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“If that is true,” she said, watching him rebuild his line of tiles, “then when I remember something like Westminster, why don’t I remember everything else?”

“You didn’t remember Westminster. It was a word that seemed familiar, not a memory. If you had remembered Melbourne’s office or the drawing room in your flat or the name of your dog when you were a child, that might have set something in motion.”

Marjorie stared at the dominoes, considering. “If we subscribe to this theory, then I need a key memory,” she said. She scooted toward the end of the line of tiles. “This memory”—she touched one about five from the end of the line—“is the name of my childhood dog. Did I have a childhood dog?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s suppose I did. If I remember his name, it might only trigger the memories that came before it.

” She pushed the domino over, and it toppled those behind it, but the dominoes before it remained standing.

She moved to the first domino. “This is a more recent memory, and this”—she tapped the second domino—“is the location of the rendezvous. I need to trigger this memory, to recover all of these.” She flicked the first domino, and the rest fell over in a neat line.

“That’s it exactly, but the question is, how do we trigger that first memory? Nothing at this cottage is familiar to you. We only arrived two days ago, so our only chance is the village.”

“We should go first thing in the morning.”

“I’d planned to propose that myself, but for what seems like the second night in a row, you were determined to sneak out of the cottage without me. If I hadn’t stopped you, whoever tried to kill you last night might have succeeded tonight.”

She jolted violently. “What did you say?”

He put a hand on her arm, and his touch was reassuring. “Marjorie, you didn’t hit your head on a cave. You are the most graceful person I’ve ever met, notwithstanding a ballerina or two.”

A sudden shot of heat ricocheted through her chest, and she pulled her arm away from his hand. Was this jealousy she felt?

“I don’t know what you were doing on the beach last night, but whoever was waiting for you tried to kill you. He hit you and either thought you were dead or left you for dead in that cave. If you hadn’t climbed out on your own, I don’t think I would have found you in time.”

“But why wouldn’t I have told you my plans? I know I trust you.” Despite that ballerina comment. “I don’t need my memories to tell me I trust you. I can feel it.” She put a hand to her chest. “Here.”

“I wish I knew. I’m worried you held information you didn’t share and now, whatever that was, I can’t protect either of us from it.”

She reached for his hand and held it. “You’re very good for wanting to protect me. I don’t remember much about why I fell in love with you, but I know that must be one of the qualities I admire. Added to that, you’re attentive and astonishingly clever—”

“Marjorie—”

“But I have a feeling that the main reason I fell in love with you is this.” She put a hand on his cheek, and his eyes widened.

“I fear I am a very shallow woman because I cannot seem to stop looking at your face. You’re terribly handsome.

” That was an understatement. The contrast between his dark hair and light eyes mesmerized her.

But there was more to her attraction than his appearance.

Some sort of invisible force pulled her toward him, made her want to touch him, hold him. .. “I want to kiss you.”

“Marjorie, that’s very kind, but—”

“I’m not being kind. Your eyes are beautiful. I can’t seem to look away from them, and then there are these sculpted cheeks and this razor-edge of a jaw. And your lips.” She allowed her fingers to skate over to his lips, brushing the pads of his fingers over them. “I do like your lips, Simon.”

His eyes met hers, and she leaned forward and kissed him.

She’d expected him to kiss her back as he had before—gently and carefully—but this kiss held neither of those qualities.

He pulled her into his arms, one hand cradling her head, and kissed her with a thoroughness that left her completely breathless.

His mouth met hers as though he had not eaten in weeks and she was a plate of all his favorite foods.

He tasted and teased and devoured her. She felt hot all over and couldn’t catch her breath.

Parts of her she hadn’t known existed began to tingle and ache for the feel of his touch.

She couldn’t get close enough and, not breaking the kiss, she rose on her knees and moved into his lap.

She would have crawled inside him if she’d been able.

Her hands slid down his chest and under the hem of his shirt.

She touched the warm flesh of his abdomen, and suddenly he pulled back.

“Marjorie.” He was as breathless as she, and the huskiness in his voice only made her want him more.

She slid her hands up the muscles of his body to where his heart thudded so hard she could feel it against her palm.

He put his hand over hers, trapping hers under the garment.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me later.” She leaned in to kiss him again, and he hesitated then kissed her back. But just as she was sinking into the feel of his lips and his tongue, he pulled back again.

“I must tell you now. But I’ll never say it with you like this.” He lifted her off his lap and onto the floor then stood and moved away from her. He put a hand to his forehead and took a breath. Whatever he had to say was serious, and Marjorie felt her belly tighten with unease.

“Whatever it is, just say it.”

He lowered his hand, and his blue eyes met hers. “We did not come here on our honeymoon. We made up a story about being newly married so everyone would leave us alone and not make friendly calls. If you’re newly married, no one questions why you want to be alone.”

“I see.” She rose and moved toward him, but he took a step away, backing into the mantel of the hearth. Marjorie placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward.

He caught her head in his hands. “I’m trying to tell you this isn’t our honeymoon.”

“I understand.” She turned her head to kiss his palm.

“No, you don’t.” His voice wavered slightly, and she knew the feel of her lips on the sensitive skin of his palm affected him. His breath hitched. “I’m not your husband.”

Marjorie ceased kissing his hand. She turned her head to look at him, and he dropped his hands from her face.

“We aren’t truly married,” he said. He took her hands from his shoulders and put them at her sides.

“In fact, you don’t remember this, but you don’t even like me.

No”—he shook his head—“that’s too mild. You hate , loathe , and despise me.

” He moved away from her, putting some distance between them.

“In short, the absolute last thing you would ever want to do, Marjorie, is kiss me.”