Lysander's mind fled that notion and fixed his attention once more upon the lady facing him. It occurred to Lysander — and things rarely occurred to Lysander — that he must look very strange to her. He lay in a bed in what was likely her house, wearing a fine linen nightshirt that ran a bit tight across the shoulders. He was fairly certain that the country man was not the source of the nightwear. The fellow was quite slight and this nightshirt was very nearly Lysander's size. Did it belong to a brother? A husband? Her dark dress could be considered the color of mourning, or perhaps it was only a practical color in this rural life.

He found himself looking at her hands. However, they gave no clue, settled neatly in her lap, half covered by the cuffs of her long sleeves.

Something bubbled up from deep within him. If he was not mistaken, it was the urge to speak more to her. He considered that for a moment. Then, choosing his question and calculating the least number of necessary words, he spoke. "What happened?"

"You rode your horse into our village and destroyed our festival. You broke the pavilion and it fell on you. You have been in and out of consciousness for several hours."

How beautifully succinct. How soothing. Not a shred of extraneous information, no expression of emotion, even though she clearly considered that he was responsible for his own state. He remembered riding into some sort of spring fair. He'd seen ranks of trestle benches bowing with the weight of vegetable and flower displays. There had been dogs and children underfoot and temporary pens put up in the square containing piglets and lambs.

Sheep. "A ram."

The man beside the door shuffled his feet and gave a grunt. "A prize ram. He's Shepherd Orren's champion stud, the pride of Swaledale. Ruined the festival, you did. The whole village has a bone to pick with you, lad. The women in partic'lar. Every lass in the dale was intent on dancin'."

The lady did not turn to regard her companion but kept her gaze fixed upon Lysander. "Yes, there was a ram."

Lysander held one palm hard to his temple, counter-pressure against the thumping in his head. "Icky. Took offense."

"The offense appeared to be mutual. And then you made the entire matter worse." The woman regarded him evenly. "I have never seen a man wrestle a ram before. Is this something they do where you are from?"

Finally a question. "No." He could not recall encountering many sheep in London.

"Well, lad, in the kerfuffle ye broke all the prize flower displays, set loose the pigs, and took down the pavilion what Dr. Oakes himself paid to put up." The country man shot Lysander a glare full of indignation. "You could'na made more havoc if you tried. You broke everything."

The man nodded his head toward the woman with accusation in his eyes targeting Lysander. Everything?