“You needed to breathe. And I needed to be sure you weren’t bleeding or broken anywhere.”
She wasn’t certain why that required undressing her to her shift. A quick glance would tell him if she were bleeding.
“Are you ill?” he asked.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Are you with child?”
Her burst of laughter startled the dog. “Definitely not. I’m not the sort of woman who faints, I promise you. I just hadn’t eaten much today.” Or yesterday, or the day before that.
Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Perhaps she was catching a cold. That would help explain the fainting, too.
Throughout this conversation, her host remained at the hearth, facing away from her. His coat stretched tight at the shoulders but hung a bit loose about his midsection. Perhaps he’d recently lost some bulk. But there was plenty of him remaining, and all of it was lean and hard. His body was much like this great hall around them. Suffering from a bit of neglect, but impressively made and strong to the bones.
And that voice. Oh, it was dangerous.
She didn’t know which upset her more: That this shadowy, handsome stranger had made so free with her person—carrying her in his arms, unlacing her stays, taking down her hair, and stripping her to her thinnest undergarments? Or that she’d somehow slept through the whole thing?
She snuck another glance at him, silhouetted by orange firelight.
The latter. Definitely the latter. The most exciting quarter hour of her life, and she’d spent it completely insensible. Izzy, you fool.
But though she had no firm recollection of being carried in from the rain, her body seemed to have a memory of its own. Beneath her clothing, she smoldered with the sensation of strong hands on chilled flesh. As if his touch had been imprinted on her skin.
“Thank you,” she said. “It was good of you to carry me inside.”
“There’s tea. To your left.”
A chipped mug of steaming liquid sat on a table nearby—to her left, as he’d said. She took it in both hands, letting its warmth seep into her palms before lifting it for a long, nourishing draught.
Fire raced down her throat.
She coughed. “What’s in this?”
“Milk. And a drop of whisky.”
Whisky? She sipped again, not in a position to be particular. When approached with the appropriate caution, the brew wasn’t so bad. As she swallowed, an earthy, smoky heat curled through her.
On the same table, she found a small loaf of bread and broke into it, famished.
“Who are you?” she asked between mouthfuls. Aunt Lilith would not be pleased with her manners.
“I’m Rothbury. You’re in my castle.”
Izzy swallowed hard. This man claimed to be the Duke of Rothbury? It seemed too much to believe. Shouldn’t dukes have servants to make their tea and dress them in proper attire?
God help her. Perhaps she was trapped with a madman.
Izzy drew the blanket close. Despite her doubts, she wasn’t going to risk provoking him.
“I didn’t realize,” she said. “Should I address you as ‘Your Grace?’ ”
“I don’t see the point of it. Within a few hours, I hope you’ll refer to me as ‘That ill-mannered wretch you importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.’ ”
“I don’t mean to be trouble.”
“Beautiful women are always trouble. Whether they mean to be or not.”
More teasing. Or more lunacy. Izzy wasn’t sure which. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was no kind of beauty. It didn’t matter how she pinched her cheeks or pinned back her aggressively curly hair. She was plain, and there seemed no getting around it.
This man, however, was anything but ordinary. She watched him as he tossed more wood on the blaze. He added a log as thick as her thigh, but he handled it with all the ease of tinder.
“I’m Miss Isolde Goodnight,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard the name.”
He poked the fire. “Why would I have heard the name?”