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“Memory loss and confusion can happen when one experiences trauma,” she explained. “Maybe you hit your head,” she muttered, more to herself. “I just didn’t find any evidence of it.”

Her hand slid from his head, and he ignored the sensation that it felt like loss, until she drew the blankets away from his torso, which made him jerk forward with a hiss of pain. He grabbed the blanket. He wasn’t shy. Never had been, but he clutched the fabric, suddenly uncertain. “Memory loss and trauma? What’s going on?”

Her pretty eyes jumped to his. “I’m just going to check your binding,” she clarified, pointing at the blanket. “Around your ribs.”

His skin heated, suddenly feeling foolish as he realized that the gaps in his memory were more concerning than he’d initially considered.

“Who are you?” he demanded again, as the insecurity of that realization upended his sense of his predicament.

He worked over what he knew to try and make connections to what he didn’t. He was injured somehow. As hard as he tried to recall the missing bits of information, the memories remained on the other side of that canyon he couldn’t seem to cross. He tried to sit up, and pain shot through him as he winced, first sucking in a breath, then following it up with a groan.

“They’re broken.” She pressed him back onto the bedding. “Now stop being squeamish and let me check.”

Lachlan released the blanket, too tired to put up a fight. “Who are you?” he repeated, but she continued to ignore the question.

Instead, she drew the blanket down to his waist, the cool air hitting his exposed skin. He shivered again and went to cross his arms, but his torso lit up like it was on fire. He sucked in another breath, hating that he was incapacitated, hating how weak he felt. The last time he remembered being injured was when he was twelve, breaking an arm after tumbling from Goldie. Since then, no one (other than Captain Johesha) was willing to face the crown prince at full force—afraid to hurt him. Not that he’d retaliate; people just treated him as if he were made of glass.

“Stay still if you can,” she ordered him. Her fingers slid over the fabric he could see wrapped around his chest. When he winced, she moved along, unconcerned.

“Bindings look good.” She spoke to herself again. “You’re still feverish, which worries me.” Then her hands proceeded to stroke him: his shoulders, his arms. “But it isn’t as high.” She stopped at his wrist, pressing her fingers there, and was silent several minutes, her mouth moving as she counted his heartbeats. “Sounds good,” she murmured, then laid a hand on his chest. “This is going to hurt, but I need you to take a deep breath to check for a rattle.”

He complied, pain flaring in his ribs as he did. He squeezed his eyes shut, adjusting to it, then opened them once more to allow himself to look at her while she listened.

“Now just comfortable breaths,” she said and leaned down, pressing her ear against his chest, facing him.

He wasn’t blind. The woman had a lovely face. Her jaw was soft, her cheekbones high. Her braided hair was a rich brown threaded with red tones. He followed the line of her neck down to where it disappeared in the collar of her tunic. The muted light of the tent gave her an otherworldly glow.

“Why are you wearing men’s clothing?” he asked.

Her eyes snapped open to look at him, wide with—fright seemed wrong. She didn’t seem like the sort that frightened easily, not with her hands all over him. She moved away just as quickly. “Why?” she asked, a bite in her tone. “What else would I wear in the woods? They’re my brother’s.”

Not a noble woman, then. There wasn’t a woman of his acquaintance who would ever do such a thing, at least not one who admitted it. The idea was intriguing. A woman with her guard down and unaffected by the fact he was the crown prince of Jast. He’d always been the object of stares, of flirtation, among other things to lure him to beds, to trysts, to proposals. This woman didn’t seem to care who he was, but then she’d called him “Ollie”, and he wondered if maybe she didn’t know who he was.

Where the hell was he?

“A brother, then. Not a husband?”

She lifted the blanket back up to his neck to cover him, then snatched her hand back as if the blanket had thorns. “Does that matter to you?”

He suppressed a smile as the contrast, her sudden timidity juxtaposed against her earlier utility. “Why should it?” he asked, though he could admit to himself he was somewhat curious if she was taken. Then he wondered what kind of man she would be attracted to, who would garner her attention, but didn’t understand why he was curious about that. She was a stranger.

He just needed more sleep.

“Do you have a name?” he asked again and wondered if she would ignore him once more.

She hesitated, searching his face, a battle playing out on her features, which interested him as well. He didn’t understand it. Then, seeming to capitulate to whatever thought was winning, she sighed and said, “I supposed it’s only right to share it since we’ve slept together.”

“Slept together?”

“Not in the way you might be thinking,” she clarified and frowned. “It’s Tarley. My name.” Her hands reached for the end of the blanket, tugging it up from his feet.

“Where are my clothes?” His hands shot down to his groin to protect his covering.

Her eyes jumped from his hands up to his face, and she snorted. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” She snickered again. “So prim, Ollie. You see a manservant anywhere? Someone had to undress you.” Her attention returned to his legs.

“Why are you calling me Ollie? Where am I?”

She stopped and stared at him, unease flickering over her features. “That’s what you told me your name is.” She covered him back up and tucked the blanket around him. “You’re in the Whitling Woods near the village of Sevens. I found you on the riverbank of the Grimz, washed ashore with broken ribs, barely breathing.”