Loving a Lost Lord (6 page)

“When I'm a little stronger, I can take over managing the farm,” Adam said.

She stared at him, startled by his calm presumption that he would take over management of
her
estate. But he thought he was her husband, and in English law, a wife's property belonged to her husband. Still another drawback to having him think they were married.

Misunderstanding her expression, Adam said, “I believe that I actually do have farming experience, though I can remember no particulars.” He frowned. “It just feels like something I understand.”

“More mysteries.” She pulled herself together. “I expect you to remember everything soon, but if not, when you're better I'll show you around Hartley Manor and we can test your understanding.”

He stood, swaying with the effort. “I think I can make it back to the bedroom with your help. I promise to revive if you need any other unruly chaps tossed.”

She laughed and slid a supportive arm around his waist. She liked touching him, liked the way his arm came easily around her shoulders. They returned to his room and she helped him out of the banyan and into the bed. As she pulled the covers over him, he murmured, “Could I persuade you to lie down with me? Just till I fall asleep.”

His suggestion was equally shocking and appealing—and wouldn't have been shocking if they truly were wed. The deciding factor was her fatigue. “That sounds like a lovely idea.” Carefully she stretched out on top of the covers on his right side so he wouldn't injure his head if he rolled toward her. She made a mental note to check if the bandage needed changing later.

For now, she rested. Though she was on the outside of the blankets and he was underneath, it still felt deliciously wicked to cuddle full length against him. She could get fond of this….

 

Despite his fatigue, Adam was wakeful. He'd had enough sleep, and he would much rather savor the feel of his wife in his arms. She had fallen asleep immediately with her head on his shoulder, tired by her long night and difficult interview with that dolt Burke. Thank God Adam had been able to summon enough energy to protect her.

Most of her luminous blond hair was pinned back demurely, but the strands that had escaped were silky to his touch. The memory of her glowing in the lamplight when he woke the night before was enough to make him wish he was strong enough to be a proper husband.

It would be a great waste if his memory didn't return. He wanted to recall every detail of how they met. Their first kiss. Their wedding night.

He even wanted to remember the pain of having to leave her. For that matter, where had he been and why had he left?

He released his breath in a sigh. All in good time. He bent and kissed the top of her head. If his memory never returned, they would just have to make new memories.

Glasgow

Randall gazed out the post chaise window as they rattled through the dense and teeming city. “I didn't know Glasgow was so large.”

“It's not so big as London, but the city is home to some of the greatest merchants and manufacturers in Britain,” Kirkland said. “And busier than a hive of hungry bees.”

“Your accent is sliding toward Scottishness,” Masterson said with interest.

“'Tis only natural,” Kirkland said with deliberate broadness. “But if you think I sound Scottish, wait till you hear the average Glaswegian. You won't even know they're speaking English.”

Randall smiled a little at the byplay between his friends. On the whole, it had been a silent trip up from London. They'd hired the post chaise and set off to Scotland at the fastest speed possible. Though being cooped up in the carriage with minimal halts had been hell on his wounded leg, they'd made good time. But if it hadn't been for the wound, he would be back on the Peninsula now and he would have learned of Ashton's death weeks after the fact.

He had lost friends on campaign, both in battle and to vicious fevers like the one that had brought Will Masterson home to recover. But friends who were back in England were supposed to be safe. They weren't supposed to be getting themselves blown up in bloody bedamned steam-powered ships.

As they rumbled over the Clyde River on a vast, crowded bridge, he thought what a relief it was to finally be here so they could
do
something. “Do we know where Ashton's shipyard is?”

“Somewhere in Port Glasgow, west of the city proper,” Kirkland replied. “It won't be hard to find the right yard. Glasgow has more than its share of engineers, and projects like Ashton's would be discussed at every tavern and coffee-house in the city.”

Masterson remarked, “You seem to know Glasgow well.”

Kirkland shrugged. “I spent a fair amount of time here as a boy. My unfortunate fondness for my mercantile relations helped get me sentenced to the Westerfield Academy. For which I am eternally grateful.”

