Page 7 of Don't You Forget About Me

“Captain,” Simon said, “I’m asking for one more day. I think for what we’re paying you, you can give me that.”

“Wot good’s blunt if we’re hanged?” another man said. His voice was slightly higher. “I got a hull full of guns and powder. I don’t want to sit about waiting for one of them gunships to sail by and decide to take a peek under me hatches.”

Marjorie took a shaky breath. Simon was speaking to smugglers. England was at war with France. She knew this, though the black mist in her mind threatened to spread when she tried to remember the names of battles or generals. She almost recalled the name of the French leader, but she couldn’t snatch the information from the darkness. Very well. She couldn’t remember particulars, but she did understand generalities. Simon was meeting with at least three smugglers who had weapons they’d been paid to smuggle past the British blockade.

But if they needed to run the blockade, that meant the weapons were for the French. Simon was a French sympathizer. A traitor.

“Captain, if I could give you the information tonight, I would. I assure you I will have it tomorrow. That’s still enough time to reach the rendezvous.”

“Tell us the rendezvous point, and we’ll be the judge o’ that.”

“Tomorrow.” Simon sounded extremely patient. “Come at sundown, and you can sail with the tide.”

Marjorie heard the grumbling of the smugglers and then their heavy footfalls as they shuffled out of the house. She raced to her window and parted the curtains slightly. While she’d been sleeping the day had slipped away. Dusk had fallen and a sliver of moon was rising over the water. She craned her neck, hoping to see the men she’d heard as they left, but they must have retreated by a different path. She saw no one and nothing, not even a ship out on the water.

Dropping the curtain back into place, Marjorie tried to take a deep breath. What should she do? If Simon was a traitor, she owed it to her country to turn him in. But what if she was also a traitor? What if informing on him doomed her too? No one would believe she had no memory of her perfidy. She’d face the consequences just as he would.

There was nothing for that, she decided, moving toward her portmanteau. Her country was more important than herself. She would dress, slip out, and find the nearest magistrate. Once she was before him, she could explain everything. She reached for the tie of her robe then stilled her hands. If she went now, Simon would know she had discovered his treachery and run. He would call off the meeting tomorrow at dusk. She had to go to the magistrate in secret. Then soldiers could come at dusk tomorrow and arrest all the traitors.

She’d have to wait until Simon went to sleep and sneak out then. Marjorie put a hand to her lips. What if that was what she’d been trying to do last night? She’d been on her way to find a magistrate and then hit her head. Or perhaps someone had hit her on the head. Someone hadn’t wanted her mission to succeed.

She heard Simon’s step and turned and leapt back into bed. She didn’t want him to know she’d been awake and overheard the conversation. She lay down and pulled the covers up, closing her eyes just as he opened the door. A shaft of light illuminated the chamber, but she kept her eyes closed and forced her breathing to slow. She hoped Simon might close the door and leave her alone, but he stepped into the room. “Marjorie?” he murmured. She didn’t stir.

Simon came to stand beside the bed, setting a lamp on the table, and looking down at her. “Marjorie,” he whispered. Perhaps if she continued to pretend to sleep, he would leave her alone, but then he bent and placed a hand on her cheek. His touch was gentle, though his hands were roughened. She couldn’t keep her eyes closed with him touching her, so she opened them and found herself looking into his eyes. His face was close to hers, and her breath caught in her chest. Those sea-blue eyes were just as stunning as she remembered.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he said, “but you’ve been sleeping all day.”

“Have I?” she asked, trying to sound sleepy. His hand moved, smoothing the hair back from her temple. She wanted to turn her head and enjoy the feel of his touch. She wanted to reach up and touch his face, smooth her fingertips over his prominent cheekbones, and run her fingers through his dark, wavy hair. She realized, too late, she was looking at him when their eyes met. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. She hoped he might kiss her. His gaze dipped to her lips, and she parted them in anticipation.

But instead of kissing her, he withdrew his hand and stood. Why on earth was she disappointed? Did she want to kiss a turncoat? What kind of person had she been before she’d lost her memory? Obviously some of her wickedness ran deep enough that she couldn’t shake it. Either that or whatever she had felt for him before she lost her memory was still alive and well somewhere within her. She couldn’t help but find him attractive, and though she fought it, she couldn’t deny she wanted him to touch her.

But she couldn’t allow her emotions to interfere with her duty to her country. Marjorie knew almost nothing about herself, but she knew she did not want to betray England.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but have you remembered anything else?” he asked. “I thought with quiet and rest, you might recover some of your memory.”

“I had hoped the same, but nothing has changed.” Except she’d remembered there was a war between England and France, but it was probably best not to mention that, all things considered.

“You just need a little more time,” he said, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself. “Barbara left stew and fresh bread for dinner. I’ve kept it warm. Would you like it now?”

Her stomach rumbled. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “And I found your nightgown among the washing Barbara brought in from the line. The storm we’d expected moved inland, so your clothing is clean and dry.”

Perfect. She could don it later and sneak out when he was asleep.

“Do you want me to help you dress?”

Her throat went dry as she imagined his hands opening the tie on her robe and sliding inside to touch her bare skin. The garment would slide off her shoulders, and he’d dip his mouth to the peak of one nipple.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. She blinked the image away.

“I’ll stay in my robe for now,” she said.

“I’ll build up the fire in the sitting room and bring the stew there. There’s a small table by the window where we have been dining.”

At his words, an image of the table rose up in her mind. But she didn’t see it as she had this afternoon or even with bowls or plates on it. She saw it covered with papers and folders, an inkwell and quill at the ready, her own ink-stained hands lifting a piece of parchment...

“Are you certain you don’t require help?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’d like a moment alone and then I’ll join you.”

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