Breeze ruffles his dark hair, just as I remember, and the gulls call to us from overhead. “Where have you…I…” He shakes his head. Rubs his hand along behind his neck in a motion I know.
That deep glow of affection I recall from my dreams, that pure delight, is dimmed to a mild consideration of me now, a wary study of my features and the intentions behind them.
He cannot trust me, and he has no reason to. I left him. I may leave again—I’ve no idea what comes next, or what precisely came before. I only know this place was once home, and I was safe. And that he was mine and I was his.
He reaches for my hand, testing the waters. My fractured heart stirs. When I lace my fingers into his, Rupert Covington’s face relaxes and a smile emerges, slow and hopeful. Then he draws me close, wrapping his arms about me and resting my faceagainst his chest, and I breathe in the scent of him. Somehow, it still feels dreamlike and outside of reality.
But my heart hammers wildly until I shove him away, panting and desperate for space.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Whatever it is, I don’t care.”
He moves close again but does not embrace me. The sun-warmed skin tainted with cloves and paint, the gentle bristle of his face that has brushed the top of my head. There’s a trickle of memories. Wildflower bouquets. Long morning walks in the sunrise. Hearty meals and joyous dancing. Running through the tide, and a blur of faces whose names I do not know anymore.
And this man. This rough wool suit against my face, the low rumble in his chest when he speaks, and the scent of turpentine as he lifts his hand to smooth back my windswept hair.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I manage, looking into his face. Begging him to understand. I don’t even know if I have a fragment of my crushed-up heart to offer. “There’s been an accident. I’ve lost my memory, and I’m not certain—”
“Quite all right.” His smile is slow and deep. Calming.
I smile. “I am your wife. Yes?”
His look is shocked. Uncertain. “Yes, of course.”
A deep voice whips about in the distance. “Merryn!”
Chills climb my skin as another burst of wind sweeps over the beach.
“Merrrrrrryn!” comes the voice again, chillingly familiar. It’s AJ. Buthow?
The publican. Of course! Like afoolI asked the publican for directions to Newlyn.
Hand to my pounding heart, I look straight up to the cliffs overhead and see his familiar form. Rupert and I flatten ourselves against the rocks, out of the wind and hidden to anyone looking down from above. “Can we get away from this place?” I say against the wind. “Far away.”
“How far? Truro?” he shouts.
“Anywhere that is not here. I shall explain everything.”
“Let me fetch my things.”
“Merryn!Merryn!” AJ is walking the footpath above, his voice whipping over the beach on the wind. He hasn’t spotted us yet—I can tell by his voice—but he will. There’s a scrabble and tiny pebbles rain down from above where he steps near the edge.
“There isn’t time. I’m sorry, Rupert. I must go. Will you meet me somewhere?” I have no money. I cannot take a train. “We must speak.”
His jaw sets. “I’m coming with you this time. Come, this way.” Leaving easel and canvases, he grabs his bag and points to a crevice in the rocks that turns out to be steps leading up a hidden, winding path to the clifftops farther up from where AJ is. We reach a brick building on the top labeledNewlyn Art Lodgeand immediately the wind dies down away from the beach. It’s serene here.
Unhitching a mare, he mounts without saddling and pulls me up behind him. “Hold on.”
Then we’re off, a gentle canter along the coastal path that looks over the turquoise-blue waters that have filled my mind for months…and the castle. I’m here. I’m finally here, and I’ve completed my journey. If only I can untangle my present from the past, and the mess I’ve made of everything.
Which marriage would be valid?
Why, the first one.
I belong to this man. Not the one chasing me, the one looking to kill me.Thisone. I cling to that fact as we pass small talk back and forth. It’ll come out all right. It will. I close my eyes as we sail around the narrow coastal roads. I lean into Rupert’s back, clinging to him. Eventually we turn away from the water into a large ledge of grassy rock and sand that looks down on the whole of Newlyn. “Quite lovely out here, isn’t it?” he says after a longexhale.Lovely enough to stay?his look seems to ask, but he doesn’t voice it.
I look out over the vibrant blue water laced with foam, letting the breeze whip my hair about. “Lovely isn’t a strong enough word for it.”
I slip off the horse’s back then Rupert joins me, leading me to a rock and laying out his own food from the sack. “Here we are. Have a bite, won’t you?”
