Daisy reached for the cup of water, her hand unsteady. “You should drink.”
She helped him lift his head, pressing the rim of the cup to his lips.
She had felt perfectly comfortable touching him when he had been on the brink of death—bathing him, treating his wounds, forcing medicine between his lips when he had been too weak to swallow.
But now that he was awake? Now that his sharp gaze tracked her movements? This enclosed space in her pantry, her sudden awareness of how intimate all of this was—unseated her confidence.
“How do you feel?” she asked quickly. “Are you in much pain?”
He shifted, propping himself up slightly—and Daisy was reminded just how large he was. Why was she so flustered?
“Some,” he admitted, voice still thick with exhaustion. “Not as bad as before.”
His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the towering shelves, the rows of supplies, the half-open door. “What is this place?”
“My shop—Honeysuckle and Lye,” Daisy said. “Well, technically—my pantry.” She let out a small sigh. “I make soap. Scented soap.”
His brow creased further, and for reasons that made no sense at all, she found herself wanting to explain. Wanting to tell him how she had improved upon her aunt’s business, how she’d figured out how to make better soap than most in London—how she had learned to turn a profit in a world that hadn’t been made for women like her to succeed.
But none of that would matter to this man.
A finely dressed gentleman who had nearly been beaten to death in an alley wasn’t likely to give a fig about how she grew herbs to make her own oils, or how she wrapped each bar in cloth before tying it off with a ribbon.
And she had bigger concerns than impressing this enigmatic stranger.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asked instead, shifting the conversation back to what mattered.
His frown deepened. His stare grew unfocused, like he was searching for something just out of reach. Something she might need to help him find.
So she oh, so gently added, “You were beaten badly and left for dead.”
She waited, watching as his throat worked around a swallow, as his hands curled into the blanket.
“I found you behind my garden,” she said. The words sat heavy between them. “You were unconscious. And it was clear you wouldn’t last the night if someone didn’t… help.”
A small crease formed between his brows, his fingers flexing against the blanket again.
“I couldn’t just leave you there,” she continued. “So my brother and I… we managed to… get you inside.”
His eyes widened slightly—perhaps in surprise. Perhaps at the thought of being dragged around by a woman and a boy.
But he remained silent. Not in disbelief, but as though she was talking about someone other than him.
Daisy exhaled. “You’ve been here a week. Feverish. Delirious.”
She thought back to those long nights, to the moments she’d worried he wouldn’t make it—to how she had held cool cloths to his brow, spooned medicine between his lips, willed him to fight.
And now he was staring at her, alive, but still so lost.
“Do you know why someone would want to harm you?” she asked again, softer this time.
The muscles in his throat bobbed with another swallow.
“I can’t recall…” His voice came out strained. He pressed his fingers against his temple. “…much of anything.”
Then, his gaze swung back to her. “I was in a dark room—not this one. It was cold. I remember… pain.”
There was an agony in that one word that summoned a stinging to Daisy’s eyes. His haunted expression had her hugging her arms in front of her.
