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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.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œGood. 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 searched his mind and came up with…nothing. No name, no place, no past, just as he had no sense of his own body. That had to be wrong . Panic surged over him, more terrifying than the cold sea that had nearly drowned him. He was nothing, nobody, torn from his past and thrust into an unknown present. The horror of that echoed through every fiber of his being. Struggling to master his fear, he choked out, “I…I don’t know.”
    Seeing his fear, she caught his cold hand between her warm palms. “You’ve endured a considerable ordeal. After you rest and recover, you will surely remember.” She frowned uncertainly. “Can you have forgotten that I’m your wife, Mariah Clarke?”
    â€œMy…my wife? ” He stared, incredulous. How could he possibly forget being wed to a woman like this? But even though he didn’t remember their marriage, his fears diminished as he compulsively clenched her hand. “Then…I am a most fortunate man.”
    She smiled warmly. “Rest while I go for tea and broth.