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floor beside him. “Mr….” She wished she knew his name; it seemed strange to be tending someone she could not even address by name. “Sir, can you sit up? I have something for you to drink.”
    When he did not awaken, she prodded his shoulder tentatively. His skin felt like fire. “Sir? Please, wake up.”
    His eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his head. His gaze was hazy and unfocused. “What?” He ran his tongue over his parched lips. “I’m so hot. Where am I?”
    â€œEvermere Cottage,” Priscilla replied evenly. “I told you before. Don’t you remember?”
    He shook his head slightly and wet his lips again. “Thirsty.”
    â€œI know. You need to drink some water. But first you need to drink this. It will help you feel better. Can you sit up?”
    He nodded, but made it only up onto his elbows. Priscilla put her hand behind his head to help steady it and raised the glass to his lips. He drank greedily, then pulled back, grimacing.
    â€œWhat the devil! Are you trying to kill me?”
    â€œNo. It’s a tonic for your fever. You need to drink it. I know it tastes wretched, but you really must drink some more.”
    â€œThe hell I will!” he retorted belligerently.
    Priscilla set her jaw and gave him a steely gaze. She hadn’t dealt with two lively boys all these years for nothing. “Yes,” she told him firmly. “You have to. Now open up.”
    â€œI want water,” he replied with equal stubbornness, and the mutinous look on his face was so much that of a young boy that Priscilla almost had to laugh.
    â€œAnd you shall have some…as soon as you take your medicine.”
    He stared at her in silence for a long moment. Priscilla returned his gaze with calm determination. Finally he grimaced, saying sullenly, “All right.”
    He drank the whole draft, then fell back on his bed,his mouth twisting expressively. “Tastes like poison. Who hired you? Father?”
    â€œNo one hired me. I am trying to help you of my own free will, but I must say, at the moment you are making me reconsider my decision.”
    He smiled faintly at her retort, and she left to get him a glass of water. By the time she returned, his eyes were once again closed. She set the glass down on the small dresser and returned to his bedside. He was sweating profusely and had once again thrown his blanket almost completely away. Priscilla straightened it, then brought up the stool that sat in the corner of the room and sat down beside him. She washed his face with the rag, soaked it in the bowl, then washed his face again.
    The cool water on his face seemed to make him a little more peaceful, but he continued to move his head and mumble something now and then, and several times he thrust the blanket down impatiently. His fever continued to rise.
    When the boys ran a really high fever, she had usually sponged their chests, as well, Priscilla remembered, but she felt a little odd about doing that to a strange man. However, after a while, she decided that she had no choice. His fever was simply too high. So she dipped the wash rag in water, squeezed it out and began to bathe his chest with it, slipping it behind his head to cool his neck, as well. She brought the rag down his chest to his stomach in long, rhythmic strokes, and when it grew warm from his body heat, she dipped it in the cool water and started all over again.
    The rag was thin, and through its dampness she could feel the firm shape of his muscles, the hard ridges of his ribs and collarbone. A flutter ran through her abdomen,and her breath came a little faster. She found herself watching the pulse in his throat, thinking about touching it. Finally she did, reaching out and placing a finger gently on it. His skin was blazing; it was also soft and vulnerable there, in contrast to the strength of his body, the force that she had felt in him earlier, when he pulled her back