She raked a hand through her hair, looking toward the shuttered window. How long until sunrise? No matter how long, or how ill he became, she was not going to touch that man again, not alone here in the darkness.
Rowena still had not done so when Hagar arrived, accompanied by Sean, not long after sunrise. Rowena found it hard to meet the older woman’s gaze, and even harder to meet Sean’s as she opened the door and moved back to the table, where she made a show of tidying up the things she had left out during the night.
Sean, who was garbed for fishing in a short tunic and heavy woolen hose, hesitated in the doorway as Hagar came forward, removing her cloak. He spoke carefully, and Rowena knew that he was thinking of their unpleasant exchange of the previous evening. “Good morrow, Rowena.”
She nodded without looking at him, less irritated with him than herself, given her confused feelings about the stranger. In spite of this she spoke with bravado. “Good morrow. As you can see I am quite whole.”
She felt him stiffen.
Hagar seemed to be unaware of their discomfort or else chose to ignore it. “So how went the night?”
Feeling her friend’s attention upon her as he, too, listened for her reply, Rowena bent to put more wood upon the fire. “It was long. He has developed a fever.”
The older woman went to the bed and reached out to place her worn hand upon the stranger’s brow. “Ah, ’tis not good. You could have come for me.”
Placing a pot of water on to heat, Rowena said, “Why would I wake you, good Hagar, when you needed your sleep? I did well enough on my own, and methinks he has cooled somewhat from the worst of it.”
Never would she admit how difficult tending him had been, for she could not understand why herself. Now, in the light of day, she felt utterly foolish for reacting to the man as she had.
Hagar sighed. “Well, enough then.”
Rowena was conscious of Sean continuing to study her. She looked up at him, forcing herself to meet his gaze. ’Twas her own predicament and no other’s if she had gone a little mad in her reactions to this stranger. She spoke in what was a surprisingly normal tone. “Will the men not be waiting for you?”
He nodded jerkily, and she felt a stab of sympathy at his obvious dejection.
Affection for him made her add, “I would not take it amiss should you come by at the end of your day. If you are not too tired.”
A hopeful glimmer lit his eyes. “Then you are not still angry with me?”
She shook her head. “I could not remain so. You are my brother.”
A strange expression passed over his face, immediately replaced by relief. And then she had no more time to think of Sean, for Hagar said, “’Tis good you’ve decided to cease your squabbling, but we have other concerns to occupy us now. Methinks the man’s fever may be increasing again.”
Rowena barely noted Sean’s departure as she moved forward to touch the sick man’s heated brow. She felt a new wave of anxiety. Clearly the worst was not over.
While Rowena brewed more of her potions, the older woman set to tending their patient by unspoken consent. Thus it went over the next day and into the night. No more did Rowena stay alone with the stranger as fever raged through his body.
If Hagar found it odd that Rowena would suddenly be eager for her assistance, she made no remark on it. Rowena could only be grateful, for there was no explanation she was willing to voice aloud.
Sir Christian Greatham, heir to his father’s title and lands, opened his eyes and looked at the low, wood-beamed ceiling overhead with confusion. Where was he?
He sat up, taking in the fact that he was lying in what appeared to be a wide platform bed barely long enough to contain his full length. A woolen curtain separated it from the main chamber, but it had been drawn back. His gaze scanned the small but scrupulously tidy interior of a one-room cottage.
Where was he, indeed?
And how had he come to be here?
The throbbing in his head made him reach up. He was not surprised to discover that the pain seemed to originate with the lump he found, although he had no memory of how it had come to be there.
The last thing he recalled was riding his stallion along the edge of the cliffs. It had been full dark, and he had known the path was treacherous, but he had been determined to keep going, certain that he had nearly reached the end of his journey.
According to what he had learned when he stopped at a village near the English border, his destination could not be far ahead. The locals had shown open curiosity at his interest in finding Ashcroft, telling him that he would find little of interest there, naught but a tiny fishing village. From them he had also discovered why it was so little known, for it lay on the point of a narrow peninsula that was near impossible to reach from the inland side, due to the mountainous terrain and constantly swollen rivers. His informants clearly felt that the trouble of reaching Ashcroft, coupled with the lack of any noteworthy object at the end of such a journey, made the going nonsensical.
But Christian had a reason. A reason compelling enough to make him overlook any hardship.
Rosalind. The Dragon’s daughter.
Once he reached Ashcroft he might discover if the fantastic tale told to him by a dying knight had any merit. That Rosalind might still be alive he could not fully credit, but he had to know.
Unfortunately, the delays he had encountered in finding the village where Sir Jack had said he would find her had left Christian incautious in his determination to reach it.
He had been told that the best route, the one that lay along the shore, was hardly better than the inland route. That it was barely traversable even in daylight. He had been driven by the knowledge that he had already been gone five weeks, three more than he had assured his sister he would be gone when he had left Bransbury. He had refused to tell even her where he was going because of his sworn word to the dying Jack. The more people who knew of Rosalind’s possible existence, the more danger there was of her uncle, the present earl of Dragonwick, finding out before her safety could be guaranteed.
Again Christian rubbed his head. His last memory was of his horse rearing up, as a huge wave seemed to rise from out of nowhere. How he had come from that windswept shore to this bed was as much a mystery as where here might be.
Christian slid forward and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In spite of the increased pounding this caused in his head, he realized as he did so that he was completely nude.
At the same time he noted the sounds of someone stirring across the room. He followed the rustlings, and came up short as a woman rose from a pallet on the floor beside the fire.
The first thing he noticed was her hair, a fiery auburn that drew the eye as it hung about her in wildly tousled disarray. The second thing he noted was her long, lithe figure in a flowing gown of white. The third thing, and the one that gave him pause, was a pair of eyes so rich a green he could hardly credit their reality, for they were the color of newly grown moss. Darkly lashed, they had an almond shape that made them even more unusual.
So transfixed was he by those eyes that it was a moment before he realized the expression in them was decidedly apprehensive. He pulled the coverlet about his waist, aware that her slender body was poised as if ready to take flight. He spoke quickly, surprised at the dry and raspy sound of his own voice. “Pray do not fear me.”
She raised her head, her eyes now filled with bravado. “I am not afraid, sir.”
He tried to hold that gaze, but felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. It was with regret that he felt himself sink back on the bed. “That is quite wise of you, for I seem to be too weak to do you ill did I wish to.”
Immediately her face softened in concern. “You have been very ill.” In spite of her