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with deep cinnamon hues. She’d been surrounded with what seemed like a houseful of British and Scottish servants, a tired doctor who wouldn’t listen to her pleas, and an incredibly powerful and domineering man that she could only assume was this ‘His Grace’ person they all kept referring to.
     
    Her pulse quickened as she remembered him. He was straight and tall, broad and dark, the very definition of masculinity. For some reason she remembered the smell of his skin, spicy from soap and tangy from sweat. She remembered the endless depths of his eyes, swimming with anger at her outburst, but hinting of some other, deeper emotion. Most of all she remembered his grasp on her arms as he caught her and drew her up to him—flush against him from her chest to her knees—before her mind had faded. She grunted and tried again to sit up, this time a bit more slowly.
     

     
    Mrs. Weston reached for the pillows at the head of the bed to help. “Here, miss, let me. ‘Tis what I’m here for. His Grace has seen fit to put me at your will. There’s a pull just on your right, and another by the door.”
     
    Francine opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. It hadn’t done her any justice the last time, and at odds as she was with her current predicament, keeping her mouth shut might be the best course of action. She snapped it closed, then tried to clear her throat and instead felt it tighten. She frowned and touched her forehead then brought her hands together in her lap. She implored the woman with her eyes, hoping beyond reason that she would understand and could oblige her even a little.
     
    “Hmm, yes… You are not remembering anything?”
     
    Francine shook her head.
     
    “Well, His Grace was out in the curricle yesterday. From what I gather, you came from the wood, startled the horses, and fell under hoof.” Mrs. Weston gently pushed Francine’s hair back from her face and examined the bandage, then the scrapes and bruises on her cheek. “One of them got you good, miss,” she said. “But ‘tis a miracle you weren’t trampled to death.”
     
    Francine looked away. I wasn’t in a forest. I was in a taxi. I was in a taxi, and I was headed to work and then—then, what then? She closed her eyes, trying to remember, but the memory wouldn’t come. “Where am I?” she croaked, the words barely recognizable.
     
    Mrs. Weston grimaced at the sound. “You are in the manor at Eildon Hill Park, home of His Grace, the Duke of Roxleigh.”
     
    Francine closed her eyes then looked at her again, confused. Mrs. Weston cleared her throat. “County Lanarkshire.” She paused. “United Kingdom,” she said finally.
     
    Francine felt the shock cross her features and Mrs. Weston patted her hand reassuringly. “Now then, we can worry about the rest of it later.”
     
    Francine’s confusion bloomed, and, as though she felt the uneasy shift, Mrs. Weston moved to change the subject. “Meggie, let’s help our miss get freshened up, shall we?” She gave a strained smile.
     
    “Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, curtseying then leaving the room. Mrs. Weston looked at Francine, appeared to expertly take stock of her needs with a considering glance, and set about the room to serve.
     
    Meggie returned with a footman, who pushed a heavy copper slipper tub, bright with polish and trimmed with a thick round edge to lean on, followed by a parade of more servants with buckets and steaming kettles. Mrs. Weston urged Francine to stand, lending her sturdy frame. Francine watched them pour the water, letting her thoughts dissolve along with the whorls of steam that rose and twisted.
     
    When the tub was full and the door closed on the other servants, Meggie turned, reaching for the hem of the delicate ivory chemise that Francine wore. Francine squeaked and retreated, and a surprised Meggie silently beseeched Mrs. Weston for how to proceed.
     
    Mrs. Weston waved her away. “Leave us, Meggie. I’ll see to the