Masterson chuckled. “I should love to know all the reasons that students ended up in Lady Agnes's hands.”

“The ways a boy can deviate from civilized standards are legion,” Randall said dryly. “And we discovered most of them. How long until we get to Port Glasgow?”

“At least an hour.” Kirkland studied Randall narrowly. “It will be near dinnertime by then. I suggest we book rooms at an inn and get a good night's rest before we start searching for information about Ashton and the
Enterprise
.”

Randall nodded. His impatient mind wanted to start investigating immediately, but his abused body needed a rest. The time wouldn't be wasted. If he knew Kirkland, a master of intelligence gathering, by morning they'd know where to start their search.

 

Randall's guess was right. When he met his friends in the taproom of the Crown and Sail to break their fast the next morning, Kirkland had the address of the chief engineer of the
Enterprise
. Archibald Mactavish lived in a pleasant house on a quiet street not far from the bustling waterfront. The men were admitted by a shy little maid who took their cards, then whisked off to tell the mistress of the house that a trio of gentlemen were calling.

Mrs. Mactavish was a tired-looking young woman with a toddler in tow, and she was not pleased to have three hulking gentlemen in her sitting room. “I've no time for entertaining,” she said bluntly. “Are you here to see my husband?”

“If we can,” Kirkland spoke, a Scottish lilt clear in his speech. “We're friends of the Duke of Ashton, and we'd like to learn more about the accident that took his life.”

“It wasn't Mactavish's fault!” she said vehemently.

Masterson, ever tactful, said, “We are not looking to cast blame, Mrs. Mactavish, only to understand what happened. We all went to school with Ashton, and he was very dear to us. We'd like to know more, if your husband is well enough to talk.”

“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I'll see if he's willing.”

She left the room with the child, returning alone several minutes later. “He'll speak with you. But mind you don't tire him. He was lucky to survive.”

She led the way upstairs to a bedroom that looked out over the waters of the Clyde. Mactavish was a lean man in early middle age with thinning red hair, a large collection of bruises and bandages, and an expression of deep misery. His wife propped him to a sitting position with pillows, then consulted the visitors' cards. “Your visitors are Kirkland, Masterson, and Randall. I'm not sure which is which.”

Kirkland, taking the lead again, said, “I'm Kirkland.” He stepped forward to offer his hand, then stopped. Mactavish's right arm ended in a bandaged stump.

The other man's mouth twisted bitterly as he raised the stump. “Aye, 'tis not much of an engineer I am now. What do you want to know?”

“How and where Ashton died,” Randall said before the silence could get too awkward. “We're hoping that if we can determine the site of the explosion, we might find his body to take him home for burial.”

Mactavish's expression softened. “That's what friends do, though the sea might not cooperate. He was a good man, Ashton. Ye would hardly know he was a duke.”

“He will be missed,” Masterson said quietly. “Do you know what caused the explosion? Steam engines are tricky brutes, but in his letters, Ashton indicated that the project was going well.”

“Aye, it was.” Mactavish made a fist of his left hand and struck the bed angrily. “We had a good long run all the way down into the Firth of Clyde. The engine was singing like a nightingale.”

“That's quite a distance,” Kirkland said, startled.

“It was indeed. With enough fuel, we could have sailed her all the way to Liverpool. We had just turned back when the boiler exploded. It was like being struck by lightning.”

“Could that have happened?” Masterson asked. “If there was a storm…”

The engineer shook his head. “It was a bit misty, but there were no storms.”

“Where was Ashton when the boiler went up?” This time Kirkland asked the question. “Were you with him?”

“I was up on the deck trying to reckon how far we'd come. I had just decided we were near Arran Island when the boiler blew. I was thrown into the water.” Mactavish looked at the ugly stump. “I don't even remember how my hand was crushed. Lucky for me, Davy, the pilot, is an ace swimmer. He caught hold and got me to shore on Arran, which wasn't far.”

