Pulse hammering, he opened the bedroom door.

Sylvie lay in a spill of moonlight on the double bed. She smiled, turned onto her back and held out her arms—an innocent temptress in a muslin gown she’d unfastened all the way to her belly.

He knew what would happen if he got into that bed. She had to know it, too. But he needed to be sure she understood the consequences.

About the Author

ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Previous novels by this author:

 ANGELS IN THE SNOW

 (part of Stay for Christmas anthology)

 HER DEAREST ENEMY

 THE STRANGER

 THE BORROWED BRIDE*

 HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE*

 THE HOMECOMING

 (part of Cowboy Christmas anthology)

 THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE*

 THE HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE

 (part of Weddings Under a Western Sky)

 ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

 *linked by character

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Lawman’s Vow

Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my readers—your inspiration keeps me writing.

Author Note

We all make vows and promises. Many are swiftly broken or forgotten over time. But some vows are as binding as chains of iron.

This is the story of one such vow.

When his sister is found murdered in an alley, San Francisco lawman Flynn O’Rourke promises to find the man seen pocketing her jewellery and bring him to justice at the end of a rope.

Flynn’s journey will test that vow to its limits. Deprived of his memory and transported to a lonely, almost mystical place, he will fall under the spell of an innocent beauty. Will he keep his vow—even though it means betraying the woman he loves?

Untouched by sensual love, Sylvie wakes to desire in the arms of a stranger with no name. Little does she suspect that the man she calls Ishmael harbours a dangerous secret—one that will tear her fragile world apart.

The idea for this book came to me when I was visiting my daughter in Northern California. Standing on a rugged cliff top with the dark pine forest behind me and the sea pounding the rocks below, I imagined a wild storm, a boat shattering against those rocks and a man with a mysterious ring flung onto the sand, more dead than alive. The rest of the story almost told itself.

I love hearing from my readers. You can contact me through my website, www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Happy reading.

Prologue

Northern California Coast, March 1858

The storm had slammed in from nowhere, howling with the fury of a banshee run amok. Lightning cracked across the dark night sky. Thunder echoed like mortar fire through the blackness. Lashed by a screaming wind, waves crashed over the fifteen-foot sailboat, threatening to crush its fragile hull.

Wrestling with the tiller, San Francisco police detective Flynn O’Rourke swore into the storm. He cursed the wind and the sea and the hell-damned boat. And he cursed himself for thinking he could sail up the coast to Aaron Cragun’s cliff-top hideaway and catch the murdering little weasel unaware. As a sailor he was competent enough; but he was no match for a storm like this one. The sails were gone, clawed away by the wind. Worse, in the swirling darkness, with no stars to guide him, he had lost all sense of direction.

A lightning flash illuminated the sapphire signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The ring was the one thing Flynn had inherited from his father—the younger son of Irish nobility, who’d died penniless in the New World, leaving his son and daughter to make their own way. Both had managed well enough. Flynn had recently made the rank of lieutenant in San Francisco’s police department. His sister had used her voice and her beauty to become a music-hall star.

Now his sister was dead, strangled in a filthy dark alley after a performance. A shabbily dressed man had been seen crouching over her body, pocketing her jewelry. Witnesses had identified him as Aaron Cragun, a human vulture who collected and sold salvage from shipwrecks up the coast.

Cragun was nowhere to be found. But a police informant had drawn Flynn a map of the coast, showing the remote cliffside aerie where the man lived. When the storm struck, Flynn had been on his way there, bent on dragging the bastard to the gallows or gunning him down on the spot.

Now he found himself fighting for his life.

The hull was filling with water. Abandoning the tiller, Flynn grabbed a bucket and began bailing like a madman. But it was no use. Anytime now, if it didn’t capsize first, the sloop would founder and sink.

Flynn was a strong swimmer. If the storm hadn’t carried him too far out, he might have a chance of getting to shore. But in the howling blackness, he had no idea which way to go. He could just as easily swim out to sea and drown. Until he could see land, he’d be better off staying with the boat. But as a precaution, he unbuckled his gun belt from around his hips and stowed the .36 Navy Colt in the bow compartment with his store of powder, caps and balls. If he ended up in the water, the added weight could be enough to drag him down.

Sea spray battered his face, the taste of it as salty as the tears he’d devote himself to shedding for Catriona once her killer was brought to justice. His sister had been young and beautiful, eager to laugh, too quick to love and far too young to die. But he couldn’t allow himself to mourn her until he’d avenged her murder.

A blinding flash interrupted his thoughts. Stunned by the ear-splitting boom of thunder, Flynn could only be half sure of what he’d glimpsed yards ahead. It had looked like a sheer cliff, towering above rocks that jutted out of the water. Now, high in the darkness, he could make out the faintest flicker of light.

That light was the last thing he saw before the boat shattered against a rock, flinging him over the side. Something struck his head, and the world imploded into darkness.

Chapter One

“I can’t sleep, Sylvie. I’m scared.” The boy stood trembling in the lamplight. Dressed in a ragged flannel nightshirt, he was small for his age. His long-lashed eyes, the color of new copper pennies, were filled with anxiety that went straight to Sylvie Cragun’s heart.

“Come here, Daniel. I’ll rock you awhile.” Sylvie put down the novel she was reading and gathered her six-year-old half brother onto her lap. He snuggled against her shoulder, his black hair and tawny skin a rich contrast to her porcelain fairness.

Outside, though the storm battered the quaint cabin they called home, Sylvie had no worries for their safety. Their father had fashioned the outer walls and roof from the inverted hull of a wrecked schooner he’d sawed into sections and windlassed up the cliff. It was sound enough to hold up under any deluge. But the wind was ferocious tonight. It howled like a chorus of harpies, shrieking among the ancient pines that sheltered the clearing. Lightning flashed through the porthole windows. Rain beat against glass that was thick enough to withstand an ocean tempest. She couldn’t blame the boy for being frightened.

Daniel stirred on Sylvie’s lap. “Papa’s been gone a long time. When’s he coming home?”

“He’ll be here as soon as he can.” Sylvie’s arms tightened around her little brother. She was worried, too. Their father had left two weeks ago with a wagonload of salvage to sell in San Francisco. It wasn’t like him to be gone so long. She could only hope he wasn’t caught somewhere on the road in this awful storm.

“Will you tell me a story, Sylvie?”

Her breath teased his hair. “What kind of story?”

He mulled over his answer for a moment. “A story about a prince. I like your prince stories.”

“All right, let’s see…” Sylvie enjoyed telling stories almost as much as Daniel enjoyed hearing them. She usually made them up as she went along, spinning out whatever came to mind. Sometimes her stories surprised even her.

“Once upon a time there was a prince,” she began. “A prince who lived at the bottom of the sea.”

“How could he breathe?”

“He just could. It was magic.”

“Oh.” Daniel snuggled closer. Sylvia rocked the chair gently, her voice soft and low.

“This prince was the son of the great sea king. They lived in a palace with gold and jewels and all sorts of treasure. It was a beautiful place. But there was just one thing the prince wanted—and it was the one thing he couldn’t have.”

“What was that?” Daniel asked.

“He wanted to walk on land. He wanted to see mountains and rivers, birds and animals and everything that was there. But the prince couldn’t walk. Instead of legs, he had a tail like a fish. He could only swim, so he had to stay in the water.

“One night, while the prince was swimming, a storm blew in. A huge wave picked him up and swept him right onto the beach. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the sand. Where his tail had been, he had two fine, strong legs. The prince was delighted. He stood up, took a few practice steps and set out to explore the land.”

“But he wouldn’t have any clothes on,” Daniel muttered drowsily.

“Oh, dear, you’re right!” Sylvie exclaimed. “Maybe he could make some out of seaweed. Or just say a magic word, and the clothes would be there. What do you think?”

But there was no answer from Daniel. He had fallen asleep.

Brushing a kiss onto his forehead, she lifted him in her arms and carried him to bed. She’d been a girl of thirteen when her father’s second wife, a sweet-faced Mexican woman, had died in childbirth. Sylvie had taken the tiny black-haired baby and kept him alive on goat’s milk. Now, after six years, she couldn’t imagine a real mother loving her child any more than she loved Daniel.

With a sigh, she settled back into the rocking chair and picked up her book. Her father usually brought her a used book or two each time he returned from San Francisco. By now, the books filled several shelves on the far wall. Tonight she was reading Moby Dick, a weighty novel about hunting whales. The book was filled with enthralling description, but Sylvie wasn’t sure she liked it. She had glimpsed whales from the top of the cliff. For all their great size, they’d seemed as peaceful as grazing cows, nothing like the monsters in Herman Melville’s book. And the story was all about men! The only women in it were the ones who stood on the dock with mournful faces, watching their menfolk sail away.

It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t women travel the earth and have adventures, too?

Sometimes when Sylvie gazed into the ribbed ceiling of their ship-turned-house, she wondered where it had journeyed before the sea cast it into the cove below the cliff. Had it beat the battering waves around Cape Horn? Sailed into Canton for a cargo of tea? Brought fortune seekers to the California gold fields?

Through the pages of her books, Sylvie had traveled the world. Paris, New York, Cairo, Zanzibar, Bombay…The names sang like music in her head. She could almost imagine herself strolling the bazaars, fingering silks, sampling exotic foods, wandering through ancient palaces. But she knew it was only a dream. Even if she had the money to travel, how could she ever leave Daniel or take the boy away from his father?

