He pressed his thumb to her rain-splashed cheek. “For God’s sake, woman. Wake.”
Maybe she’d struck her head on the flagstones. He thrust his fingers into her upswept hair, yanking out her hairpins. There were dozens of them, it seemed, and with each one he pulled, the mass of hair seemed to grow wilder. Angrier. The curling locks tangled and knotted between his fingers, obstructing his explorations. By the time he’d satisfied himself that her skull was intact, he could have believed that hair was alive. And hungry.
But her skull was in one piece, with no knots or swellings that he could detect. And she still hadn’t made a sound.
Perhaps she was injured somewhere else. Or maybe her corset was too tight.
There was only one way to tell.
With a gruff sigh, he shook off his coat and turned up his sleeves. Rolling her onto her side, he brushed her predatory hair away and set his fingers to the task of undoing the buttons down the back of her frock. He was out of practice, but there were some things a man didn’t forget. How to undo a woman’s buttons was one.
How to unlace a woman’s stays was another.
As he yanked the laces from the corset grommets, he felt her rib cage expand beneath his palms. She shifted and released a throaty, sensual sigh.
He froze. Another surge of . . . something . . . pulsed through his veins, and this time he couldn’t dismiss it as some tender nonsense.
This was lust, pure and simple. He’d gone a dangerously long time without a woman in his arms.
He pushed the physical response aside. With brisk, businesslike motions, he pulled the sleeves of her frock down her arms, feeling for any broken bones along the way. Then he began working the bodice down to her waist. He couldn’t let her just lie there in wet sacking, or she’d catch a chill.
He would deserve a great deal of gratitude for this when she awoke—but somehow he doubted he’d get it.
Izzy came to herself with a jolt.
She was indoors. Inside the castle. Pillars sprouted around her like ancient trees, soaring up to support the vaulted ceiling of a cavernous great hall.
Looking about, she saw scattered furnishings in various states of decay. The near end of the hall featured a massive hearth. If there weren’t a roaring fire in it, Izzy had no doubt she could stand inside that fireplace without even crouching. The blaze within fed not on splits of wood, or even logs, but on full tree trunks.
She lay on a dusty, lumpy sofa. A rough, woolen blanket had been drawn over her body. She peeked beneath it and cringed. She’d been divested of her frock, stays, petticoats, and boots. Only her chemise and stockings remained.
“Oh dear heavens.”
She put a hand to her unbound hair. Her Aunt Lilith was right. She’d always harped on Izzy during those summers in Essex. “It doesn’t matter that no one will see them,” she’d squawked. “Always—always—wear a clean shift and stockings. You never know when you might meet with an accident.”
Oh . . . dear . . . heavens. It all came back to her now. The rain . . . her swoon . . .
Izzy looked up, and there he was.
The Accident.
“You’re awake,” he said, without turning to confirm it.
“Yes. Where are my things?”
“Your valise is two paces inside the entry, to the right.”
Izzy twisted her neck and glimpsed the valise, right where he’d said it would be. It wasn’t moving or open. Snowdrop must still be asleep. That was a relief.
“Your frock is there.” He gestured toward where her frock hung over the back of two upright chairs, drying by the fire. “Your petticoats are draped over the far table, and your corset is on the other s—”
“Thank you.” Izzy wanted to die. The whole situation was mortifying. Swooning at a handsome stranger’s boots was embarrassing enough, but hearing him catalog her underthings? She clutched the blanket to her chest. “You needn’t have troubled.”