Nothing.
He gave her shoulder a mild shake.
Nothing.
“Wake,” he said loudly. “Look there. It’s Lord Archer.”
Nothing.
Ransom drew up a chair and sat nearby. Five seconds later, he rose again to pace. Twenty-three paces to the leftmost window, then back. He had his strengths, but patience wasn’t one of them. Inaction made him a growly, ill-tempered beast.
When Duncan returned, he could send for a doctor. But it could be hours before Duncan returned.
Magnus whined and nosed about his boots.
Ransom sent the dog to its rug by the fire. Then he crouched beside the sofa and placed one hand on the woman’s neck. He slid his touch along that sleek, delicate column until he found her pulse with his fingertips. The heartbeat was weaker than he would have liked it to be, and rabbit-fast. Damn.
She turned her head, sliding her soft cheek into his hand. There she went again, nuzzling. The friction released gentle hints of a soft, feminine fragrance.
“Temptress,” he muttered bitterly.
If he had to have a swooning, nuzzling woman collapse on his doorstep, why couldn’t it be one who smelled of vinegar and old cheese? No, he had to get one scented of rosemary and sweet, powdered skin.
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.”
“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.