Even a visit to San Francisco would ease her wanderlust, she thought. She remembered the place dimly from her childhood, but she hadn’t been there since before Daniel’s birth. Judging from the occasional newspaper she saw, the sprawling settlement had grown into a vast wonderland of mansions, docks, businesses, fine restaurants and theaters. She yearned to see it for herself. But her father refused to take her and Daniel along on his trips. “San Francisco’s a wicked place,” he was fond of saying. “There’s danger around every corner and sights not fit for a young girl’s eyes. Better you stay safe at home.”

Restless, Sylvie laid her book aside, rose and walked to the door. Sliding back the bolt she stepped out onto the porch. Wind lashed her flannel wrapper. Rain streamed off the low eave. From far below, at the foot of the cliff, surf thundered against the rocks.

Heaven help anyone who had to be out on a night like this.

Shivering, she moved back inside, barred the door and prepared to go to bed. Maybe tomorrow their father would be home. They would hear the creak of wheels on the bluff road, the jingle of harness and the wheezing bray of the tired old mule. If the trip had been a good one, their father would be singing in his hoarse, off-key voice. Then Sylvie would grab Daniel’s hand and they would run down the trail to see what he’d brought them. Aaron Cragun might not be the most sober of men or the most honest. But no one could deny that he loved his children. And they loved him.

What if something had happened to him?

What would they do if he didn’t come home?

By the time Sylvie awoke the next morning, the storm had passed. Dawn shone through the porthole windows in shades of pewter and rose. A crested jay squawked in the crown of a pine tree.

Pulling on a faded gingham dress and a clean apron, she pattered into the kitchen, added a few sticks to the potbellied stove and put some barley coffee and cornmeal mush on to boil. While breakfast was cooking, she made the bed, splashed her face and pulled her pale hair back into a braid. Then she went outside to milk the three nanny goats.

By the time she’d finished, Daniel was up and dressed in a shirt and overalls Sylvie had remade from some old clothes of her father’s. After sending him out to feed the chickens, she sliced some bread and set the table for breakfast.

“Did you wash your hands?” she asked when he appeared at the door a few minutes later.

“Yup, and my face, too.” He sat with her at the table and bowed his head until Sylvie had murmured a few words of grace.

“Can we go down to the cove?” he asked. “You can find the best stuff after a storm.”

“We’ll see. Maybe there’ll be time after we’ve weeded the garden.”

“But I want to go now, while the tide’s low,” he argued. “Why can’t I just go by myself?”

Sylvie spooned fresh cream over his mush and poured him some barley coffee. “It’s too dangerous,” she said. “You could fall, or a big wave could wash you out to sea. And you never know what might be down there. Once I stepped on a sea-urchin spine. My foot was so swollen I couldn’t walk for days. I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

“Then come with me. Please, Sylvie. The weeds will only grow this much before we get back.” He indicated a tiny space with his thumb and forefinger.

Sylvie had to laugh. “All right. But just for a little while. Now, finish your breakfast.”

When breakfast was done and the dishes washed, they set out down the zigzagging cliffside trail. Sylvie carried an empty basket to hold any treasures they might find—delicate shells, chunks of coral, jars and bottles washed up from distant shores. Once, they’d found a brass sextant from a wrecked ship. Another time they’d found a sea chest filled with bolts of soggy cotton fabric, which Sylvie had washed, dried and saved. It troubled her when she thought of it—profiting from shipwrecks in which people had lost their lives. But as her father always said, the things they found would only wash back out to sea and be lost if they left them. How could making use of them be wrong?

His rationale made perfect sense. But there were times when she yearned for a different kind of life—a blessedly ordinary life in a town with friends and neighbors, tree-lined streets, churches, schools and stores. She’d known such a life in the years before her mother died and her father caught gold fever. But now those days seemed as distant as the stars.

Sylvie loved her father and her little brother. And she knew better than to pine for what she couldn’t have. But at times the weight of loneliness threatened to crush her. Most girls her age had friends, relatives and beaux around them. Many of them were even married, with families of their own. Not that she was asking for someone to marry. Not yet, at least. Just to have someone she could talk to—someone real to share her thoughts and dreams—would make all the difference in a world peopled by characters from novels and fairy tales.

As for romantic love, she’d read about it in books, mostly the ones written by her favorite author, Jane Austen. But here, in this isolated spot, the notion seemed as fanciful as the tales she made up for her little brother.

“Hurry, Sylvie!” Daniel called over his shoulder. “I see something down there! It looks like a boat!”

“Stop right there, Daniel Cragun! Wait till I catch up!” Sylvie quickened her pace. The trail was narrow, the sheer cliff more than eighty feet high. Ferns and cascading flowers dotted the rocky face, forming a lush hanging garden. Beyond the black rocks that jutted at the foot of the cliff, a pale crescent of sand, exposed by the low tide, rimmed the cove.

The place was as dangerous as it was beautiful. A fall could mean almost certain death. Daniel was never allowed down the trail without supervision, but the boy always seemed to be testing his limits.

“What did I tell you about running ahead?” Sylvie seized his bony little shoulder. “Do that again, and we’ll go right back to the house.”

“But look, Sylvie! There’s a wrecked boat down there with a big hole in the bottom! Maybe it’s pirates!”

Sylvie peered cautiously over the side of the trail. “It’s just a sailboat, not a pirate ship, silly. But stay behind me until we know what else is down there.”

With Sylvie leading, they wound their way down the trail and over the barnacle-encrusted rocks to the beach. A red crab scuttled beneath a chunk of driftwood. A flock of sandpipers, skimming along the water’s edge, took wing at their approach.

The overturned boat lay on the wet sand. Its hull was smashed along the starboard side, leaving a jagged hole. Since the boat hadn’t been here yesterday, it must have been cast against the rocks in last night’s storm.

Sylvie couldn’t imagine anyone surviving such a wreck. But there were thieves and smugglers operating along the coast, and caution was never a bad idea. Dropping her basket to pick up a hefty stick of driftwood, she approached warily.

Not so Daniel. Pushing ahead of her, he raced around the boat, then stopped as if he’d run into a wall. For the space of a heartbeat he stood frozen. When he turned back to face her, his eyes were dollar-size in his small face.

“Sylvie, there’s someone under the boat,” he whispered. “It’s a man! I can see his legs!”

“Get back here, Daniel! Right now!” Sylvie braced herself for what she was about to find. This wouldn’t be the first body to wash ashore in the cove. But Aaron Cragun had always taken pains to shield his children from the sight of death. He never let them near a wreck until he’d disposed of any remains, either by burial or by rowing out past the point and dumping them where the current would carry them away. Now, with her father absent, Sylvie would be duty-bound to bury this poor drowned soul. But first she wanted to get Daniel away.

“Go up to the garden, find that small shovel and toss it down,” she told her little brother. “Then stay up top and wait for me. Careful on the trail, now. No running.”

He took off like a young goat, agile and confident. “I said no running!” Sylvie shouted after him. He slowed his pace, but she continued to watch until he was safely up. Only then did she turn her attention to the wrecked sailboat.

Daniel’s feet had left prints in the wet sand. Still clutching the driftwood, she followed their trail around the side of the boat. Just as Daniel had said, a pair of muscular legs jutted heels up from under the hull. The trousers were sodden and caked with sand, but Sylvie had learned to recognize fine wool. The waterlogged brown boots were likewise of excellent quality and little worn. Her father, she knew, would expect her to salvage them. But she couldn’t bring herself to rob the dead. She would bury the man clothed, as the sea had left him.

The hull of the wrecked sloop was heavy, but years of hard physical work had left her strong. Grunting with effort, Sylvie managed to lift it by the edge and drag it to one side, exposing the full length of the prone body.

He was tall—much taller than her father. And he appeared younger, too, not much beyond his twenties. His shoulders were broad beneath his tattered white shirt, his haunches taut and muscular. His hair was dark, though not as dark as Daniel’s. A few strands fluttered in the sea breeze, catching the sunlight.

He lay with his head turned to one side. Sylvie’s gaze was drawn to his profile—sun-burnished skin against the pale sand, black lashes crusted with salt, classic features like the pictures of the gods in her book of Greek legends. He appeared far too young and vital to be dead. But the world was a cruel place. Every piece of wreckage the tide swept into the cove was a testament to that cruelty.

Such a man would be missed, she thought. Somewhere he was bound to have family, friends, maybe a wife or sweetheart. If she could find any information on him, a name, an address, she would write a letter and send it with her father the next time he went to San Francisco.

But the stranger had no coat or vest. Whatever he’d worn against the weather, the sea must’ve torn it away. That left his trouser pockets as the only place to look.

Leaving the driftwood chunk within reach, she crouched next to him and worked her fingers into his sodden hip pocket. As she’d feared, it was empty. Groping deeper to make sure, she gasped and drew back. One hand reached for her makeshift weapon. A corpse would be cold and rigid. But her fingers had sensed living flesh.

Trembling, she worked her hand under his collar to touch the hollow alongside his throat. The faintest throb of a pulse ticked against her fingertip. Heaven save her, the man was alive!

“Look out below!” Daniel shouted a warning from the top of the cliff, alerting Sylvie that he was about to fling the shovel down to her.

“No, wait!” she shouted back. “Never mind the shovel. Get some water in the canteen. Close the stopper tight and toss it down.”

