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“You sleep. I’ll get breakfast.” He rolled out of bed, dressed hastily, and went downstairs.

“Will you be wanting another session with the leeches?” asked the maid, seeing him. “Your eye is looking much better today.”

“Thank you, I feel much better. I’ll pass on the leeches.” Remembering his joke about how to get rid of a cockstand the night before made Henry chuckle. “But we will take a tray if you don’t mind. The lady has had a fatiguing few days. She needs her rest.”

“I bet she has,” the maid winked and gave him a saucy look.

He was being careless with Artemisia’s reputation. It was ungentlemanly of him and yet he couldn’t seem to stop putting his public claim on her at every opportunity.

Reckless of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he shouldn’t be doing that, but he couldn’t remember the reason why. It was weightier than the mere possibility that she would need to pass through this town again in the future to visit her relative, and people would remember the widow who shared a room with the amnesiac she had found lying beside the road, stark naked. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret his actions. He felt lighthearted in a way he couldn’t recall feeling in a very long time.

Of course you cannot recall, you dunce. You can’t recall a damned thing before you woke up and stared into Artemisia’s gorgeous eyes. You can’t even remember your own bloody name.

He brushed aside the self-recriminations and bounded up the stairs with a tray full of split muffins, eggs, and sausage. Artemisia sat up in bed when he walked in.

“Stay right there,” he ordered.

“You are just as bossy out of bed as you are in it,” she complained with a quiet huff.

“You love it.” He placed the tray gingerly across her knees and kissed her lightly. Then he toed off his shoes and took the place beside her. “Open.”

“I do not need to be fed, Henry.”

“Yes you do. I don’t want you wasting away from all the activity I put you through last night.”

“About that,” she said around a mouthful of sausage. “I feel terrible. You were supposed to be resting, not exerting yourself to pleasure me.”

“Do you always go out of your way looking for things to feel guilty about? Eat.” He held up a muffin with butter and jam, then poured her tea while she was chewing. “I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Apart from my bothersome missing memories, I feel right as rain this morning.”

“You do seem very energetic.”

Henry’s blood stirred. She was warm and pliant, and smelled so good. He set the tray aside and feasted upon her for an hour or so, tasting her delicate skin with a connoisseur’s thoroughness. Her sweet breasts, the dip of her throat, the slight roundness of her belly that made everything below his own navel stand at attention. Lower down, too, delving between her thighs with his tongue.

“Your cream is sweeter than any other,” he declared, which made her giggle breathlessly.

“You are thoroughly obscene,” she laughed.

“You love it.”

She did. He could see it in the flush of her skin and the warmth in her eyes. She was made for carnal pleasure and happiness. Why, then, was Artemisia plagued by guilt every time she did something she enjoyed?

He pushed the thought aside, sliding into her gently lest she was tender from the night before. He did enjoy pushing her around in bed. Propping her hips on a pillow so that he could take her from behind. Flipping her over to watch her full breasts bounce with each thrust. Watching her beautiful face when she crested again, and again, and again.

Only when he was satisfied that he had pleased the widow thoroughly did he allow himself to finish.

Again came that warning bell in the back of his mind—You shouldn’t be doing this. He ought to be more careful. Artemisia might be convinced she was barren but the evidence she had presented was scant, in his admittedly unknowledgeable opinion. Her husband had a child out of wedlock yet she had never borne a child with him. What did that prove? Nothing. Perhaps they weren’t compatible that way.

If he made her pregnant, he would simply have to marry her. Simple, really. The thought brought with it a calm certainty. He hoped it did happen.

He shouldn’t. A horrifying thought occurred to him—What if he was married?

When they finally pried themselves out of bed, it was nearly eleven. The sun had emerged to chase the thick storm clouds away. Hand-in-hand, he and Artemisia picked their way around puddles and cranky white geese. Time and again they approached villagers to ask the same question: Do you recognize this man?

No one did.

Not the butcher. Not the baker. Not Thomas Davies, the shopkeeper whose clothes Henry wore. Not even the proprietors of the rival local tavern and inn, the Cock and Bull. They were kindly, if rougher around the edges, than the owners of the Mermaid’s Rest.

“Have you noticed something unusual about Cavalier Cove?” Artemisia asked thoughtfully when they had made their way through the entire village center and to the main road. She sat on a crumbling low stone wall. Tendrils escaped her pinned-up hair, dancing in the wind. His breath caught.