“Did you see Ashton in the water?” Kirkland again.

“Saw not hide nor hair of him,” the engineer replied. “Likely he was below decks in the engine room. He spent a good bit of his time there.” He touched his bandaged head. “My wits were scrambled and I don't recall seeing anyone but Davy. I was surprised later to learn that two of the others also made it to shore.”

Randall geared himself up to ask the hardest question. “Have you heard of any bodies washing ashore in that area?”

“There are so many islands that a body could end up in a thousand places and never be found,” Mactavish said. “But my best guess is that Ashton's body was trapped in the wreckage of the ship.”

It sounded likely. Randall asked, “How many casualties were there altogether?”

“Four, including Ashton. One body washed ashore near Troon, the mainland opposite Arran.” Mactavish sighed heavily. “So far as I know, the others are still lost.”

And might never be found. Randall went back to what the engineer said earlier. “Since the
Enterprise
was close to shore, is there any chance of salvaging the wreckage?”

Mactavish looked thoughtful. “'Tis possible. I'd be right interested to find out why the engine exploded.”

“We'd need a salvage ship with a good strong crane and an experienced crew,” Masterson said. “Do you know who might be capable of a job like this?”

“Jamie Bogle in Greenock is the man to see. He's got the best salvage equipment in Scotland.” A spark came into Mactavish's eyes. “I should like to see the salvage.”

“That could be arranged.” Kirkland regarded Mactavish narrowly. “If you'll be looking for a new job, my Uncle Dunlop has a shipyard and is looking for engineers with steamship experience.”

“You're nephew to George Dunlop?” Mactavish looked startled, and his wife, sitting quietly to one side, sucked in her breath. They must be worrying about money now that Mactavish's job had blown up, leaving him crippled. The engineer glanced at the stump where his right hand used to be. “I…I canna be doing the work I did before.”

“Hands can be hired. My uncle is interested in a man's mind and experience. I'll let him know that he might hear from you.” Kirkland reached inside his coat for a small notebook. “Now, what are the names of the other survivors, and do you know where they're to be found?”

By the time they left, Mrs. Mactavish was happy enough with her visitors to have served them tea and cakes. Back in the carriage, Randall asked, “Is your Uncle Dunlop really looking for engineers with steamboat experience?”

“If he isn't, he will be,” Kirkland replied. “He became one of the best shipbuilders in Britain by hiring good men. He'll be happy to have this one.”

Randall settled back in his seat. They might not be much closer to finding Ashton, but at least someone had benefited today.

He was a boy roughhousing with other boys. “See, this is how you throw someone.” He demonstrated on a blond lad, using the methods he'd been taught to toss his opponent onto a bed.

The blond boy was first shocked, then gleeful. “Show me how to do that!” he whooped.

“Me too, me too!” echoed from the others in the room. He had been pleased to demonstrate, knowing that his fighting skills not only were fun and useful, but earned him respect.

A tall, forceful woman entered the room as two of the boys were flying through the air at the hands of two others. Instant silence except for the flopping of small bodies onto mattresses.

She surveyed the scene, and he could have sworn he saw amusement in her eyes. “I see I shall have to set you lads to playing ball games before you kill each other from an excess of energy. You'll have to play with the village boys, though, because there aren't enough of you in the school for a proper game of football or cricket.”

A dark-haired boy with darker eyes said, “We'll be better. Blood will tell, my father says.”

“Not on an athletic field,” the woman said, unimpressed. “It will do you good to be defeated by boys with more skill than breeding.” Her stern gaze went to each of them in turn. “Time you got some sleep, and no breaking of the furniture!”

They all nodded solemnly, then broke into giggles after the woman was safely away. There was no more tossing, though. The broad, cheerful-looking boy with brown hair brought out a tin full of ginger biscuits, which they shared as they sprawled on the beds and talked. Some talked more than others.

He couldn't remember names, or any of the conversation. But he felt the good will and affection that flowed among them.

Friends. He had friends.

