Mrs Molloy made good her promise to find them clothes.
* * *
By the time the sun had set, the last vestiges of the sea were washed away and clean clothes replaced ones ruined by salt water.
‘It feels wonderful,’ Rebecca said. ‘I wonder if I have ever had a bath that felt as glorious or clothes that felt as good against my skin.’
He could agree. He was glad to be rid of his beard and the only clothes that would feel more right to him would be his uniform.
They returned to the public rooms to dine. The rooms were more crowded than before, with both men and women sharing food and drink, but the people were warm and welcoming. Their story of surviving the shipwreck had spread and they spent the meal answering questions about the event.
Lady Rebecca, so at ease among these simple villagers, surprised him at every turn. When had he known any aristocratic lady like her? Even his mother, who merely aspired to the aristocracy, looked down her nose at those she perceived as inferior. Of course, Lady Rebecca did not remember being of high birth. That must explain it.
They were treated to endless tankards of ale and the inn’s brew was particularly hoppy and refreshing. All the voices in the room grew louder as the night wore on, but Lucien could hear Rebecca’s laugh above the din.
A lovely sound, one he remembered from the packet. So she had been the lady with the captivating laugh. She swayed and caught herself by leaning against a table.
Lucien came to her side. ‘It is time to retire, my lady.’
She nodded with a grateful look and coloured with the hum of approval that followed in their wake.
‘I feel so unsteady,’ she said as they entered the hall and started up the stairs.
‘It is the ale.’ He kept a firm hold on her.
‘It was quite delicious ale, was it not?’ She reached for the banister. ‘I wonder if I liked ale before, because I quite like it now.’
‘I noticed, my lady.’
She stopped on the stairs. ‘It feels so odd for you to call me “my lady.”’
‘Because you do not remember,’ he said.
‘I do not like it.’ She leaned against him and tipped her head up to look him in the face. ‘It makes me different from everyone else.’
‘That is not so bad a thing,’ he reassured.
‘I suppose I am different.’ She kept staring into his eyes. ‘I have no memory.’
‘Even so, you have done well in every situation you’ve encountered,’ he told her.
‘Have I?’ She smiled and swayed closer to him, tantalisingly close.
He took a bracing breath and eased her away. ‘It is time you were abed.’
Her eyes widened and her lips parted.
God help him.
He clasped her arm. ‘Come.’
After a few steps, she leaned against him again, but he managed to walk her to her room without taking her in his arms and pressing his lips against hers.
He took her key and opened the door. ‘I’ll send Mrs Molloy to assist you.’
She put her arms around him and pulled him inside the room. ‘You could assist me, Lucien. Like before.’
His head dipped down and she reached up and brushed her lips against his.
God help him.
Before he lost all control, he gripped her upper arms and eased her away. ‘No.’
She put her hands to her temples. ‘Did I just kiss you? Forgive me, Lucien. I cannot imagine why I acted that way. I am not so scandalous, I would hope.’
‘You merely had too much ale.’ That did not explain his desire, though.
‘Perhaps I am scandalous.’ She sat on the bed. ‘Then it would do no harm for me to kiss you again, would it?’ She half-reclined on the bed, resting on her elbows.
Was she trifling with him now? He’d once been propositioned by a countess looking for a new plaything. He’d easily turned down that woman. It was proving more difficult to resist Lady Rebecca.
‘Perhaps you are virtuous,’ he countered, ‘and need to preserve your reputation.’
She sat up. ‘You are correct, of course.’ Her enticing hazel eyes looked up at him, shining like exotic jewels.
He turned and walked to the doorway. ‘I will send for Mrs Molloy.’
‘Goodnight, Lucien.’ Her voice was low and soft, stirring him even more.
He managed only a nod before closing the door. He needed a barrier between them this night.
When Claire woke the next day her head ached and she wished there was one memory she could banish from her mind. She’d acted like a brazen trollop with Lucien. Goodness! She’d wanted him to kiss her and hold her and spend the whole night in her bed. She still could feel his breath against her lips and the warmth of his touch.
Surely that was brazen? Was she truly such a woman?
She tried again to remember something about herself that could answer that question.
There was nothing.
Lucien hired a carriage to take them to Dublin. Claire felt almost as grief-stricken saying goodbye to the Molloys as she’d felt leaving the fishermen. Captain Molloy, his cousin, Mrs Molloy, the fishermen and the others at the inn were the people in her life, the only ones, except for Lucien. Now she was headed to a city she did not remember to eventually reunite with a brother who was a complete stranger to her.
After the buildings of Bray receded into the distance and she’d wrestled her emotions into some sort of order, she became aware of how close Lucien was seated next to her and of how comfortable it was for her to be beside him. She did not want to face saying goodbye to him, but that would come soon enough.
Lucien was everything to her. She, on the other hand, was merely an obstacle to his returning to London and back to the life at sea he so loved.
She must take care and never let it slip that she wanted him to stay with her longer.
She looked out the window at the countryside rolling past. Had she seen it before?
She did not know.
Their journey would take half the day and so far Lucien had said little to her. Of course, she, as well, only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. What could she say? That she regretted trying to seduce him? Or that she regretted not succeeding? Perhaps she should say she was sorry to be such a burden.
* * *
After changing horses one last time and taking some refreshment at the coaching inn, they finally reached the bustling streets of Dublin.
‘I wonder if I will remember anything here,’ she murmured, more to herself than to him.
‘Perhaps something will spark a memory,’ he responded.
She studied the scenes passing by her window. ‘Nothing I see is a surprise.’ Not the wagons or carriages or riders or people walking. ‘I simply cannot remember another time I saw such things.’
His eyes looked sympathetic and she felt a pang of guilt.
‘I do not mean to sound as if I am complaining,’ she explained. ‘What is important is that I am alive. I owe that to you.’