Shipwrecked With The Captain. Diane Gaston

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       Chapter Five

      When Claire woke the next day her head ached and she wished there was one memory she could banish from her mind. She’d acted like a brazen trollop with Lucien. Goodness! She’d wanted him to kiss her and hold her and spend the whole night in her bed. She still could feel his breath against her lips and the warmth of his touch.

      Surely that was brazen? Was she truly such a woman?

      She tried again to remember something about herself that could answer that question.

      There was nothing.

      Lucien hired a carriage to take them to Dublin. Claire felt almost as grief-stricken saying goodbye to the Molloys as she’d felt leaving the fishermen. Captain Molloy, his cousin, Mrs Molloy, the fishermen and the others at the inn were the people in her life, the only ones, except for Lucien. Now she was headed to a city she did not remember to eventually reunite with a brother who was a complete stranger to her.

      After the buildings of Bray receded into the distance and she’d wrestled her emotions into some sort of order, she became aware of how close Lucien was seated next to her and of how comfortable it was for her to be beside him. She did not want to face saying goodbye to him, but that would come soon enough.

      Lucien was everything to her. She, on the other hand, was merely an obstacle to his returning to London and back to the life at sea he so loved.

      She must take care and never let it slip that she wanted him to stay with her longer.

      She looked out the window at the countryside rolling past. Had she seen it before?

      She did not know.

      Their journey would take half the day and so far Lucien had said little to her. Of course, she, as well, only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. What could she say? That she regretted trying to seduce him? Or that she regretted not succeeding? Perhaps she should say she was sorry to be such a burden.

      * * *

      After changing horses one last time and taking some refreshment at the coaching inn, they finally reached the bustling streets of Dublin.

      ‘I wonder if I will remember anything here,’ she murmured, more to herself than to him.

      ‘Perhaps something will spark a memory,’ he responded.

      She studied the scenes passing by her window. ‘Nothing I see is a surprise.’ Not the wagons or carriages or riders or people walking. ‘I simply cannot remember another time I saw such things.’

      His eyes looked sympathetic and she felt a pang of guilt.

      ‘I do not mean to sound as if I am complaining,’ she explained. ‘What is important is that I am alive. I owe that to you.’

      He averted his gaze. ‘And the fishing boat.’

      ‘And the fishing boat,’ she agreed.

      The carriage pulled up to a large red-brick town house.

      ‘We are here,’ Lucien said.

      A footman emerged from the building and opened the carriage door. Lucien climbed out and turned to help her disembark, then he reached in and picked up the two small parcels that contained their meagre belongings.

      They wore the clothes that the Molloys had found for them. The clothes they wore in the shipwreck were gone. The footman looked them up and down with haughty contempt, no doubt due to those plain clothes of a simple fishing villager.

      ‘Your luggage?’ the footman said with a sneer.

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