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that she was upright from foot to waist, but still bent over him, anchored to him by her blasted hair.
    “Very good,” he said approvingly, and again she thought she detected a touch of humor in his voice. Crossly she wished the fever would come upon him once more, rendering him helpless. Why did nothing ever happen as it should?
    After a moment’s thought she reached down to grasp him under his armpits, pulling back with all her might. He barely budged, and she was soon panting as if she had run for miles.
    “You’re not very strong, are you?” he said critically at last, his eyes disparaging as they moved over her slender body. Amanda started to stiffen indignantly, remembered just in time his hand in her hair, and contented herself with glaring at him instead.
    “You’ll have to help me,” she answered coldly—or as coldly as she could with perspiration beading her forehead and her breathing ragged. “You’re very heavy.”
    “Grab my hand and pull,” he instructed, and when she had grasped his proffered hand, he unwound his other hand from her hair. Amanda felt a flood of mingled relief and surprise, and immediately jerked as hard as she could on her imprisoned hand, hoping to yank it free. But she only succeeded in hauling him into a sitting position. His grip was like a vise.
    “I knew you could do it.” His voice was faint but the tone sardonic. He was now leaning back against the rock that had sheltered him, and his eyes were closed. Her petticoat had slipped from his shoulders to lie like a crumpled flag of surrender against the dark shale. Amanda waited a second, watching him, then gave another surreptitious tug on her hand. Nothing happened—but his eyes opened.
    “Don’t try to run away, Amanda,” he cautioned softly, his voice chilling her blood. “You won’t succeed—except in making me very angry.”
    She stopped tugging. He leaned back against the rock again, his eyes closed, his breathing labored. Anchored to his hand as she was, Amanda could not help but be aware of the raging heat of his flesh and of the tremors that shook him. Despite her fear, she felt another of those odd little pangs of pity for him. He was clearly very ill … But there was nothing she could do for him, nothing she would want to do for him if she could. She was not foolish enough to aid, any more than she could help, a man who gave every indication that he planned to kill her sooner or later.
    His eyes opened again, touching on her face like a silvery flash of fire before moving on to fix with grim concentration on his feet in their ill-made shoes. Moving slowly, as though it required tremendous effort to do so, he drew his knees up so that his feet were planted as close to his body as he could get them. Watching, Amanda saw his muscles tense as he braced his back against the rock.
    “All right. Now see if you can help me stand up,” he ordered. Amanda looked at him briefly, then did as he told her, pulling on the hand that imprisoned hers with all her might. To her mingled relief and dismay, he inched slowly upright until at last he was on his feet, leaning against the rock, his face as pale as a corpse’s and his breath rattling in his throat in a way that made Amanda wince just to hear it. Throughout, he had never slackened his grip on her hand.
    He stayed like that for several minutes, catching his breath, and then he looked at Amanda again.
    “Come closer,” he said, pulling on her hand to enforce his words. Amanda hung back, not liking to get too near him now that he was on his feet. His sheer size frightened her. He was huge, tall and broad-shouldered, easily dwarfing her own petite frame so that she felt like a little child beside him. Despite his leanness, the muscles that were clearly visible through his ragged clothes were corded and strong-looking. She was no longer left with even a shred of doubt about who would emerge the victor in any contest of physical strength between them.
    “Amanda.”