“Is he alive?”

She hesitated. “Barely.”

“Can I come down?”

“No. He might be dangerous. Hurry!”

The silence from above told her Daniel had gone to fill the canteen. Turning back to the stranger, she dropped to her knees and scooped the sand out from under his face to give him more air. He was utterly still, no movement, no sound, but the breath from his nostrils warmed her wet fingers.

What now? With effort, she could probably move him. But what if he had broken bones or internal injuries? Pushing and pulling would only make them worse. Still, there was little she could do without turning him over.

For now, he was lying to one side, his left arm pinned under his body. Maybe she could hollow out the sand on that side and use his sinking weight to help her roll him over. That would be the gentlest way to turn him. What happened after that would depend on how badly he was hurt.

Moving to his left, she began scraping away the sand along his length, her bare hands hollowing out a space beneath him. She dug furiously, reaching as far under him as his bulk would allow. As he sank into the recess, his body began to rotate onto its side.

So far her idea was working. But the physical contact was more intimate than anything Sylvie had ever experienced with a man. As the backs of her hands rubbed across bone and solid male muscle, she felt herself growing curiously warm. The unaccustomed heat flowed through her, simmering like the ruby-red jam she made when the wild strawberries ripened in midsummer.

Caution shrilled warnings in her head. She was alone here with a child to protect. Her father had taught her to assume the worst of any stranger who showed up. Saving this man could be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done. But Christian decency demanded that she try.

She could hear the breath whispering in and out of his nostrils. She could feel the warmth of his skin and hear the low rumblings of an empty belly. But he hadn’t opened his eyes or uttered a sound.

Two years ago her father had brought home a dog-eared medical book. Sylvie had read it so many times that she could quote parts of it from memory. But she wasn’t a doctor. And she certainly wasn’t a miracle worker. The plain truth was, the man could die right here on the beach.

But she wouldn’t let herself think of that now.

Her fingers pawed the sand, widening the hollow she’d made. His body was already tilted. Now all that remained was to roll him onto his back.

It was easier than she’d expected. He tumbled over with an audible grunt, the first sound she’d heard from his lips. Sylvie’s breath seemed to stop as she studied him.

His eyes were closed, his hair sand-plastered to his forehead. A purple bruise lay along one cheekbone, a bloodied gash above his temple. For all the battering, he had a noble face—almost princely with its chiseled nose, strong jaw and lightly cleft chin. His features were marred only by a puckered scar that pulled at a corner of his mouth. That slight imperfection gave him a sardonic look, as if he were smiling at some secret joke.

Was this the face of a good man—a man she could trust with her safety and Daniel’s? Or would saving him turn out to be the worst mistake of her life?

Transfixed, Sylvie leaned over him. Her finger skimmed a trail down his bruised cheek. Her touch sent a quiver through his body. Sensing it, she drew back, almost afraid to breathe. A sense of possession stole over her, as if, in saving the man’s life, she’d somehow made him hers.

His closed eyelids twitched. His throat worked. A moan emerged from between his lips, then a single labored word.

“Catriona…”

The name stung like the brush of a nettle. It didn’t matter, Sylvie told herself. She’d known all along he might belong to someone. And wasn’t it a good sign, that the first word out of his mouth was a woman’s name? If he had a wife or sweetheart, how bad could he be?

“Here’s the water, Sylvie.” Daniel’s voice made her start. She glanced around to see him standing just behind her, holding the canteen.

“I told you to stay up top,” she scolded him.

“I wanted to see.” He stared down at the stranger. “Maybe he’s a prince.”

“A prince? Whatever are you talking about, Daniel Cragun?”

“A prince from the sea, like the one in your story.”

Sylvie shook her head. “That’s make-believe, silly. He’s just a man.”

“No! Look!” Daniel pointed to where the stranger’s left hand lay against his side. On his middle finger was a heavy gold signet ring, set with a sapphire the size of Sylvie’s thumbnail.

Under different circumstances, Sylvie would have been intrigued. Right now she had more important things on her mind.

“Get back and stay back,” she told her brother. “I don’t want you too close when he wakes up.”

Kneeling, she cradled the man’s head in her lap, reached for the canteen and twisted out the stopper. She’d need to be careful, lest she cause him to choke.

Raising his head, she tilted the canteen and gave him just enough water to wet his lips. He jerked reflexively, coughing and sputtering.

“Careful,” she said. “Just a sip.”

He groaned, stirring against her. His eyelids fluttered and opened.

His eyes were a deep, dark blue, as blue as the sapphire on his finger. They stared up at her in blank surprise.

“Where am I?” he muttered. “And who the devil are you?”

Chapter Two

He was dead, that had to be it. And those silver eyes looking down at him, set in a porcelain face and haloed by a nimbus of spun-gold hair, belonged to an angel. Or maybe to a beautiful demoness.

He felt like bloody hell, which argued for the demoness theory. His head ached. His eyes burned. Every bone and muscle felt as if it had been pounded like cheap beefsteak. The few words he’d spoken felt as if they had been ripped from the raw depths of his throat.

Worst of all, he had no idea what had happened to him.

“Don’t try to talk.” One cool hand eased his head upward. He felt the metal mouth of a canteen against his chapped lips. “Just a sip for now. Too much might make you sick.”

The water was fresh and cold. He craved more than the swallow he took, but she was right about getting sick. His throat and stomach felt as if they’d been scoured with a holystone. Best to take things slow.

Coming more awake now, he could hear the lap of the tide and the sharp mewl of seabirds. His skin, hair and clothes were gritty with sand. Had he been shipwrecked? It seemed likely enough, but he had no memory of being on a boat. The blankness was unsettling. But no doubt everything would come back once his head cleared.

Pouring water into her hand, she splashed the worst of the grit from his face. The palm that grazed his skin was callused. His mysterious rescuer was no lady of leisure. But there was an ethereal quality about her, like a fairy-tale princess dressed in faded calico. Nothing about her made sense.

She eyed him warily as he tested his hands and feet, stretching his arms and legs. He was sore all over, though nothing seemed to be broken. But his ears were ringing, and his head throbbed with pain.

Only as he shifted his shoulders did it dawn on him that he was lying with his head in her lap. His senses seemed strangely acute. He could feel the shape of her thighs through her thin cotton skirts. He could feel the flatness of her little belly and the warmth of her skin. He could hear the soft cadence of her breathing. The close contact was having a most ungentlemanly effect on him. At least he knew his body was functional. But he was well on his way to making a fool of himself.

With a grunt, he heaved to a sitting position. The dizziness that swept over him blurred his sight for a moment. As it cleared he saw that he was in a cove ringed by jagged rocks and pine-crested cliffs. Beyond the entrance, sunlight glittered on the open sea. Nearby, on the sand, lay the wrecked hull of a boat.

The beauty who’d awakened him knelt at his side, one hand resting on a club-shaped chunk of driftwood. Peeking around her shoulder with wide brown eyes was a small, black-haired boy.

Lord, who were these people? Where was he?

The boy stepped into full view. His feet were bare, but his clothes were clean and well mended. He looked the newcomer up and down, his eyes sparkling with childish curiosity.

“Are you a prince, mister?” the boy demanded.

He managed to find his voice. “A prince?” he rasped. “Do I look like a prince to you?”

“Maybe a little.” The boy frowned, then brightened. “If you aren’t a prince, where did you get that ring on your finger?”

He raised his left hand to look. The fathomless blue sapphire, framed in gold, gleamed in the sunlight. If the stone was real the ring could be worth a small fortune. It was hard to believe these people hadn’t stolen it from him.

“Well, what about it?” the boy demanded. “If you’re not a prince where did you get that ring?”

“Where are your manners, Daniel?” the young woman scolded. “The gentleman’s our guest, not our prisoner.” She turned, her expression still guarded. The sea wind fluttered tendrils of sunlit hair around her face. “I’m Sylvie Cragun,” she said. “This is my brother, Daniel. And who might you be, sir?”

Her speech was formal, almost schoolbookish. She seemed to be well educated, or at least well-read, he observed. Odd, given her faded dress and work-worn hands. His gaze flickered to the driftwood club. Her manner was friendly enough, but something told him that, at his first suspicious move, she’d crack it against his skull.

Her silvery eyes narrowed. “Your name, sir, if you’d be so kind. And it would be a courtesy to tell us where you’ve come from.”

“My name is…” He hesitated, groping for an answer to the question. But nothing came to mind—not his name, not his family or his occupation, not his home or his reason for being here.

She was watching him, her gaze growing stormier by the second. He shook his head, the slight motion triggering bursts of pain. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. “God help me, I don’t remember anything.”

Sylvie stared at the stranger. She’d read about memory loss. The medical book said it was most commonly caused by a blow to the head. The gash above his temple made that explanation plausible. But that didn’t mean it was true. Until she knew more, she’d be foolish to believe anything he told her.

“You can’t remember your own name?” Daniel asked in wonder.

“Not at the moment.” His wry chuckle sounded forced. “Give me a little time, it’ll come.”

“But if you don’t know your name, what can we call you?” Daniel persisted.

He shrugged. “For now, anything. You decide.”

Daniel pondered his choices. “Rumpelstiltskin?” he ventured. “I like that story a lot.”

“I was hoping for something shorter,” the stranger muttered.

“Can’t you think of an easier name, Daniel?” Sylvie asked.

