taller and dressed in a deep brown, flowing surcoat. She was standing by the small table doing something Jack could not see. She came to the bed and he realised that she had a cloth and a bowl of water. Another servant of whoever was holding him, he suspected.
He closed his eyes so she would not realise he was awake. She unwound the bandage from around his head and bathed the wound, then moved from working on his head to tending the grazes on his body. She slid her cool hand slowly up the length of his bare belly with the softness of a lover beginning a caress. He drew a sharp breath as an overwhelming sense of pleasure combined with the sting of the cuts. Realising he could no longer feign sleep, he opened his eyes.
‘Ah, you are awake again,’ she said in what he recognised as the Breton dialect.
That mended another rip in the cloth that was his mind. Now he knew which part of the world he was in. She did not sound particularly happy at the discovery.
‘You frightened Marie,’ the woman said. She was looking at him severely so his first impression was of forbidding black eyes. ‘She ran to me crying tales of nonsense words growled at her.’
He swallowed and opened his mouth to try explaining what had happened.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ she instructed. ‘Wait there.’
She moved to the table and came back bearing a wide-rimmed earthenware cup. She slipped a hand beneath his neck and raised him slightly to cradle his head, then held the cup to his lips. It turned out to be cider and he drank greedily until the cup was empty.
Her cool fingers trailed across the back of his neck as she withdrew her hand and laid his head back. He shivered once more with unexpected desire and gave a soft moan. She must have interpreted this as pain because she peered down at him and concern banished the severity of her expression. Something woke inside him as her face filled his gaze: a deep sense of familiarity and the certainty that he had seen this face before. The memory fluttered from him like moths circling a lamp and evading fingers trying to seize them, leaving only vague shapes and the sensation of intimacy. Like the moths, he felt pulled towards her flame. His lips twitched.
‘Can you speak now?’ she asked.
‘I did not mean to frighten her,’ he croaked.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I would not like to think I am giving shelter to one who would terrorise girls.’
They were strangers, then. So why did he feel such a connection to her? He furrowed his brow.
She gave a brief smile. ‘Think nothing of it. Marie is silly and jumps if the kitchen cats mew behind her.’
With an effort of will he was able to focus on her with a little more clarity now, though his eyes kept blurring. From the high singing voice, he had thought she was not much older than a child, but now he saw she was past her youth. A few faint lines had begun to appear at the corner of her eyes and mouth and a short frown line ran between her brows to the top of a straight, sharp nose. The severe expression must be habitual.
He reassessed his opinion that she was a mere servant. Her surcoat was plain brown with wide sleeves, but the close-fitting green kirtle beneath had a wide band of embroidery around the straight neck and wrists that spoke of quality. Beneath the linen band across her brow, there was a glint of gold combs that swept her black hair up into rolls at each side of her head. They looked expensive, indicating wealth, and she wore rings on three of her fingers.
More than that, the way she held herself and the expression on her face suggested she was used to any command she issued being obeyed. She was clearly waiting for him to respond. He tested his tongue and found it looser.
‘My head aches,’ he said in a croaky voice. ‘I do not know this place. What happened to me?’
She frowned, deepening the small line between her straight black brows.
‘Do you remember anything of how you came to be here?’
He knew better now than to try to shake his head and simply murmured, ‘Nothing, madame. I remember nothing. What can you tell me?’
She did not answer and her eyes narrowed. He rose up as best he could and clutched at her hand and felt her fingers straighten. Her eyes widened and without knowing why he put a hand to her cheek. Immediately, the gentleness with which she had nursed him was gone, replaced by ice.
‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, her face becoming thunderous. She leaned closer to him and with a twist of her wrist she had slipped from his grip.
‘Pardon me,’ he said. He fell back on the pillow, panting slightly from the effort it had cost him. ‘But, please, if you can tell me anything, I beseech you to do so.’
‘I will tell you what I can. Be warned, monsieur, no man touches me without my consent, even an invalid.’
‘I understand.’
She gave a brief, tight smile of approval and settled back on to her knees, arranging her skirts with practised elegance, then rested her hands neatly in her lap.
‘You were on a ship.’
She paused and looked away. Her face closed down. She looked wary and, despite her sharp, striking features, this uncertainty gave her an air of fragility. He waited, examining her in the bright sunlight as her eyes darted quickly around. He wanted to stroke her arm and encourage her to continue, but her warning rang in his ears.
‘What do you know?’ he prompted.
‘There was a shipwreck. We found you on the beach among the debris and the dead.’ She leaned closer and her eyes raked over him, scrutinising him so intimately he imagined he was being undressed. ‘Do you really remember nothing? What is your name?’
And this was when he truly began to panic. With rising terror, he realised he did not know the answer.
‘I can’t remember!’
He heard alarm in his voice, but the woman looked suspicious. Her expression became stone.
‘Are you sure?’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you a spy? How do I know you are telling the truth?’
He reached out to clutch her sleeve to emphasise his integrity, but remembered her warning in time to stay his hand in mid-air. They both regarded it. He clenched his fist, holding it to his side, then lowered it to the fur. Their eyes found each other’s and the woman nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them. In any other circumstances he would find the situation extremely erotic, but the fascination he had for her had to compete with the disorientation, weakness and confusion he felt.
‘I have no proof, but believe me, please. I am telling the truth. I cannot remember who I am.’
He ground his fingers into the thick white pelt that covered him and gazed at her, willing her to believe him. She eyed him steadily, her dark eyes moving slowly over his face, up to the wound on his head and down again, further over his body. It made him feel uneasy to be examined so frankly by a stranger. More than that was the fact of her sex. The fascination he felt for her was being pushed deep inside him by a stronger, more painful emotion that cautioned him to resist and retreat. The presence of a woman felt even more unfamiliar than the unknown surroundings, but it came to him that it was not just her. He would not feel easy with any woman at
