There was a naked girl in the woods.

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. Was he so hard up for a woman he'd sunk to imagining one when none was there? Or maybe the problem wasn't his ballocks but his head, and the cold had finally gotten to him.

He rubbed his lids with his fists and blinked the snowflakes from his lashes. Nope, no luck. The girl was still there, sprawled out face down in a drift of snow, naked as the day she was born. And despite the wintry morning air, Tristan wasn't all that cold—in fact, he was sweating under his heavy coat and too many layers—which meant the girl was really there.

Shite. Double shite.

Hurling more swears under his breath, Tristan jumped down from his horse and trudged over to the girl's prone form. Snow swirled in the air around them, whipped up by an unforgiving wind, settling on the girl's blue-tinged skin and forming clumps of white in her tangled mass of black hair.

She was dead, surely. She had to be. No one could survive this weather without any clothes for protection, not for long, and Tristan hadn't seen a living soul for miles. How long had she been here? How had she gotten here? And why was she bloody naked?

With another muttered curse, Tristan bit off his right glove and let it fall to the ground. He brushed her hair over one shoulder, grazing her skin with his fingertips. Cold as a block of ice. Futilely, he pressed his fingers to the exposed side of her neck, certain he'd get nothing but frostbite for his efforts.

Under his touch, a fluttering pulse beat, so soft and sluggish at first he thought he'd imagined it, until he felt a second and then a third. His own heart galloping, Tristan carefully turned her over so that she lay on her back. Her chest moved up and down in shallow, labored breaths. His gaze caught on the nasty gash between her breasts. The wound was deep, but it must have missed hitting anything vital, and the cold had stopped the bleeding. By the grace of the Gods, she was alive, somehow. Unconscious, but alive. Only not for much longer, not if she stayed out here.

Tristan located his errant glove, tore off the other and shoved them both onto her frozen hands. Then he stripped off his cloak and draped it over her like a blanket. The girl was slender, but tall, his coat leaving her ankles and feet uncovered. It would have to do for now. With a grunt, he lifted her up easily enough, cradling her limp body to his chest, and strode with her to his horse, who gave him and the bundle in his arms a baleful look. Whoever had named the horse Blossom had a strange sense of humor. She was pretty as you please, with a golden palomino coat accented by a cream-colored mane and tail, but a grumpier mare Tristan had never met.

"Behave, or no lump of sugar for you," Tristan told Blossom sternly, not that she would listen. None of the females in his life ever did. True to form, the mare stomped her hoof and tossed her head, as if to say, no way am I carrying you both.

Well, that was too damned bad. Sending a brief prayer to the Gods his bumbling about wouldn't hurt her further, he slung the girl up over his shoulder, arse up, and awkwardly clambered onto Blossom's back. Once he was settled onto the saddle, he lifted the girl off his shoulder, careful not to jostle her overmuch, and arranged her limbs on either side of his legs so that she sat astride him. He tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder with one hand, and with the other, wrestled with his cloak until he had it wrapped around them both, more or less. Her bare feet remained exposed to the elements, but it would have to do for now.

"You'd better live after all this," he told the unconscious figure cradled against his chest. She didn't stir, but pressed so close, he could feel the fragile intake and exhale of her breath. She wasn't dead yet. Good enough for him.

With a curse and another prayer, he spurred Blossom into a gallop. "Get us home, girl," he whispered into the whistling wind. And Blossom ran faster, as though she'd heard him, until the trees were a blur and the snow sprayed behind them in a powdery trail of white.

It was a good thing Blossom knew the way back to the castle stables without his urging, because he didn't think he could grip the reins for much longer. The tips of his fingers had begun to go numb, and he didn't much fancy losing them. The girl seemed to leech all the heat from his skin, until he could feel the cold in his bones. Gods knew she needed the warmth more than he did, but he didn't have to like it.

