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The man retreated, trying to look harmless and not succeeding to any extent at all.
He said, "You're not naked. You're in a blanket."
Oh, that was reassuring, that was. She was wearing damp skin and a wooly blanket. She pulled cloth up to her chin and hid behind it. "We must know each other pretty well, whoever you are."
"My name is Sebastian."
"Se . . . bast . . . ian." She tried the syllables out. She was pretty sure this was a complete stranger. A dangerous stranger. She'd known lots of dangerous men and she could recognize one at a glance. "You're one of the things I don't remember, Sebastian. I don't remember you at all."
"You don't know me."
"Guess I should have my clothes on, then."
He kept his voice soft, talking to her like she was a scared child. "They were wet."
There her dress was, a heap of slit-up rags on the carpet. "My dress got wet, so you cut it off. You must be a right terror in a thunderstorm." A prudent woman in her situation wouldn't embark upon sarcasm.
"You were soaked to the skin and freezing and bleeding at the edges. I couldn't do anything with a bundle of muddy cloth." He made stripping her naked sound prosaic as oatmeal. "And you were leaking mud all over my bed. I sopped a gallon of dirty water off you."
"Mud. That explains it." Her head pounded like a millwheel. Every muscle in her body hurt, some of them in inventive ways. She couldn't remember how she got here. She was naked. There was nothing good about this situation. Nothing.
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