The storm had been brewing all afternoon, a slow, creeping thing that carried the scent of damp earth and distant thunder. From his place by the fire, Charles Whitlow glanced at the window, watching the first droplets streak against the glass. Another long night, it seemed.

The countryside was quiet in times like these. No carriages on the roads, no visitors at the door. Just the wind howling through the trees and the crackle of the hearth. He liked it that way.

Until the knock came.

It was faint—barely a sound above the storm. He frowned, setting down his book. No one came this far unless they had a reason. Pushing back his chair, he crossed the room and opened the door.

And there she was.

A woman, draped in ruined silks, teetering on unsteady feet. Even in the dim lantern light, he could see that her dress had once been something grand—deep blue satin, now caked in mud, embroidered hems torn from long travel. Her dark hair was loose, wild from wind and rain, her gloves smudged with dirt.

"Miss—?"

Before he could finish, her eyes fluttered shut, and she collapsed forward. He barely caught her in time.

Charles exhaled sharply, adjusting her in his arms. She was light, but cold as death. Whoever she was, she had no business being out here, alone, dressed like this.

With a quiet curse, he kicked the door shut and carried her inside.