When a Stranger Loves Me

by Julianne MacLean

  “The very same,” Devon replied.

  “Have you gone to see this man?”

  “I went to his house here in London, but there was no one there, except for a butler who informed me that the family was in France, which leads me to suspect—”

  “That Blake went off with them without telling us.”

  “It’s possible,” Devon said, “though not typical of him, unless a message became lost on its way to us. In fact, I hope that is the case. It would certainly be preferable to our brother lying in an alley somewhere with his pockets emptied, or at the bottom of the Thames because of a disagreement over a card game.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Vincent said. “So tomorrow…”

  “Tomorrow we try to discover where the family has traveled to in France, and get word to them.”

  “At least now we have something to pin our hopes on,” Vincent said. “Mother will be pleased to hear it.”

  “I won’t be pleased until we have him in our sights.”

  “Indeed.”

  They each downed their brandy.

  “Do you think he was courting that girl?” Vincent asked.

  “The sister? It is entirely possible, and just like Blake to do his duty without a fuss.”

  “Well, if that is the case,” Vincent raised his glass again, “we shall be one step closer to securing our inheritances, with three brothers taken care of, and only one left to tame.”

  “To marital bliss,” Devon said, holding up his glass.

  Clink. “To marital bliss.”

  Chapter 13

  “Maybe I am a magistrate,” Jack said casually while they lay naked in bed a week later, after making love all afternoon. “Or a solicitor.”

  Chelsea bent her knee and draped her leg across his thighs. “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I think I must do something, and I doubt I am a laborer. My hands are not rough enough.”

  “An artist?”

  He glanced over at the pile of drawings strewn across the table by the window, then shook his head. “No, I think I enjoy sketching too much. I can’t imagine using it to earn a living.”

  She sat up and rested her chin on the back of her hand. “If you ask me, I think you are a gentleman of some stature—and an idle one at that. You spend your days reading the paper, riding around your country estate, hunting, going to balls, sipping brandy at your club…that sort of thing.”

  He flicked his eyebrows and nodded, accepting that it was entirely possible he led such a life.

  “Would I be happy doing that, do you think?”

  Chelsea watched him for a moment. “No, I think you’d be bored.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”

  The following afternoon they waited for the tide to move out, then walked down the wooded lane to reach the steep sandy path that led to the sea caves.

  Picking their way down the trail, they talked of Chelsea’s stories, and Jack offered some interesting suggestions for future ones. He also helped her come up with a solution to a problem she was having with the current one—about the governess and the widowed French aristocrat.

  “I quite enjoy talking about your stories,” he said when they reached the bottom of the path and started along the pebbled beach. “I only wish you would let me read one.”

  “You can read one if I ever find the courage to send anything to a publisher, and if that publisher deems it fit to be printed.”

  “Will you write under your own name?”

  “Definitely not. I am far too notorious.”

  “Maybe you should use that to your advantage, since you are writing scandalous yarns.”

  She smiled. “Now there’s a thought.”

  They came to the end of the beach and Chelsea stopped. “Here we must climb over these rocks, and beyond them we will come to the sea caves.”

  He looked up at the steep face of the cliff. At the top, weathered pines bowed over the edge, clinging by their gnarled, exposed roots to the eroding rock.

  “Those trees will be gone in a few years,” Chelsea said wistfully as she lifted her skirts and stepped onto the rocks. “The ground beneath them will slowly fall away, and one by one they’ll topple into the sea.”

  “Which is a most unforgiving force of nature,” he said, following her.

  “If anyone can vouch for that,” she said, “it would be you.”

  They hopped down from the rocks, walked across the short beach, and entered the cave. Inside, water dripped incessantly from the damp, shiny walls. A chill touched their faces.

  “You can’t come in here when the tide is in,” Chelsea told him as she stepped over the slippery rocks and tidewater puddles. “In twelve hours all of this will be submerged.”

  She pointed toward a narrow area, deeper inside. “That’s where I found you, on that high section. You were lying on your stomach, wearing not a stitch of clothing.”

  “You must have gotten the shock of your life when you discovered a naked man in your cave.”

  She puckered her brows at him. “Don’t joke. When I first touched you, your skin was as frigid as the sea. I thought you were dead.”

  He was quiet for a time, then walked to the place she indicated. He looked down at the ground, then up at the walls. “I remember waking up and not knowing where I was. At first I thought I was lying on a battlefield with cannons going off all around me.”

  “Beyond that wall,” she said, pointing, “is another cave called Cannon Cave. They named it that because of the noise it makes on a rough day. The surf pours in through a narrow cavity, and each wave echoes off that inside wall. It’s quite miraculous, and it was booming like a cannon that day, to be sure.”

  “But it’s quiet now,” he said.

  “Yes. The tide is out, and everything is calm.”

  When he said nothing more, she asked, “Do you remember anything else? Does this help you to recall where you were the night before?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She followed him back to the cave entrance and they went outside, climbed over the rocks, and returned to the main beach.

