.

Part of him wished she never remembered who she was because once she did, she would have his head.

Not only had he seen her naked—and holy hell, but what a glorious sight that had been—he’d touched her when he’d carried her.

Not that he’d had any choice. She’d been about to fall over.

What was he meant to do? But she wouldn’t see it like that.

She’d blame him for everything. Simon removed his untidy waistcoat and pulled his wrinkled shirt over his head.

Well, when they got back to London, he’d defend himself by pointing out that she was the one who had gone out in the middle of the night without a word. She was lucky to be alive.

He went through his valise and found a clean shirt and neckcloth and set about tying it in a simple but stylish knot.

He took a bit more time choosing his waistcoat, settling on a green one with simple stripes in a darker green color.

He brushed his coat and hung it to dry then donned another.

He felt better now that he was dressed properly, but he still had a pit in his belly.

Would that he could call a doctor to have a look at her and do something—whatever that might be—to make her remember.

Had she been hit on the head deliberately last night?

If so, had she been left for dead in that cave?

He needed to know and preferably before tonight.

What was he supposed to tell the smugglers if she couldn’t remember her name, much less the information they’d been summoned to receive?

He could hope for a miracle—that she’d wake with her memory completely restored. Or he could hope she’d been careless enough to bring documents or papers that might tell him the information he required. Surely, she had a map. With that in mind, he opened her luggage and began to go through it.

***

T HE ACHE IN HER HEAD woke her. She adjusted position so as not to put pressure on the bump on her skull, but she didn’t fall completely back asleep.

She lay in a sort of half-sleep—her weary body attempting to slip back into oblivion, but her mind remained just active enough so that she didn’t drop off.

Her first thoughts were things like how her feet were cold or how she liked the sound of the waves, but gradually other thoughts became clearer.

She still couldn’t remember anything about her life before she’d awakened in that cave.

Simon had found her on the beach, and clearly, she’d married well based on the way he’d treated her.

Thinking of Simon, she opened her eyes to see his side of the bed was empty.

She was sprawled across most of the bed, and she had a clear view of the bedside table on his side.

She remembered seeing a lamp, a book, and a brush on her table when she’d donned the robe before falling asleep.

But Simon’s table was bare. He hadn’t placed anything there.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she sat up, careful to move slowly in case pain lanced her skull, and she had to lie back down.

When she was sitting, she looked about the room.

Her portmanteau was on the luggage stand, but hers was the only luggage in the room.

His hat didn’t hang on a peg. His robe was not draped over a chair.

There was no sign at all he had been occupying this chamber.

Surely many married couples of a certain social standing could afford separate chambers—and how she knew this was another of those mysteries she didn’t yet understand—but would they want to sleep separately so soon after their wedding?

Was her marriage more of a business arrangement without any accompanying feelings on either side?

Perhaps...except that she didn’t feel like the sort of person who would marry for money or status alone.

And then there was the way she’d felt when being held by Simon Burrows.

She’d liked the way he touched her. She hadn’t wanted him to stop.

So obviously there was some attraction. Was it purely one-sided? Was—

The sound of voices made her turn her head quickly, which sent a sharp slice of pain through her brain. She pressed her hands to her temples and winced, waiting for the agony to subside. Gradually, the discomfort lessened enough that she could focus on the voices again.

“—come back? Wot’s this all about, Burrows?” A deep male voice she didn’t recognize spoke the words. They were coming from the direction of the sitting room.

Simon answered the man, his voice too low for her to make out the words.

“Oi, this was not the agreement,” another voice said. Someone—probably Simon—made a shh sound, and she couldn’t hear the next words. Marjorie gathered up her robe, slid off the bed, and padded silently to the bedchamber door. She pressed her ear to it.

“I don’t ‘ave to tell you, Mr. Burrows, that time is o’ the essence. No telling ‘ow long the fair weather will last, and if’n I ‘ave to run the blockade, I’d rather not do it in a gale.” That was the first man’s voice again. Run the blockade ? What did that mean?

“Captain,” Simon said, “I’m asking for one more day. I think for what we’re paying you, you can give me that.”

“Wot good’s blunt if we’re hanged?” another man said. His voice was slightly higher. “I got a hull full of guns and powder. I don’t want to sit about waiting for one of them gunships to sail by and decide to take a peek under me hatches.”

Marjorie took a shaky breath. Simon was speaking to smugglers.

England was at war with France. She knew this, though the black mist in her mind threatened to spread when she tried to remember the names of battles or generals.

She almost recalled the name of the French leader, but she couldn’t snatch the information from the darkness.

Very well. She couldn’t remember particulars, but she did understand generalities.

Simon was meeting with at least three smugglers who had weapons they’d been paid to smuggle past the British blockade.

But if they needed to run the blockade, that meant the weapons were for the French. Simon was a French sympathizer. A traitor.

“Captain, if I could give you the information tonight, I would. I assure you I will have it tomorrow. That’s still enough time to reach the rendezvous.”

“Tell us the rendezvous point, and we’ll be the judge o’ that.”

“Tomorrow.” Simon sounded extremely patient. “Come at sundown, and you can sail with the tide.”

Marjorie heard the grumbling of the smugglers and then their heavy footfalls as they shuffled out of the house.

She raced to her window and parted the curtains slightly.

While she’d been sleeping the day had slipped away.

Dusk had fallen and a sliver of moon was rising over the water.

She craned her neck, hoping to see the men she’d heard as they left, but they must have retreated by a different path.

She saw no one and nothing, not even a ship out on the water.

Dropping the curtain back into place, Marjorie tried to take a deep breath.

What should she do? If Simon was a traitor, she owed it to her country to turn him in.

But what if she was also a traitor? What if informing on him doomed her too?

No one would believe she had no memory of her perfidy.

She’d face the consequences just as he would.

There was nothing for that, she decided, moving toward her portmanteau.

Her country was more important than herself.

She would dress, slip out, and find the nearest magistrate.

Once she was before him, she could explain everything.

She reached for the tie of her robe then stilled her hands.

If she went now, Simon would know she had discovered his treachery and run.

He would call off the meeting tomorrow at dusk.

She had to go to the magistrate in secret.

Then soldiers could come at dusk tomorrow and arrest all the traitors.

She’d have to wait until Simon went to sleep and sneak out then.

Marjorie put a hand to her lips. What if that was what she’d been trying to do last night?

She’d been on her way to find a magistrate and then hit her head.

Or perhaps someone had hit her on the head.

Someone hadn’t wanted her mission to succeed.