“What was that about?”
“Nothing.” She kicked Gypsy to a gallop, sensed Storm surge, coming up alongside. She glanced briefly at Logan, then looked ahead.
Much as she might wish it, hanging on to him-holding on to a man like him-wasn’t a viable option.
On the way back to Mon Coeur, they fell in with Gerry Taft, her chief herdsman, and his crew, who were rounding up the cattle and driving them down from the low hills to the more protected winter pastures. Logan hadn’t met the herdsmen before; she performed the introductions, then she and Logan joined the effort to keep the normally wide-ranging herd together and moving in the desired direction.
With the fields so large, with so few fences and the ground broken by rocky outcrops and the occasional stand of wind-twisted trees, what should have been a simple matter wasn’t easy at all.
They rode and checked, constantly shifting direction, patroling and enforcing the perimeter of the loosely congregated herd, urging them with shouts and yells to keep moving. And within five minutes, apparently unable to help himself, Logan was giving orders.
Linnet, at least, recognized he was, but his approach was such that neither Gerry nor his men had their noses put out of joint. Command was her forte, yet she looked on with reluctant appreciation as Logan asked questions, clearly valuing the men’s knowledge, then made suggestions, which the men therefore saw the sense in and immediately implemented.
The mantle of command rode easily on Logan’s shoulders, very much second nature to him, something he didn’t have to think to do.
As she skirted the herd, wondering how she felt about that, she noticed the herd’s matriarch had been hemmed in by their shepherding. She pointed with her whip, yelled, “Clear her way-get her to lead them.”
Logan was closest to Linnet. He looked, and changed his previous orders to implement her direction.
She continued to ride nearby, and he continued to defer to any countermand she made.
By the time they drew within sight of the herd’s destination, she had to admit he knew what he was doing in this sphere of command as much as in the bedroom. He was one of those rare men who was so settled in his own skin, so confident in his own strengths, that he didn’t have any problem deferring to others; he didn’t see others’ status as undermining his own.
He didn’t see taking orders from a female as undermining his masculinity.
Thinking of his masculinity, of its innate strength, made her shiver.
Damn man-he really had got under her skin.
As Gerry and his men turned the herd through the gate into their winter quarters, Logan drew near. “Back to the house?”
She nodded, waved to the others, then turned Gypsy’s head homeward. Logan settled Storm to canter alongside.
They rode through the morning, the rising wind in their faces. One glance at his face told her he’d returned to wracking his brains, trying to remember his present, and his recent past.
Unbidden, Mrs. Corbett’s words echoed in her mind. Prophetic in a way; if he was an apple fate had dropped in her lap, she’d already taken a bite. And intended to take more. Until he remembered who he was, and left.
The thought effectively quashed the budding notion that, as he seemed a man capable of playing second fiddle to a female, she might, just might, be able to keep him.
She couldn’t regardless, because he wouldn’t stay. Almost certainly couldn’t. His nighttime lessons stood testimony to considerable experience in that sphere; for all she knew-all he knew-he might have a wife waiting for him in England.
No thought could more effectively have doused any wild and romantic notions that might have started germinating in her brain. She had to be realistic; he would remember and go… and that any wild and romantic notions had even occurred to her proved that her wisest and most sensible course was to do all she could to help him remember. So he could leave before she started yearning for things that could never be.
She glanced at him. “Torteval-the village-isn’t far. We should ride over and see if anyone there has learned anything more about the wreck.”
He met her gaze, then tipped his head. “Lead on.”
She did, wheeling east, determinded to find some clue to ressurect his memory so he could be on his way.
They rode into Torteval, a village just big enough to boast a tiny tavern. Leaving their mounts tied to a post, Logan followed Linnet inside. The locals greeted her eagerly; she was clearly well known, well liked, well respected. She introduced him, and eagerness instantly gave way to curiosity.
Those seated about the tables were old sailors and farmers; none were young.
“You’ve the luck of the devil,” one elderly seadog informed him. “Coming from that direction, if you’d missed Pleinmont Point, you’d have washed into open sea-next stop France.”
Logan grimaced. “I was hit on the head, and I’ve yet to remember where my ship was bound.”
Stripping off her gloves, Linnet sat on one of the benches at the long wooden table about which everyone was gathered. “Has anybody found anything-learned anything-around here?” She looked up at the innwife, bustling out from the kitchen. “Bertha, have you heard of any pieces of the wreck being washed up?”
Bertha shook her curly head. “No, miss-and I would of if there had been. We’d heard there’d been a wreck, so those ’round about have been looking, but no one’s even seen bits and pieces.”
Grimacing, Linnet glanced up at Logan. “It was worth a try.” Looking back at Bertha, she said, “Now we’re here, we’ll have two plates of your fish stew, Bertha, and two pints of cider.”
Bertha bobbed and hustled back to the kitchen. Understanding they were lunching at the tavern, Logan stepped over the bench and sat beside Linnet.
One of the old sailors leaned forward to look at Linnet. “No sign of debris in Roquaine Bay?”
She shook her head. “My men have checked, but no one’s found anything.”
“Then seems likely the ship broke up on the reefs well out from the bay, north and west of the point. Given the direction of that last blow, if things didn’t fetch up in your west cove, they’d miss our coasts altogether.” The sailor looked at Logan. “If that’s the case, there’s not going to be anything to help you get your memory back, not anywhere on the island.”
The other sailors all nodded their grizzled heads.
Bertha appeared with two heaped and steaming plates, which she placed with a flourish before Linnet and Logan. “There you are! That’ll warm you up before you head out again. Wind’s whipping up. I’ll fetch your ciders right away.”
The talk turned to the perennial sailors’ subject of the day’s likely catch. Logan applied himself to the surprisingly tasty fish stew and let the chatter wash over him.
He was ready to leave when Linnet rose and bade the company good-bye. He was reaching into his pocket for his purse when he remembered.
Linnet waved to Bertha, telling her to put the charge on the Mon Coeur slate. Logan followed her from the tavern, frowning as they walked to their tethered horses.
He lifted Linnet to her saddle, then held her there, caught her gaze. “If I was wearing Hoby’s boots, I must have money somewhere. When I remember where, I’ll pay you back.”
She arched her brows. “I was thinking you could pay me back tonight.”
Lips thinning, he held her gaze. After a moment said, “That hardly seems sufficient recompense.”
Releasing her, he turned, grabbed Storm’s reins, and swung up to the saddle.
“Then make it sufficient.” Linnet caught his eye. “I’m sure, if you exert yourself, you’ll manage.”
With that, she set her heels to the mare’s sides and surged out into the lane.
Logan held Storm in, prancing on the spot, while he stared at Linnet’s back. Then, frown converting to a scowl, he eased the reins and set off after her.