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Sylvie peered cautiously over the side of the trail. “It’s just a sailboat, not a pirate ship, silly. But stay behind me until we know what else is down there.”
With Sylvie leading, they wound their way down the trail and over the barnacle-encrusted rocks to the beach. A red crab scuttled beneath a chunk of driftwood. A flock of sandpipers, skimming along the water’s edge, took wing at their approach.
The overturned boat lay on the wet sand. Its hull was smashed along the starboard side, leaving a jagged hole. Since the boat hadn’t been here yesterday, it must have been cast against the rocks in last night’s storm.
Sylvie couldn’t imagine anyone surviving such a wreck. But there were thieves and smugglers operating along the coast, and caution was never a bad idea. Dropping her basket to pick up a hefty stick of driftwood, she approached warily.
Not so Daniel. Pushing ahead of her, he raced around the boat, then stopped as if he’d run into a wall. For the space of a heartbeat he stood frozen. When he turned back to face her, his eyes were dollar-size in his small face.
“Sylvie, there’s someone under the boat,” he whispered. “It’s a man! I can see his legs!”
“Get back here, Daniel! Right now!” Sylvie braced herself for what she was about to find. This wouldn’t be the first body to wash ashore in the cove. But Aaron Cragun had always taken pains to shield his children from the sight of death. He never let them near a wreck until he’d disposed of any remains, either by burial or by rowing out past the point and dumping them where the current would carry them away. Now, with her father absent, Sylvie would be duty-bound to bury this poor drowned soul. But first she wanted to get Daniel away.
“Go up to the garden, find that small shovel and toss it down,” she told her little brother. “Then stay up top and wait for me. Careful on the trail, now. No running.”
He took off like a young goat, agile and confident. “I said no running!” Sylvie shouted after him. He slowed his pace, but she continued to watch until he was safely up. Only then did she turn her attention to the wrecked sailboat.
Daniel’s feet had left prints in the wet sand. Still clutching the driftwood, she followed their trail around the side of the boat. Just as Daniel had said, a pair of muscular legs jutted heels up from under the hull. The trousers were sodden and caked with sand, but Sylvie had learned to recognize fine wool. The waterlogged brown boots were likewise of excellent quality and little worn. Her father, she knew, would expect her to salvage them. But she couldn’t bring herself to rob the dead. She would bury the man clothed, as the sea had left him.
The hull of the wrecked sloop was heavy, but years of hard physical work had left her strong. Grunting with effort, Sylvie managed to lift it by the edge and drag it to one side, exposing the full length of the prone body.
He was tall—much taller than her father. And he appeared younger, too, not much beyond his twenties. His shoulders were broad beneath his tattered white shirt, his haunches taut and muscular. His hair was dark, though not as dark as Daniel’s. A few strands fluttered in the sea breeze, catching the sunlight.
He lay with his head turned to one side. Sylvie’s gaze was drawn to his profile—sun-burnished skin against the pale sand, black lashes crusted with salt, classic features like the pictures of the gods in her book of Greek legends. He appeared far too young and vital to be dead. But the world was a cruel place. Every piece of wreckage the tide swept into the cove was a testament to that cruelty.
Such a man would be missed, she thought. Somewhere he was bound to have family, friends, maybe a wife or sweetheart. If she could find any information on him, a name, an address, she would write a letter and send it with her father the next time he went to San Francisco.
But the stranger had no coat or vest. Whatever he’d worn against the weather, the sea must’ve torn it away. That left his trouser pockets as the only place to look.
Leaving the driftwood chunk within reach, she crouched next to him and worked her fingers into his sodden hip pocket. As she’d feared, it was empty. Groping deeper to make sure, she gasped and drew back. One hand reached for her makeshift weapon. A corpse would be cold and rigid. But her fingers had sensed living flesh.
Trembling, she worked her hand under his collar to touch the hollow alongside his throat. The faintest throb of a pulse ticked against her fingertip. Heaven save her, the man was alive!
“Look out below!” Daniel shouted a warning from the top of the cliff, alerting Sylvie that he was about to fling the shovel down to her.
“No, wait!” she shouted back. “Never mind the shovel. Get some water in the canteen. Close the stopper tight and toss it down.”
“Is he alive?”
She hesitated. “Barely.”
“Can I come down?”
“No. He might be dangerous. Hurry!”
The silence from above told her Daniel had gone to fill the canteen. Turning back to the stranger, she dropped to her knees and scooped the sand out from under his face to give him more air. He was utterly still, no movement, no sound, but the breath from his nostrils warmed her wet fingers.
What now? With effort, she could probably move him. But what if he had broken bones or internal injuries? Pushing and pulling would only make them worse. Still, there was little she could do without turning him over.
For now, he was lying to one side, his left arm pinned under his body. Maybe she could hollow out the sand on that side and use his sinking weight to help her roll him over. That would be the gentlest way to turn him. What happened after that would depend on how badly he was hurt.
Moving to his left, she began scraping away the sand along his length, her bare hands hollowing out a space beneath him. She dug furiously, reaching as far under him as his bulk would allow. As he sank into the recess, his body began to rotate onto its side.
