A Stranger's Touch

Now where had that thought come from? What else might Michael Morgan be doing?

He shook his head. It was as if he were reaching for something—an important fact that lay just behind that damned curtain.

No, he should not speculate. It was not his business and yet something was nagging at him, telling him he should use the time while Michael was away to discover all he could.

Discover what? It was no good, his mind was confused—blank at times and at others teeming with pictures that did not make sense. Faces flitted through his mind. An older woman and another, pretty, but not his wife or his lover. Who were they?

Morwenna had said he’d cried out thinking her his mother when in his fever. Was his mother still living? Did he also have a sister?

Somehow that seemed right. He felt instinctively without knowing that he had a family, but no wife. Were his family worried about him?

He shook his head and pushed the thought away. It was not his family that taunted him, trying to burst through the fog in his mind. For the moment something else was more important, but he did not know what it was.

He turned back towards the path that led up the cliff. He would be wiser to leave and return to London, but something was holding him here. There was something about the wild-eyed Cornish woman, something that turned his guts soft and made him burn with a need he recognised. His memory might be missing, but his instincts were intact. He wanted to lie with her. He wanted to know her body, to touch that soft white flesh and kiss those full lips. Whether she knew it or not she had a pure, clear sensuality that called to a man of his nature, arousing the hunting instinct. He wanted her and knew he would stay until she sent him away. Perhaps he might persuade her to go with him. She obviously did not have much of a life here.

She was a fool to let the stranger get beneath the guard she normally kept on her senses. Morwenna frowned as she chopped roots and onions to add to the stewpot. It had been simmering for two days now, fresh meat and vegetables added each day so that the gravy was very thick and the flavour intense. Morwenna had cooked oatcakes, fresh bread that was flat and hard on the outside, soft within. She had butter, pickles, cheese and cold ham as well as a dish of neeps and a large piggy pie that Bess had made to an old Cornish recipe.

It was a hearty meal, the kind her brothers relished, but the stranger was to join them at table that night and she wondered if he would think it plain fare. Neither of her brothers had a sweet tooth and though she liked curds and custards herself, she scarcely ever bothered to make them. Michael called them pap and turned his nose up at such trifles. Yet if the stranger were an aristocrat, as she suspected, he would be used to finer dishes.

After his return from the beach she’d asked if he would join them in the kitchen for supper. He’d hesitated for a moment, then inclined his head. Something told her that he was not used to eating in a kitchen with the servants, but she had no time to set out the huge table in the large hall. It was seldom used these days and her brother Jacques would have thought she’d gone mad had she done so. Her father and mother had held dinners and feasts there for special occasions, but Michael did not bother. Often enough the brothers ate at different times, coming in to the kitchen to snatch what they could find before disappearing again. She hoped that Jacques would sit down with them that night, but there was no telling what time he would return from his fishing trip.

* * *

As the church bell tolled the hour of six down in the village, her brother entered the kitchen. She was pleased to see that Jacques had made an effort to dress as befitted a gentleman’s son instead of his usual jerkin and breeches.

However, she frowned at him as he snatched at one of the freshly baked rolls and began to eat.

‘You might wait for our guest,’ she reprimanded.

‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ Jacques said with a grin. ‘Your guest will have to take us as we are, dear heart. It’s too late to change us now.’

‘Mother would turn in her grave if she could see you …’ Morwenna began, the words dying on her lips as the kitchen door opened and the stranger entered. He was wearing the clothes she’d given him, but somehow he made Jacques look disreputable. He wore his pride like a velvet cloak, so obviously a gentleman that she felt a moment of shame for the way her brothers usually behaved at table.

‘Forgive me for being late to table,’ he said. ‘The food smells good, Mistress Morgan. I believe I am hungry.’

‘You spent a long time walking on the cliffs and in the village today,’ Jacques said. ‘What were you looking for?’

‘I was admiring the scenery,’ he replied. ‘It appeals to my senses. I think I may be an artist, for my fingers wished for some charcoal that I might sketch what I saw.’

‘An artist, are you?’

‘If you would permit, I could try my hand after supper. I might sketch Morwenna—or any of you if you care for it. At least we would know if I have any talent.’

‘A bang on the head often renders the mind hazy for a while,’ Jacques observed. ‘If you feel you can draw a person’s likeness, your memory may be returning.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said and his eyes moved to Morwenna. ‘I must have had a reason for coming here, though as yet I cannot recall it, or my own name. I have asked that I be called Adam for the time being.’

‘As you wish, Adam. What will you do next?’ Jacques asked. ‘You can stay here until you feel able to leave, but Michael would not be pleased to find you still here when he returns.’