The boy’s frown deepened. He pondered a moment, then sighed. “I can’t think of anything good. Will you help me, Sylvie?”

“Let me think.” As Sylvie scrambled to resolve the question, the opening line from the book she’d been reading flashed into her mind.

Call me Ishmael…

Ishmael, the wanderer cast up by the sea, with no last name and no home. What could be more fitting?

“We will call you Ishmael,” she said.

The scarred corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I take it you’ve been reading your Bible,” he said. “That, or Moby Dick.”

“Either way, I think it suits you.” Sylvie’s face warmed as their gazes met. Here was a man who’d read the same book she was reading. A literate man—a gentleman perhaps, who could teach her something about the world. True, he might be pledged or even married to someone else. But surely there could be no harm in a friendly exchange.

As she rose to her feet, the realization struck her.

The man who couldn’t remember his own name had remembered a book he’d read.

Memory loss could be selective, she supposed. But what if he was lying to hide his identity and win her trust? He could be a fugitive running from the law, maybe a ruffian who’d take cruel advantage of a woman and child. There were such men, she knew. Her father had warned her about them. “Keep the shotgun handy when I’m away, girl,” he’d told her. “If a stranger comes in the gate, pull the trigger first and ask questions later.”

The old single-barrel shotgun lay ready on a rack above the cabin door. Sylvie knew how to load the shot and black powder and set the percussion cap. Her aim was good enough to bring down ducks and pigeons for the cooking pot. But she’d never fired at a human target.

Could she do it if she had to? Could she point the weapon at this compelling stranger, pull the trigger and blast him to kingdom come?

She could, and she would, to protect her little brother, Sylvie vowed. Nothing was more important than Daniel’s safety.

But she wouldn’t let things get to that point. She would keep the gun close and watch the man’s every move. At the first sign of suspect behavior she would send him packing. It sounded like a good plan. But she was already at a disadvantage. The stranger was bigger, stronger and likely craftier than she was. In saving his life, she’d already put herself and Daniel at risk.

Maybe she should have left him under the boat to drown in the tide.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, Sylvie knew she couldn’t have done such a thing. She couldn’t condemn a stranger who had not yet done them any harm. Every life was precious in its own way. How could she presume to judge who was worthy to live?

She could only do what was humane and what was reasonable—and what was prudent, which in this case meant staying on her guard.

“How did you two get here?” He squinted up at her, the sun glaring in his eyes. “You didn’t come out of nowhere.”

“Our cabin’s up there, at the top of the cliff.” She glanced toward the high-water line, where barnacles clustered white against the rocks. “The tide covers this beach when it comes in. You can’t stay here, and we can’t carry you up the trail. That leaves you with three choices—walk, crawl or drown.”

“Well, I don’t think much of the last one.” He shifted, wincing with pain as he struggled to get his legs beneath him. “Mind giving me a hand?”

She reached for his outstretched fingers. Glinting on his sapphire ring, the sun scattered rainbows over the white sand. The powerful hands that closed around hers were smooth and uncallused. Maybe he was a gentleman after all. Or, more likely, a handsome criminal who lived by his wits.

“Ready?” He pulled against her slight weight. Sylvie braced backward as he staggered to his feet. Standing, he was even taller than she’d realized. Swaying like a tree in the wind, he loomed a full head above her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Just dizzy,” he muttered. “Head hurts some.”

“Here, have some more water.” She handed him the canteen. “If you want to rest awhile, there’s time before the tide comes in.”

“No. Might get worse.” Lifting the canteen, he drank deeply, then returned it to her. “Let’s go now.”

Daniel had been standing to one side, watching wide-eyed. Their father was a small, wiry man, and the boy had seen only a few other adults. To him, this stranger must look like a giant.

“Take the canteen and go on ahead, Daniel,” Sylvie said. “Be careful, now. Wait for us at the top.”

As Daniel scurried toward the trail, she cast around the beach for a scrap of driftwood to serve as a walking stick. Finding a suitable length, she thrust it toward the man she’d named Ishmael. “This will steady you. If you get dizzy, drop to your knees. I’ll be right behind you, but if you fall, you’re on your own. I can’t hold your weight.”

“Understood.” She could feel his eyes taking her measure, perusing every curve and angle. He’d made no move to touch her, but the intimacy of that gaze sent a thread of heat through her body. She lowered her eyes, staring down at her feet. There was a beat of silence in which nothing moved. Then he took the stick from her, tested it in the sand and turned away to follow Daniel up the cliff.

The trail was slippery from last night’s downpour. It was so narrow that in some spots, Ishmael, who was still getting used to his new name, had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders between the cliff and the trail’s sheer edge. He couldn’t recall having been afraid of heights, but looking over the side was enough to make his stomach lurch.

Well ahead of him now, the boy climbed with the easy confidence of a monkey. A prince, the child had called him. It struck Ishmael as an innocent joke. Right now, the last thing he felt like was a prince. He was damp and filthy, with waterlogged boots, salt-stung skin, a bruised body and a throbbing head that couldn’t remember a damn thing worth knowing. So far, all he’d recognized was a name from a book about a white whale and a one-legged captain. He could remember the entire story, but he couldn’t remember reading it.

Call me Ishmael…

It was the name that had triggered his memory. Maybe, given time, more names would spark more memories until they came together like the pieces of a puzzle, to make his mind whole again.

Meanwhile, it was as if he was wandering blindfolded through a maze with nothing to guide his way.

The sapphire ring could be the key to his identity. But so far it meant nothing to him. He’d been startled, in fact, to see it on his finger. Did it mean he was wealthy? Or that he belonged to an important family? Ishmael grimaced, half-amused at such grandiose ideas. He could just as easily be a thief who’d stolen the damn thing. He’d probably been shipwrecked while running from the law.

From the trail behind him came the light sound of breathing and the swish of calico against bare legs. He checked the urge to turn and look at his pretty rescuer. Dizzy as he was, a backward glance could send him pitching off the trail. The temptation wasn’t worth the risk. But that couldn’t stop him from thinking about her.

Was she wearing anything under that calico skirt? He imagined those legs walking, thigh brushing satiny thigh…

Damnation! He couldn’t let himself get distracted by those thoughts when every step took so much concentration. A fine thing that would be, to survive shipwreck only to tumble down a cliff from fantasies about a woman’s skirts. He willed the image away but allowed her eyes to linger in his memory. Framed by thick mahogany lashes, they were the color of a dawn sky in the moment before the sun’s rays touched the clouds.

Sylvie. The name was as innocent and elusive as she was. He liked the sound of it. He liked her. Memory or no memory, it was clear that he had an eye for the ladies. But he’d be a fool to start anything with this one. She was young, not much more than twenty by his reckoning. And she probably had a daddy with a shotgun waiting to blast any man who laid a hand on her. Even if she didn’t, he would keep his proper distance. Trifling with such a creature would be like crushing a butterfly.

Ishmael was surprised to discover that he had a conscience. It was puzzling, given that he had no idea who he’d been before he opened his eyes on the beach. Did he have manners? Principles? Was he honest? Had he been taught to respect women?

He could be married, he realized. He could have a wife and children waiting for him, back wherever he’d come from. All the more reason to keep his distance from the intriguing Miss Sylvie Cragun.

The boy had reached the top of the trail and vanished above the rim. Ishmael willed himself to keep plodding upward. The dizziness seemed to be getting worse. Cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath came in labored gasps, but he pushed himself to keep moving. He hadn’t come this far to die falling off a blasted cliff. Besides, there was something else driving him forward, something urgent, he sensed, that had to be done. If only he could remember what it was.

Questions clamored in his head, beating like black wings. So many questions, all demanding answers.

“Tell me where I am.” He raised his voice to be heard above the rushing waves below. “Does this place have a name?”

“The only name we call it is home,” Sylvie replied. “It’s not any kind of town, just a cabin in the forest. Keep moving, and you’ll see it in a minute.”

“No, I mean where is it? Where are we?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Would I be asking if I did?” His foot slipped on a clump of moss. He jabbed the stick into the trail, legs shaking as he righted himself.

The next time she spoke she was closer, less than a pace behind him. “You’re two days’ wagon ride north of San Francisco. Since the boat we found with you is a small one, I’d guess that’s where you came from. Does that sound right?”

“No more or less than anything else does.”

“You don’t remember San Francisco?”

He raked his memory, using the name as a trigger. San Francisco. Fog, rain and mud. The cry of a fish hawker. The smells of tar, salt and rotting garbage. He groped for more, but the impressions were dimmed, like something from his boyhood. He remembered nothing that made him think he’d been there recently. He shook his head. “It’ll come. Maybe after I’ve rested. What…what date is it?”

“It’s Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of March. Living here, it’s easy to lose track, but I mark off each day on a calendar.”

“What year?”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “It’s 1858. You don’t even remember what year it is?”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Except the name of a character in a book.”

Ishmael had no answer for that. With all that remained of his strength, he dragged himself over the top of the cliff. Breathing like a winded horse, he leaned on his makeshift walking stick and filled his eyes with what he saw.

Close at hand, anchored near the cliff’s edge, was a complex system of pulleys and windlasses attached to what looked like a harness for a horse or mule. Best guess, it was rigged to haul heavy loads up from the beach—most likely wreckage that had washed into the cove. In the near distance a low buck fence surrounded a cabin that was unlike anything his eyes had ever seen—at least, so far as he could remember.