So far her idea was working. But the physical contact was more intimate than anything Sylvie had ever experienced with a man. As the backs of her hands rubbed across bone and solid male muscle, she felt herself growing curiously warm. The unaccustomed heat flowed through her, simmering like the ruby-red jam she made when the wild strawberries ripened in midsummer.
Caution shrilled warnings in her head. She was alone here with a child to protect. Her father had taught her to assume the worst of any stranger who showed up. Saving this man could be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done. But Christian decency demanded that she try.
She could hear the breath whispering in and out of his nostrils. She could feel the warmth of his skin and hear the low rumblings of an empty belly. But he hadn’t opened his eyes or uttered a sound.
Two years ago her father had brought home a dog-eared medical book. Sylvie had read it so many times that she could quote parts of it from memory. But she wasn’t a doctor. And she certainly wasn’t a miracle worker. The plain truth was, the man could die right here on the beach.
But she wouldn’t let herself think of that now.
Her fingers pawed the sand, widening the hollow she’d made. His body was already tilted. Now all that remained was to roll him onto his back.
It was easier than she’d expected. He tumbled over with an audible grunt, the first sound she’d heard from his lips. Sylvie’s breath seemed to stop as she studied him.
His eyes were closed, his hair sand-plastered to his forehead. A purple bruise lay along one cheekbone, a bloodied gash above his temple. For all the battering, he had a noble face—almost princely with its chiseled nose, strong jaw and lightly cleft chin. His features were marred only by a puckered scar that pulled at a corner of his mouth. That slight imperfection gave him a sardonic look, as if he were smiling at some secret joke.
Was this the face of a good man—a man she could trust with her safety and Daniel’s? Or would saving him turn out to be the worst mistake of her life?
Transfixed, Sylvie leaned over him. Her finger skimmed a trail down his bruised cheek. Her touch sent a quiver through his body. Sensing it, she drew back, almost afraid to breathe. A sense of possession stole over her, as if, in saving the man’s life, she’d somehow made him hers.
His closed eyelids twitched. His throat worked. A moan emerged from between his lips, then a single labored word.
“Catriona…”
The name stung like the brush of a nettle. It didn’t matter, Sylvie told herself. She’d known all along he might belong to someone. And wasn’t it a good sign, that the first word out of his mouth was a woman’s name? If he had a wife or sweetheart, how bad could he be?
“Here’s the water, Sylvie.” Daniel’s voice made her start. She glanced around to see him standing just behind her, holding the canteen.
“I told you to stay up top,” she scolded him.
“I wanted to see.” He stared down at the stranger. “Maybe he’s a prince.”
“A prince? Whatever are you talking about, Daniel Cragun?”
“A prince from the sea, like the one in your story.”
Sylvie shook her head. “That’s make-believe, silly. He’s just a man.”
“No! Look!” Daniel pointed to where the stranger’s left hand lay against his side. On his middle finger was a heavy gold signet ring, set with a sapphire the size of Sylvie’s thumbnail.
Under different circumstances, Sylvie would have been intrigued. Right now she had more important things on her mind.
“Get back and stay back,” she told her brother. “I don’t want you too close when he wakes up.”
Kneeling, she cradled the man’s head in her lap, reached for the canteen and twisted out the stopper. She’d need to be careful, lest she cause him to choke.
Raising his head, she tilted the canteen and gave him just enough water to wet his lips. He jerked reflexively, coughing and sputtering.
“Careful,” she said. “Just a sip.”
He groaned, stirring against her. His eyelids fluttered and opened.
His eyes were a deep, dark blue, as blue as the sapphire on his finger. They stared up at her in blank surprise.
“Where am I?” he muttered. “And who the devil are you?”
Chapter Two
He was dead, that had to be it. And those silver eyes looking down at him, set in a porcelain face and haloed by a nimbus of spun-gold hair, belonged to an angel. Or maybe to a beautiful demoness.
He felt like bloody hell, which argued for the demoness theory. His head ached. His eyes burned. Every bone and muscle felt as if it had been pounded like cheap beefsteak. The few words he’d spoken felt as if they had been ripped from the raw depths of his throat.
Worst of all, he had no idea what had happened to him.
“Don’t try to talk.” One cool hand eased his head upward. He felt the metal mouth of a canteen against his chapped lips. “Just a sip for now. Too much might make you sick.”
The water was fresh and cold. He craved more than the swallow he took, but she was right about getting sick. His throat and stomach felt as if they’d been scoured with a holystone. Best to take things slow.
Coming more awake now, he could hear the lap of the tide and the sharp mewl of seabirds. His skin, hair and clothes were gritty with sand. Had he been shipwrecked? It seemed likely enough, but he had no memory of being on a boat. The blankness was unsettling. But no doubt everything would come back once his head cleared.
Pouring water into her hand, she splashed the worst of the grit from his face. The palm that grazed his skin was callused. His mysterious rescuer was no lady of leisure. But there was an ethereal quality about her, like a fairy-tale princess dressed in faded calico. Nothing about her made sense.
