“You’re certain? About AJ and—”
A pause. “Unfortunately. Which is why you need to recover your past, especially if that includes another husband who would release you from this alliance with AJ. Now tell me—”
“Time’s up, miss.” The publican sweeps back the curtain, fists on his hips.
“Look, I’ve got to disconnect. We’ll speak again.”
“Find your memories. I’m begging you. It’s the only thing that’ll save you from them both.”
I nod and break the connection, probably mumbling my thanks to the publican, and somehow stumbling out. Why can’t they open some windows? It’s quite stuffy in here.
So are the people. They’re staring at me, watching me cross the room. They must think I’ve fallen into my cups. It’s morning, though. Who drinks in the morning?
I pause at the bar to collect my card, but of course there’s no money left on it.
“Want it back, miss?” the publican asks, card between two fingers.
I lean heavily on the bar. The card has Gould’s number on it. “Yes, I suppose I—” My gaze catches and focuses on a picture postcard with an image so stark that it’s as if my memory has spit it out. “What’s this? What…what is it?”
“Postcard, luv.” His voice is gentle. He pities me. “You post it with a few lines and—”
“No, no. I mean, the castle. Where was this photograph taken?” It’s tall and elegant, surrounded by the foamy sea, cupped in the palm of craggy rocks.
“Why, that be St. Michael’s Mount, miss. Likely taken from Newlyn.”
“Newlyn.” I know that word. I taste the familiar flavor of it on my lips. Where have I heard it? “What’s Newlyn?”
“Coastal town across the peninsula, due south. Home of a pretentious artist colony. We’ve got the better artists, we ’ave. Don’ let anyone tell ’ee otherwise.”
“Artists,” I mumble, for that strikes something, too. “Artists from Newlyn.” I shake my head. “Where can I find this…St. Michael’s Mount?”
“Why, it’s out Marazion way,” he says, as if I should know such an obvious thing.
“Thank you, sir. Good day.”
It isn’t until I’m crossing the footpath that overlooks that private C-shaped inlet that the name sinks into its proper slot in my fractured memory.Newlyn.It’s where that writer Thom mentioned he’d seen my portrait hanging in a gallery.
Chapter 24
It’seasytoactnormally once AJ, the sea, and the sun charm me. I can pretend I never heard the things Gould said. AJ and I spend the day hunting seashells. Several times I stop and watch my husband, scanning for any sign of duplicity.
I suppose he won’t paint it on a placard.
He’s brought spices and a pot of cawl from a place called The King’s Head Inn, and food has never tasted so hearty and delicious. “I traded a small load of fish for it,” he said with a shrug when I inquired how he’d come by it. I nearly ask why any local Cornishman would care to trade for fish, but I don’t bother. AJ can charm a rock into giving him milk.
When we finish eating, he catches me and spins me about, holding me close in a wild dance before slowing, letting me slide down until my toes touch the sand. I forget the raw skin on my calves. He’s definitely forgotten his injured feet. His gaze holds mine, the green-gold depths drawing me, tugging down my defenses.
He knows it, too. “Do I sense a weakening of your reserve, my lady?” he asks close to my ear. Then he kisses it.
“Weakening?”
“You want to make a go of this marriage, don’t you? To make it a true one.”
Those last words vibrate in my mind.
He kisses me again and it sizzles on my skin. “You do have a knack for this marriage business.”
He chuckles. “I’m glad to hear it.”
