‘I think you must have been a passenger on the ship.’
‘What makes you say that?’ He grasped her words like a drowning man might clutch at a piece of driftwood.
‘You aren’t French, you’re English.’
‘I believe so. But why only a passenger? It could have been an English ship.’
‘No. Parts washed up and what we...they...managed to salvage had French marks on the boxes. You were well dressed. You might be a merchant of some sort.’
‘What you managed to salvage? What the wreckers claimed, you mean.’
Fury flashed across her face. ‘I do.’
He looked at her sharply. What hold did Bleiz Mor have over her that she would allow him access to her home when the wrecking clearly angered her? Was she as innocent as she claimed, or was she as mired in the pirate’s activities as Ronec and Andrey?
‘Why were you on the beach the night of the wreck, Blanche? Were you part of it?’
‘No!’ She rounded on him with fire in her eyes and voice. ‘Believe me when I say I would never be involved in something so dishonourable.’
Her voice reeked with contempt that sounded so real it was hard to believe she could feign it so convincingly.
‘It was the villagers. I smelled the smoke and heard the cries. I went to see what was happening. I am as disgusted as you that they would do something so cowardly. I told them so at dinner that I would have no more of it, you heard me.’
Jack looked along the beach, trying to picture men heaving bodies and cargo from the sea, picturing himself among them. If Blanche had not found him, would he have perished at their hands or died from the wound on his head? He put a hand to his neck, rubbing his finger and thumb around his collarbone and feeling that something felt wrong, but unable to place it. He dismissed it.
‘Was Ronec involved in the wrecking?’ Jack asked.
Blanche didn’t answer.
‘I don’t like him,’ Jack growled.
‘He isn’t easy to like.’
‘He seems to like you,’ Jack commented.
Blanche’s eyebrows knotted. ‘Ronec doesn’t like me, you fool.’
Jack was startled at the vehemence in her voice.
She turned away abruptly and walked to the edge of the sea. She hugged herself as if suddenly cold. Jack watched, feeling the bite of the wind that lifted her hair and played around her skirts, creating interesting silhouettes and shadows.
Jack followed her. The waves were calm now, lapping across the rocks and gently whispering, as if imparting secrets if only he could understand their language.
‘I said the wrong thing, didn’t I? That was foolish. I saw how he was when he thought you were alone.’
She nodded slowly.
‘He hates me, but he desires me. He wants to possess me and everything I own. We are neighbours. It would suit him for us to marry.’
‘But it would not suit you?’
Jack’s eyes bored into her. It was more than a dislike for Ronec that gave his blood such heat—it was a liking for her. He was jealous.
‘No,’ she said, firmly, lifting her chin and facing Jack. ‘But then again, marriage to anyone would not suit me.’
‘A widow has more independence than a wife, I expect,’ Jack said.
She smiled at his understanding. Their eyes met and Jack felt something akin to friendship forming. It had only happened a few times, but he wanted more of it. Blanche was the first to look away, casting her hand out towards the sea.
‘Now we’re here, what do you want to do?’
Jack walked barefoot down the beach and into the sea. The water was cold and his muscles tensed. He ground his toes into the shingle, sharpness pricking the soles of his feet until he became accustomed to the temperature. The tide was farther out than when he had stood there before two days ago with Bleiz Mor, and the rocks that had been beneath the surface were now visible. He took a few steps out along the ridge, slipping as he walked gingerly for a dozen paces, arms slightly outstretched to balance.
He looked down. If he stepped off the rocks, he would be waist deep. He leaned forward, wondering if he could see the seabed in the moonlight. The waves lapped around his ankles, occasionally stronger and calf high. The tide was turning. He could feel a pull as it attempted to catch him and carry him further out. He was tempted to let it and put an end to his uncertain existence.
‘Be careful!’
Jack looked around. Blanche was close to the sea, skirts held up in one hand out of the way of the tide. She sounded alarmed and her whole body looked tense, her free hand bunched into a fist at her side.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was unnaturally calm, as if she was talking to a child.
‘I’m wondering what it felt like to be out there and what it would feel like again. I think I could probably get a long way.’
Something inside him whispered this was what he wanted. What he had craved for a long time. He only had to step backwards from the rock and the pain in his heart would end. His grief would be over, though he would die without ever discovering the reason for it.
‘I didn’t save you from death and nurse you for you to throw your life away,’ she shouted.
‘Why do you think I would do that?’ he asked, unnerved that she had read his thoughts.
‘Because I know you asked to die the other day.’
She looked poised to run into the sea and grab him if he decided to hurl himself off. He wondered if she actually would. As he stood in the moonlight he felt he was faced with a choice. He could hurl himself into the sea and hope for the death that seemed quite appealing and which he had challenged Bleiz Mor to grant him. Death would be quick. Blanche would never reach him in time before he was swept away. Or he could walk back to shore and make the best of his situation.
He faced away from the sea and looked past Blanche at the castle, which he could make out at the end of the path. Blanche was standing very still, her eyes fixed on him. He could not make out her features in the moonlight, but he could picture them clearly. A memory surfaced of her bright eyes scrutinising him in the darkness of night, looking down on him from above.
