existed and could hopefully be unearthed.
‘Shall I suggest some names and see if anything seems right?’ the woman asked.
He nodded slightly.
She spoke names, pausing after each to give him time to respond and looking questioningly at him. ‘Philippe... Michel... Charles... James... Jacques...’
A dart pierced his stomach.
Jack.
That had a familiarity where the others did not. She stopped and her head tilted to one side.
‘You are Jacques? Or Jack, as you are English, I suspect. You muttered something on the shore when we found you which could have been that.’
‘You were there?’ He raised himself to his elbows, more astonished by this revelation than a possible nationality and name.
‘I was.’ She pushed herself to her feet and walked away, gracefully crossing the room to the table. She stood with her back to him, wrung out the cloth and returned. She pressed it to his forehead and used the motion to lay him back down again.
‘It was I who found you. You were the only survivor that we found.’
Her full lips twisted down with sadness and Jack—as he decided must suffice for now—was filled with warmth for her compassion. Who had time to grieve for strangers? He could remember nothing of the men who had perished, though he must have known them, and remorse chilled him.
‘I thought you were dead, but then you opened your eyes,’ the woman said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she was recounting a day at market. ‘I was unsure if you would survive, but we brought you back here anyway and hoped.’
We? Did she have a husband? A woman of her age usually did, unless she was widowed.
‘Whose house am I in?’ he asked. ‘Where is its master?’
Her lips twitched and once again she paused before answering, filling Jack with the suspicion that there was an undercurrent he was not aware of.
‘You wish to meet the master of this house? You have no idea whose house you are in, but you assume naturally that there must be one.’
Jack said nothing, wondering if his assumption was wrong. This woman was fascinating. Perhaps she was the mistress and sole chatelaine of wherever he was.
‘Shall I call you Jack?’ she asked.
He nodded. The shape of it felt well enough in his mouth and he would be content to live under that name for the time being. If he discovered another, then he would relinquish it. If he never recovered his memory—and the thought of that made him want to scream with horror—a plain name would suit an unknown man.
‘You should sleep again,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll have food sent to you as well as water to bathe in and clean clothing.’ Her gaze raked him once more. ‘We didn’t want to touch you too much for fear of injuring you further, but I can imagine some fresh attire would be welcome.’
She wrinkled her nose slightly and Jack realised with a sense of shame that his body and hair felt filthy. There was an odour clinging to him that had the taint of seawater and stale sweat. Bathing was suddenly the most enticing thing he could think of.
‘Last night,’ he said. ‘On the shore...’
The woman raised her eyebrows.
‘Monsieur Jack, you have been unconscious for five days.’
Five days! His head swam and he shook his head, causing waves of dizziness to envelop him. ‘How?’
‘A fever took hold of you. I thought you would die. It was only last night that it broke and you were able to rest.’
She looked thoughtful, then placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. His skin flamed beneath her touch. Even with the deep sense of unease that had cautioned him to keep his distance, he did not want to discourage her from touching him in the slightest. Quite the opposite. He watched her face to see if she was equally affected. She slid her eyes to his and smiled like a cat watching a mouse and his heart gave a violent thud.
‘Your heart is strong, monsieur, even though you are weak. I think you are strong when you are well, yes?’
Jack flexed the muscles in his arms and felt them tighten easily. He felt weak and ill, but there was strength in his body that would return in time. His heart was racing, but that was from the sensation of her hand on his flesh.
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.
She nodded in the manner of a queen receiving homage from a subject, then left. Jack listened for the sound of the bolt being drawn across, but heard nothing. He had been a prisoner before, but apparently was no longer. Or perhaps the woman rightly suspected that even if he had the inclination to roam about, he didn’t possess the strength yet.
It was only as he finished the cider and lay back to try to sleep again that it occurred to him he had not asked her name, nor had the bewitching creature given it.
Blanche walked to the end of the passageway. She took three breaths to regain her composure before she smiled down at Andrey who was sitting on a stool.
‘That was interesting,’ she said. An understatement, indeed.
Andrey grunted and sheathed the sword that he was conspicuously wearing.
‘What did you find out?’
‘Very little.’ Blanche frowned. ‘He claims to have no memory of who he is or where he is from.’
‘Do you believe him or do you think he is lying?’
Blanche considered the conversation that had taken place. The man’s—Jack’s—air of confusion and the look of horror that had crossed his face when he had been unable to supply a name had appeared genuine. The film of perspiration that had arisen across his brow and chest could not have been feigned. Her hand twitched as she recalled the shape of his chest muscles beneath her palm, firm and smooth. A younger body than she had touched for so long. It had taken control not to explore further down to his belly and beyond and see if everything was as well toned. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.
‘I believe him. More’s the pity,’ she said. She looked back at the door to the storeroom. A twinge of guilt took her by surprise as she considered what an inhospitable room it was for a man in his circumstances to find himself. A bare room, little more than a cell. She had not bolted the door, but she wondered if he was aware of that, or if he even suspected he had been confined at all. There were other, better rooms and other beds. She blinked, surprised at the direction her thoughts were taking. It was that kiss which had done it. She should never have yielded to the temptation on the beach.
‘We’ll have to keep him here a little longer.’
‘Why?’ Andrey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘He