  “I find it a bit odd,” he said, strolling close to the water’s edge, “that your mother says nothing to you about the time we’ve been spending together. You come to my bed in the afternoons, and you’ve become increasingly daring about the time you leave in the morning, as if you don’t care if anyone sees you or guesses where you’ve been. Are you truly that cavalier about your reputation? Have you given up on it completely?”

  An ambitious wave slid up the flat beach. “Watch yourself.” Jack took her by the arm to pull her out of the way.

  “First of all,” she answered, as they recovered their leisurely pace, walking side by side, “my mother did say something to me last week, after we had lunch outdoors and she saw us go off together. She came to my room and warned me not to think anything would ever come of this, and that it wouldn’t free me from marrying my cousin.”

  “And what did you say to that?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “I told her I would do as I please.”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “You are indeed a rebel. I think it is what I admire most about you.”

  “Well,” she said, “if I am going to be forced to be miserable for the rest of my life while I do my duty for this family, I shall bloody well enjoy myself while I can, since there is nothing to lose. As I said before, my elderly cousin is not expecting a virgin bride, and Mother knows that.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you telling me she is aware of what we are doing and is turning a blind eye?”

  She shrugged and looked down at her shoes. “Let us not talk of this anymore. I want to be lighthearted today. Your wounds are healing, and here we are, on this beautiful beach.” She stopped, closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose. “Smell the air. It’s fresh and clean. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Smells like rain,” he said, stopping to watch her in t
he afternoon light.

  She looked up at the overcast sky. “Yes, perhaps so. The smell of it must be blowing over from the mainland.” She looked at him. “Have you been reading the papers? The south of England has had the wettest spring in over a century. Evidently there have been all sorts of bridges collapsing and fields are flooding.”

  He saw it in his mind suddenly—green fields and mist and muddy roads. Mud everywhere. Holes in the ground filling with rainwater…

  Chelsea stopped. “What is it? Do you remember something?”

  He looked out at the sea. “I don’t know. Your description of the rain made me see images. I’m not sure if you could call them memories. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, picturing what it must look like.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw mud, and puddles, and holes in the ground. A statue…No wait…a fountain in the middle of a garden. But there are no flowers. It’s a depressing image. It makes no sense to me.”

  “Perhaps you saw this statue before you went missing. Or maybe it is on the property where you live.”

  He turned to her. “Has it been very bad here? Has there been flooding?”

  “No, we’ve been fortunate. It hasn’t been nearly as bad as that.”

  They walked on for a time.

  “The statue and garden must be something from your life,” she suggested, “which is a good thing. If you remember that, you might soon begin to remember other things as well. The memories must still be there. You simply cannot access them at the moment.”

  Chelsea stopped and looked out at the water. Jack stood before her, not wanting to think about muddy gardens and depressing statues—images that only frustrated him, for he could not make sense of them.

  He wanted only to admire the curve of her neck and the sweet contours of her chin, and her full, moist lips, reflecting the light. Her complexion was like rich cream, her slender figure sensuous and alluring. He let his eyes roam appreciatively from those perfect, well-rounded breasts to that tiny waist and down over her shapely hips, and hungered to unbutton that tight bodice she was wearing and free those ample pink breasts to his attentions.

  “Your spirit is contagious,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  “Shall we head back?” he asked in a low voice. “I saw a nice little patch of grass under a weeping willow along the side of the lane. It looked rather secluded.”

  A sensual huskiness deepened her tone. “That sounds rather lovely.”

  He held out his hand and led her back to the path, and as soon as they reached the narrow lane at the top, she laughed and took off in a run. Jack immediately chased after her, ripping his jacket off as he went.

  Over the past days and nights it had become the custom not only for Jack to spend time with Chelsea in various private capacities, both indoors and out, but to dine formally with the family. Each evening he played a competitive game of whist with the dowager in the drawing room, while the others looked on with interest and amusement.

  As it happened, Chelsea’s mother was an excellent card player and seemed to greatly enjoy strategizing. Since she was Jack’s hostess and was now treating him exceedingly well, he had no wish to refuse her nightly invitations to the table, and also found the activity beneficial to his mind in a way that he hoped might eventually spark a memory. Any memory.

  Sometimes, just looking at the cards in his hands and flipping them to different positions felt familiar and exciting, as if everything might come flooding back to him at any moment. It was like having a word on the tip of one’s tongue and waiting for it to suddenly spill out.

  But on one particular night—after he’d spent the bulk of the day with Chelsea, riding on horseback down to the sea and enjoying a picnic in a quiet glen that smelled of pinecones—he was not in the mood to play cards. He was weary, both in mind and body, and needed time alone.

  After dinner, as rain began to fall outside, he delivered his apologies to the dowager and bid the family good-night. He was on his way to the stairs when he passed by the open door of the library. There was no one in the room, but a warm fire was blazing in the hearth, keeping out the dampness, so he decided a brandy in the big leather chair might be just the thing.

