He sat with her until her hand relaxed and her breathing came soft and rhythmic.
When Claire woke the next morning, Lucien was gone. She sat up quickly, her heart pounding.
She was alone!
But she remembered where she was—on a fishing boat—and she remembered Lucien.
She remembered, too, that he’d woken her from that terrible nightmare and remained beside her in the narrow berth. She also remembered how she’d thrown her arms around him.
Her cheeks burned.
Although she could not remember who she was or anything about her past, she knew with certainty that it was shameful of her to embrace a man like that. Even if he had been a perfect gentleman.
Perhaps she was wanton. Could that be? Could it be she’d already compromised herself and that was why she’d felt no hesitation to insist he share the room with her? She might be a lady, but was it possible she was anything but ladylike?
She glanced down at herself and realised the fisherman’s clothes she wore had come loose of her makeshift belt. Standing, she straightened her clothing, but the breeches seemed ready to fall down at any moment. She remembered the etui from the reticule—she could not think of it as her etui or her reticule. She found it hanging from a peg. She took the pins from the etui and used them to fit the breeches to her body.
The door opened.
It was Lucien. ‘I have brought you some breakfast.’
He’d brought a steaming bowl of porridge and a mug of warm cider. How kind of him.
‘Thank you, Lucien.’
Her appetite was hardy. Was she always a big eater? Scenting the porridge, she remembered how it tasted—but she could not remember a time she ate porridge.
She felt Lucien’s gaze upon her as she ate.
She swallowed a spoonful and looked up at him. ‘I am sorry I woke you last night.’
He paused before speaking. ‘How do you fare this morning?’
She laughed lightly. ‘I wish I could say I feel quite myself this morning, but I do not know who myself is. I do feel rested, though.’
He nodded.
‘And you, Lucien,’ she asked. ‘Are you well?’
He waved off her question. ‘Very well.’ He leaned forward. ‘Rest today, if you need to, but I want to assist the fishermen. There are only five of them, including Captain Molloy. I am certain they can make use of me.’
She had not expected him to help catch fish, not a captain in the navy. How good of him. Did he always consider others, perhaps even over himself? How could she be selfish enough to insist he stay with her?
Just because she was afraid to be alone.
‘I do understand.’ She took a nervous breath. ‘I will amuse myself somehow.’ She managed a smile.
His eyes pierced into hers. ‘I will check on you, my lady. Or make certain someone else does.’
She lifted her chin and nodded, hoping she looked braver than she felt.
* * *
Lucien had expected her to complain and demand he remain with her. It was clear that she did not want to be alone. But she had not. And why had she insisted he stay in the cabin with her? If it became known, it would certainly ruin her in her aristocratic circles. Was it her memory loss? Did she not remember how important reputation was for an earl’s daughter?
Spending the night in the same room posed a different problem for Lucien. The intimacy of sleeping near her fuelled fantasies of sharing her bed, of tasting her lips, of feeling her naked skin next to his. He would never seduce her, though, would he? It would be taking advantage of her in the most reprehensible way.
Over the years he’d met many high-born men who’d boasted about conquests, usually leaving the lives of lower-born, but respectable, young women in tatters. Even Lucien’s mother had been an easy conquest for Viscount Waverland.
Not that she’d been anything less than willing.
In any event, Lucien had no patience for aristocrats who called themselves gentlemen and behaved like rutting animals around any woman dazzled by their status.
And he refused to sink to their level.
He watched her finish her porridge. He could at least keep her company that long.
‘Do you know about fishing, Lucien?’ she asked between spoonsful.
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Very little. But there must be something I can do.’
She blinked up at him. Her eyes were a remarkable mix of brown circled by green. ‘You could captain the ship, could you not?’
‘I could, but this boat has a captain.’ Although if he had taken over from the Captain of the Dun Aengus, perhaps the ship would not have foundered.
There was no reason to doubt the Captain of this vessel, though. He and his crew depended upon the sea for their livelihood.
‘I know nothing of fishing,’ Lady Rebecca said. ‘They use nets, do they not?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, they do, so you do know something of fishing.’
She lowered her gaze to her bowl and carefully scooped out another spoonful. She lifted it to her mouth.
Lucien looked away. Her lips had become a distraction, one he could not resist for long. He glanced back.
Her expression sobered. ‘I cannot understand why I know so many things, but I do not know anything about me.’
‘Take heart in that,’ Lucien replied. ‘If you remember those things, then surely your memory of yourself will return.’
She took another spoonful of porridge. He looked away again.
‘I am becoming accustomed to not knowing.’ She averted her head for a moment before turning and looking directly into his eyes. ‘It is as if my life started on the raft when I woke.’
He reached over and put his hand on hers. ‘I believe you will recover your memory.’
She merely continued to stare into his face.
He withdrew his hand and stood. ‘I should go on deck.’
A look of panic flitted across her face, but she quickly forced a smile. ‘Yes. I believe I will see if our old clothing needs mending. I think I remember how to use a needle and thread.’
Lucien was surprised that her first idea was to do something so useful. ‘I will come back to check on you, as I said.’
He turned to leave, but Lady Rebecca stopped him. ‘Wait a moment, Lucien.’
Just when he thought she would not become demanding.
She gave him a determined look. ‘I—I wish you would not call me “my lady” or “Lady Rebecca.” It simply does not feel right to me.’
He stood at the door. ‘That is who you are.’
‘What I mean is, I am not formal with you. I call you Lucien. I realise I never asked if I could call you Lucien. Is it offensive to you? Should I call you Captain Roper?’
Her use of his given name could be meant as condescending, but, if truth be told, he rather liked the sound of his name on her lips.
‘Call me what you wish,’ he responded.
‘Then will you call me something less formal as well?’
His brow furrowed. ‘I think not.’
Her