The roof and sides were all of a piece, fashioned of weathered oaken planks that were shaped and sealed to watertight smoothness. Seconds passed before Ishmael realized he was looking at the overturned hull of a schooner, mounted on a low foundation of logs to make a sturdy home. A nearby windmill, for pumping well water, turned in the ocean breeze.

“My father built all this.” Sylvie had come up the path to stand beside him. “He cut a wrecked ship into sections and used pulleys like these to haul them into place. We’ve lived here for almost eight years.”

“That’s quite a piece of engineering.” He willed himself to stand straight and to speak in a coherent way.

“My father is a clever man, and a hard worker. He takes good care of us.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother died before we came here. Daniel’s mother died when he was born.”

“I’d like to meet your father. Is he here?”

Her eyes glanced away. Her fingers tightened around the driftwood club she’d carried up from the beach. “Not right now,” she said, “but we’re expecting him home at any time. He’s probably just coming up the road.”

She didn’t trust him. Even through the haze of his swimming senses, Ishmael could tell that much. But how could he blame her? She and the boy were alone here, and he was a stranger.

Surely she had nothing to fear from him. Only a monster would harm a woman and child. And he wasn’t a monster. At least he didn’t feel like one. But how could be sure, when he had no idea what sort of man he was? He could be a thief, a murderer, the worst kind of criminal, and not even be aware of it.

He raised a hand to his temple, fingering the swollen lump and the crust of dried blood that covered it. Pain throbbed like a drumbeat in his head. He’d suffered one sockdolager of a blow. That would explain his memory loss. But would the damage heal? Would his memory return? For all he knew, he could live the rest of his life without remembering who he was or where he’d come from.

Dizziness hazed Ishmael’s vision. He tried to walk, but stumbled on the first step. Only the stick saved him from falling headlong.

“Are you all right?” Sylvie’s eyes swam before him. She had beautiful eyes, like silvery tide pools, their centers deep and dark. “Can you make it to the house?”

“Try…” The ground seemed to be rolling like a ship’s deck under his feet.

“Let me help you.” She thrust her strength under his arm, her slight body braced against his. Leaning heavily, he staggered forward. Her muscles strained against his side. Ishmael forced himself to keep going. If his legs gave out, he would be dead weight for her to move.

“Just a little farther,” she urged. “Come on, you can make it.”

But she was wrong. He knew it by the time he’d dragged himself a half-dozen steps. His legs wobbled; his gaze was a thickening moiré. As they passed through the gate in the fence, the blackness won the battle. His legs folded and he collapsed, carrying her down with him to the wet grass.

Sylvie felt his legs give way, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold him. Still clutching his side, she went down under his weight. The grass cushioned their fall, but she found herself spread-eagle beneath him, pinned to the ground. For a moment she lay there, damp, exhausted and breathless. His head rested against her shoulder, stubbled chin cradled against her breasts.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, hear the rasp of air in and out of his lungs. His eyes were closed, eyelids hooded by inky brows. Black Irish—the term flitted through her memory. She’d heard her father use it, and not in a complimentary way. Was this the sort of man he’d meant?

Whoever he was, he was strangely, compellingly beautiful. But even in his helpless condition Sylvie sensed an aura of danger. A man wouldn’t sail this far up the coast on a pleasure outing. What if some dark intent had brought him this far? Whatever the circumstances, she had to get him up.

Working one arm free, she jabbed a finger at his cheek. “Ishmael? Can you hear me?”

He didn’t answer. Only then did she realize his body was unusually warm beneath his damp clothes. More than warm. Heaven save her, the man was burning up.

Shoving his face away, she began to struggle. His limp frame felt as heavy as a downed elk, but she managed to roll him to one side. As she scrambled free, he sagged onto his back with a low grunt. When she pushed to her knees and bent over him she saw that his eyes were open, but fever-glazed. She’d nursed her father through a couple of bad spells and she knew the signs.

Heavy-lidded, he gazed up at her. “Whatever we were doing down here, it was nice,” he muttered groggily. “Wouldn’t mind a bit more…”

“Hush. You’re ill. We’ve got to get you to bed.” She scanned the yard. Where was her brother? Why was the little imp always disappearing at the wrong time? “Daniel!” she called.

The boy trotted around the corner of the house, followed by the young spotted goat he’d adopted as a pet. “Where have you been?” she scolded him. “I told you to wait for us.”

“Ebenezer was hungry. I was getting his breakfast.”

“Ebenezer’s big enough to eat grass. Give me the canteen. Then go and fetch the flat cart. We need to get this man in the house.”

The canteen was still slung around Daniel’s neck by its woven strap. Slipping it over his head, he tossed it toward her, then scurried off to get the two-wheeled cart their father used for hauling salvage from the cliff top to the shed.

She lifted Ishmael’s head then tilted the canteen to his lips. He drank as greedily as caution would allow, gulping the water down his throat. Lowering the canteen, Sylvie dampened her hand and brushed the moisture over his face. The coolness startled him. He jerked, blinking up at her.

“Can you get to your knees? My brother’s bringing a cart, but we can’t lift you onto it.”

“I can walk.” His voice was slurred. “Just need a little help…”

He began to struggle. Sylvie seized his hands, bracing until he could get his legs beneath his frame. He staggered to his feet, clinging to her for balance. Again she was struck by his height and size. Such a man could be formidable. But right now he was as helpless as a newborn lamb.

Until she knew more about him, it might be smart to keep him that way.

Chapter Three

Sylvie slumped on the bedside stool in her father’s room. Getting the stranger to bed had been all she could do. He’d insisted on walking, but he’d reeled like a drunkard all the way. Only her support had kept him upright. Now he sprawled on the patchwork coverlet where he’d fallen like tall timber under a lumberman’s ax. His sand-encrusted boots dangled over the foot of the too-short mattress.

Now what? Sylvie’s muscles were jelly. Sweat plastered her dress and her muslin chemise against her skin. Uncertainty gnawed at her mind. Letting this man die was out of the question. She would do everything in her power to save him. But how would she deal with him if he survived?

Like a sick and injured wolf, he was helpless now. But once he recovered there was no guarantee he wouldn’t turn on her, with no more gratitude than a wild beast.

If only her father was home. Aaron Cragun understood things that couldn’t be learned from books. He would know how to handle this situation. But until he returned, she was on her own. And her first priority was to make him well again. Worrying about protecting herself from him could wait until then.

“Is he going to die?” Daniel stood in the doorway, his small face sad and puzzled.

“Not if I can help it.” She willed herself to stand. “Keep an eye on him while I put some willow bark tea on to boil. Then we’ll get him out of his wet clothes and under the covers.”

She kept a supply of dried willow bark in an empty coffee tin. Daniel’s mother had taught her there was nothing better for fevers, and Sylvie had made good use of it over the years. Adding some bark strips to a kettle of water, she set it on the stove to boil and hurried back to the bedroom.

She found Daniel at the foot of the bed, straining to pull off one of Ishmael’s waterlogged boots. The boy was leaning backward, about to topple.

“Here, we’ll do it together.” Sylvie reached around her brother to work one stubborn boot loose, then the other. As she peeled the wet woolen stockings off his feet, Sylvie noticed the hole in one toe.

A wife would have mended it… But what was she thinking? Married or single, it was no business of hers. Right now her only concern was saving his life.

“Wash these out in the trough and hang them up where the goats won’t get them,” she said, handing the stockings to Daniel. “Then you can rinse out the boots under the pump and stick them upside down on the fence posts. Make sure they’re in the sun, all right? We don’t want them getting moldy.”

He scampered off to do her bidding. Such a happy little boy, so full of life and mischief. She would die before she let anything happen to him.

But right now there was Ishmael, half out of his mind and soaked to the skin. She needed to get him out of those wet clothes.

His teeth had begun to chatter. Sylvia darted into the kitchen to check on the willow bark. The water was just beginning to simmer. It would need to come to a full boil, then steep for a few minutes before it was strong enough to do any good. That would just give her time to get her patient undressed and under the covers.

Returning to the bedroom, she resolved to start with his shirt. Cutting it off would be the easiest way. But he would need his clothes when—she wouldn’t say if—his condition improved. He was too long of limb to wear anything of her father’s.

His eyes were closed, his breathing a shallow rumble. Pneumonia from the chilly water, most likely, but she couldn’t be sure. She only knew enough to keep him warm, dose him on willow bark and maybe steam him to clear his lungs.

That, and pray.

Her fingers shook as she freed his shirt buttons. The sun had dried the fine linen fabric on the way up the trail, but the woolen undershirt beneath was wet from seawater and sweat. He moaned incoherently, barely aware of her as she worked the garment off him, pulling it over his arms and his dark head. His pale gold skin was nicked with scars, his chest dusted with crisp black hair. But this was no time to pay attention to such things. He was shivering. She needed to get him warm.

Sylvie had left the bedclothes turned up to keep them dry. Now, with his inert body on top of the quilt, there was no easy way to cover him.

Racing into the next room, she pulled the quilted coverlet off her own bed and returned to lay it over him. His eyes were closed. His dry lips moved as if he were trying to speak.

“Don’t try to talk,” she soothed him. “You’ll be warmer soon, and I’ll get you some tea for the fever.”

The tone of her voice gave Sylvie pause. She was speaking as she might speak to Daniel. But this stranger was no child. He was a powerful male who might take advantage of a woman he saw as meek and tender. She needed to let him know who was in charge here.

