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Mrs. Honeysett’s soft voice reached her ears again. “I know ye must ’ave many questions, and ye seem to be ’avin’ an ’ard time rememberin’ things, but…’ave ye a name we can call ye by?”

“’Tis Morvoren.” She cleared her throat, every word a struggle to move past the burning in her lungs. “Morvoren Hollow.”

“That be a lovely name.”

The blood drained from Morvoren’s face, her head spinning. How could she have been so stupid as to give her name? She and Uncle had differing surnames, but should someone connect the two somehow, or if Uncle eventually heard word of where she’d escaped to, her life—her freedom—would surely be stripped from her again.

“And can ye tell me where your ’ome be, Miss ’Ollow?” Mrs. Honeysett asked next.

Morvoren clamped her mouth shut. Saying nothing would surely raise their suspicions, but the risk was too great to say anything more. Besides, she had no home. She hadn’t in years, despite living with her uncle since her parents had died.

Footsteps sounded across the floor, and Morvoren uncovered her eyes as a young woman no more than sixteen years old entered with brandy in hand. She and Mrs. Honeysett were clearly related, with the same dark hair and warm expression.

“This be me daugh’er, Poppy,” Mrs. Honeysett explained, taking the glass from her and helping Morvoren to drink.

Poppy. That name had been said when Morvoren was sleeping. Morvoren pulled back from the glass with a nod of gratitude and settled back in the bed with a wince.

“Where ye be in pain, Miss ‘Ollow?” Mrs. Honeysett asked next. Had the woman forgotten her question from before? Would that Morvoren could be so fortunate.

“Ye can call me Morvoren,” she said. She hadn’t ever minded ‘Miss Hollow’ until Uncle had forced it upon her, saying her first name was an “utter abomination.”

Mrs. Honeysett nodded. “Very well, Morvoren. Where be ye hurt?”

“My…me head and me ankle.” How comfortable the accent felt on her tongue again. How natural.

Uncle had never been able to force it out of Morvoren altogether. She used to lie awake in bed at night, reading her books aloud the way Mama used to. When she really wished to irritate Uncle, she’d slip in her accent every now and again during balls and parties. Heads would always turn, but Uncle could say nothing until they returned to his townhome.

Mrs. Honeysett adjusted Morvoren’s pillow. “Me son said your foot was tangled terribly in ’is net. Then ye fainted again and ’it your ’ead against ’is lugger.”

Her son. Of course. Mrs. Honeysett had mentioned that before—her fisherman son. Heaven must be playing some cruel joke on Morvoren. Why else would she be thrown right back into the world she was trying so desperately to escape?

“Do ye remember ’im savin’ ye?” Mrs. Honeysett asked gingerly.

“A little.”

“Ye weren’t breathin’ when ’e pulled ye up. ’Tis a miracle ye survived.”

Oh, yes, a miracle, indeed. A miracle that could have been avoided altogether had the drift net not been in her way.

At the thought of the man who’d apparently saved her life, Morvoren’s lips tingled. She brought her hand up to her mouth and inwardly groaned. She distinctly remembered the moment she’d been awakened by the man’s lips on hers, his face utterly too close to her own.

Of course, she hadn’t realized then, amidst all the turmoil, that he’d merely been resuscitating her. She’d thought that he’d…Well, never mind that. What was done was done. And she didn’t regret for a minute striking…Trevik, was it? He’d deserved it. The blasted fool had been shooting his net too close to the shoreline.

Typical drifter, breaking laws. They only ever thought about themselves. Not a lick of consideration for others, not even their wives and children. How she felt for Mrs. Honeysett and her daughter to be trapped in such a life.

“Morvoren…”

She looked up to Mrs. Honeysett opening and closing her mouth, as if she hesitated saying anything further.

But Morvoren knew what was coming—the constant barrage of questions that could no longer be avoided.

How unfortunate her mind refused to cooperate. Otherwise she might have been able to concoct a response that would not risk her one chance for freedom.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Can ye tell us where ye come from, Morvoren?” came Mrs. Honeysett’s next question. “Or what ye were doin’ in the sea?”

St. Ives. Morvoren had come from St. Ives by stagecoach. And she’d been in the sea because, frankly, she could be in the sea. Uncle disapproved of the pastime, but she’d always found ways around his and Society’s censure.