The next words he was about to speak died on his lips when he saw the face of the woman who stood dripping water all over his floor.
It was Caroline Saunders.
“Lord Newhall. I am so sorry we have arrived in such a manner. We thought the weather would hold out on the last part of the journey. The storm came out of nowhere.”
“Miss Saunders?” he stammered.
He had rarely been stuck for words in his life, but seeing Caroline standing in the front entrance of his home was not just unexpected, it was a hell of a shock. What was going on?
She looked down at her sodden gown, the hem of which was covered in thick, wet brown mire. Her skirts looked like she had fallen on her knees in the mud. Her boots had made an unsightly mess of the beautiful floor tiles of the front entrance. Spots of blood dripped from her fingertips.
When she looked back up at Julian, he saw tears shining in her eyes. “Do you have a physician or someone who is skilled in stitching skin?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes of course. Whatever injuries your servant has our castle steward should be able to attend to them. I myself am quite skilled at stitching wounds; I saw war service in Belgium, so I can also assist if needed,” he replied.
“Oh good,” she said, and held up her hand. The source of the dripping blood was now evident in the deep, ugly gash which crossed the palm of Caroline’s left hand.
She studied the wound for a moment before a look of incredulity appeared on her face, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she dropped like a stone.
Julian bolted across the floor. He knelt beside her and lifted her head, cradling it in his lap. “Miss Saunders?”
