He lay upon the bare bed, shivering, and he knew not whether it was from the cold or his wound. But for whatever reason, he knew he felt about as bad as he’d ever felt, with the exception of the time they’d wanted to take his leg. Finally, to pass the time and take his mind from the ache in his shoulder, he relived what he could remember of Miss Gordon. The girl had pluck, he’d give her that. Spirit and beauty—it was rare to find both in the same compact package. And compact she was, barely reaching to his shoulder. Fine-boned, delicate, tiny almost. With nerve. He closed his eyes and tried to bring her face into focus. There was a pertness to it that made her more pretty than beautiful, he decided, a certain rosiness that warmed it, keeping her from being another cool, insipid blond. He tried to decide whether her hair reminded him of gold or wheat as he recalled the spun softness of it beneath his chin. It was gold, he guessed. And those eyes. Three-quarters of the Englishmen he knew had blue eyes, but none so lively as hers.
