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intensely aware of his own nakedness, and that she had seen it. Why should the thought be so unnerving? "My clothes seem to have gone missing. Don't tell me you left those back in the clearing, too?"
    "Oh, no," she said earnestly. "I washed them in the stream. They're all dry now."
    If Rhiannon Fitzgerald had had time to do all that, he must have been unconscious for hours. Had he been muttering in his sleep the whole while? The thought rose, most unwelcome.
    She retrieved a bundle of clothing, presenting it to him. "They were bloody from your wounds, you see."
    "I suppose I should thank you. I abhor disarray." He looked pointedly at Rhiannon Fitzgerald's decidedly mussed gown. Crumpled and faded, the blue gown looked worn as soft as satin molded to her generous curves.
    He took up his linen shirt, intending to put it on, then froze in astonishment. The garment hung in pristine ribbons, sleeve slit, front slashed. The uniform jacket was the same, and his breeches thus desecrated as well. He stared down at them, then raised his eyes to her face with an expression that had made battle-toughened sergeants' knees rattle together in dread. "Do you have such ill luck with all the clothing you wash, Miss Fitzgerald? Or were you attempting to wash your breakfast knives at the same time?"
    The woman actually smiled at him, heedless. "I didn't want to hurt you, wrestling you around to get you out of your clothes, so I cut them off."
    Redmayne let silence fall for a moment. "I don't suppose you have a spare captain's uniform stashed somewhere in this disarray?" He glanced around the cramped quarters, every inch crammed with God alone knew what.
    She flushed. "I'm afraid not. You could wrap yourself in one of my petticoats for the time being. It would hardly matter, since you need to stay in bed."
    Redmayne's eyes widened just a trifle. "I doubt the color would suit me. I'm afraid my own garments will have to do." He started to wrap the remnants of his shirt about him.
    "But there's no reason you have to dress. You'll hardly offend my modesty since I was the one who"— she had the grace to falter—"who undressed you."
    "Your modesty doesn't concern me in the least, madam. My duty does. I have to get back to the garrison immediately."
    "The garrison? But the nearest one is—"
    "Thirty miles away. I'm aware of that."
    "You couldn't possibly walk so far! You'd fall on your face before you got out of the glen!"
    "I don't intend to walk. You must have a horse to pull this thing—unless of course, the multitalented Milton is excellent between the traces."
    "No. Socrates pulls the cart."
    Redmayne grimaced. "No wonder the poor man drank hemlock. Coming down in the world from philosopher to such manual labor must have been most distressing."
    "Socrates is my horse," she confided with such insufferable earnestness Redmayne ground his teeth.
    "Yes. I'd managed to figure that out before now. I'm afraid I'll have to trespass on his good nature, ride him to the garrison. Once I reach it, I'll send a contingent of my men to bring him back to you, laden with a purse large enough to compensate for your trouble and his further humiliation."
    "I'm afraid that would be impossible even if you were strong enough to attempt it. Socrates won't allow anyone but Captain Blood ride him."
    "Captain Blood? You have a pirate stashed beneath the bed? Now I know what happened to my clothing— a round of cutlass practice."
    "Captain Blood is my cat." She gestured to a tabby who looked as if he'd ended up on the losing end of a fight. One ear had a decidedly chewed appearance, one eye was missing. "I'm surprised you didn't notice him. He seems to have taken a liking to sleeping on your chest, despite all the times I chased him off."
    Redmayne recalled the single amber eye staring down at him when he first stirred into consciousness. Not the devil but a cat. Most embarrassing. "If your cat can ride the horse, I can. I assure you, madam, the mount hasn't been born