Secret Heart (3 page)

She
looked at the ripe, red berries, then looked up into Garit’s blue
eyes. The tenderness she saw in his gaze nearly broke her heart.
For just a moment she wished she could be what he wanted her to be.
But she couldn’t. Garit of Kinath was not her love and never would
be.

With a murmured word of thanks she accepted
the berries and ate them slowly, while Roarke continued to observe
her every movement.

“
If you
know your name, Jenia,” Roarke said at last, “then you must recall
other facts about your life. Who are your parents? Are you married,
and to whom? Where do you live?”

“
I am
sorry,” she answered him, choosing her words with great care. “I
believe my name is Jenia because it came into my mind without any
effort on my part, and because it seems so familiar and comfortable
to me. But when I try to think of people, or of places, all I
perceive is a thick mist. You may trust me, Sir Roarke, when I say
that since I first woke upon the beach, I have been trying to
answer the very questions you are asking me now. I want to
remember, but I cannot.”

“
Leave
her alone, Roarke,” Garit advised. “Perhaps after she’s had a
decent meal and a good night’s sleep, she will be able to tell us
what we want to know.”

“
Perhaps,” Roarke said.

Roarke
did not agree with Garit, and he didn’t believe that Jenia – or
whoever she really was – couldn’t remember her own life. The woman
was lying. He knew it in his bones, in his heart, and in his
mind.

He did
not doubt that she was a noblewoman. Her low-pitched voice, her
accent, and the elegant way she carried herself even when stumbling
along the beach, all proved as much. The first moment he’d seen
her, even before she spoke, he had known she was no peasant girl or
fisherwoman.

He had
met Lady Chantal of Thury only a few times. Garit had been far more
intimate with her, so Roarke accepted his friend’s declaration that
the woman who called herself Jenia was so remarkably like his lost
love that they could easily be the same. He regarded her more
closely, committing each detail of her features to memory, in case
he ever met a woman who claimed to be Lady Chantal – or who
actually proved to be her.

Certainly, Jenia was attractive. If she were bathed and
combed and properly dressed, she would be lovely, though not the
courtly ideal of beauty, which required straight black tresses and
blue eyes like Queen Hannorah. Jenia possessed thick, reddish-brown
hair and creamy skin. Beneath the layer of dried salt water and
sand that her efforts at the stream had not removed, Roarke
detected a pale sprinkling of freckles across her straight, little
nose. Those freckles alone would disqualify her from the court’s
admiration as a beauty. Roarke, always independent, thought
otherwise. As he watched, her tongue came out to snare a drop of
bright red berry juice from the corner of her mouth. The sight sent
a completely unexpected pang of longing through him.

He warned
himself to beware. For all he knew, the woman was a trap, sent to
entice him – or Garit, who was far more susceptible to feminine
wiles. She could be a spy who was only pretending to be a castaway.
Roarke had noticed no signs of a shipwreck scattered on the beach.
And yet, just looking at her sent an odd lightness into the dark in
which he lived, easing the black emptiness inside him, where once
his heart had dwelt.

Over the
rim of the wooden cup he’d provided she studied him with silent
gravity. Jenia’s eyes were the color of fine amber. No other word
would adequately describe their golden-brown brightness. At one
moment her eyes looked as if all of the sun’s gold was caught in
them. In the next moment they glowed with the deep brown of a
stream in autumn, when crystal-clear water runs over fallen leaves.
Those ever-changing eyes suggested layers of meaning, of
intelligence – and of mystery, of unanswered questions.

“
What do
you intend to do with me?” she asked him.

“
Just
now, for a little while,” Roarke answered, forcing his thoughts
back to the secret mission that had brought him to southern
Sapaudia, “I will leave you here with Garit while I search along
the beach.”

“
What?”
Garit exclaimed. “No, you can’t do that. I object most vigorously.
Jenia needs immediate shelter, a comfortable place to rest, and
decent clothing that befits her obvious rank.”