  He walked into the oak-paneled room and poured himself a drink, then took a seat by the fire. His thoughts went immediately to Chelsea and the fine day they had spent together, and he wondered what the devil he was going to do about the inconvenient fact that—despite all his efforts to prevent it—he was falling in love with her.

  Yes, there it was, out in the open, in the clear meadows of his mind. He loved her. Love. He did not care one whit if he ever remembered the man he once was. He would never want to leave her for another life, even if he discovered he was King of England, Spain, and France.

  All that mattered was the life he knew now, here on this beautiful, sea-swept island, and that he loved the woman who had found him in a cave and saved his life. He loved her!

  But therein lay the problem, he reminded himself as he took a sip of his brandy and watched the fire dance in the grate, the wind gusting down the chimney.

  His time here was not all that mattered. The future mattered, too, because he wanted Chelsea for the rest of his life, till death do them part, and beyond. If he could, he would steal her away in order to prevent her from marrying that lecherous old man she did not love.

  Because he believed she loved him. Hell, he was certain of it, even though she was doing her best to prevent and deny it, for they had no idea who he was or if he was free to propose to her. They had both been taking great pains not to talk about the future or his other life, and were therefore living only in the present. One day at a time. Making love whenever they chose. Laughing and seeking joy at every opportunity.

  So what was he to do?

  The answer was obvious. He could not steal her away. He had no money or means of support. In order to do this properly, without guilt or regret, he would have to leave this place and search for his identity, and pray to God he was someone worthy enough to return and offer her marriage.

  No, it had to be better than that, he thought as he rose from the chair to pour himself another drink. He could not simply be “worthy enough.” He had to be more worthy than the man who was her brother’s heir—a future peer of the realm, the man her mother wanted for her.

  Bloody hell, he was not going to lie to himself. Of that, the chances were slim. They were not odds that would persuade a strategizing mother to allow her daughter to wait, Lord knew how long, for a possible proposal from a man who could be a bloody nobody.

  Damn this situation. It was torture.

  He sat down by the fire again to think on it some more, while the wind and rain outside battered the windowpanes.

  Chelsea sat in the drawing room sipping tea and staring at the wall. I cannot continue with this, she thought. It is too difficult. I love him. I am in love with him…She felt frazzled and dizzy, as if she were being sucked into a vortex of disaster.

  Her mother stood up from the piano, crossed the room and sat down beside her on the sofa. “How are you feeling tonight, Chelsea?”

  “Fine, thank you,” she answered flatly.

  “Do you still have the perfume I sent to you last week, or have you used all of it?”

  “No, I still have some. And thank you. That was very generous.”

  But she was not in the mood to talk to anyone, least of all her mother. She wanted to be alone and think about what she was doing and how she was going to survive this. There were choices to be made, and she feared that if she did not soon make a change of some kind, these passions were going to overwhelm her, and she would spoil everything and let her family down by disappearing into oblivion with a man who had no resources, no family, or even a name.

  If he asked her to, that is. She was not even sure he shared her feelings. He had never told her that he loved her. They never talked about the future. How could they?

  Her
mother leaned closer and spoke softly. “Did he like the fragrance?”

  Good God. She had to get out of here.

  “If you will excuse me, Mother, I’m rather tired…”

  Setting down her teacup, she made a move to stand, but her mother grabbed hold of her wrist. “You are not to go yet, Chelsea. I want to talk to you.”

  Chelsea strove to keep her breathing steady, while frantic emotions swirled around inside her brain like little hurricanes. “About what?”

  “I have not yet written to Lord Jerome,” her mother informed her. “I am waiting to see how things progress here.”

  “They are going well, Mother. I can assure you of that.”

  Her mother glanced over her shoulder to make sure there were no servants lurking about. “When did you last have your courses?”

  “Must we talk about this?”

  “Yes. I am not going to pick up my pen and spoil our chances with Lord Jerome until I am sure you know exactly what you are doing.”

  She laughed bitterly. “It’s not that difficult, Mother. In fact, I have discovered, to my absolute delight, that it comes quite naturally.”

  Chelsea received, without surprise, a sharp slap across the face. She had deserved it, no question, and was, quite frankly, surprised it had not happened sooner.

  “I am not talking about that,” her mother said. “I am referring to the times during the month when you are most fertile. Did he have you today?”

  Chelsea swallowed over the sour taste in her mouth. “What?”

  “Did he have you? And did he take his pleasure inside of you?”

  “I don’t want to discuss this.”

  “Answer the question.”

  She paused. “No, we did not make love today.”

  Although the day was not over yet.

  “No? Why not? You were gone for six hours and alone the entire time. What were you doing?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is, if you want me to continue to agree to this plan.”

  “We went riding,” she reluctantly explained. “It was the first time he’d been on a horse since he came here. He discovered he was quite an accomplished horseman.”