 

Adam awoke early, smiling with pleasure at the lingering remnants of the dream. A cautious stretch confirmed that the bruises and sore muscles hadn't yet healed, but overall, he felt very well. He prodded his memory, wondering if that dream had been a piece of his past, or just a dream, inspired by his confrontation with George Burke.

His earliest real memories were still of being in the water, drifting ever closer to death. He recalled nothing before that, though the events since Mariah pulled him ashore were clear.

Clearest of all was his fear when she was assaulted by her would-be suitor. He still wasn't sure where he'd found the strength to heave Burke across the room. But he knew that if necessary, he would have smashed through locked doors to get to Mariah.

Most vivid of all was the peace he felt when he and his wife lay down to rest after Burke departed. She had left him after an hour or two, with a gentle touch to his hair. Perhaps a kiss? He'd like to think so.

He had slept for most of a day since, with occasional periods of waking, during which he ate, drank, and used the chamber pot. He also hazily remembered a visit from Mrs. Bancroft, who had changed his bandage and pronounced that he was doing well.

Now he was fully awake and no 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, I was sure you were he.”

As Grand Turk ate her partial scone from the ground, Adam enveloped her in his arms. There was a faint scent of her father in his garments, but the embrace was definitely Adam.

“My poor darling,” he said softly. “You've had a very bad few weeks. I'm sorry that I startled you so.”

She burrowed against his chest, painfully grateful for his support. “I…I still haven't quite accepted that Papa is gone,” she explained. “If I had seen him dead, it would be different, but hearing a report isn't the same.”

As Adam stroked her hair, she realized there was something unfamiliar in the way he held her. The embrace wasn't lust, and it was more than the comfort of a friend. It was…intimacy? Adam thought of himself as her husband, and he was acting with a protective tenderness that took for granted the fact that he had a right to hold her.

The thought was as disturbing as his touch was pleasant. He moved so naturally into the space of a husband that she had to wonder if he really did have a wife somewhere. A wife who was as desperate to learn his fate as Mariah was desperate to be truly certain what had happened to her father.

Shielding her thoughts, she moved away from him. He scooped up the other scones before Turk could eat them. The scones were still warm as he offered her one. “How did you learn of your father's death? Is there a chance the report was wrong?”

“I heard the news from George Burke.” Seeing Adam's expression, she smiled humorlessly. “No, he's not a reliable source, but he had the ring my father wore all the time. It was convincing.”

“Having met the man, it wouldn't surprise me to hear that he stole the ring,” Adam said before biting into his scone.

“He's probably capable of that, but soon after I received a letter from our London solicitor confirming Papa's death.” She bit hard into her scone, chewed thoughtfully, then said, “The most convincing proof is that I haven't heard from my father in so long. He had been writing me several times a week. Then…nothing. He simply wouldn't stop writing like that if he were well.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I do believe he's dead, yet it seemed perfectly natural that he come riding toward me on Turk.”

Adam ate the last of his scone. “I think it's natural to hope against hope that a mistake has been made. That tragedy can't strike
us.
”

“Do you know that from experience, or are you just wise?”

He looked thoughtful. “I don't know, but I wouldn't gamble that I possess great natural wisdom.”

She chuckled. If Granny Rose had sent a faux husband, she had picked one with a sense of humor. “Do you like Grand Turk? My father said he was the best horse he'd ever owned. He won him at cards, of course.”

Adam's face lit up. “He's splendid. Beautiful paces, and spirited without malice. The chestnut mare is also very fine. Another prize at the gaming table?”

“Yes. She's my mount, Hazelnut. Hazel for short.” Mariah studied Adam, who looked like a proper country gentleman in her father's clothing, but his face was drawn. “I didn't expect to find you on horseback. Riding wasn't too much for you?”

“My strength is not yet back to normal,” he admitted, “but I really wanted to be on a horse again. Perhaps we can take that ride over the estate today?”

“Later, if you think you're ready, but now Mrs. Beckett would like to feed us both breakfast. Are you ready for an omelet?”

“Definitely!”