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about escapees from the gallows and having his nostrils slit while he slept, Dower obeyed, heaving the stranger over his shoulder. Although the old man was bandy-legged and his face was as grizzled and brown as a strip of dried beef, his shoulders, chest, and arms were thick with muscle earned from years of wrestling with Hertfordshire sheep even more cantankerous than he was.
    The nearer Dower drew to the manor door, the bolder his tongue became. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, missie. Mark me words, this divil’ll be the ruin of us all, ’e will.”
    All Laura could do was trail behind them and pray the old man was wrong.
    Moonlight bathed the stranger’s face.
    Laura sat in a chair beside the bed, wondering if he was ever going to wake up again. Although he seemed to be in no distress, he had barely stirred since Dower had dumped him on top of the chintz coverlet over seven hours ago. She checked the warm poultice Cookie had applied to the nasty lump at the crown of his head, then touched his brow, searching for any sign of fever. She was beginning to fear that whatever trial he had suffered had damaged more of his faculties than just his memory.
    She had shocked everyone by insisting he be taken to Lady Eleanor’s chamber. Although Cookie kept the room dusted and the linens aired, neither Laura nor the children had dared to breach its sanctuary since Lady Eleanor had died. There were simply too many memories of her last days with them hanging in the orange blossom-scented air—both bitter and sweet.
    But the graceful half-tester was the most comfortable bed in the house and Laura was determined that their guest should have it.
    She owed him at least that much.
    At first Cookie had refused to leave her alone with him, claiming that “ ’tweren’t seemly” for an unmarried girl to tend to a gentleman in his bedchamber. Onlywhen Laura had agreed to let Dower sleep in a chair outside the door, an ancient musket laid across his lap, had Cookie relented, although she had
tsked
beneath her breath all the way back to the kitchen. The old man’s snores were already rattling the closed door.
    The stranger lay sprawled across the coverlet, the feather quilt from Laura’s own bed drawn up to his waist. Although Dower had removed the man’s jacket at Laura’s command, it had fallen to her to untie his cravat and loosen his collar. With his sun-gilded hair tousled on the pillow and lashes a shade darker resting flush against his cheeks, he looked to be more boy than man. But the haze of gold that was just beginning to lay claim to his jaw warned her that his innocent mien was only an illusion.
    Laura desperately searched his face for any sign of animation. Had his flesh not been so warm beneath her hand, she would have sworn he was fashioned of marble—an effigy on the tomb of a hero who had died too young. She had yet to breathe a word of her plan to the children or the servants. If he never woke up, they would never have to know what a foolish dream she had dared to entertain. Now that she could no longer blame the wood’s enchantment for her madness, practical considerations had begun to crowd in. How was she to convince him that he was betrothed to her? And how could she prove to herself that he wasn’t already bound to another woman?
    She leaned forward. His breathing was deep and even, his lips parted ever so slightly.
    Her kiss had roused him once. Did she dare? …
    He looked vulnerable in the way that only a very strong man can look when at the mercy of a woman.
    He might very well have died in the oak wood if she hadn’t found him, yet she felt as guilty as if she’d been the one to strike him this terrible blow.
    Drawing the quilt to his chest, she leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to his brow.
    He must be dreaming.
    How else to explain the scent of orange blossoms, the gentle brush of a woman’s lips against his brow? Something stirred deep within him, some hazy ghost woven from a mist of memories