With great effort, he forced his eyes to open, blinking against a very dull light. The room was dark, but not the same suffocating blackness as before.
This wasn’t the place where they had imprisoned him.
Delicate aromas drifted to his nose, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. Was this… a larder?
Turning his head, a fresh wave of pain lanced through him, but before he could dwell on it, the door creaked open.
And then—she appeared.
The woman from his dreams.
She was real.
His head still throbbed, his entire body was one giant ache, and yet… staring at her, he felt…
“You’re awake!”
Her voice rang through the small room, light and clear as a bell, and for a moment, he thought he might still be dreaming. Was she an angel?
Her eyes widened with something between relief and disbelief, as though she hadn’t quite expected him to live.
And then—she smiled.
Warmth flickered in his chest—an odd sensation, given that he should be in agony.
“I—” the single word died on his tongue.
But it didn’t matter because he didn’t know what he’d been going to say anyway.
She disappeared back out the door but then almost immediately returned, this time with a cup in one hand.
She moved easily, with purpose, yet even in his muddled condition, his gaze caught on the graceful lines of her form, the way the filtered light dusted her features.
As she lowered herself onto the footstool beside the mattress, he sensed something else too—a steadying presence, one that had been here long before he was aware enough to notice it.
Had she been watching over him all this time?
“Willow bark tea. I ran out of laudanum two days ago.” Leaning over, she touched his forehead, and he felt her soft breath on his cheek. “I think it’s gone now. The fever. I thought we were going to lose you more than once.” And then she sat back, staring at him.
"Where am I?" The question rasped from his throat, raw and unfamiliar, like everything else in his head.
The woman—his angel with curls—cocked her head, studying him as though weighing how much he could handle.
“You’re not in danger, if that’s what you’re asking.” There was a cadence in her voice that tugged at his mind—a memory just out of reach.
It wasn’t the clipped refinement of Mayfair or the drawling indifference of a London aristocrat.
No, this was something softer, earthier—familiar. A country lilt.
“I’d reckon you’re still feeling muddled.” She sighed, shaking her head as she reached for the tea.
“Who… who are you?” His voice came out gruff-sounding. Raspy.
She handed him the cup, grimacing with a shrug.
“You are in my pantry,” she announced. “And I am Miss Daisy Montgomery.” When he made no response, she peered closer. “Who are you?”
He nearly lost himself in her eyes, large and blue and inquisitive.Daisy.Her name whispered through him, and all he could do was try to remember why. She blinked, but then she shook her head.
