But something was missing. He emptied the pouch and sifted through the coins.
The ring was gone. His mother’s ring, inherited from her own family, the Gevaudans, and given to him upon her death—the last tangible memory of his family. Had he used it as a stake in a game, or drunk it away, or lost it?
He shrugged, shutting off a twinge of pain. His mother had been dead for twenty-four years. She wouldn’t know how low he’d sunk.
He reached for the trousers laid over the chair. He was still weak enough that it took rather longer than usual to put them on. The thud of footsteps outside the door found him balancing on one leg like a stork, trouser leg flapping.
The door creaked open slowly. A brown eye pressed up against the crack. Someone—male—was trying very hard not to breathe audibly, making even more noise in the process.
“Come in,” Quentin said. His voice felt long-unused. “Come in, if you please.”
His secret observer took immediate advantage of the invitation. A sandy-haired giant, near six and a half feet in height, barged into the room. He wore overalls several inches too short and a wide grin, as if he’d never seen anything quite so delightful as a half-dressed man struggling to put his leg into his trousers.
“You’re awake!” he said. “Doc Jo will be glad.” He pointed at the shirt Quentin hadn’t yet tackled. “Them’s my clothes,” he said with an air of pride. “You can borrow them until you’re better.”
Quentin won his battle with the trousers and sat down. Now he knew the origin of the clothes, in any case. He hadn’t thought his taste could suffer such a major lapse. But there’d been the time when he’d woken up in the desert without any clothes at all…
“Thank you,” he said gravely. He grabbed the shirt, while the overgrown boy watched with fascination. “Boy” seemed the right word for him, in spite of his height and bulk. He couldn’t be more than twenty, though he spoke like someone much younger. Simple-minded, perhaps. There were far worse lots in life.
And surely the boy could answer basic questions. “My name is Quentin,” he said, buttoning the shirt. “Can you tell me where I am?”
“My name’s Oscar,” the boy said. “Doc said to go get her when you woke up.”
“Doc?”
“Doc Johanna. I helped her bring you here.”
So he hadn’t come of his own volition. And Johanna was a woman’s name. A woman doctor. That would explain his memory of a woman’s touch.
But this wasn’t a hospital. The good doctor’s home, perhaps? Had he been so ill?
He stood up and offered his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Oscar. Can you tell me how long I’ve been here?”
Oscar gazed at the man’s hand and suddenly folded his own behind his back in a fit of shyness. “I don’t know,” he said. “You been very sick. I helped take care of you.”
“You and Doc Johanna?” At the boy’s nod, he asked, “Where is this place, Oscar?”
“The Haven.” He shuffled from foot to foot. “I gotta go get Doc now.” He backed away and was out the door with surprising swiftness.
Quentin dropped his hand. The Haven. A very peaceful sort of name, to match the feel of this room. The Haven.
To a man like him, it sounded like paradise. But for a man like him, there was no such place.
Aware of a powerful thirst, he went to the washstand and poured himself a glass of cool water from the pitcher. The water was clear, as if it had come from a spring, with a faint tang of minerals. It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted. He was finishing the last of it when the door swung open again.
No giant this time. This one was most definitely female. His practiced gaze took her in with one appreciative sweep, noting the lush curves of a body matched with the height to carry it: a statue, a goddess, an Amazon. He noted and dismissed the black bag in her hand. Her dark, modest dress was almost severe, out of step with the modem fashion of close-fitting cuirass bodices and snug skirts, but it did more to enhance her generous figure than any fancy ball gown might have done.