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bed and looming canopy above. This wasn’t to say she was petite—she was actually much taller and more firmly built than most of the delicate flowers of the ton —but she was seemingly fragile when sprawled over his vast bed, her spirited temperament subdued by dreams.
    And she was stunning. His eyes were fixed to the soft contours of her golden features. He took in more fully the dusty-rose tinge of her cheeks, the small rounded tip of her nose, the fine curve of her lush lips…
    Steady, old boy , he heard a little voice inside him. Remember your obligation. The girl is under your protection. You can’t be an ass and seduce the vulnerable creature.
    Rightly so. Where had his mind gone? He wasn’t that great a scoundrel, whatever his twin sister might say. The gentleman within him was strong enough to overcome the rogue, he was sure. It was just a bloody tragedy to have a veritable nymph in his bed, nude at that, and he could do naught but dream about her.
    But it wasn’t long before more sinister thoughts took hold of his imagination, and he wondered how long she’d been pursued in the woods and by whom. Why were those men so intent on causing her injury? Pure malevolence? Or was something more nefarious at work? He hoped to learn at least some of those answers in time.
    But for now, thoughts of the future yielded to the priority at hand. He still had to tend to his gypsy’s wound, and though he loathed to disturb her, he needed to unwind the linen coiled around her head in order to apply the compress. Perhaps, if she was in a deep enough sleep, he could remove the bandages without rousing her.
    Or perhaps not.
    Her hand latched onto his wrist, just as he was about to disentangle the knotted dressings.
    “What are you doing?” she asked tersely. What remnants of lethargy still lingered, quickly vanished, and her deep blue eyes, alert and scrutinizing, pinned on him.
    “I must remove your wrappings to apply the compress,” was his steady reply. “It will help with the healing.”
    Her eyes shifted and narrowed on the basin. “What’s in there?”
    “There’s some brandy, vinegar, and salt mixed in with water. It will ease your headache.”
    She appeared to study the bowl carefully before returning, “There should be apple cider mixed with vinegar and water, not salt and brandy.”
    “And why is that?”
    She gave no response. Her attention was snagged elsewhere as she scanned the extensive chamber, then demanded brusquely, “Where is she?”
    “Ashley has gone below to prepare your meal.”
    Her eyes were back on him. Such a deep shade of cobalt, he reflected, so riveting, so powerful, like a churning ocean revving before a storm.
    At last, she released her hold on his wrist and slung her hand back over her belly.
    “May I remove the wrappings?” he ventured to ask.
    With no outward protest to dissuade him otherwise, he reached for the bandages a second time. Slowly unfastening the knot near her temple, he nudged the wrappings upward until they slipped over her head.
    His fingers lightly brushed against her onyx-black hair, still damp and silky to the touch. The locks smelt of pine and birch and all the other fragrances of the woods.
    He fetched the cloth from the bowl and squeezed it firmly. “This should provide you with some relief.” He smoothed the moist linen so it spanned the entire length of her forehead. “I’ve never heard of apple cider used in cases of headache,” he began off-handedly, hoping to draw her out of her reticent mood. “Do you know much about healing?”
    In the wake of her prolonged silence and dissecting gaze, he pressed on, imploring, “At least allow me the pleasure of knowing your name.”
    Her skeptical gaze narrowed in further scrutiny.
    He sunk to one knee, so their eyes were level, having noted earlier that the position appeared to bring her some mild comfort.
    “I can appreciate the distress you must be feeling, but neither I nor Ashley mean you any