Page 5

She heard Simon’s step and turned and leapt back into bed.

She didn’t want him to know she’d been awake and overheard the conversation.

She lay down and pulled the covers up, closing her eyes just as he opened the door.

A shaft of light illuminated the chamber, but she kept her eyes closed and forced her breathing to slow.

She hoped Simon might close the door and leave her alone, but he stepped into the room.

“Marjorie?” he murmured. She didn’t stir.

Simon came to stand beside the bed, setting a lamp on the table, and looking down at her.

“Marjorie,” he whispered. Perhaps if she continued to pretend to sleep, he would leave her alone, but then he bent and placed a hand on her cheek.

His touch was gentle, though his hands were roughened.

She couldn’t keep her eyes closed with him touching her, so she opened them and found herself looking into his eyes.

His face was close to hers, and her breath caught in her chest. Those sea-blue eyes were just as stunning as she remembered.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he said, “but you’ve been sleeping all day.”

“Have I?” she asked, trying to sound sleepy.

His hand moved, smoothing the hair back from her temple.

She wanted to turn her head and enjoy the feel of his touch.

She wanted to reach up and touch his face, smooth her fingertips over his prominent cheekbones, and run her fingers through his dark, wavy hair.

She realized, too late, she was looking at him when their eyes met.

For a moment, she thought he might kiss her.

She hoped he might kiss her. His gaze dipped to her lips, and she parted them in anticipation.

But instead of kissing her, he withdrew his hand and stood.

Why on earth was she disappointed? Did she want to kiss a turncoat?

What kind of person had she been before she’d lost her memory?

Obviously some of her wickedness ran deep enough that she couldn’t shake it.

Either that or whatever she had felt for him before she lost her memory was still alive and well somewhere within her.

She couldn’t help but find him attractive, and though she fought it, she couldn’t deny she wanted him to touch her.

But she couldn’t allow her emotions to interfere with her duty to her country. Marjorie knew almost nothing about herself, but she knew she did not want to betray England.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but have you remembered anything else?” he asked. “I thought with quiet and rest, you might recover some of your memory.”

“I had hoped the same, but nothing has changed.” Except she’d remembered there was a war between England and France, but it was probably best not to mention that, all things considered.

“You just need a little more time,” he said, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself. “Barbara left stew and fresh bread for dinner. I’ve kept it warm. Would you like it now?”

Her stomach rumbled. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “And I found your nightgown among the washing Barbara brought in from the line. The storm we’d expected moved inland, so your clothing is clean and dry.”

Perfect. She could don it later and sneak out when he was asleep.

“Do you want me to help you dress?”

Her throat went dry as she imagined his hands opening the tie on her robe and sliding inside to touch her bare skin. The garment would slide off her shoulders, and he’d dip his mouth to the peak of one nipple.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. She blinked the image away.

“I’ll stay in my robe for now,” she said.

“I’ll build up the fire in the sitting room and bring the stew there. There’s a small table by the window where we have been dining.”

At his words, an image of the table rose up in her mind. But she didn’t see it as she had this afternoon or even with bowls or plates on it. She saw it covered with papers and folders, an inkwell and quill at the ready, her own ink-stained hands lifting a piece of parchment...

“Are you certain you don’t require help?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’d like a moment alone and then I’ll join you.”

He seemed to interpret this as she’d intended as he glanced at the screen in the corner, behind which lay the chamber pot, and left her.

As soon as the door closed, she sat quickly and put her hand beside the lamp.

No sign of ink on her fingers. Had she imagined the papers and the hand that had been writing or had the ink washed away?

She smoothed her hair down and blew out a frustrated breath.

Her head would begin to ache again if she continued to prod at her memory.

Instead, she found her brush, tried to comb through the long, thick mass, and ended up plaiting it and tying it with a simple ribbon.

She heard the clink of silverware and plates, so she made sure her robe was securely closed and joined her husband in the sitting room.

The drapes had been closed and a fire crackled in the hearth.