And since she needed to strip him of his wet trousers and drawers, there was no time like the present.

The task she faced was a daunting one. She’d cared for Daniel since he was a baby, but she knew little about the bodies of grown men. Her father, mindful of a young girl’s sensitivities, had taken care not to expose himself. The very thought of seeing a strange man’s nakedness was enough to make Sylvie blush. But she had a plan. Under the cover of the quilt, she could work his garments down and pull them off his legs, leaving him modestly covered.

Crouching at the edge of the mattress, she steeled her resolve, reached under the quilt and began fumbling with his belt buckle.

Through a red fog of fever, Ishmael sensed that somebody was unfastening his trousers. The light touch suggested a woman’s hand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded. But if the lady was bent on a bit of fun, why was she being so stealthy about it? Why not just wake him up and give him a chance to cooperate?

Only one thing made sense. The little slut was trying to rob him.

His hand flashed out and seized her wrist. With a cry she reeled back, struggling to pull away. But even sick, he possessed an iron grip, and he wasn’t about to release his hold.

“Let go of me!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?”

He forced his eyes open. His vision swam, but the blurred image of her face bending over him confirmed that she was pretty. “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself to my pockets…” The words came out slurred and garbled. What was wrong with his tongue?

“You’re sick.” She sounded like a schoolmarm scolding a backward child. “I’m just trying to get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”

“Seems t’ me you’d have better luck if you got out of your own clothes first.”

“Stop it!” she hissed. “If you weren’t out of your mind, I’d slap your face.”

“A l’il rough stuff might be fun, if that’s what you enjoy. I aim to please…” He could feel himself sinking again. It was hard to breathe, even harder to think. His fingers loosened around her wrist. He felt her pull free as the fog closed around him.

“Stay awake!” Her hand seized his jaw and gave it a firm shake. “Once I get your clothes off, you’ll need to get under the covers. After that I’ll dress your head wound and give you something for the fever.”

“Fever…?” He mouthed the word. Strange he should have a fever when his skin had shrunk to shivering goose bumps. And now the woman’s hands were fooling with his trousers again, her fingers undoing the buttons and untying the tape that held up his drawers. Not that he was in a mood to argue—the sensation was not the least bit unpleasant. But he was still uncertain whether she was a nurse, a pickpocket or a whore.

“Now!” She yanked the waist of his pants and drawers, peeling them down his body and off his feet in one wrenching motion. By the time she’d left him naked beneath the quilt she was winded from the effort. Ishmael could hear her breathy gasps from the foot of the bed. His head had begun to fog again—a good thing, that. The words his mouth was too muzzy to speak would probably have gotten his face slapped.

He heard the splat of wet clothes dropping to the floor. “I’m going to turn down the bed,” she said. “You’ll need to get up for a few seconds.”

“Try…” He could barely lift his head. He was as weak as a newborn kitten.

“Here.” She bent down and slid a hand under his bare shoulders. “You can move onto the stool by the bed. Hang on to that quilt.”

Yes, the damn quilt. It mattered to her that he stay covered, Ishmael realized. Whoever she was, she was a female of tender sensibilities. A lady? She looked too poor for that. More like an innocent, church-bred girl. He’d do well to curb his tongue.

Wisps of corn-silk hair brushed his face as she bent over him. She smelled of sea air and homemade soap, fresh and clean. How could he have misjudged such a creature?

Or was he misjudging her now? His thoughts were wandering like half-witted sheep without a herder.

Her arm was beneath his shoulders now. She was straining to lift him, but his dead weight was too much for her. Gripping the quilt with one hand, he worked his free arm underneath his body and pushed himself up. Caught off guard, she stumbled backward against the wall. Fear flashed in her startled eyes, but only for an instant. As she righted herself, her pretty face took on a look of grim determination.

“It’s all right, girl,” he mumbled. “Do what you need to. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“And neither do you, as long as you behave yourself,” she snapped. “Now, get out of the way while I turn down the bed.”

Keeping a grip on the quilt, he hoisted himself onto the stool. Being upright made the dizziness worse. The ringing in his ears was like a howling gale. An impression flashed through his mind—crashing waves, the pitching deck, the blue-white glare of lightning on wave-slicked rocks, then blackness. Was it a memory or only a trick of the fever? Whatever it had been, it was gone.

Sylvie barely had time to throw back the covers before he slumped on the stool. She seized his shoulders, tipping him toward the bed as he fell. He crashed onto his left side, his legs trailing off the bed. The quilt slipped to the floor.

“Ishmael, can you hear me?” She leaned over him. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He gave no sign that he’d heard her. Averting her gaze, she boosted his legs onto the mattress and flung the blankets over his body. Then she picked up the quilt and laid it on top of him. Even that, she feared, wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm.

He’d begun to shake again. His teeth chattered as Sylvie tucked the blankets around his shoulders. From the kitchen she could hear the faint whistle as steam escaped from the boiling kettle. She raced for the stove to lift it off the heat. A few minutes of steeping and the willow bark tea would be ready. She could only pray it would help. It was the strongest thing she had.

While she waited, she would dress his head wound.

Daniel’s Mexican mother had taught her what little she knew about herbs and poultices. One of the most useful remedies was a salve made of pine tar. Sylvie kept a jar of it handy for the scrapes and bumps that befell her active little brother. But she’d never treated anything as serious as the gash on Ishmael’s head. She could only hope it wouldn’t need stitches.

After tearing strips from an old flannel nightgown, she filled a bowl with warm water and returned to the bedroom. Ishmael lay on his side with his eyes closed. His body shook with chills.

Bending over him, she sponged away the sand-encrusted blood. The wound wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, but the bruised swelling around it indicated a fearsome blow, certainly hard enough to cause memory loss.

She applied salve to the wound, then made a cold compress of raw potato slices to bring down the swelling. For the deeper damage, there was no cure but time.

She bound his head with flannel strips and took a moment to check on Daniel. By then the tea was ready. As she carried the first cupful into the bedroom she could only hope he’d be able to swallow, and that the willow bark would do its work.

She would do all she could. But in the end, Ishmael’s survival was in the hands of fate.

Breathing was torture. In spite of that, he slept, woke and slept again, drifting between fever and quaking chills. He was dimly aware of a hand supporting his head, a spoon forcing bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. At first he resisted, gagging and sputtering. But he soon discovered that his tormentor would not give up. It was less taxing to swallow than to fight.

Sometimes he dreamed—vague, murky images that floated through his mind, unconnected to any meaning. A woman took form, tall, with cerulean eyes and a glorious mane of dark curls. Draped in burgundy satin, she was laughing, singing, teasing an audience of fantastically dressed skeletons. She glanced toward him with a saucy smile, then turned away and walked offstage to melt into a swirl of darkness. Sensing some evil presence, he called to her—Catriona! But there was no answer. She was gone and he knew, somehow, that he would never see her again.

In rare, clear moments, he rose to the surface, like a swimmer coming up for air. At such times, he glimpsed the glow of candlelight and a pair of calm gray eyes gazing down at him. His mind reached toward those eyes in a way that his hands couldn’t. They were his link to awareness, beacons to steady him on his wayward course.

In other moments there were hands smoothing wetness on his face, hands spooning the hot, bitter liquid down his throat again and again, forcing him to submit. He had no idea how much time had passed. When he next resurfaced, the flickering candle and the surrounding darkness told him it was night. But was it the first night, or one night of many? He had lost all sense of time. The only things that felt real, that anchored him to reality, were those beautiful gray eyes… .

Three days later, toward dawn, the fever broke. Sylvie had sagged forward into a doze, her head resting lightly on his chest. So attuned had she become to his labored breathing that the change woke her. She sat up with a jerk. The candle had guttered out, but the fading sky, through the porthole window, cast its pewter light on Ishmael’s face. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his jaw dark with stubble. His cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat.

He was snoring gently, his body relaxed in sleep, and when she reached out to touch him, his forehead felt cool and damp. She’d feared for his life as the fever peaked, but whether by dint of his physical strength, her own feeble nursing skills or the hand of Providence, it appeared he was going to live.

How much would he remember when he opened his eyes? Would he awaken with full recall of who he was and how he’d come here? Or would he still be Ishmael the castaway, the man with no memories?

She had little doubt the memories were there, locked away in the depths of his mind. Last night, while the fever raged, he’d called out Catriona again, not once but twice. Whoever this Catriona was, his attachment to her was strong enough to pierce the veil over his memory.

Exhausted, she rose from the stool and stretched her aching limbs. Now that he was sleeping peacefully, all she wanted was to stagger off to her own bed and fall between the sheets. But how could she leave him to wake with no recollection of where he was? In his confusion, he could wreck the house, stagger off the cliff or wander into the forest. Worse, he could harm her or Daniel.

There was no way she dared leave him to wake up alone. But after three long days and nights of nursing she was exhausted. She needed rest.

She took a moment to check on Daniel, who slept in the loft above her own room. At first he’d spent most of the time popping in and out of the sickroom, running small errands and asking endless questions. By now he was worn out. He sprawled on his pallet, eyes closed in slumber. With luck the boy would sleep on for hours.

Returning to the bedroom, Sylvie was struck by a daring idea. Ishmael was sleeping so soundly it would likely take an earthquake to rouse him. And the bed where he lay was the one her father had shared with Daniel’s mother. It was big enough for two people to lie side by side.

