Sanctuary for a Lady. Naomi Rawlings
God must have given this responsibility to him, must intend for him to aid the girl.
But why? Michel’s temples pounded. He needed the feel of wood beneath his hands, the relaxing motion of the saw or planer to clear his thoughts, roll away the stress.
“Michel?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, then reluctantly looked at the girl. No—the woman. Her lips moved. They were red, the color of apples in September, not the dull pink they’d been when he found her. And her hair, by heavens, he should have hidden Mère’s brush. It had been comely enough when dirty and matted in the woods, but brushed and falling freely over her shoulders and the pillows, it looked like a cascade of dark silk. He rubbed his forefinger over the pad of his thumb. Surely her hair wouldn’t feel so soft.
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