gaming hall. He could not even be sure that he had meant to come here—his ship might have been driven off course by the storm.
Had he been travelling on his own ship? He was not sure why the thought should occur to him, but the sight of that ship out in the bay had made him wonder if at some time he’d been the owner of a vessel similar to the one they’d seen.
It was no use. Try as he might, he could not lift the curtain of mist in his mind.
He should return to the house, discover the nearest hostelry and hire a horse. There was no help for him here and yet he had a feeling that he had indeed come here for a reason. Besides, he was oddly reluctant to leave this place too soon.
Why? Surely he could not be thinking of remaining here longer because of Morwenna?
True, she was beautiful. Even her name sounded like music on his lips. He felt something each time he saw her, but could not place what emotion was uppermost in his mind. She infuriated him with her accusations. Clearly, her brothers were involved in some kind of nefarious business. Smuggling was rife on this coast and it was likely Michael Morgan was off on some such business—if nothing more serious.
Now where had that thought come from? What else might Michael Morgan be doing?
He shook his head. It was as if he were reaching for something—an important fact that lay just behind that damned curtain.
No, he should not speculate. It was not his business and yet something was nagging at him, telling him he should use the time while Michael was away to discover all he could.
Discover what? It was no good, his mind was confused—blank at times and at others teeming with pictures that did not make sense. Faces flitted through his mind. An older woman and another, pretty, but not his wife or his lover. Who were they?
Morwenna had said he’d cried out thinking her his mother when in his fever. Was his mother still living? Did he also have a sister?
Somehow that seemed right. He felt instinctively without knowing that he had a family, but no wife. Were his family worried about him?
He shook his head and pushed the thought away. It was not his family that taunted him, trying to burst through the fog in his mind. For the moment something else was more important, but he did not know what it was.
He turned back towards the path that led up the cliff. He would be wiser to leave and return to London, but something was holding him here. There was something about the wild-eyed Cornish woman, something that turned his guts soft and made him burn with a need he recognised. His memory might be missing, but his instincts were intact. He wanted to lie with her. He wanted to know her body, to touch that soft white flesh and kiss those full lips. Whether she knew it or not she had a pure, clear sensuality that called to a man of his nature, arousing the hunting instinct. He wanted her and knew he would stay until she sent him away. Perhaps he might persuade her to go with him. She obviously did not have much of a life here.
She was a fool to let the stranger get beneath the guard she normally kept on her senses. Morwenna frowned as she chopped roots and onions to add to the stewpot. It had been simmering for two days now, fresh meat and vegetables added each day so that the gravy was very thick and the flavour intense. Morwenna had cooked oatcakes, fresh bread that was flat and hard on the outside, soft within. She had butter, pickles, cheese and cold ham as well as a dish of neeps and a large piggy pie that Bess had made to an old Cornish recipe.
It was a hearty meal, the kind her brothers relished, but the stranger was to join them at table that night and she wondered if he would think it plain fare. Neither of her brothers had a sweet tooth and though she liked curds and custards herself, she scarcely ever bothered to make them. Michael called them pap and turned his nose up at such trifles. Yet if the stranger were an aristocrat, as she suspected, he would be used to finer dishes.
After his return from the beach she’d asked if he would join them in the kitchen for supper. He’d hesitated for a moment, then inclined his head. Something told her that he was not used to eating in a kitchen with the servants, but she had no time to set out the huge table in the large hall. It was seldom used these days and her brother Jacques would have thought she’d gone mad had she done so. Her father and mother had held dinners and feasts there for special occasions, but Michael did not bother. Often enough the brothers ate at different times, coming in to the kitchen to snatch what they could find before disappearing again. She hoped that Jacques would sit down with them that night, but there was no telling what time he would return from his fishing trip.
* * *
As the church bell tolled the hour of six down in the village, her brother entered the kitchen. She was pleased to see that Jacques had made an effort to dress as befitted a gentleman’s son instead of his usual jerkin and breeches.
However, she frowned at him as he snatched at one of the freshly baked rolls and began to eat.
‘You might wait for our guest,’ she reprimanded.
‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ Jacques said with a grin. ‘Your guest will have to take us as we are, dear heart. It’s too late to change us now.’
‘Mother would turn in her grave if she could see you …’ Morwenna began, the words dying on her lips as the kitchen door opened and the stranger entered. He was wearing the clothes she’d given him, but somehow he made Jacques look disreputable. He wore his pride like a velvet cloak, so obviously a gentleman that she felt a moment of shame for the way her brothers usually behaved at table.
‘Forgive me for being late to table,’ he said. ‘The food smells good, Mistress Morgan. I believe I am hungry.’
‘You spent a long time walking on the cliffs and in the village today,’ Jacques said. ‘What were you looking for?’
‘I was admiring the scenery,’ he replied. ‘It appeals to my senses. I think I may be an artist, for my fingers wished for some charcoal that I might sketch what I saw.’
‘An artist, are you?’
‘If you would permit, I could try my hand after supper. I might sketch Morwenna—or any of you if you care for it. At least we would know if I have any talent.’
‘A bang on the head often renders the mind hazy for a while,’ Jacques observed. ‘If you feel you can draw a person’s likeness, your memory may be returning.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said and his eyes moved to Morwenna. ‘I must have had a reason for coming here, though as yet I cannot recall it, or my own name. I have asked that I be called Adam for the time being.’
‘As you wish, Adam. What will you do next?’ Jacques asked. ‘You can stay here until you feel able to leave, but Michael would not be pleased to find you still here when he returns.’
‘Your elder brother is averse to strangers?’ The stranger looked up as Morwenna ladled stew into the bowl in front of him. ‘Thank you, mistress. I am sure it will taste as good as it smells.’
‘Morwenna is a good cook. She needs a husband, someone to keep her in the manner to which she is accustomed,’ Jacques quipped, but his smile faded as his sister glared at him. ‘Sorry, I know you shouldn’t be waiting on us the way you do. It was merely a jest, dear heart.’
Morwenna made no reply. She finished serving the others and then took her own place at the far end of the table.