“
A ship
apparently foundered in last night’s storm,” Roarke said, watching
for Jenia’s reaction to his words. “Other survivors may have washed
ashore. I am going to search the beach.” He broke off, having noted
the flash of fear in Jenia’s amber gaze. The emotion was quickly
gone. She lowered her remarkable eyes and assumed a bland
expression. Seeing the change in her, Roarke wondered what a
well-bred lady could have to fear if her shipboard companions were
found.

“
Aye,
Roarke, you are right,” Garit agreed with a sigh. “We cannot leave
any poor souls untended on the sand if there is aught we can do to
help them. And if they are dead, we need to find an official and
arrange to have them buried. Only, don’t take too long, I beg you.
Chantal – I mean, Jenia – you are welcome to use my cloak for a
pillow if you would care to rest.”

“
Thank
you, Garit, but I do not wish to sleep. However, I would like
another cup of water, if you will be kind enough to fetch it for
me.”

She
settled herself with her back against the largest of the trees, her
knees drawn under her, and Roarke’s cloak wrapped around her like
protective armor. In that pose she did resemble a lost and lonely
survivor of a shipwreck.

Seeing
her like that, Roarke almost cautioned Garit not to ply her with
questions. Immediately, his natural skepticism asserted itself and
he thought better of the idea. Let Garit say or do whatever he
wanted; he’d keep the lady safe from harm and if he was able to
learn anything more about her, that could only be to their
advantage. With a nod to Jenia, Roarke headed back to the
beach.

The tide
was coming in, waves foaming and swirling over sand that just a
short time ago had stretched a good quarter of a league to the
water. The beach was strewn with seaweed and shells, a few dead
fish, and even one piece of driftwood, but Roarke’s careful search
detected no evidence of a ship’s wreckage or of bodies.

He located the spot where Jenia had lain,
recognizing it by the gouges in the sand where she had pushed
herself to her feet and by the footprints leading westward. At
least that much of her story was true, though the incoming waves
had already eliminated any trace of her emergence from the sea. He
found no personal belongings that could have been hers, nor did he
see evidence of any other survivors.

He retraced his steps to find Jenia still
propped against the tree, apparently sound asleep. Beckoning to
Garit, Roarke drew his friend aside to speak in a lowered voice
that he hoped would not disturb the lady.

“
I
discovered nothing of interest,” he said before Garit could ask.
“Did you learn anything from her?”

“
No.” His
face somber, Garit stared over Roarke’s shoulder toward Jenia. “I
keep asking myself if it’s possible that she is mistaken, that she
really is Chantal, but she just cannot remember.”

“
You love
Chantal,” Roarke said. “You have told me that you and she were
making secret plans to marry, so you above all men ought to
recognize her.”

“
As the
Heavenly Blue Sky is my witness, I cannot be certain. She is much
thinner and quieter than I recall, but she has been missing for
more than half a year and who knows what happened to her during
that time? Changes or not, you’d think my heart would tell me yes
or no at once, wouldn’t you? If she had looked at me there on the
beach and said, ‘Yes, Garit, it’s me,’ I’d have been absolutely
sure. But
she
says she doesn’t know, and that makes me doubt. I wish you
had known her beyond a formal introduction. You could view her
dispassionately, which I cannot. I’d trust your
opinion.”

“
I didn’t
have time to know the lady,” Roarke told him. “While you were
wooing Lady Chantal, I was working for King Henryk. In any case, I
wasn’t looking at women; I was avoiding them. You know
why.”

“
Aye.”
Garit heaved a heavy sigh. “That’s understandable after what my
sister did to you. I’m sorry I can’t answer your questions, Roarke,
but I cannot be sure that the lady is Chantal.” Seeing the grief on
Garit’s face, Roarke decided to jolt his friend out of a sorrow
that he considered had lasted too long. “In all these months I’ve
hesitated to ask, out of consideration for your feelings and in
hope that we’d find your Chantal alive and well. But now that we
are dealing with a woman so similar to her, who possibly
is
her, I must put to
you the question I should have asked last spring. Did Lady Chantal
have any marks or blemishes on her body that might help us to
identify her? A peculiar mole, a scar, a birthmark,
perhaps?”

