reached over and put his hand on hers. ‘I believe you will recover your memory.’
She merely continued to stare into his face.
He withdrew his hand and stood. ‘I should go on deck.’
A look of panic flitted across her face, but she quickly forced a smile. ‘Yes. I believe I will see if our old clothing needs mending. I think I remember how to use a needle and thread.’
Lucien was surprised that her first idea was to do something so useful. ‘I will come back to check on you, as I said.’
He turned to leave, but Lady Rebecca stopped him. ‘Wait a moment, Lucien.’
Just when he thought she would not become demanding.
She gave him a determined look. ‘I—I wish you would not call me “my lady” or “Lady Rebecca.” It simply does not feel right to me.’
He stood at the door. ‘That is who you are.’
‘What I mean is, I am not formal with you. I call you Lucien. I realise I never asked if I could call you Lucien. Is it offensive to you? Should I call you Captain Roper?’
Her use of his given name could be meant as condescending, but, if truth be told, he rather liked the sound of his name on her lips.
‘Call me what you wish,’ he responded.
‘Then will you call me something less formal as well?’
His brow furrowed. ‘I think not.’
Her head turned as if she were flinching from a blow. ‘I see.’
‘Lady Rebecca.’ The name did not rest easy on his tongue. ‘It is better if I preserve the formalities.’ It helped him keep his distance. And keep his hands off her.
She seemed to force another smile. ‘Of course. If that is what you want.’
That first day Lucien did indeed check on her when he could and he was surprised that she worked so diligently at mending their clothes. She even found a brush and tried to brush away the salt and seaweed that clung to the cloth.
When finished she held up her dress and his coat to show him. ‘They still look like they’ve been in a shipwreck.’ She sighed.
‘At least they can be worn,’ he responded.
She’d done an excellent job.
* * *
On the second day Lucien felt badly about leaving her with nothing to do.
‘I will find something,’ she assured him.
* * *
At mid-morning he looked up from his toil to see she’d ventured on to the deck.
She sought out Captain Molloy. ‘What might I do to help?’ she asked him.
‘You wish to help, m’lady?’ The Captain laughed. ‘We will find you something.’
He soon had her carrying water to the men and serving food in the galley.
* * *
But at the end of the day when she had swabbed the deck, cleaning off the fish parts that littered the boards, Lucien approached her. ‘You are not required to work.’ He frowned. What lady swabbed up fish guts? ‘Especially tasks like this one.’
She stopped mopping and faced him. ‘I like helping. I like being a part of it all.’
And she quickly became a part of it all, as if she were another crew member, not a lady. The others began to depend on her. Seeing her on deck became familiar. At night they both slept soundly, fatigued from the labour of the day.
* * *
Claire relished the days at work. The ship became her world, a world that remained in her memory as did the men’s faces and names. It was as if her world—and her mind—was complete.
At the centre was always Lucien. It was his presence that made her secure, like an anchor secured a boat. As the days wore on, his face became shadowed with a beard making him look as swarthy as a pirate. The Captain and the other men wore beards as well, though none as dark and dashing as Lucien’s.
She watched him help haul in the nets and load the fish into the hold. She silently prayed for his safety when he climbed the tall mast to untangle the rigging.
At night the blackness of the cabin reminded her, though, that most of her life she could not remember. It helped that Lucien was near. He stirred within her a yearning she did not quite understand, a desire to feel the strength of his arms around her, the warmth of his breath, the beating of his heart, as she had on the raft.
Some of her dreams were of him, of his bare skin against her bare skin and his lips against hers. What did it mean that she dreamt so? It made her blush to think of it.
Of being so intimate with him.
Other dreams were no more than jumbled images that slipped from her mind by morning. She much preferred the days of toil and people she recalled from day to day.
* * *
By the third week, the boat’s hold was filled with fish and the Captain set sail to Ireland, a place she knew about, but of which she had no memory. The wind would carry them to port this very day.
She donned her mended dress with Lucien’s help and folded the clothes the fishermen had lent her. ‘I will miss these,’ she said to Lucien. ‘They are ever so much more comfortable than wearing this dress and stays.’
He smiled. ‘I’m glad to be out of mine.’
His were soiled and smelled of fish and sweat.
She took his borrowed clothes from his hand and folded them with the others. No doubt some fisherman’s wife would be laundering them soon.
She tied the ribbon around her plait and remembered how he’d torn it from his neckcloth for her. How nice it was to have memories.
She felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I will miss this boat.’ She blinked them away. ‘I suppose because it is so familiar now. I do not know what happens next.’
He gazed at her, sympathy in his eyes. ‘You’ve endured a shipwreck and three weeks on a fishing boat; you will be up to whatever comes next.’
She was not so certain. ‘You are right. I must buck up, mustn’t I?’
She would not tell him what she feared even more than the unknown was losing him, but she’d been enough of a burden to him already. He had a life to pursue, a new ship, plans he’d talked about with her, this next phase in his life.
From above them they heard
