One

A cozy bedchamber in Kelston Hall Children’s Home

On the outskirts of the Village of Prudhoe

Middle of September 1828—early morning

Lavender ?

With the sluggishness of an opium addict, the man slowly roused from his slumber and twitched his nostrils, while allowing his eyes to remain shut. He ached in places he did not know could hurt.

Severe beatings tended to do that.

He furrowed his forehead.

I have been beaten .

Peculiar, he remembered being pummeled, but not who had thrashed him or where the pounding had occurred. For that matter, what he could recall about anything would scarcely fill a thimble.

His memory was as empty as his hollow stomach gnawing at his spine.

To still the panic rearing its gargoyle head at that horrific revelation, he focused on the familiar, comforting scent that had stirred him from sleep.

Yes, definitely lavender .

Still groggy, and with his eyes closed, he sniffed.

Hmm .

A slightly earthy scent also lingered, as did a pungent, medicinal aroma with a hint of sweetness and spice.

Poultices, salves, or tinctures?

To treat his injuries?

Bloody irregular.

What went on here?

Senses not yet fully attune, eyelids weighted closed, and limbs leaden, he inhaled deeply.

Other, lighter, more pleasing aromas teased his nose.

He sniffed again.

Lemon? Wildflowers? Sunshine?

Sunshine ?

What the devil?

Have I gone mad ?

Where the sodding blazes am I ?

He vaguely recalled running, gasping for air—pain riddling his body and head—and finally collapsing in a meadow after escaping.

Wait…

An imprecise image flitted across his beleaguered mind and then floated away before he could grasp hold and bring it into full focus.

An impression remained, nonetheless.

Someone had abducted him.

But who?

Why?

Again, he could vaguely recall the event, but not the details surrounding the incident.

With considerable effort, he fought the cumbersome cobwebs and wet wool besieging his mind, and mustering every ounce of determination he possessed, he groped his way to full wakefulness.

Wrinkling his nose again and drawing in a deep breath, while simultaneously creasing his forehead, he forced the millstones from his eyelids.

His senses told him dawn drew near.

They also screamed he was not alone.

Alarm throttled through his veins.

A soft sound beside his bed made him bolt upright, ready to defend himself once more.

An agonized gasp rushed past his dry lips as searing, molten fire speared his skull straight into his brain while scorching rapiers impaled his ribs.

Holy Mother of God !

Breath hissed from between clenched teeth as another groan ripped from his throat while he clutched his throbbing head, fighting to stay conscious.

He barely registered the bandages circling his head, ribs, and hands.

Nausea ripped through his stomach and throttled up his throat as a wave of excruciating pain threatened to cleave his head from his neck.

By God, he would welcome decapitation if it meant an end to the agony.

Desperate to tamp down the bile tapping against his teeth, he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

I am going to be sick .

In the dim pre-dawn light, a form in flowing white swiftly rose from beside his bed, sending a cloud of feminine fragrance wafting past his face.

Oh, God .

His tormented stomach could not stand anymore.

He gagged. Then gagged again.

“Oh, dear.” She touched his shoulder, the pressure gentle and comforting. “You poor thing. I shall fetch a basin.”

Even with the pain-induced haze assaulting him, he registered several details in the muted half-light.

Woman.

Average height.

English .

Middle to late thirties .

Educated speech.

A moment later, she produced a porcelain washbasin, and to his utter humiliation, he heaved his guts out as she held it before him. Not that there was much in his empty-as-a-miser’s-charity-box stomach.

When he finally stopped retching, he collapsed back onto the pillows, mortified and weak.

The pale pinks, oranges, and purples peeking through the lace curtains announced dawn’s imminent arrival.

“Queasiness is to be expected with a head wound, especially when one has a concussion.” She spoke matter-of-factly, her tone low and modulated, kind but not patronizing. “It shall pass in time, although I know at present that is not much comfort to you.”

Bloody right .

It is not.

The stranger turned from him and after placing the basin on a nearby commode, slipped on her wrapper, tying it at her waist. With practiced efficiency, she set about lighting a lamp.

Squinting, he blinked as the soft golden glow filled the unremarkable room, revealing the small chamber’s door standing open.

Glancing downward, he registered the white nightshirt covering his torso.

I sleep nude .

The ruffled nightshirt was not his.

Not only did he sleep naked, but he would never wear anything with as much lace as this garment sported.

How could he recall that insignificant tidbit but nothing else?

hand resting on the wrought iron, her head cocked slightly, the woman stood at the foot of the bed and studied him. Those intelligent dark brown eyes beneath winged brows several shades darker than her plaited hair probed him, pausing for a half-second on his damaged eye.

Ah, another morsel that he recalled.

He had lost vision in one eye.

Resisting the urge to touch his face to ensure the black leather patch hid the cloudy orb, he forced himself to take a mental inventory of his surroundings.

Already having concluded he wore another’s rather hideous nightshirt— what man in his right mind would choose to wear such a ridiculous thing ?—he noted the bandages artfully wrapped around his knuckles. He had also felt a dressing on his head when he’d clutched it earlier, and the vice-like pressure on his ribs suggested bindings encased his torso as well.

He lay in a narrow bed covered with a colorful quilt that appeared to have been constructed from a variety of fabrics with no apparent pattern. The other furniture comprised a straight-back chair upon which lay a once-green, rather flat, square velvet cushion, a small scuffed secretary, and the commode, upon which the plain white pitcher and basin sat.

Next to the bed, a small table acted as a nightstand. A wardrobe situated beside the door, along with two slightly crooked, dried-and-faded framed floral arrangements hanging on the same wall as the window, completed the simple décor.

Not stark, per se, but not opulent by any stretch of the imagination either.

A hazy vision of an elaborate black-and-white-tiled marble entry skittered across his memory before evaporating as swiftly as a droplet of water upon a roaring fire.

He pointed his attention to the floor.

No rugs covered the clean, plain wood, but a pile of blankets and a pillow lay between his bed and the wall.

She slept there.

Why?