Page 7
Another hint, that.
He knew something of High Society.
Not typical of an enlisted soldier.
An officer then?
Yes, that made sense.
He allowed himself the briefest glance over her voluptuous figure.
Le Beau Monde would consider her too plump as well.
He, however, thought she radiated health and a rare purity.
She smelled nice too.
“I am Lilibet Granger, the director and headmistress of this establishment, Kelston Hall Children’s Home.”
That explained the room’s sparseness.
Orphanages were notoriously short of funds.
She brushed a strand of flaxen hair that had escaped the tight plaits on either side of her oval face. She was not pretty in the classical sense, but there was an aura of wholesomeness about her that appealed to him. Her velvety-brown eyes, framed by lush, sooty lashes, were her best features.
Unremarkable in its simplicity and modesty, her faded blue night robe did not quite hide her generous curves.
He felt certain she missed nothing in that cool, calm assessment of him.
“The children and I found you in the back meadow close to a fortnight ago.”
A fortnight?
That long?
“Actually…” Another slight smile tipped her mouth upward at the corners.
She was almost pretty when she smiled.
“Our milk cows, Clover and Buttercup, found you first. Their distressed mooing caught our attention.” She waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “Hence your presence here.”
Her focus shifted to the window before she stepped away and parted the curtains, allowing him a glimpse of the glorious sunrise.
“You had no identification on you, so we could not contact anyone on your behalf, though we did ask around Prudhoe,” she said in that low, melodious tone.
He found her dulcet voice soothing, not the least shrill or grating.
“The sheriff has been away,” she said, “so we could not ask him to put the word out on your behalf, either.”
At her mention of the sheriff, a wave of icy dread sent a shiver rippling over him.
She glanced over her shoulder, and a shadow passed across her features.
“In truth, I was not certain you would survive. Neither was Charles—the physician who lives here and has a vested interest in the children’s home. I am quite relieved that you have finally awoken.”
“Thank…” He cleared his throat, the bile yet burning a scalding trail from his stomach. He managed a hoarse whisper. “Thank…you.”
What else did one say when one could not remember how they had come to be unconscious in her meadow?
