Free Loving a Lost Lord by Mary Jo Putney Page A

remembered a visit from Mrs. Bancroft, who had changed his bandage and pronounced that he was doing well.
    Now he was fully awake and no longer felt like an invalid. He swung from the bed and got to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, then managed to walk to the washstand without incident. He grimaced when he saw his reflection in the small mirror hanging above the basin. He looked like a proper ruffian. His chin was covered with dark stubble, bruises were turning from purple to unpleasant shades of green and yellow, and the bandage around his head had a rakish tilt.
    He tested the beard thoughtfully, wondering how many days’ growth it was. Impossible to tell without knowing how fast his whiskers grew, but he suspected they were quite vigorous. After washing his face, he searched for a razor, without success. He’d ask Mariah for one.
    Without conscious thought, he folded down to sit on the worn carpet on crossed legs. Resting his hands palm up on his knees, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He had already fallen into a rhythm of slow breathing before he really thought about what he was doing.
    Clearly, sitting like this was something he did regularly, but he was quite sure that the people around him would think such behavior odd. So what was he doing?
    Meditating . The word snapped into his mind. With the ease of long practice, he stilled his thoughts and brought his awareness to the center of his being. Despite the dark curtain across his past, he was alive and well and safe. For now, that was enough.
    A few minutes of quietness left him feeling focused and ready for whatever might come. He suspected that he meditated every morning after washing up. The water splashed on his face must have triggered a well-established pattern. As he stood, he wondered what other habit patterns would appear.
    In the absence of memory, intuition must be his best guide. Already there had been times when a particular subject had felt familiar. He was sure he knew something about agriculture. What else did he know?
    Horses. He was quite sure he knew about horses.
    Ready to explore, he investigated the small wardrobe and found a variety of clothing, worn but still serviceable. Not his, he thought; he would make different choices of color and fabric. The garments were well cut and well made, but they reflected a sensibility not his own. Mariah must have brought the clothing while he slept.
    Unless his tastes had changed along with his memory vanishing. A disquieting thought. He preferred to believe that he was the same man he had always been even if his memories were temporarily unavailable. He needed to believe in something.
    He believed that he was a lucky man to have won a wife like Mariah.
    Warmed by the thought, he dressed in clothes suitable for the country. The process confirmed that the garments weren’t his. He was a little taller, a little leaner in the waist, and the coat and boots had shaped themselves to a different body. But overall, the fit was decent. Much better than the rags he’d been rescued in.
    He guessed that the garments were his father-in-law’s. He tried to visualize Mariah’s father and came up with a male version of her, with blond hair and warm brown eyes. Invention, not memory. Of the real Charles Clarke, he found nothing.
    Curious to explore the home he’d never seen, he left his room. Soon the household would be stirring, but all was quiet as he made his way outside. The manor house had a lovely view west to the Irish Sea, with distant islets and perhaps a mainland peninsula. Sunsets must be memorable.
    He found a lane that led from the manor to the shore and walked down to a thin crescent of sand and shingle. This had to be the way they’d come after Mariah had pulled him from the sea. The distance seemed short now. The other night, it had been endless.
    He inhaled the salty air, waves lapping within a yard of his feet. Was he a sailor, a man of the sea? He wasn’t