He had listened, clinging to every word.
Even now, hearing the soft rhythm of her footsteps, the subtle weight of her presence in the next room, he did not feel quite so… lost.
Daisy Montgomery.
Her name fit neatly in his mind, as though it had been there before—as though he had always known it. In fact, when he grasped at nothingness, he always landed on her.
Wide blue eyes. Curls wild and golden, refusing to be tamed as they framed her face.
The image provided him with something tangible. Something real.
No doubt, it was simply because she had been the one to care for him. Aside from her brother, an eager lad of about ten, she was the only face he knew.
The only face that meant anything.
But this morning, he was ready to end his bedrest.
The pain in his head had dulled to an ache, a far cry from the crippling agony that had held him hostage before. His body protested, his muscles stiff from disuse, but he had been idle long enough.
He needed to see the light of day.
Ignoring the pull of aching joints, he threw back the blanket and sat up. Much better. But he needed tomove.
Aside from a few lingering bruises, a collection of aching ribs—possibly cracked—and the dull throb at the base of his skull, he was not as bad off as he could have been.
Grasping the nearest shelf, he pulled himself to his feet, biting back a curse as his muscles protested the movement.
It was a damn good thing he had something to hold onto.
For the first full minute of standing, the world tilted, and his legs held all the structural integrity of pudding.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to steady. His body might be weak, but a man could only lie abed so long.
And considering he had no earthly idea who he was or how he had ended up here, he really ought to do a bit of exploring.
Not particularly concerned with his apparel—or lack thereof—he pushed the pantry door open and stepped into the kitchen.
Under normal circumstances, he would have preferred to don proper clothing first. But considering there was nothing to be done about that at present, and the nightshirt he wore fell past his knees, modesty was a battle already lost.
Besides, Daisy had already seen more of him than any proper lady ought.
The thought humbled him.
Catching sight of her standing at the stove, he recalled that she’d had her hands on him. She had pressed cool cloths to his fevered skin, tended to his wounds…
A familiar sensation stirred to life, this one not humble at all.
Well.
At least one important organ had remained intact.
The timing, however, was spectacularly inconvenient.
He forced his thoughts elsewhere, willing blood to more appropriate appendages. The nightshirt was worn rather thin, and he had no desire to send Daisy—or worse, her brother—into a fit of mortified shock.
Grateful that neither of them had yet noticed his presence, he paused, rifling through information she had shared with him the night before.
The exercise was only partly successful.
