longer felt like an invalid. He swung from the bed and got to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, then managed to walk to the washstand without incident. He grimaced when he saw his reflection in the small mirror hanging above the basin. He looked like a proper ruffian. His chin was covered with dark stubble, bruises were turning from purple to unpleasant shades of green and yellow, and the bandage around his head had a rakish tilt.
He tested the beard thoughtfully, wondering how many days’ growth it was. Impossible to tell without knowing how fast his whiskers grew, but he suspected they were quite vigorous. After washing his face, he searched for a razor, without success. He’d ask Mariah for one.
Without conscious thought, he folded down to sit on the worn carpet on crossed legs. Resting his hands palm up on his knees, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He had already fallen into a rhythm of slow breathing before he really thought about what he was doing.
Clearly, sitting like this was something he did regularly, but he was quite sure that the people around him would think such behavior odd. So what was he doing?
Meditating. The word snapped into his mind. With the ease of long practice, he stilled his thoughts and brought his awareness to the center of his being. Despite the dark curtain across his past, he was alive and well and safe. For now, that was enough.
A few minutes of quietness left him feeling focused and ready for whatever might come. He suspected that he meditated every morning after washing up. The water splashed on his face must have triggered a well-established pattern. As he stood, he wondered what other habit patterns would appear.
In the absence of memory, intuition must be his best guide. Already there had been times when a particular subject had felt familiar. He was sure he knew something about agriculture. What else did he know?
Horses. He was quite sure he knew about horses.
Ready to explore, he investigated the small wardrobe and found a variety of clothing, worn but still serviceable. Not his, he thought; he would make different choices of color and fabric. The garments were well cut and well made, but they reflected a sensibility not his own. Mariah must have brought the clothing while he slept.
Unless his tastes had changed along with his memory vanishing. A disquieting thought. He preferred to believe that he was the same man he had always been even if his memories were temporarily unavailable. He needed to believe in something.
He believed that he was a lucky man to have won a wife like Mariah.
Warmed by the thought, he dressed in clothes suitable for the country. The process confirmed that the garments weren’t his. He was a little taller, a little leaner in the waist, and the coat and boots had shaped themselves to a different body. But overall, the fit was decent. Much better than the rags he’d been rescued in.
He guessed that the garments were his father-in-law’s. He tried to visualize Mariah’s father and came up with a male version of her, with blond hair and warm brown eyes. Invention, not memory. Of the real Charles Clarke, he found nothing.
Curious to explore the home he’d never seen, he left his room. Soon the household would be stirring, but all was quiet as he made his way outside. The manor house had a lovely view west to the Irish Sea, with distant islets and perhaps a mainland peninsula. Sunsets must be memorable.
He found a lane that led from the manor to the shore and walked down to a thin crescent of sand and shingle. This had to be the way they’d come after Mariah had pulled him from the sea. The distance seemed short now. The other night, it had been endless.
He inhaled the salty air, waves lapping within a yard of his feet. Was he a sailor, a man of the sea? He wasn’t sure. He knew the sea well, loved being near the water even now, after he’d nearly died in those dark depths. But he didn’t have the sense that his life was built around the sea, which would be the case if he was a sea captain.
Now why did he automatically think he’d be a captain? He suspected that he was used to giving orders.
As he climbed the lane back to the house, he found himself breathing hard and his limbs trembling. Though his mind was alert, his body hadn’t fully recovered from its ordeal.
Rather than return to the house, he headed to the out-buildings beyond. A small paddock adjacent to the stables contained several horses. One, a bright-eyed blood bay, trotted toward him enthusiastically.
He smiled and quickened his step. Horses were definitely a subject he knew.
On the way downstairs for breakfast, Mariah stopped by Adam’s room to see how he was doing. Her heart jumped when she tapped on the door and looked inside to find the room empty. What if he had wandered off during the night and become lost? What if he’d been drawn down to the sea again and been swept away by the tide?
She told herself not to be an idiot. Adam had been quite rational in the intervals when he was awake, so likely he’d risen early and decided he was well enough to leave his bed. A check of the wardrobe proved that some of her father’s clothing was missing.
Hoping Adam had gone no farther than the kitchen, she headed there and found Mrs. Beckett baking oatmeal scones flavored with dried currants. Mariah took one, so hot it scorched her fingers. As she buttered it, she said, “Mr. Clarke is up and about. Has he made his way down here?”
“Not yet.” The cook eyed her severely. “You never mentioned that you had a husband.”
“I’d seen so little of him that I didn’t feel very married,” Mariah said, her conscience nagging. Horrible how one lie begat a whole swamp of lies. “We’re going to have to get acquainted all over again.” She bit into her scone. “Delicious!”
She suspected that Mrs. Beckett had questions about this suddenly revealed marriage, but the older woman didn’t pursue the matter. “What does Mr. Clarke like to eat? If he’s up and about now, he’ll be ready for a proper meal.”
“Light food would be best today,” Mariah said, since she hadn’t the faintest idea what Adam’s tastes were. “Perhaps a hearty soup and a bit of fish for dinner.” She scooped up two more scones. “I’ll see if he’s outside.”
“If you find him, I’ll make a nice herb omelet for his breakfast.”
“I’d like one of those, too.” Mariah kissed the cook’s cheek as she headed for the door. “Mrs. Beckett, you are a treasure!”
The older woman chuckled. “I am indeed, and don’t you forget it.”
Outside, Mariah scanned the slope down to the sea, but didn’t see Adam. She turned to the stables, scones in hand. In her experience, it was a rare man who wasn’t drawn to the nearest horses, so the stables were her best guess. Hartley Manor had the usual workhorses, plus two excellent riding horses that her father had won at cards.
She was taking another bite from one of the scones when her father rode around the corner of the stable.
She cried out and pressed her hands to her mouth, the scones tumbling to the grass as she almost fainted from shock.
Adam catapulted from the horse and darted toward her, concern in his vivid green eyes. “Mariah, what’s wrong?”
Adam. Not her father—Adam. Shaking, she choked out, “I…I thought you were my father. You were wearing his clothing, riding his horse, Grand Turk. For a moment,