He was certain it was the first memory from before he had woken in the storeroom. She had not done that since he had regained consciousness. He laughed with elation and began picking his way carefully back to shore. Blanche’s relief was palpable.
‘I remember!’ he said. ‘I remembered your face. At least, I saw it in my mind.’
He took her hands and kissed them, laughing in glee. She did not respond.
‘That was so dangerous,’ she said, her voice tight with fury.
‘Did you really think I was about to drown myself?’ Jack asked, surprised once more at her perceptiveness.
‘I... I don’t know.’ She clutched his hands tighter, then dropped them. ‘I know you have a wish for death. Don’t deny it.’
‘I don’t know why I have that urge. It feels like a habit ingrained in me, like a pattern burned into old wood.’ Jack rubbed his eyes. ‘I wonder what happened before to make me long for such a thing as that. One more secret I’m hiding from myself.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a relief if you never found the answer?’ Blanche asked gently. ‘What if what you left behind is better forgotten?’
He saw the earnest expression in her eyes. In the moonlight, her cheekbones were sharp and her eyes were like twin pools of blackness that were almost as enticing to drown in as the sea. Her mouth was set in a firm, decisive line. Jack longed to take her in his arms and kiss them until her lips softened and yielded to him. Such strength of desire took him by surprise. He ran his fingers over the wound at his temple and took his time before answering.
‘Whatever my past is, I want to face it. To do otherwise would be cowardly and I do not like to think of myself as a coward.’
‘I don’t think you are,’ Blanche said warmly. ‘You intervened when you didn’t have to and you faced the Sea Wolf with courage.’
Tiredness washed over Jack. He shook his head sadly. ‘If only there was something that could help me regain my memory. Let’s return to the castle.’
As they walked side by side to the castle, Jack was acutely aware of her presence. They weren’t touching, but from the corner of his eye he could see the way her skirts swayed as she walked and could imagine the hips moving gracefully that caused the effect. His blood seemed to effervesce as it rushed through his veins, causing his heart to leap, reminding him he was alive.
For the moment, that was a great thing and being close to Blanche and sensing the way she moved at his side was enough to sustain him. His yearning to touch her, to be close to her—to anyone—grew stronger, so once again he offered her an arm. She hesitated, then rested her hand on his wrist. Her touch was light, but to Jack it felt like the weight of a thousand coals lighting fires beneath his skin. There was a warmer look in Blanche’s eye though she held his arm stiffly as if not quite at ease, but they walked together as far as the gate to the castle, where Blanche slipped her hand from beneath Jack’s arm.
‘Is my face all you remember from our first encounter?’
‘Yes, but it is a start. If I remember you finding me, I might remember other things, too.’
‘Yes, you might.’
She regarded him with the eyes that seared his soul and Jack burned with the desire to kiss her, stronger than ever before. His conscience pricked. He might have a wife already which was why the warning voice in his head told him not to act on his feelings. To be contemplating trying to kiss Blanche was dishonourable and his conscience could not deny the possibility he was being unfaithful. He stifled a sigh. His attraction to Blanche Tanet would have to be strongly resisted if he was not to pile further troubles on to his conscience. It was so hard when she stood before him with rare warmth radiating from her.
He bowed and stepped back, watching her closely for any sign that she might be disappointed, but she only smiled.
‘Goodnight, Jack. Thank you again for your company. And for your aid earlier.’
Once she had disappeared from sight, he made his way wearily to bed and slept sounder and more peacefully than any night since his arrival.
Chapter Nine
Blanche lay awake long into the night. She had truly believed Jack would hurl himself into the sea when he was standing so precariously on the rocks and had been more relieved than expected when he did not. His wretchedness spoke to her own sense of loneliness and she wanted to help him.
His memories were starting to return, but slowly and in no particular order. He remembered her, but not kissing her. She put her fingers to her lips as the memory of the kiss made them pulse and sighed with longing. She was half-tempted to try to kiss him and see if that brought memories back. At least, that was the excuse she told herself even as she knew it was for her own ends.
He needed something to help him, but she was loath to give him the cross. Explaining how she had come by it would be difficult and the all-too-brief flicker of what could become friendship was too fragile to risk quenching if he realised her deceit. There was something else, though, which would be more likely to hold a clue to his identity, if only she knew where it had gone. She rolled on to her front, trying not to picture Jack in bed lying on his back almost directly beneath her.
* * *
She rose early the next morning. She found Andrey sitting with a piece of driftwood and a short-bladed knife, whittling it into the shape of a woman.
‘When we found Jack on the beach, do you remember there was a satchel with a case in it?’
‘Yes. You wouldn’t let me break it open.’ He scowled and his voice was accusatory. Given the circumstances they now found themselves in with a man with no past, it was fair enough.
‘What happened to it?’ Blanche asked.
Andrey shrugged and made another few strokes with his knife, scraping the splinters into smooth lines. ‘It didn’t seem valuable.’
