The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane

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