When at last the trees began to thin and the rambling path gave way to the paved roads of the city, Tristan nearly wept for joy. From the edge of the woods, he could see thin coils of rising smoke from the city's chimneys, and in the morning fog, he could just make out the crenellated turrets of Castle Haywood. Home, as much as anywhere was home for a man like him. He hadn't spent so much time under the same roof since he was just a boy in Finchold. Not even in Heartwine, when he'd been training as a Paladin.

But Tristan couldn't head home yet. The girl needed a doctor, and Addie's place was closer than the castle. Besides, he liked her better than the court physician. The Duke of Haywood had invited Addie and her father to stay in the castle, and while Sander had accepted graciously, Addie claimed she preferred the peace and quiet of the woods to the constant chaos of the inner city. Tristan suspected the real reason behind her choice of living arrangements was that she didn't want to live under her father's thumb. Addie did not share her father's interest in politics and had even less interest in the machinations of war. She was a healer, not a fighter, and wanted no part in the Uriel rebellion.

Addie's place was tucked away on a small side road in a clearing just beyond the woods. The little yellow house was lovely, albeit far humbler than she could afford on a physician's fees. Tristan had only been inside a handful of times, on the few occasions he'd been desperate enough to seek out Addie's infamous hangover cure. She seldom had visitors, preferring to visit patients in their homes and luxuriating in her newfound privacy. She would have lived entirely alone, if Sander hadn't threatened to post up one of his men, and had compromised by hiring a lady's maid. And neither of them could cook, so she never entertained company.

It took some maneuvering, but Tristan managed to dismount his horse without dropping the girl or doing himself any injury. He glanced down at the dark crown of her head, the rest of her swallowed up by his coat. It might have been his imagination, but her breathing seemed to have grown steadier. He adjusted her in his arms, sliding a hand under her bottom so he could free up the other to grab Blossom's reins and wrap them around a nearby sapling—not an easy task to do one-handed, especially when said hand had lost all feeling.

Satisfied Blossom couldn't run away, Tristan stumbled through the snow to Addie's front porch and banged his fist against the door. "Addie!" he shouted. "Adelaide Branimir!"

Tristan heard the telltale creaking of the floorboards, and he mentally braced himself for what he'd come to call the Addie Effect. Looking at Addie was like looking into the sun—beautiful, but best not to stare at directly or it started to hurt. She had a magnificent bosom, thrust out proudly like the prow of a ship, and on the couple of occasions Tristan had dared let his gaze dip to the creamy flesh below her neckline, she'd boxed him in the ears. It had been worth it, for a glimpse of such exquisite perfection. The Addie Effect did wear off after a few minutes in her presence. It was almost a shame she was so beautiful, because Tristan rather liked her. And even the Gods knew a man could never be friends with a beautiful woman without wanting more eventually.

The door swung open. Addie stood in the doorway with her hands on her generous hips, one red eyebrow quirked. Her hair was mussed from its usual sturdy bun, as though she'd just awoken...or had recently been tumbled. Tristan forced his mind out of the gutter. Bad form to imagine another woman in bed while he held a naked girl in his arms.

"What on earth are you doing here?" demanded Addie. Her gaze dropped to his chest and slowly descended lower. "Why isn't that poor girl wearing shoes in this weather?"

"She isn't wearing anything," Tristan clarified, then flushed at Addie's scathing glare. "You think that I--?" He shook his head hard. "Faith in blood, I found her like this in the woods, half dead and buried in a Gods damned snowbank."

As if on cue, the girl moaned, a weak, pathetic sound, but the most noise she'd made since Tristan found her. That had to be a positive sign.

"Good Gods, don't just stand there and let her freeze to death," Addie snapped. "Bring her inside, you lunkhead." She whirled around without a second glance and began marching through the parlor, assuming he would follow.

"Where are we going?" Tristan called after her.

Halfway up the front stairs, Addie replied, "To my bedroom."

Tristan stopped in his tracks, nearly dropping the girl. "Your bedroom?"

"Don't get any stupid ideas," Addie said tartly, pausing on the top stair. "My bedroom has a hearth with a healthy fire. She needs the warmth more than she needs any of the fancy equipment in my sickroom." This time she did glance over her shoulder. "You too. I can hear your teeth chattering."

