Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney

After setting the bundle above the waterline, she waded into the waves. She was almost knocked off her feet, and the water was cold. Luckily, she managed to regain her feet before she went under entirely, but by the time she reached the floating object, she was soaked to the skin.

      Hoping the sight wasn’t too ghastly, she looked closer and saw that it was indeed the body of a man. His arms were locked around a large chunk of wood, perhaps a piece of beam. Wondering if he could possibly be alive, she caught hold of the wood and towed man and beam ashore, fighting rough water all the way.

      A last wave helped lift him onto the sand above the tide level. His clothes were tattered to the point of indecency, with shirt and trousers reduced to rags. Shivering, she knelt beside him and cautiously spread her hand across his shirt. To her amazement, there was a faint, slow heartbeat. The man’s flesh had a deathly chill from the water and there were lacerations and other marks on his skin, but he lived!

      His hair and complexion looked dark in the moonlight, so she guessed he was a foreign sailor. Since water lapped around his feet, she took hold under his arms and dragged him onto the coarse sand. As she pulled, he began coughing convulsively.

      Hastily she let go and the sailor half rolled onto his side, spewing water. When the violent fit ended, his breathing was rough but he was undeniably alive. Relieved, she wondered what to do. She didn’t want to go for help and leave him alone, but the faster she got him indoors and warm, the better.

      Hoping he could walk, she leaned over and asked, “Can you understand me?”

      After a long moment, he nodded, head bent.

      “If I help, do you think you can walk to my house? It’s not far.”

      He nodded again. Though his eyes were closed and he shivered with cold, at least he had some awareness of his situation.

      She brushed the sand from her feet and put her slippers back on, then knelt and draped his left arm around her shoulders. “I’ll lift as best I can, but I can’t manage without your help.”

      She lifted and he struggled. Between them, he got to his feet, swaying. She used her free hand to wrap her shawl around his shoulders, hoping the heavy wool would dispel some of his chill. “We’re on our way. It’s not a very long walk.”

      He didn’t reply, but when she started walking, he followed her lead. Their floundering progress through the sand was excruciating and the breeze sliced through wet clothing.

      Matters improved once they reached the path. A pity it was all uphill. But with her under his arm and taking half his weight, the sailor managed to keep moving.

      He used a railing to drag himself up the steps into the house while Mariah supported him on the other side. They staggered inside, Mariah wondering what to do next since he surely couldn’t manage another flight of stairs to the guest bedrooms. Then she remembered a small chamber at the back of the ground floor. Once it had been used by an elderly housekeeper. The room was shabby and underfurnished, but there was a bed. It would suffice.

      She steered the sailor through the darkened house, occasionally banging into furniture. She hoped her charge wasn’t acquiring as many bruises as she was. It was a huge relief to enter the small bedroom. Because the aged housekeeper had been infirm, the bed had been built low. With the last of her endurance, she steered him to it. “You can lie down now.”

      The sailor folded onto the bed in an ungainly sprawl and promptly clutched a pillow the same way he’d hung on to his beam. Mariah swung his legs onto the mattress, then used her tinderbox to light a lamp. Even though the room hadn’t been used for years, the capable Mrs. Beckett had oil in the lamp and a fire laid in the tiny fireplace. The bed wasn’t made up, but there would be blankets in the small, battered wardrobe.

      After she lit the fire, she tugged at the pillow he was crushing. “You’re safe now. Safe.” His grip eased and she was able to remove the pillow and examine him.

      She patted his shivering body dry with a thin towel from the washstand. His clothing was so tattered that she was able to examine him fairly thoroughly without stripping off the ragged remnants. Some of his garments were charred at the edges. Perhaps a ship’s fire drove him to jump into the sea.

      He was massively bruised and had cuts and scrapes beyond counting. There were also areas of blistered and scorched flesh, which fit with the charred clothing. Mercifully, the burns weren’t severe. He must have hit the water quickly.

      She found no major wounds on his limbs and torso. Though some of his injuries had bled, his time in the seawater had washed away the actual blood and nothing seemed to be bleeding now.

      She pulled blankets from the wardrobe and wrapped him in multiple layers. Luckily the fire was warming the small room rapidly and he was losing his deathly chill.

      Taking the lamp, she made a trip to her room for dry clothing, then descended to the kitchen. While tea water and broth heated, she brought a pitcher of water and a glass back to her patient. He was sleeping. In the soft light, his complexion and his unfashionably long hair were dark. She was no expert on male whiskers, but it looked as if he had at least a couple of days’ growth. If he had been in the water that long, he had to be as strong as an ox to have survived.

      It was hard to guess his age under the facial bruises, but she thought he was somewhere around thirty. Though not broadly built, he had a well-muscled working man’s body, with calloused hands.

      She frowned when she noticed the way his hair matted on the left side of his head. Setting down the lamp, she explored with her fingertips and discovered a long, deep gash that oozed traces of blood.

      She swore under her breath as she swaddled his head with another towel. Everything she had done so far was common sense, but the head injury looked serious and she didn’t know what to do. She must summon Julia Bancroft now rather than wait until morning.

      Mariah brushed wet hair from the sailor’s face, wondering where he came from. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, perhaps. She was pulling the blankets up when his lids rose, and he stared at her with mesmerizing green eyes.

      Chapter Four

      After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water had pulled him from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to…perfection.

      The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamplight. Wondering if he’d drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those fine spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.

      “You’re safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was grace. “Do you speak English?”

      He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Y…yes.”

      “Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink from a glass that she held to his lips. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water when it had almost killed him. And humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn’t even drink without help.

      When he’d had enough, she took the glass away and gently laid him down again. She wore a night robe, and though it covered her thoroughly, her dishabille was deliciously tantalizing. “Such green eyes you have,” she observed. “They are striking with your dark complexion.”

      His eyes were green and the rest of him dark? He shifted his gaze to his right hand and examined it. The skin was medium tan, a half dozen shades darker than her ivory complexion. He realized that he had no idea what he looked like, beyond tan and bruised. Or what he ought to look like.

      She continued, “Can you tell me your name?”

      He