Dragon's Daughter

Chapter Two

Fever.

Rowena quickly went to the fire and put the water back on to heat. Because of the likely inflammation in his lungs, she made a mixture of horehound and honey. Then she placed a combination of sorrel and marigold into her mixing bowl to treat the fever. While she waited for the water to heat, she fetched a shallow wooden bowl, filled it with cool water and removed a soft clean cloth from the chest beside the foot of the bed.

Then she stepped toward the bed, placed the bowl upon the narrow table and dipped the cloth into it. When she’d wrung out the cloth, she hesitated, her gaze fixed on his face, handsome in spite of the illness that had robbed it of color and animation. She should not have told Hagar to go.

With a sigh of impatience, Rowena told herself that this was completely foolish. She had performed this very task more times than she could count. To hesitate with this man was madness. He was nothing to her, and utterly unaware of her at any rate.

Her suspicion that he might be a noble, a man who came from the world of her father, made him no different from any other man who lay ill in her care.

Nonetheless, she took a deep breath as she smoothed the cloth slowly across that wide brow, her fingers brushing the thick, dark brown hair Hagar had washed. The stranger stirred slightly and Rowena stiffened. But he did not open those blue eyes and she forced herself to relax.

Yet as she ran the cool cloth over his high cheekbones and lean jaw, she found herself thinking that this man was the most handsome she had ever seen. There was a deep strength to his face that was belied by that one look she had had of his blue eyes, eyes that had seemed so surprisingly gentle. That gentleness was echoed in the softness of his mouth, which was now parted as he took in quick, shallow breaths.

Suddenly she realized that though this man was a stranger, completely unknown to her, she wanted to know him. To know something of the world he came from, the world of her father. It was a world she and her mother had lived in, at least for a time.

She wanted to know why the stranger had come to Ashcroft, and whence he would be going when he left.

Her mother had told her that the nobles valued their lands above aught else. But the look in his eyes when he had spoken of the unknown Rosalind…

If there was a Rosalind. What if it was all mad ravings?

Frustrated with her own whirling thoughts, Rowena drew the bench close to the bed and set about her task with renewed purpose. She grew increasingly aware of the intimacy of their situation. She was touching this man in a way she would never dream of doing if he were well, learning the smooth contours of his face in a way she did not even know her own. Gently she bathed the corded column of his throat, his powerful shoulders, wondering at the sheer masculinity of him, and feeling a more intense awareness of her own femininity.

When he groaned and tossed the coverlet from his chest, her gaze went to that wide expanse, which glistened with perspiration.

Her own breathing seemed more shallow, her chest tight. Although she knew it would help to cool him were she to bathe him there as well, Rowena dared not do so.

Thus she put all of her attention and energy into doing what she could—working on without ceasing, yet never growing less conscious of him as a man, even when her heavy lids sagged with exhaustion…

Rowena lifted her head from her arm, realizing she had fallen asleep. A low groan came from the bed beside her.

Instantly her gaze went to her patient’s face. The light from the fire was dim but she could see the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He groaned again, his head rolling on the pillow.

Hurriedly she dipped the cloth into the cool water and wiped it across his brow. The moment it touched him he sighed, raising his hand to rub his throat, though it was clear he had not regained consciousness.

Again she wet the cloth, this time applying it to his lean jaw.

Without warning, his eyes flew open and he grabbed her, pulling her against the burning heat of his chest. “Rosalind…must find her…”

Instantly Rowena leaned back, but in his fever her resistance only seemed to fuel his determination to hold her. His arms were like iron bands, pressing her to him, to the heat and strength of his body, the body she had not dared to touch.

From somewhere there came a response in her own body, a hardening of the peaks of her breasts that shocked her even as a shaft of inexplicable pleasure raced through her blood.

Then, just as suddenly as he had taken hold of her, she was released and he fell back, unconscious once more. Quickly she crossed her arms over her aching breasts, her gaze focusing on the smooth tanned skin of the stranger’s chest as she wondered how touching it could have brought such a reaction from her.

She looked into his face. He was oblivious to her.

Of course he was. He had never thought of her at all. It was this unknown Rosalind who consumed him to the point that worry for her had fought its way up through the depths of his illness.

Rowena could only wonder in horror that she would react to this man as she had. All she could do to soothe herself was remember that when his health returned he would not recall this event. She would be wise to forget it as well.

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?