"I'm fine," Tristan insisted, ignoring the painful tingling in his fingers. Carefully, he made his way up the staircase after her.

Addie's bedroom was the second door down the hall. It was dominated by an enormous raised bed, the richly appointed curtains pulled back to reveal an ornate headboard and embroided silk sheets piled high with pillows. "Why, Addie," Tristan said with delighted surprise, "you're a closeted hedonist."

Addie turned her face into the shadows from the hearth, but not before Tristan caught her blush. "I take my sleep very seriously," she said primly. "It is essential to good health."

"And she's mean as an old bear if she doesn't get enough of it," came a teasing female voice from the hallway.

"Daisy," Addie said sharply.

A young blonde woman strode into the bedroom, carrying a large black bag in one hand and a bucket of soap and water in the other. Dressed in servants' clothes, she was striking rather than pretty, with an aquiline nose and arched, dark eyebrows that stood out in stark contrast to the honey-colored strands on her head. "Sorry, my lady," she said cheerfully, not sounding sorry at all. She set the bag down on a nightstand at the side of the bed, and the bucket on the nearby dresser. Tossing a saucy grin at Tristan, she dipped into an absurdly deep curtsy, more appropriate for a queen than an earl's daughter.

"Daisy," Addie growled in warning.

Undeterred, the servant straightened from her curtsy, her smile gone but her blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "Ring for me if I'm needed," she said, more a command than an invitation. Only after Addie gave her a tacit nod did she waltz back out the door and on her way.

"She's...unusual," said Tristan, trying for diplomacy.

"Daisy is the bane of my existence," Addie said vehemently as she began pulling various jars and bottles out of her bag.

"Can't you just sack her, then?"

Addie paused midway between the dresser and the nightstand. "No, because then my father will get what he wants. She is the condition of me living here on my own."

Tristan thought it unlikely that Sander cared whether this particular woman stayed with his daughter, but he kept his mouth shut. "Shall I set the girl down on the bed?" he asked.

"Lay her on her back. Gently, now," Addie scolded.

"I'm trying," he said between gritted teeth, depositing the girl onto the mattress with as much care as he could manage. When he began to pull back his coat, Addie swatted at his hands. "Oi, that hurts, Addie!" His fingers were unusually sensitive, still thawing out from the cold.

Addie was unsympathetic to his pain. "Lest you forgot, that poor girl is naked under there. I would spare her any more indignities." She twirled her finger in a  circle. "Turn around and quit your bawdreaming."

Tristan rolled his eyes, but did as he was bade and stared fixedly at the wall in front of him, listening to the mattress squeak as the covers were pulled back and rearranged. He heard the bucket of water slosh and the squelch of a sponge against bare skin.

The girl let out another moan, this one high and loud, startling Tristan into turning around prematurely. He caught an eyeful of surprisingly lush breasts with rosy pink nipples before he had the good sense to turn back around. Heat crept up his neck as he berated himself for his misstep. He preferred to think of his rescue as sexless.

Fortunately, Addie missed his lapse, intent on assessing the girl's injuries. After what felt like hours but was likely mere minutes, the good doctor permitted him to gaze upon her patient. "You may look. She's decent."

The girl was bundled in blankets up to her neck, pale and still. "She'll live?" asked Tristan, afraid if he looked too closely, he'd find a corpse.

"Aye," said Addie. "It's a bloody miracle. She must not have been outside for long when you found her. That or she has Teivel's own luck."

"What about her chest wound?"

Addie's brow furrowed. "As far as I can tell, she passed out from the cold, but apart from a weak pulse, she isn't seriously wounded. There was blood on her chest, but it wasn't hers."

"How can you tell?"

Addie gave him a long look before replying. "Because it smelled like demon."

A/N: Sorry for my absurdly long absence! I'm having a lot of trouble with "Plot A" of Uriel...long story short, I need to go back and fix some of the wrong turns I made. In the interim, I'm turning to Plot B, Tristan's story, which is a bit easier.

Thank you guys for your understanding! Writing is hard, y'all.