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the tea you’ve brought me, I’m nigh close to bursting!”
    A short time later, Winnie saw her patient settled for the night, and departed for her own cottage nearby. Kate lay in bed listening to the gentle drizzle of the rain outside, wondering why she couldn’t sleep. She knew the answer.
    He was in her heart, and he also had a name: Morgan Trelane. She rarely stopped thinking about him. She must admit she was fascinated by the man. His voice, his hands, the rugged contours of his face. She remembered how his face had felt to her touch: the proud aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, the thin yet sensuous lips. Morgan was smooth-shaven. She liked that, too. She saw him in her mind’s eye right now: his brown velvet eyes gazing down at her in the bed; an ebony lock of hair spilling boyishly over his brow. He was smiling …
    “Faeilean?”
    The deep male voice seduced her from the edge of consciousness, and she murmured with sleepy pleasure:
    “You called me Faeilean . Is’t my name?”
    Morgan chuckled. “Nay. ’Tis the Gaelic for ‘seagull.’ That’s what you reminded me of when I carried you upstairs, looking for all the saints like a wee, drowned bird washed up with the tide.”
    She smiled, and Morgan’s heart contracted in his chest. A hoarseness entered his voice.
    “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t disturb your rest. I’ll leave — ”
    “No! I mean, please stay. I’m glad you came up to see me again.”
    Morgan swallowed hard and pulled up a chair. It was a mistake to linger, he knew. All the while his mind reasoned, his gaze devoured Kate in the bed. Tonight Mrs. Carey had dressed her patient in a deep blue nightrail. The color brought out the lustrous highlights in her dark hair.
    “I’ve brought the amulet along, as I promised. Here, hold out your hand.” She did so, and he placed the cold disk in her palm, curling her fingers about it.
    “’Tis red-gold, well-crafted, and looks ancient,” Morgan informed her as she explored the object with her fingers. “It is strung on a simple cord, one rather well-worn, from what I can tell. I imagine ’tis a talisman, either meant for protection or has some sort of pagan significance. I believe the bird carved in it might be an eagle, mayhap a raven.”
    “’Tis a raven,” Kate whispered, not aware of such knowledge until she spoke. Startled from her reverie, she clutched the amulet to her breast It comforted her, somehow, just knowing it was a part of her mysterious past, whatever her past was — a link to an unknown family.
    Morgan made no move to take it back from her. Instead, he offered:
    “I wondered if you wish me to read you a story. I thought a familiar book might bring back pleasant memories to you.”
    “Aye, I should welcome it very much.”
    He reached out, found, and held her left hand, while the other still clutched the amulet. He found her fingers every bit as calloused as his own. He drew her hand along with his to rest atop the leather cover of the book he had brought.
    “Let’s see if you can guess what I have here.”
    She smiled at the challenge. “’Tis thick. Is it the Bible?”
    “Ah! Our first clue. You were raised in a Christian household. This is working better than I imagined.”
    She shook her head, puzzled. “But you said the amulet appears to be pagan in design. What does it mean?”
    “Mayhap nothing. Often the two are combined. For instance, many here still celebrate Beltane and Samhain, the old Celtic festivals, along with Christmas and Lent.”
    She relaxed, then tensed with excitement again. “Let’s see if I know how to ‘read’ the letters, as well.” She drew her fingers over the gold leaf in the leather. Counting out the spaces, she concentrated a moment and then laughed with triumph. “ A Midsummer Night’s Dream !”
    “Correct,” said Morgan. Her laughter was so sweet and spontaneous, he could not resist joining in. “I take it, then, you’re acquainted with Shakespeare. Shall I read a