In the Tudor Court Collection. Amanda McCabe

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      What had he expected? Lorenzo frowned as he cleansed himself of the dirt of his months at sea. It was good to bathe after weeks when only the most basic of cleanliness was available. A douche in seawater every now and then was all that any of the men could expect. A man got used to the stench of the galleys, but he had been too eager to see her to delay even for that little time. Small wonder that she had kept her distance.

      Yet was it only that he had come to her with the dirt of his journey still upon him? She knew what life was like on board ship and had not flinched from it when she was forced to travel with few comforts. Was she keeping her distance because she did not wish to become his wife in truth?

      He had thought of this homecoming for weeks, dreaming of what she would smell like, how she would feel lying next to him in bed. Had he been mad to let himself imagine that she might welcome him once she had accustomed herself to the idea?

      Most women he had wanted had been eager enough to fall into his arms, but he had never wanted one this badly before. All too often it had been he who had refused the offer of a lady’s company, too busy and too caught up in his quest to want the bother of a love affair. His chosen companions had been ladies who understood that he would go sooner rather than later.

      Dressing in black Venetian breeches and hose and a doublet of black slashed with silver, the hanging sleeves attached by silver buckles at the shoulders, Lorenzo looked a true aristocrat. His hair was longer than usual for it had not been trimmed in months, curling to his shoulders, his skin a deep bronze. He glanced at his reflection in the glass, wondering as he had so often who he really was. For a moment his fingers strayed towards the leather wristbands, feeling the accustomed discomfort. All he knew for certain was that he had been captured by the Corsair Rachid and kept as a slave, chained to the oar until he was abandoned for dead. Yet he must have had a life before that day, a family, friends…perhaps a lover.

      There had been no more flashes of memory recently. It seemed that the curtain was back in place, shutting out the past. Yet it did not matter—he knew that he was Lorenzo Santorini, owner of a fleet of galleys, his mission in life to destroy his enemy and others of his ilk.

      Yet was his purpose as firm as it had been? Lorenzo frowned as he tried to understand the change that had come over him as he looked into the frightened eyes of that youth. Had it been Rachid himself he would not have hesitated to kill him—or would he?

      He cursed softly as he realised that he was not sure. He had fed on hatred for so long. It was necessary to him, for without it what would he have?

      The answer was so shocking, so alien to all that he had been and believed that he could not accept it. Dreams of a wife and family were not for him. He would grow soft, forget what had made him the man he was—become someone else.

      Surely that was not what he wanted? He realised that he did not know. He did not know who he truly was any more.