She eyed him warily as he tested his hands and feet, stretching his arms and legs. He was sore all over, though nothing seemed to be broken. But his ears were ringing, and his head throbbed with pain.
Only as he shifted his shoulders did it dawn on him that he was lying with his head in her lap. His senses seemed strangely acute. He could feel the shape of her thighs through her thin cotton skirts. He could feel the flatness of her little belly and the warmth of her skin. He could hear the soft cadence of her breathing. The close contact was having a most ungentlemanly effect on him. At least he knew his body was functional. But he was well on his way to making a fool of himself.
With a grunt, he heaved to a sitting position. The dizziness that swept over him blurred his sight for a moment. As it cleared he saw that he was in a cove ringed by jagged rocks and pine-crested cliffs. Beyond the entrance, sunlight glittered on the open sea. Nearby, on the sand, lay the wrecked hull of a boat.
The beauty who’d awakened him knelt at his side, one hand resting on a club-shaped chunk of driftwood. Peeking around her shoulder with wide brown eyes was a small, black-haired boy.
Lord, who were these people? Where was he?
The boy stepped into full view. His feet were bare, but his clothes were clean and well mended. He looked the newcomer up and down, his eyes sparkling with childish curiosity.
“Are you a prince, mister?” the boy demanded.
He managed to find his voice. “A prince?” he rasped. “Do I look like a prince to you?”
“Maybe a little.” The boy frowned, then brightened. “If you aren’t a prince, where did you get that ring on your finger?”
He raised his left hand to look. The fathomless blue sapphire, framed in gold, gleamed in the sunlight. If the stone was real the ring could be worth a small fortune. It was hard to believe these people hadn’t stolen it from him.
“Well, what about it?” the boy demanded. “If you’re not a prince where did you get that ring?”
“Where are your manners, Daniel?” the young woman scolded. “The gentleman’s our guest, not our prisoner.” She turned, her expression still guarded. The sea wind fluttered tendrils of sunlit hair around her face. “I’m Sylvie Cragun,” she said. “This is my brother, Daniel. And who might you be, sir?”
Her speech was formal, almost schoolbookish. She seemed to be well educated, or at least well-read, he observed. Odd, given her faded dress and work-worn hands. His gaze flickered to the driftwood club. Her manner was friendly enough, but something told him that, at his first suspicious move, she’d crack it against his skull.
Her silvery eyes narrowed. “Your name, sir, if you’d be so kind. And it would be a courtesy to tell us where you’ve come from.”
“My name is…” He hesitated, groping for an answer to the question. But nothing came to mind—not his name, not his family or his occupation, not his home or his reason for being here.
She was watching him, her gaze growing stormier by the second. He shook his head, the slight motion triggering bursts of pain. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. “God help me, I don’t remember anything.”
Sylvie stared at the stranger. She’d read about memory loss. The medical book said it was most commonly caused by a blow to the head. The gash above his temple made that explanation plausible. But that didn’t mean it was true. Until she knew more, she’d be foolish to believe anything he told her.
“You can’t remember your own name?” Daniel asked in wonder.
“Not at the moment.” His wry chuckle sounded forced. “Give me a little time, it’ll come.”
“But if you don’t know your name, what can we call you?” Daniel persisted.
He shrugged. “For now, anything. You decide.”
Daniel pondered his choices. “Rumpelstiltskin?” he ventured. “I like that story a lot.”
“I was hoping for something shorter,” the stranger muttered.
“Can’t you think of an easier name, Daniel?” Sylvie asked.
The boy’s frown deepened. He pondered a moment, then sighed. “I can’t think of anything good. Will you help me, Sylvie?”
“Let me think.” As Sylvie scrambled to resolve the question, the opening line from the book she’d been reading flashed into her mind.
Call me Ishmael…
Ishmael, the wanderer cast up by the sea, with no last name and no home. What could be more fitting?
“We will call you Ishmael,” she said.
The scarred corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I take it you’ve been reading your Bible,” he said. “That, or Moby Dick.”
“Either way, I think it suits you.” Sylvie’s face warmed as their gazes met. Here was a man who’d read the same book she was reading. A literate man—a gentleman perhaps, who could teach her something about the world. True, he might be pledged or even married to someone else. But surely there could be no harm in a friendly exchange.
As she rose to her feet, the realization struck her.
The man who couldn’t remember his own name had remembered a book he’d read.
Memory loss could be selective, she supposed. But what if he was lying to hide his identity and win her trust? He could be a fugitive running from the law, maybe a ruffian who’d take cruel advantage of a woman and child. There were such men, she knew. Her father had warned her about them. “Keep the shotgun handy when I’m away, girl,” he’d told her. “If a stranger comes in the gate, pull the trigger first and ask questions later.”
The old single-barrel shotgun lay ready on a rack above the cabin door. Sylvie knew how to load the shot and black powder and set the percussion cap. Her aim was good enough to bring down ducks and pigeons for the cooking pot. But she’d never fired at a human target.
Could she do it if she had to? Could she point the weapon at this compelling stranger, pull the trigger and blast him to kingdom come?
She could, and she would, to protect her little brother, Sylvie vowed. Nothing was more important than Daniel’s safety.