Her eyes measured the space between Ishmael’s body and the wall. There was just room enough for her to fit. She could lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, with the extra quilt pulled over her for warmth. Surely there could be no impropriety in that.

With the last of her strength, she crept into the narrow space and stretched out against the wall. The top quilt was just wide enough to tug over her body.

The wall side was chilly, but Ishmael’s body was warm. How would it be, she wondered, to be married to a man and sleep next to him almost every night of her life?

The question was no more than a flicker of thought. Lulled by Ishmael’s breathing, she drifted into sleep.

The first sound he heard was the crow of a rooster. Drowsy and disoriented, he blinked himself awake. Sunlight streamed through the open porthole window on the far wall.

A porthole? A rooster? Where in hell’s name was he?

He sank back onto the pillow, dredging his memory. Had he been sick? The dull ache in his head told him something was out of sorts. Seconds passed before his exploring hand discovered the wrapping and the soggy poultice beneath it. He wasn’t just sick. He’d evidently been hurt. And now he was lying naked in a strange bed.

Only when he tried to sit up did he realize he wasn’t alone. A slight body lay on top of the covers, anchoring them to the bed. Not just a body. A warm, breathing body.

Moving cautiously, he rolled onto his side and raised himself on one elbow.

His breath caught.

The girl was lying alongside him, stretched against the wall. Her eyes were closed, her sun-gold hair a mass of tangles on the pillow. In the morning light, her parted lips were a soft, dewy pink. Unlike him, she appeared to be fully clothed.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he allowed his gaze to linger. Sylvie—he remembered her name now. And he remembered her bending over him, weary-eyed, to force that god-awful concoction down his throat again and again. Whatever it was, it must have worked. He actually felt as if he was going to live.

What else could he remember? He had a vague impression of climbing a steep cliffside trail, and seeing a house made from an upside-down ship. He must be inside the house now. That would account for the porthole on the wall behind him. And before that, he remembered Sylvie helping him to his feet on the beach, telling him about the tides and christening him with the name Ishmael. But everything prior to that was blank. It was as if a dense fog had closed in, obscuring everything he’d ever known.

Lord help him, why couldn’t he remember?

Maybe the girl, Sylvie, knew more than she’d told him. In his impatience, he was tempted to wake her, seize her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her. But she looked so innocent in her sleep. And it would be farcical to take matters into his own hands while he was as naked as a jaybird under the bedcovers.

What had the creature done with his clothes? If she was trying to keep him prisoner, she’d come up with a clever way. He couldn’t get very far stripped and barefoot, could he?

Restless, he straightened his bent legs and stretched them over the foot of the bed. He was rewarded with a hellish cramp in his left calf. Cursing under his breath, he yanked himself upright and seized the knotted muscle.

Sylvie’s eyes flew open. She sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest like a shield. “Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.

“Hurting,” he growled.

“What’s the matter? Do you need help?”

“Blasted charley horse. Need to get up and stretch.”

“I’ll cover my eyes.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Go out and get my clothes, wherever you’ve stashed them.”

“I rinsed them, hung them to dry and put them away for you. But you don’t look strong enough to be up.”

“I’m damn well strong enough to get my clothes on. Now, go get them. Go!” With the last word, he swung his legs to the floor, turning the expanse of his bare back toward her.

“Oh!” With a gasp of indignation, she flung the quilt aside, sprang off the foot of the bed and fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

He stood and stretched the agony out of his leg. He’d been hard on the girl. Too hard, given that she’d probably saved his life. But if she thought she was going to keep him locked up and buck naked, she had a few things to learn. He was getting out of here even if he had to wrap up in the sheet like a damn Roman.

Now that he was up, the dizziness had come back. His head felt as if hammer-wielding gremlins were pounding on his skull. But he was on his feet to stay, he vowed. And he wouldn’t rest until he knew all there was to know about this place and what had happened to him.

Legs quivering, Sylvie sagged against the closed door. For someone who’d resolved to take charge, she was off to a pitiful start. All the wretched man had to do was snap at her and bare his splendid back, and she was out of the room like a scared rabbit.

But that was about to change. He wouldn’t be getting his clothes, or his breakfast, until he’d agreed to her rules.

Moving deliberately, she added kindling to the coals in the stove and put some coffee on to boil. Two nights ago she’d bundled his clean clothes and dry boots and tucked them under the bed in her own room. They were still there, hidden from sight. And she didn’t plan to give them back until she felt it was safe to do so.

After taking a moment to check on the sleeping Daniel, she returned to the closed door. From the room beyond, there was no sound. Sylvie hesitated, one hand on the latch. Was Ishmael waiting to ambush her, maybe lock her in and steal everything he could carry off? Even sick, he appeared strong enough to overpower her.

Walking to the front door, she lifted the loaded shotgun off the rack. Better safe than sorry, she told herself as she thumbed back the hammer, returned to the door and opened it.

Her breath caught in a gasp.

Ishmael lay across the bed, wrapped in the sheet and passed out cold.

Chapter Four

Fog and drizzle blended with the dank smell of the harbor. Behind him, lanterns flashed in the night. Crowds of theatergoers surged against the cordon of police officers that kept them from rushing into the narrow alley.

Recognizing him, the police had let him through at once. Now he was plunging through the murk toward a form sprawled on the grimy cobblestones. His eyes glimpsed a rumpled satin cloak trimmed in ermine, then the flutter of dark hair. A single silver kidskin slipper lay soaking up the rain…

No! Lord have mercy, no!

“Ishmael! Wake up!”

He was being shaken with a force that triggered sparks of pain. He opened his eyes to the glare of sunlight. Sylvie was bending over him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her gray eyes were storms of worry that cut through the remaining fog of sleep.

“What…?” He jerked himself awake.

“Thank goodness!” She drew back, releasing him. “The way you were thrashing and moaning, I was afraid you were having some sort of apoplexy.”

Sun dazzled, he raised his head. “Bad dream, that’s all. Must’ve blacked out.” His hand moved to his head. The wrapping had come loose, and the soggy poultice was threatening to slide down his face. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

She saw the problem. “Of course not. In any case, I’ll want to check that head wound. But I’ll need you sitting up.”

Pushing with his arms, he hoisted himself until the pillow was at his back. Before passing out, he’d used a bedsheet to wrap himself toga style from chest to knee. At least he was decently covered.

He sniffed the morning air. “Glory be, is that coffee I smell?”

“Hold still.” Bracing his head, she unwound the bandage and peeled off what remained of the poultice. “It’s looking better,” she said. “No festering, and the swelling’s down. But there’s no telling what’s happened underneath. Since you just fainted, I’d say you need to stay in bed for a day or two.”

“I asked you a question.”

“I know you did.” She picked up a strip of clean flannel and began winding it tightly around his head. “We’ll leave the poultice off for now. And yes, it’s coffee you can smell. I’ll bring you some after we’ve had a chance to talk.”

He scowled up at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was focused on her task, her deft fingers tightening the bandage and tying the ends in a sturdy knot. Her spunk had surprised him. Little as he remembered about himself, it felt natural to be giving orders. Clearly, Sylvie wasn’t impressed. She had put him neatly in his place.

“Some breakfast would be good, too,” he groused. As if to underscore the words, his stomach gave an audible growl.

“So you’re hungry, are you? That’s a good sign. When Daniel’s up and the chores are done, I’ll make us all some cornmeal mush. Nobody eats till the animals are taken care of. That’s my father’s rule, and it’s mine, as well.”

She was rolling up the leftover wrapping when he noticed the old single-barrel shotgun leaning against the door frame. His hand flashed out to catch her wrist. “What were you planning to do with that gun, Sylvie? Shoot me?”

Her eyes held a glint of steel. “Yes, if it came to that. I have property and a young child to protect. A woman alone can’t be too careful. Now, let go of me this instant.”

He released her wrist. She snatched her hand away and spun toward the door.

“You said we needed to talk,” he called out, stopping her in her tracks. “How about now?”

She turned back, her eyes wary.

“That is, unless you’re planning to shoot me in the next couple of minutes,” he added, his mouth tightening in a twitch of a smile. “Don’t be afraid, Sylvie. I’m so weak I can barely stand. And even if I could hurt you, I wouldn’t.”

“How do I know that? And how do you know that? You don’t even remember who you are.” She hesitated, her gaze narrowing. “Do you?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Then please understand if I don’t trust you.”

“Not sure I even trust myself. But I can’t believe I’d harm you or your little brother. If I’m wrong, you’re welcome to use that shotgun. Now, what is it you want to talk about?”

Her small hands bunched the hem of her apron. She cleared her throat. “Just this. Until my father comes home, I’m the one in charge here.”

“I’m aware of that.” He also sensed that part of the picture was missing. Did she even have a father, or had she invented him as a means of protection? Clearly, the girl hadn’t built this cabin by herself. But there had to be more to the story than what she’d told him.

Sylvie Cragun…Why did the name sound familiar? Blast it, why couldn’t he remember?

“There are rules,” she was saying, “and as long as you’re here, you’re to follow them. First of all, you’re not to lay a finger on Daniel, or on me, or on anything that doesn’t belong to you.”

As if he would. “What else?”

“Once you’re strong enough to be up and around, you’ll be expected to earn your keep. Daniel may believe you’re a prince, but I don’t care if you’re the emperor of Japan. You work or you don’t eat.”

