Her lovely eyes flew open. ‘What? Where am I?’
‘You are safe, my lady.’ She would panic, certainly. He kept her restrained. ‘But we are on the open sea.’
‘On the sea?’ Her voice rose in confusion and she struggled. ‘No! Let me go!’
‘I cannot. Not until you are still.’ He forced his voice to sound calm. ‘You are safe if you remain still.’
The waves bobbed them up and down and slapped water on to the raft. The canvas covering them fell away and Lucien blinked against the blazing sun.
Her head swivelled around and her voice became more alarmed. ‘No! Why am I here?’
‘Do you remember?’ he asked. ‘We were on the packet from Dublin to Holyhead. There was a storm—’
She raised a hand to her head. ‘I was on a packet ship? Where is it now?’
He didn’t want to tell her it had probably crashed into the rocks and that some people would not have survived. ‘We were swept away from it.’
‘But someone will find us, won’t they?’ she asked. ‘Someone will be looking for us?’
More likely they’d think they’d perished. ‘Many ships cross the Irish Sea. Chances are good we’ll be rescued.’ Chances were at least as good as finding a needle in a haystack.
She scanned the horizon again as if a ship might magically appear.
‘I don’t remember being on a ship,’ she finally said accusingly.
Perhaps that was a godsend. ‘Best not to remember.’
She looked at him with hysteria in her eyes. ‘You do not understand. I don’t remember the ship. I don’t remember anything.’
‘You suffered a blow to the head. It happens sometimes to have difficulty remembering.’ Or perhaps it was the trauma itself, of the storm, of being swept into the sea. He’d heard stories of soldiers in battle forgetting where they were. No one had suffered a similar affliction on his ship, though, and they’d been through plenty of trauma. ‘Try not to worry over it, my lady,’ he reassured.
She peered at him. ‘Why do you keep calling me “my lady”?’
He gaped at her. ‘I was told you are Lady Rebecca Pierce. Was I misinformed?’
‘Lady Rebecca Pierce,’ she repeated in a whisper. Her voice rose. ‘Is that who I am?’
He searched her face. Her distress seemed genuine. ‘You do not remember your name?’
‘I do not remember anything!’ she cried. ‘My name. Why I am here. Why I was on a ship. Why you are here.’
None of that mattered at the moment. They were in a battle with the elements. If the wind stirred the sea again, they might be tossed off this makeshift raft. If they could not shield themselves, the sun could burn their skin. And if they survived today, would they survive another cold night? They had no food, no water. How long could they last without water?
But he did not tell her any of that. He held her closer. ‘Try not to fret. It will not help. It is important to stay as calm as you can.’
She leaned against him and turned quiet again. He knew she must be cold so held her closely.
After a time she spoke. ‘Do I know you?’
‘We met briefly on the ship. I am Captain Lucien Roper. No reason for you to know me.’ Except that her family had ruined his mother’s family, but what use was it to tell her that? ‘I am bound for London.’ Or will be if they survive.
She stirred a little. ‘I wonder where I am bound.’
Claire pressed her cheek against his warm chest. She was cold and her head ached and her situation terrified her. She was adrift on the sea with a stranger, a man who stirred some unsettled emotion inside her, an emotion she could not name.
Was she to die in the arms of a man she did not know, without even knowing her own name? Her past?
Was she Lady Rebecca Pierce, as he’d said? The name meant nothing to her, but then, her mind was a blank when she tried to think of something, anything, about herself.
There was only this man. His chest was firm and warm and his manner confident and able. He’d covered their heads with the canvas again, but she could glimpse the sea from beneath it. The vast empty sea.
The sun’s reflection on the water hurt her eyes, but when she closed them the rocking of their raft seemed even more pronounced.
Would they die here? she wanted to ask him. But that was one question the answer of which she feared the most.
Had other people died? Had there been someone on the ship she knew? Someone dear to her? She tried to conjure up a feeling of attachment to someone, anyone, but there was only this man. Only he seemed real.
Maybe he knew. ‘Was I with anyone on this ship?’
He hesitated before answering. ‘I saw you with another woman. She was in the cabin with you.’
‘Who was she?’ A mother? A sister? Did she belong to anyone? If so, had they survived?
‘I did not learn her name.’ He sounded regretful about that.
‘Was she related to me?’ She wanted to belong somewhere, to someone.
‘I do not think so,’ he replied. ‘She was dressed plainly and I was told she was a governess. I never saw more than a glimpse of her.’
A governess? Was she connected to this governess in some way?
Was there anyone who cared for her? Who would search for her? All she could conjure up was a feeling of being alone. She lifted her arms, wanting to press her fingers against her temples. On one of her arms dangled a lovely but sodden red-velvet reticule.
She stared at it. ‘Is this mine?’
‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘The woman with you handed it to you as we left the ship.’
Who had she been? Why would she hand her a reticule?
Claire strained to remember, but nothing came.
She shook her head. ‘What happened to her?’
‘I do not know,’ he replied. ‘She hurried off to find someone else and we never saw her after that. We climbed up on deck.’ He paused. ‘Then the wave came.’
The wave that swept them into the sea? How could one forget such an event? How could she not know who’d sailed with her?
How could she not remember her own name?
She shivered and stared at the water. How easy it would be to slip beneath its surface and join the void, so like the void in her mind.
Lucien Roper tightened his arms around her again, stilling her trembling, reminding her that she was someone, even if she could not remember who.
And, no matter what, she wanted to live.
‘Do you know anything about me?’ she asked him.
He paused before answering. ‘Very little. That you sailed from Dublin. Your name. That you are sister to the Earl of Keneagle.’ His voice stiffened.
She did belong to someone! ‘Do you know the Earl of Keneagle?’
He shifted his body a little. ‘He is an Irish earl, that is all I know.’
‘Then someone will look for me.’ She relaxed against him again.
‘These waters are well travelled,’ he said.
He did not sound convincing.
The waves beneath them rocked them like a bumpy carriage ride and the air smelled of brine. Her