Tom sat back into the chair, grasped the splintery wooden armrests, while Meade ripped the shirt from Tom’s back. He hissed in pain.
Neither spoke.
Meade’s breath was heavy and ale-scented on Tom’s neck as the man rubbed cold alkanet ointment into the burns. His fingers were rough. Careful too. Like the man himself.
When he’d dabbed the last cut with a rag, he gestured toward the door in the back of the workroom. “Go upstairs. Get a new shirt.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Tom clenched his fists when all he wanted was to pound them. He looked at the ceiling. Then the floor. Then the stoic face of Meade—as if the man who had housed Tom for the past seven years could somehow make everything right.
“Only two things I know of.” The blacksmith frowned. “Take to the bottle of gin behind that keg over there.” He motioned to it without meeting Tom’s eyes. “Or pray.”
“Miss, can you hear me?” Rustling, then a brush of smooth leather along her hairline. “No, no, such an idea is preposterous. She cannot be so disturbed. Not in this state.”
Agony rippled across her temples with breath-stealing power. She grasped the hand on her face, though she wasn’t certain if she should thrash it away or hug it closer.Help.
“Ride back and return with the barouche.”
“With all due respect, my lord, I am uncertain if such a carriage can endure this slope. The gig perhaps—”
“Impossible. She will need room to remain prostrate.” A sigh. “I shall examine her myself when we arrive home, and it is my greatest hope this forehead gash is the only injury rendering her unconscious.”
A monotone voice answered, then horse hooves pounded—as if she were now alone with whoever cradled her face.
“I am uncertain if you can hear me, miss, but I shall do my best to alleviate your discomfort as quickly as possible. For what it is worth, I have read every volume on modern medicine that could be found in my father’s library. I hope the knowledge shall finally meet its use.”
Too many words. They swished and sloshed along the painful walls of her mind, like a porridge she spooned through but didn’t wish to eat. Of their own will, her eyes slitted open.
Light stabbed her. Branches swayed, budded with green, then a face dipped closer than she was prepared for.
“Your consciousness returns. That is excellent.” He shifted her closer. He smelled of horse liniment and cinnamon, a curious scent, and his blond hair gleamed lighter in the sunlight. His cheeks, lips, eyes, possessed little color.
But he seemed confident.
Intelligent.
Someone she could trust.
“You are in a remarkable amount of pain, I presume.”
She wasn’t certain if it were a question. Or if she should answer. Or if she could.
“I keep an impressively overstocked medicine chest at Penrose Abbey. I am certain we can find something to soothe you while we await Dr. Bagot. He is a mere two-hour journey from here. A manservant is already in route to fetch him.”
Water.Her tongue slid over dry, cracked lips.
“You must be parched. I am sorry I have not anything to offer you. Not out here.” Darkness doused the sun. Black, then light. Black, then light. She blinked over and over again, and then not at all.
“How you ended up out here alone beneath this elm is quite a curiosity.”
Stay.
“I suppose I shall discover it all soon enough. As soon as you are able to speak.” He stroked her hair as if she were a child. “I do not suppose you can manage a name, can you?”
She cracked her lips, ready to test her voice, but nothing came to her. Alarm settled in. She scampered about her head, desperate for the answer, but the flood of darkness ebbed again.
“Never mind. Do not think. We shall know all soon enough.”
She wanted to believe him, this stranger.
