can. Be warned, monsieur, no man touches me without my consent, even an invalid.’
‘I understand.’
She gave a brief, tight smile of approval and settled back on to her knees, arranging her skirts with practised elegance, then rested her hands neatly in her lap.
‘You were on a ship.’
She paused and looked away. Her face closed down. She looked wary and, despite her sharp, striking features, this uncertainty gave her an air of fragility. He waited, examining her in the bright sunlight as her eyes darted quickly around. He wanted to stroke her arm and encourage her to continue, but her warning rang in his ears.
‘What do you know?’ he prompted.
‘There was a shipwreck. We found you on the beach among the debris and the dead.’ She leaned closer and her eyes raked over him, scrutinising him so intimately he imagined he was being undressed. ‘Do you really remember nothing? What is your name?’
And this was when he truly began to panic. With rising terror, he realised he did not know the answer.
‘I can’t remember!’
He heard alarm in his voice, but the woman looked suspicious. Her expression became stone.
‘Are you sure?’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you a spy? How do I know you are telling the truth?’
He reached out to clutch her sleeve to emphasise his integrity, but remembered her warning in time to stay his hand in mid-air. They both regarded it. He clenched his fist, holding it to his side, then lowered it to the fur. Their eyes found each other’s and the woman nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them. In any other circumstances he would find the situation extremely erotic, but the fascination he had for her had to compete with the disorientation, weakness and confusion he felt.
‘I have no proof, but believe me, please. I am telling the truth. I cannot remember who I am.’
He ground his fingers into the thick white pelt that covered him and gazed at her, willing her to believe him. She eyed him steadily, her dark eyes moving slowly over his face, up to the wound on his head and down again, further over his body. It made him feel uneasy to be examined so frankly by a stranger. More than that was the fact of her sex. The fascination he felt for her was being pushed deep inside him by a stronger, more painful emotion that cautioned him to resist and retreat. The presence of a woman felt even more unfamiliar than the unknown surroundings, but it came to him that it was not just her. He would not feel easy with any woman at his bedside, but did not know why. It was slightly reassuring because the warning voice meant that deep down inside him, some knowledge of himself still 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