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and dreams. But before he could grasp it, it drifted out of his reach, calling out what he thought might be his name in a voice that was too faint and far off for him to recognize.
    He longed to pursue it, but there was a tremendous weight pressing down on his heart. He opened his eyes to find a fat yellow tabby cat sitting on his chest, peering at him with wise golden eyes.
    “Nellie,” he whispered, thinking how peculiar it was that he could remember her name but not his own.
    He reached to touch her, expecting her to melt into the mist along with that other elusive shade. But her fur felt soft and clean beneath his trembling hand. As he stroked her, her purr rumbled through him, producing an echoing wave of contentment. His eyes drifted shut.
    If he was dreaming, he never wanted to wake up.
    Cookie bustled into Lady Eleanor’s chamber the next morning with a washbasin loaded with rags tucked under her arm and a cheery whistle on her lips. As her gaze fell on the bed, the whistle died on an off-key note.
    “Well, I’ll be …” she whispered, shaking her head.
    Sometime during the night, Laura had relaxed her vigil long enough to slump forward in the chair and rest her head on the stranger’s chest. She slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, her back curved at an awkward angle and one arm hanging limp off the side of the bed. The lad still slept as well, but with a hand cupping Laura’s head, his fingers tangled possessively in what was left of her once neat topknot.
    Cookie scowled. If the rascal had dared to compromise her young mistress in any way, Cookie wouldn’t hesitate to bash him over the head with the washbasin and send him to sleep for good.
    But as she crept nearer, her fears subsided. With their eyes closed and their mouths open, the two of them looked as innocent as a pair of toothless babes.
    Cookie gave Laura’s shoulder a gentle shake. The girl sat straight up, an unruly lock of hair flopping over one eye. “Oh, Lord, I shouldn’t have gone to sleep. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
    “Don’t be silly. Of course he ain’t dead! Why, your nursin’ has even put a spot of color in the lad’s cheeks.”
    Laura stole a look at her patient. Cookie had spoken the truth. His breathing was smooth and even, and his cheeks had lost their haunted pallor.
    Cookie nodded knowingly. “All the lad needs now is a good scrubbin’.”
    “I’ll do it,” Laura said automatically, reaching for the basin.
    Cookie held it out of her reach, her expression scandalized. “I think not, girl. It’s bad enough I let you tend to him durin’ the night. If I was to let you bathe him, Lady Eleanor would roll right out of her grave.” Shestabbed a finger at the bed. “I been married to that randy old goat of mine for nearly forty years now and I can promise you this young buck ain’t got nothin’ an old woman like me ain’t seen a hundred times before.”
    As if to prove her point, she lifted the quilt, blocking Laura’s view, and peered beneath it. Since he was still wearing those flank-hugging buckskin trousers, Laura couldn’t imagine what made the maid’s crinkled cheeks turn bright pink.
    Cookie dropped the quilt, swallowing hard. “Old Cookie might have spoken in haste, but never you mind, child.” Catching Laura by the arm, she steered her toward the door, sloshing water out of the basin with each step. “I’ve drawn a hot bath for you in the kitchen. You just go and get yourself all tidied up while I tend to your gent.”
    Before Laura’s bleary brain could even form a protest, Cookie had closed the door, gently but firmly, in her face.
    He must be dead.
    How else to explain the brisk, impersonal feel of female hands against his body? He might not remember his name, but he did remember that female hands were designed to provide only pleasure: to trail across his skin with tantalizing grace; to envelop his engorged flesh in a vise of delight; to dig their flawlessly painted fingernails into his back