worth of weight. Her hat bobbed precariously, a casualty of the confrontation. Her hair had escaped its confines. Silken strands brushed his left hand.
She smelled like cinnamon, but with every gentle exhale came a sickly sweet odor.
Chloroform?
His stomach roiled at the buried memory. The last time he’d inhaled that odor, his own life hung in the balance. Chloroform explained everything he’d seen: the white cloth and her loss of consciousness when clearly she was more a fighter than a fainter. Where would two natives in a primitive country get such a dangerous chemical? Chloroform was too elaborate for a simple robbery. Something else, then. Kidnapping?
He stepped into the entryway. His boots sounded thunderous on the polished floors. No Momma Elliott. From deep in the house he heard her sharp, urgent tones. A young native boy dressed as if he’d come from a Sunday meeting blurred right past him and out the door before Stewart could speak.
The parlor to his left appeared unoccupied, and it came equipped with the answer to the problem in his arms—a davenport.
He gently placed his slight burden on the rosy velvet-covered couch. He felt for the hat pin where he’d seen his mother reach a thousand times and removed the young woman’s dangling straw creation. He found a small pillow for her comfort and then turned up the oil lamp on the table beside her. The light revealed the mahogany color of her errant hair and its cascading waves. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent, her dark lashes a smudge on the porcelain complexion. When he considered her small-boned frame, his anger at the men who’d attacked her stirred anew.
What if she became sick from the medicine? Chloroform had a deadly reputation even in trained hands. He’d relax once she woke up. Maybe Momma Elliott had gone to get smelling salts. That was what the hospital nurse had used when his former fiancée had fainted at the sight of his mustard-gas burns. Worked like a charm. Maybe too well. Julianne had sputtered, averted her eyes and left as soon as she’d recovered.
He’d received her engagement regrets by messenger later the same day. Somehow he’d failed her by returning less than the whole man she’d watched ship off to war. His shirts would hide the damage, but she couldn’t face seeing those scars for the rest of her life.
He told himself he was well rid of her if that was the measure of her character. He’d let a pretty face and protestations that love could overcome their class differences override his better judgment. He’d let his guard down.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Stewart shrugged off the memory and moved closer to check the woman on the davenport. No evident sign of distress from the drug. A familiarity nagged at him.
Julianne. This woman with her stunning beauty reminded him of Julianne. Both women were small-boned and had a similar hair color. This one had higher cheekbones, a daintier nose, generous lips and, on closer observation, a small faded scar on her left cheek. Unlike his mustard burns, her little imperfection added appeal, keeping her from being too perfect. Still, if she and Julianne had ever met, Julianne would have taken to her bed, mirror in hand, and fretted for a week at being eclipsed.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Wake up. Fret, complain, anything—just wake up.” What color would those eyes be? If only she would open them.
Spry steps in the hall broke his study.
Momma Elliott entered the room with a basin of water and a rag in her hand. She eyed the unconscious woman and looked around as if expecting to see someone else in the room. She must have heard him talking. She knelt beside the sofa, dampened her cloth and folded it into a compress. “You did well, Mr. Hastings, to grab her up from those scoundrels. Gradoo has always been a disappointment to his mother. But to hurt a woman...a foreign woman... He’ll be lucky to avoid a hanging if the magistrate’s in the wrong mood.”
“You recognized those ruffians?”
“One of them. Taught him in Sunday school as a young lad. Obviously didn’t take his Bible to heart. Didn’t recognize the other Kru man with him. But birds of a feather...”
“No wonder they ran, seeing as you’re able to identify them. Is she going to be all right? I think they gave her chloroform.”
Momma Elliott seemed to weigh his words. “Now, that is surely a strange thing. Where would those two get something like chloroform? Good thing this one is tougher than she appears. I nursed her through the malaria when she first arrived from Connecticut. Still, for caution’s sake, I’ve asked for the doctor to come around.”
He nodded toward the unconscious woman. “Does she live nearby?”
“No, Miss Baldwin is rooming with me for a few days. She’s attending a mission conference. They’re installing the new bishop from the States. Only something big like that would bring her out of the jungle.”
“She lives in the jungle?”
“Of course. Miss Baldwin is a missionary spreading the Gospel to one of the interior tribes.”
Stewart couldn’t hold back the proverbial jaw drop. He’d saved a missionary who lived in the jungle. His mother’s voice and all her notions of God’s plans flooded his mind. Easy to see why she believed such things. He could almost believe it now. Almost. But rational thought reasserted itself. Missionary or not, no one would send a single woman anywhere near where he needed to go. Every time he’d been specific about his destination, grown men paled and refused. Or they laughed outright.
“Something wrong, young man?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Just thinking.” Might as well ask. “You don’t happen to know what tribal area she, uh, missions in, do you?”
Her head cocked at the sound of footsteps on the porch. “You can ask her all about it once she wakes. Wait here. Keep an eye on her while I greet the doctor.” She headed for the front door.
Now he was grasping desperation by the throat. Asking Miss Baldwin would be a waste of time. To a lone woman, working in the interior probably meant a little ways outside the city.
Oh, no. A waste of time... Time. He groaned and checked his watch. As soon as Momma Elliott came back with the doctor, he’d have to leave. He hoped the man he was to interview had waited.
A soft rustle caught his attention. He looked and got his answer. Brown. Lovely deep brown eyes opened and blinked. She blinked again and the unfocused look began to fade from her eyes. When she tried to sit up, his reverie broke. “Miss, uh, Baldwin. Please don’t move. Just lay still. Momma Elliott will be right back.”
Her focus flitted around, taking in her surroundings before stopping to look at his face. For one short moment the room lost all its air as he fell into the depths of her serene gaze. How could she wake so calm after what she’d just been through?
She whispered.
He tilted his head downward. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.”
She whispered again.
He shook his head and apologized, bending to catch her words. “Do you need something?”
Her soft voice quavered. “Nothing. You...you asked...”
“Asked?”
She