“Fair enough. Is that all?”

“Just one more thing. You’re free to go anytime you wish. But I want to watch you leave. No sneaking off in the night with the jewelry and silverware.”

Her feeble attempt at humor wasn’t lost on him. He gave her a wry smile. “In other words, I’m to conduct myself as a decent, responsible human being. You saved my life, Sylvie. I’m not ungrateful.”

Color flashed in her face. “Fine. I’ll get that coffee now.” She spun away and dashed for the kitchen, pausing to snatch up the shotgun she’d propped next to the door.

The room seemed strangely empty without her.

The coffee splashed onto the stovetop, hissing as droplets danced on the hot iron surface. Sylvie steadied the aim of the spout into the chipped porcelain mug. Did Ishmael like cream in his coffee? She should have asked, instead of making that silly joke about the jewelry and silver. He probably thought she was an empty-headed little bumpkin.

At least he’d accepted her rules, almost as if he’d found them unnecessary—as if the courtesies she demanded were actions he’d have performed anyway as a matter of course. Maybe she should’ve just kept her mouth shut and assumed he’d behave himself. After all, what did she know about proper manners? She’d lived in this isolated spot since her girlhood. Most of what she knew about dealing with strange men she’d learned from books. Clearly it wasn’t enough.

Finding a saucer on the shelf, she nested the mug in its center. The saucer was chipped, too, and the pieces didn’t match. For all she knew, her patient was accustomed to gold-rimmed china, but this was the best she had. Heaven save her, it had been less wearing to deal with the man when he was out of his head.

She returned to the bedroom to find him propped against the pillows with the quilt over his legs. At the sight of her, or perhaps the coffee, one black eyebrow quirked upward.

“If you’d like cream I can get you some,” she said. “I’m afraid we’re out of sugar.”

“Black is fine.” He took the cup and saucer. “And if you wouldn’t mind getting my clothes—”

“You just fainted. You need to stay in bed.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Sylvie.” His eyes narrowed, giving him a wolfish look. “You can bring me my clothes, or I’ll get up and find them myself.” He paused, his look making it clear that he’d tear the place apart if need be—and that he’d have no scruples about displaying himself in the altogether until the clothes were found.

Sylvie met the challenge in his gaze. For an instant she was tempted to call his bluff. Then she imagined the chaos of a naked madman staggering through the cabin. “I’ll get your clothes,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you to finish your coffee while I go out and milk the goats.” She turned toward the door.

“Sylvie?”

Her pulse skipped. She glanced back at him.

“I don’t enjoy drinking alone. The goats can wait while you pour yourself some coffee and join me.”

An excuse sprang to her lips. She nipped it back. The goat shed might give her a respite from those probing sapphire eyes and that sardonic manner of his. But she needed to learn more about her unexpected guest. Flee the cabin, and she’d be passing up her best chance.

“I suppose I can spare a little time,” she said. “But only a few minutes. The goats are used to being milked early, and they’ll be getting anxious.”

The scar twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. I don’t want to take the blame for curdled milk.”

“It doesn’t—” Sylvie began, then realized he was teasing her. Crimson-faced, she dashed into her room, found the clothes and returned long enough to drop them at the foot of his bed. In the quiet of the kitchen, she poured herself a mug of strong coffee and added a bit of the cream she’d set aside for the butter churn. Stirring it, she waited for her pulse to calm.

What a dolt she was, too bashful and addlepated to hold up her end of the simplest social exchange. Why couldn’t she be like Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, tossing off witty repartee and clever little barbs that left the cynical Mr. Darcy begging for more?

As she’d read that book, she’d tried to imagine what it would be like, meeting a man, holding him spellbound with her charm. What a joke. She seemed to have only two modes of expression when dealing with Ishmael—either she was railing at him like a shrew, or she was barely able to meet his eyes. Either way, she was sadly lacking in anything intelligent or charming to say to him.

But it was silly, letting him unsettle her like this. Ishmael was no Darcy and certainly no fairy-tale prince. He was just a man, perhaps not even a good man. The sooner she got him on his feet and on his way, the sooner she could get back to her safe, predictable life.

Setting her mug on the counter, she took a moment to replace the shotgun on its rack above the door, out of Daniel’s reach. Ishmael had probably laughed behind his teeth when he noticed she’d brought the weapon into the bedroom. But even if it meant looking like a fool, it was her job to protect Daniel and their home.

Taking her mug, she returned to her patient. He was sipping his coffee, already looking brighter than she’d left him. Gesturing toward the stool, he motioned for her to have a seat.

“No memory yet?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Maybe if you tell me about this place, and how you found me, it might spark something.”

“I’ll tell you what I can.” Sylvie glanced down into her mug. She had yet to bring up Catriona. She wasn’t sure why she’d waited, but she probably shouldn’t wait much longer.

He studied her as she sipped her coffee. She looked ill at ease, like a tethered kestrel straining for flight. “Where would you like me to start?” she asked.

“You told me this place is north of San Francisco. What brought you here? Maybe I can figure out why I might’ve come this way.”

“It’s a simple story. We lived in Indiana till my mother died. Then my father caught gold fever and the two of us joined a wagon train for California.”

“I take it he didn’t find much gold.”

“Not a grain. But while he was looking, he stumbled across this cove. He soon discovered he could make a better living from salvage than from prospecting. We’ve been here ever since.”

“And your brother?”

“My father remarried. Daniel’s mother died here, birthing him.”

“So you raised the boy yourself?”

She nodded. The girl hadn’t had it easy, he thought. Losing her mother, getting dragged across the country by a gold-hungry father, living under conditions no young girl should face and taking on responsibility for a motherless baby when she was little more than a child herself. Sylvie Cragun looked as fragile as a violet. But she possessed a core of tempered steel.

She lowered her eyes, as if trying to mask her thoughts. Ishmael was suddenly struck by another aspect of her situation—its isolation. It had to be lonely here, especially for such a pretty young woman. Lonely, and perhaps dangerous.

“This place seems pretty secluded. Do you any have neighbors? Any friends who come to visit?”

Her eyes narrowed. He caught a flicker of distrust.

“We’re not talking about me. I’m only telling you about this place to help you remember.”

“All right, I just thought you might be able to tell me if there was anyone else out here I might have been coming to visit. Since you and your brother clearly don’t know me, it hardly seems likely that I came this way to see you.” He sipped the hot black coffee, taking time to think out the next question. “Would I know your father?”

“You might, if you’ve come from San Francisco. He drives his wagon there every few months with a load of things to sell. That’s where he’s gone to now.” A worried look passed across her face. “He should be home any day now. Maybe he’ll recognize you. His name’s Aaron Cragun.”

“Aaron Cragun.” He repeated the name aloud, wondering at the dark flash of memory, like distant lightning through a storm. He’d heard the name before. If only he could remember where. “What does your father look like?” he asked.

“About five foot six, red hair, red beard. Drives a homemade wagon with a lop-eared mule. You’d remember him if you’d met him.”

Remember? He mouthed a silent curse. “So far I can’t remember a blessed soul I’ve met. Tell me how you found me.”

“You don’t even recall that?”

“Not all of it. Tell me.”

“It was pure chance. Daniel and I went down to the cove to see what the storm had washed up, and there you were, your legs sticking out from under a wrecked sailboat. You had no identification on you, only your clothes and that ring.” Her gaze brushed the sapphire framed in gold. “Do you remember Daniel asking you whether you were a prince?”

“Barely,” he muttered. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking the same thing.”

“Of course not. But that ring had to come from somewhere.”

He shrugged. “I’m guessing it was made for someone with a bigger hand than mine. If it had been made, or bought, for me it would fit my ring finger, not the middle one. That’s the only clue I have.”

“And you don’t remember how long you’ve had it?”

He shook his head. “For all I know, I could’ve had it all my life. Or found it in the street last week.”

Thoughts chased each other across her expressive face, like light through a stained-glass window. She was as transparent as a child, he thought, and yet not a child at all. “I have an idea,” she said. “Take the ring off.”

He met her gaze, hesitating for half a heartbeat before he did as she asked. His first thought was to check for engraving inside the ring. But as he worked it up over his knuckle, he realized what she was looking for.

Where the gold had circled the base of his finger, the flesh was slightly recessed, the skin as pale and smooth as ivory. Wherever the ring had come from, he’d worn it a very long time.

“That ring belongs to you,” she said, “and I think it must be very important. If you asked me, I’d guess it’s something from your family.”

“And what else would you guess, Miss Sylvie Cragun?” He checked the ring’s inner surface for engraving. Finding none, he pushed it back into place on his finger.

“I would guess that your family is wealthy, or would have been at the time they acquired the ring. And I would guess that you’ve never been in dire need of money. Otherwise you’d have sold it. Am I right so far?”

He had no idea. But she looked so fetching next to his bed, with sunlight making a halo of her hair, that he found himself wanting any excuse to keep her with him.

But even from where he sat, he could sense the strain in her—the hands that gripped the mug a bit too tightly, the taut posture of her body, the eyes that darted toward the door as if seeking escape.

“What is it, Sylvie? What’s bothering you?” The question came out sounding harsher than he’d meant it to.

She glanced down at her hands, then looked straight into his eyes. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you. On the beach, when we were trying to wake you, and then again last night, you spoke a name—a woman’s name. I’m thinking she might be your wife.”

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