‘How could you tell?’
He grinned. ‘The box was plain. It didn’t rattle when I shook it. I don’t think it was full of gold or treasures. It probably ended up in one of the cellars, or perhaps Ronec took it.’
Blanche’s stomach tightened, but if Ronec had opened it and had found some clue to Jack’s identity inside, then he would have lost no time in telling her and disposing of Jack if he were a danger.
‘Why not ask again if your lost soul will join our crew? Tell him who he was really speaking to on the beach and he might not be so quick to refuse next time.’
It was tempting. Jack was strong and fearless. He was not scared of throwing himself into a fight given how he had approached Ronec, first on the beach and then again in Blanche’s defence. But the hatred in his eyes and voice when he spoke of his encounter with the masked man chilled her. What if Andrey was wrong and he rejected her?
‘He believes me to be a virtuous widow living quietly,’ she answered. ‘I’m quite happy to play that role while he remains here.’
‘How can you be sure his memory loss is even real?’
‘Because I have asked him over and over, nicely and as a threat. Every time, the answer is the same.’
She didn’t add that the pain in his eyes, the frustration in his voice and the way his whole body tensed with the effort of trying to remember were more convincing than any words that might trip from his tongue. Once again, sympathy for his predicament was a stone in her heart.
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ Andrey asked. ‘I think you want him to be trustworthy.’
‘I’d like all men to be trustworthy,’ Blanche said with a bitter laugh. ‘Sadly, that rarely proves to be the case.’
She thought of the English King’s officer, who had agreed to provide ships and men, then only given half what he had promised, his excuse being that agreeing to take Fransez to England and train him would be costly. Of Ronec, who had seemed a sensible ally until he had demanded more nights in her bed in return for keeping her identity secret. How would Jack disappoint her if she let herself grow too close? Doubtless there would be something.
Andrey gave her a long look of scrutiny that made her blush. She left him and changed into her oldest gown and tied her hair under a veil. The cellars beneath the castle were cold and smelled of decay. Blanche hated them. She spent a fruitless morning searching through the boxes and piles of detritus that had been salvaged from wrecks over years and had been considered too worthless or useless to take. Anything of value had been taken and shared and the cellar was a memorial to lives lost at the wreckers’ hands. It sickened her to see the evidence of the villagers’ grisly efforts.
She retained her composure up until the point when she discovered a child’s doll. It was missing a leg and had been tossed among piles of mismatched shoes and rags and left to fester. It reminded her of Maelle’s favourite doll and for a horrible moment Blanche had an image of her daughter sinking to the bottom of the sea. Her throat filled with bitter acid and she sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching the doll and weeping silently, reminding herself that Maelle was safe in the care of the sisters at the convent.
Had there been children on Jack’s vessel? Did he once have a family now lost to the wreckers? He was older than both Mael and Yann had been when they became fathers. The thought caused her such pain. She had a terrible understanding of what torture Jack must be enduring. Would it be better never to discover the truth than to unearth such horrors?
She swore, sitting in the shadows and candlelight, that there would be no more beacons lit in the church at Plomarc’h, however much she angered the villagers and Ronec. It had used to happen rarely in peacetime when the land provided what people needed, but they had done it three times in the past two years.
When the lamp
began to splutter and dim, she stirred. It was time to give up her search. If the satchel had been here, she would have found it. With a heavy heart she admitted she would have to go speak to Ronec.
She made her way out, blinking in the bleak sunlight. She made her way round to the door, intending to go to her room until her emotions were more stable, but heard her name. Jack was hailing her from the other side of the courtyard. He had been chopping logs into firewood, but laid down his axe and strode towards her.
‘Good morning, Blanche.’
He had been working hard and a sheen of perspiration covered his brow and cheeks, but rather than the sickly pallor of his fever, this gave him a ruddy glow.
His tunic was loose at the neck, but clinging where his broad chest was sweat damp. Her stomach coiled with longing and her fingers tingled with the urge to feel the slickness of his firm muscles. He looked more at ease than Blanche had seen him before. He ran his fingers through his ruffled hair in an attempt to smooth the disorder. His eyes took in her appearance and he raised his brows.
‘You look as dishevelled as me! What on earth have you been doing?’
‘I was in the cellars, searching for...for...’ She shook her head and her mouth wobbled.
Jack’s smile dropped, replaced with concern. ‘Something’s wrong!’
After the dark thoughts that had assailed her in the cellar, he was the last person she could face without guilt searing her soul.
‘How do you bear it?’ she whispered. Her eyes blurred. She blinked and felt her cheeks grow damp. ‘Not knowing who you are. What you’ve forgotten.’
‘Are you crying for me?’
He sounded incredulous. He moved towards her, taking her face in his palm. He ran his thumb over the curve of her cheek to wipe the tear away. There was a gentleness emanating from him and such tenderness was unnerving. It had been so many years since anyone had cared to comfort Blanche and she found it infinitely more appealing than any attempt at seduction or show of strength he might have tried.
Uncovering the Merchant's Secret Page 10