“
Certainly not! She was without blemish!” Garit exclaimed,
rather too loudly. At Roarke’s quieting gesture he lowered his
voice and continued. “I never saw her unclothed. That’s what you’re
implying, isn’t it? I love Chantal with all my heart and will until
the day I die, but I never knew her carnally. She was chaste; she
understood what she owed to her family name. Not that her guardian
deserved her loyalty.”

“
I agree
with you about Lord Walderon,” Roarke said quickly, to forestall
the complaints he was sure Garit wanted to utter. Over the last
half year he had heard those same complaints with depressing
regularity. “Walderon is vain, ambitious—”

“
And
unscrupulous,” Garit finished. “He married a great heiress, but
that wasn’t enough for him. Oh, no; he had to arrange an alliance
for his niece and ward that was advantageous to
him.
Chantal told me that she
loathed the man she was to wed. She loves me, not Lord Malin.
That’s why we planned to run away and marry in secret.”

“
I know.”
Roarke rested his hand on Garit’s shoulder in a gesture of
sympathy. “We’ve been through the story many times, and we’ve never
found a sensible explanation for her disappearance.”

“
She
could be Chantal,” Garit said, looking toward the sleeping woman.
“Perhaps something was done to her to alter her memory. A mage
could have done it.”

“
For what
purpose? Mages don’t expend their Power without a very good reason.
No, Garit, I believe we must accept that we may never know the
answers to many of our questions about your Chantal.” Roarke spoke
slowly because a scheme was beginning to unfold in his mind.
Perhaps Garit’s confusion over Jenia’s identity and the lady’s
professed memory loss wouldn’t matter. It was possible that the
resemblance alone would be sufficient. “Unless, of course, we can
devise a clever way to prove beyond any doubt exactly what happened
to Lady Chantal.”

“
We have
been trying to discover the truth for half a year,” Garit said.
“Ever since Chantal disappeared and you were assigned to locate
her.”

“
If you
will recall, I was given the mission only after you raised such a
clamor that King Henryk had to do something,” Roarke said, adding
with a faint smile, “As emissary for the king of Kantia, you, my
friend, are too important to ignore.”

“
Much
good my so-called importance has been to Chantal,” Garit grumbled.
“I’ve had to steal a few days here and there from my duties at the
royal court to join you in the search. Despite our best efforts, we
know no more now than we did the day Chantal vanished.”

“
That’s
not entirely true.” Roarke glanced at the unmoving figure beside
the tree. “We have a few suspicions.”

“
Mine are
chiefly of Lord Walderon,” Garit said. “We both know he will never
tell us anything about Chantal. He says he’s given up all hope that
she’s still alive, but his story reeks of half truths and evasions.
Not to mention, outright lies. And he will continue to feign
ignorance of Chantal’s fate unless we can find definite proof of
his culpability.”

“
On the
surface of the matter, Walderon had no reason to wish Chantal ill,”
Roarke said. “Her coming marriage was to his benefit. Simple reason
indicates that he had nothing to do with her
disappearance.”

“
Unless
he learned of our secret plans,” Garit said.

Roarke
had wondered a few times if Chantal was with child by Garit. His
friend’s vigorous defense of Chantal’s chastity had put a firm end
to that possibility, as well as squelching Roarke’s other idea,
that Walderon had removed his pregnant niece from court and
confined her to a beguinage in order to forestall a
scandal.

Not even
the parchment Roarke carried that bore King Henryk’s seal and
ordered anyone to whom Roarke showed it to answer all his questions
honestly, had produced any evidence that Chantal was residing in
such a retreat. Roarke had come to the conclusion that Garit’s
obsession with Walderon’s guilt was mistaken, and that some other
explanation existed. Whatever the truth of Chantal’s disappearance,
they had to uncover it soon. King Henryk was growing
impatient.

“
Suppose,
one day in the near future, Lady Chantal were to appear at court in
the full finery appropriate to a noblewoman, as if she had never
been away,” Roarke suggested, his gaze still on the woman who
called herself Jenia.