‘Your elder brother is averse to strangers?’ The stranger looked up as Morwenna ladled stew into the bowl in front of him. ‘Thank you, mistress. I am sure it will taste as good as it smells.’

‘Morwenna is a good cook. She needs a husband, someone to keep her in the manner to which she is accustomed,’ Jacques quipped, but his smile faded as his sister glared at him. ‘Sorry, I know you shouldn’t be waiting on us the way you do. It was merely a jest, dear heart.’

Morwenna made no reply. She finished serving the others and then took her own place at the far end of the table.

‘I think I shall find somewhere else to stay tomorrow,’ the stranger said. ‘I wonder if I should stay here in the cove for a while in case someone comes to look for me. News of the shipwreck will have reached London by now, I dare say, and my family—if I have one—may look for me here.’

‘What makes you think they will hear of the wreck? Do you come from London, then?’ Jacques asked, his gaze narrowed.

‘I do not know if I have a family, but I must have friends, people who know me. I think it is in London that ships are registered when they founder. I feel that I may have come from there—just as I feel I may be an artist. I cannot know anything for sure, which is why I perhaps ought to stay close until someone comes who can tell me who I am and whence I came.’

‘There is no need to leave for a few days. Michael will not return for a while. Stay here in case your fever returns. He has no need to leave, has he, Morwenna?’

‘He may stay until Michael returns if he pleases.’ She kept her gaze lowered. ‘It is no trouble to feed an extra man.’

‘That is kind. It would suit me to stay—if I may?’

‘We shall not hear of your leaving for a few days, until we are sure you have recovered,’ Jacques said. ‘‘Tis a pity the sea took your papers, for you might have known where to begin your search. If you feel you came from town, why not return to London when you are completely well and be seen there? If you are known, someone will hail you and you may find your family sooner.’

‘That was my first thought.’ The stranger glanced at Morwenna. ‘I feel I owe your family something, because your sister saved my life. Once I regain my memory I may be able to repay her in some way.’

‘Morwenna wants for nothing. She does not need your money, sir.’

‘Perhaps there are other things more important to Mistress Morgan. I may know people who would sponsor her in town so that she could find a husband best suited to her needs.’

‘She has a suitor if she wants one.’ Jacques threw him a challenging look. ‘Captain Bird would be happy to oblige, would he not, Morwenna?’

‘I will thank you not to discuss me at table—any of you.’ She glared at her brother and then at the stranger, surprising a look that might have been concern or sympathy in his eyes.

‘Help yourselves to bread and cheeses and the oatcakes. There’s honey if you want it, sir. I’m going up to my room. I’ll come back later to clear up, Bess.’

She rose from her chair and walked from the room, her back very straight. Behind her there was silence until Jacques laughed.

‘I fear I have offended Morwenna,’ he said. ‘It was a mere jest, of course. Morwenna wouldn’t have that militiaman if he paid her his weight in gold.’

Hearing the stranger laugh in response to Jacques, Morwenna smarted with anger and humiliation. How dared the brother she loved and trusted discuss her in front of a stranger? How dared the stranger suggest that if he regained his memory he might know someone who would sponsor her—as if she were in need of his pity or compassion!

She had been shocked to learn that he planned to leave the next day and felt a sense of loss until Jacques invited him to stay—but after that remark she would be glad to see the last of him. The last thing she needed from anyone was pity!

Turning away from the stairs, she went outside into the cold night air. She was suddenly weary of her life and the duties she performed every day, rebelling as she realised that nothing was likely to change for her unless she made it change herself.

It seemed her only escape was to go to her aunt, but would it be a change for the better or would she be trapped in the house of a bitter old woman?

Tears stinging behind her eyes, she walked up to the top of the cliff and stood looking out to sea. The wind tugged at her gown and pierced her shawl, making her shiver in the cool night air. Autumn would soon be gone and then the winter would be upon them and it would be too dangerous to stand at the edge of the cliffs lest the lashing rain had made the soil loose. For a moment her eyes were blinded with tears, but then she saw a light flash from somewhere out at sea. She thought someone must be signalling with a lantern. As she stood, her nerves tingling, she saw a light from the shore, which appeared to be answering the ship. Was it the stranger? Was he indeed a spy and was he signalling to the ship in the bay?

Even as the thought came into her mind, she heard a sound behind her and turned to see a man walking towards her. It was the stranger and he did not carry a lantern. So it could not have been him on the beach.

‘I thought you would be here,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if what I said at table upset you, Mistress Morwenna.’