Why the hell hadn't she returned? Court thought as irritation sniped at him.

Vitale, the sometimes mute, sometimes caustic old Frenchman, had been by to warily bring food in and clean the room, but she couldn't be bothered to come again.

Court's body had at least ceased weakening, and he was becoming restless. He was finally able to dress himself, in clothes borrowed from Annalía's brother, or the "master," as Vitale called him. He'd scoffed when Vitale had said the garments would fit. The woman might be five and a half feet and had a tiny frame, and he couldn't see a sibling of hers even broaching six feet, but apparently this "master" was a big bastard.

Forays to the window marked Court's only exertion, but they no longer made his eyes swarm with black dots. He was never one to sit still, yet he'd done just that since he'd awakened four days ago. The only thing that broke up the monotony was watching her from the window. With not a thing else to do, he'd watched her a lot.

He could admit he enjoyed seeing her playing with the children in the courtyard, chasing the laughing bairn. No matter how tired Annalía appeared, each child received the same amount of attention, even when she looked like she wanted nothing more than to put her feet up.

Then there was spotting her returning from her morning ride, breathless, with her perfect hair finally fighting its bonds. He never failed to shake his head at the proud—no, the cocky—way she sat a horse. Welcome sights, when he could forget her disdain. For others she always had a smile, even when her eyes showed distraction. He often wondered if he was the reason her brow was drawn when she thought no one could see her….