Lord above, his head hurt.
The pain was excruciating, blinding, and if he’d had the energy, he would have howled at the intensity. But all he could manage was a whimper.
Then a soft hand stroked his forehead, and the throbbing eased.
“It’s going to be all right,” whispered a quiet voice. “Just breathe slowly. You’re safe and will be well soon.”
There was something familiar there, something he recognised, but he simply didn’t have the strength to open his eyes, or the energy to pursue the notion. For the moment, sensing a presence at his bedside, and feeling the warmth of a hand against his skin, was enough.
He slept.
When he awoke once more, he had no idea where he was, what day it was, or—for that matter—who he was.
One thing was evident: he was cold. Shivering, in fact. He managed to open his eyes a little, then shut them again, frowning at the light shining in from a window.
He curled into the blankets and mentally reviewed the situation.
Was this France? Was he still in the tiny village of Port-aux-Brumes? And where were his clothes? He seemed to be wearing some sort of thick cotton nightshirt, but it was very snug and far too short. His feet were definitely colder than the rest of him.
Thoughts chased themselves through his mind willy-nilly, memories of gunfire, the thunder of hooves, a rough ride through bad weather…yes…he’d been riding, pushing his mount for every inch of speed it could manage…
He groaned as the images faded, ran together, made no sense at all…
“Hush.”
Warmth suddenly encompassed him, and he let out a sigh of relief, managing to focus on the hands laying a thick quilt over his body.
“This will be better. I held it in front of the fire for a few minutes.”
“Th-th-thank you,” he croaked, feeling the heat penetrating his bones and the shivering easing as it did so.
A hand moved over his forehead, and he was suddenly reminded of his mother, who used to do the same thing whenever he was sick.
“Where am I?” The words were murmured and faint, but he hoped whoever was tending to him could hear them. “Where are my boots?”
“You are safe,” came the answer. “Safe in England, in Little Witham. It’s on the coast of the Channel.”
He thought about that.
“Not France…”
“No, you are not in France. You’re in England. You’re home. You’ve been unwell.”
He tried to turn his head enough to see who was speaking. It was a woman, and somehow it seemed that he should know that voice.
But her face was a blur in the half light, shadowed and indistinct. “This isn’t my home, is it?”
A slight chuckle answered his question. “It is for now, Harry. Just rest. Everything will sort itself out soon. All you have to do is get better.”
“All right, but I shall need my boots.” He sighed, warm now, turned his head into the pillow and did as he was told.
Chapter Two
In Which Harry Chalmers Discovers that He has Acquired a Wife
The next time Harry woke, it was dark.
The pain had receded, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d been run over by a gun carriage. Every bone in his body ached a little, and he knew he was as weak as a kitten.