If she listened, she could hear the distant crash of the waves on the shore.

Several lamps had been lit, illuminating watercolors on the walls.

Most depicted the shoreline. On the table were two plates, two wine glasses, and forks and spoons.

Simon came through the kitchen with a basket of bread.

He smiled at her as he set it on the table.

“You’re looking better already. I’ll be back with the stew. ”

Marjorie took her seat at the table, the smell of the fresh bread making her belly rumble again.

Did he always serve her like this? It seemed a rare thing in a man, though that was all the knowledge her mind would allow.

Marjorie wished she could remember her parents or some other couples to test this theory.

Simon came through the door again, carrying two bowls filled with stew.

He set one before her then put his own down on the plate across from her.

Finally, he lifted a bottle of red wine and poured them both half a glass.

“You probably shouldn’t have too much of that,” he cautioned as he took his seat.

Marjorie lifted her glass. “At this point, I’m willing to try anything. Perhaps I might remember more drunk than sober.” She sipped the wine, which tasted of blackberries and oak.

“I’m not a doctor, but I suspect a head injury and an overindulgence in wine might not be a good mix.”

“You’re right. My skull hurts enough as it is.”

He cocked his head. He looked rather handsome when he did that, his brown hair falling over his forehead in a manner that made her want to run a hand through it.

“It’s strange how you seem to know that drinking too much will cause a headache, but you can’t remember why you were out last night or where we are. ”

She rather thought she knew why she was out last night—to seek out a magistrate. “Perhaps I might begin to remember if we talk about it. Where are we? I think we are in England, yes?”

“So you know countries. Do you know any of the counties? Herefordshire? Dorset? Sussex? We’re in Cornwall. Is that at all familiar?”

“Vaguely.” Marjorie set down her spoon and dabbed her napkin at her mouth. “Cornwall seems familiar, but I couldn’t say why. The name Westminster keeps coming to mind. Is that a county?”

“No, that’s a part of London. You’re frequently in Westminster, so it makes sense you’d remember that.”

“Why am I in Westminster? Is that where I live?”

“You could say that.”

Was it her imagination or was he being deliberately ambiguous? Was there something about Westminster he didn’t want her to know?

“How did we meet?” she asked. Surely their love story would jog something in her brain.

“Good question,” he said then lifted his wine glass and drained it. “Would you like more?” he asked, lifting the bottle. She’d barely touched hers.

“No, thank you.” She waited for him to proceed with the story of their first meeting, but he was concentrating on his meal. “Do you not remember how we first met?”

“Oh, I remember,” he said with a small shake of his head. “We have a mutual acquaintance who introduced us. Lord Melbourne.” He raised his brows at her, obviously hoping the name would be familiar.

She shook her head. Interesting. She had acquaintances in the peerage. “Go on,” she said. “Where were we?”

“In his offices. You were meeting with him when I arrived.”

“Was it love at first sight?” she asked.

He stared at her for a long moment. “Er—no. In fact, I don’t think you liked me at all.”

“Why not?” Except for the fact that the man was a traitor, she couldn’t see why anyone wouldn’t like Simon Burrows. He was considerate, attentive, attractive, and he dressed far better than any other man she knew—not that she could remember those men at present, but she had a feeling.

“No idea, but I won you over—slowly and surely over the years.”

“We’ve known each other for years?”

“About four.”

“But we’ve only just married?”

“Just a few days ago.”

“How do I know this Lord Melbourne?”

Simon sat back. “If I talk, will you eat? You’ve taken maybe three bites.”

“Fine.” She lifted her spoon.

“Your father is a friend of Melbourne’s. They went to school together—and before you ask, your father is a professor at Oxford. His research is focused on ancient languages. I know Melbourne because I work for the Foreign Office, as does Melbourne.”

“You work for the Foreign Office?” This was worse than she thought. If he worked for the Foreign Office, he must have access to even more sensitive information than she could imagine.

“I do. You remember what the Foreign Office is?” He was watching her closely now, his blue eyes narrowed.