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to remain conscious, he heard the footsteps rushing at him. Fear stabbed through him.
    “Monsieur!”
    He fought to remain alert, so hard, sweat covered his entire body. His fists clenched and he inhaled, opening his eyes. The first thing he saw was her gray gaze, trained upon his face, as she knelt over him. Her expression seemed to be one of worry.
    Miraculously, the room stopped swimming.
    He stared up at her and she gaze down at him with great anxiety.
    He was riddled with tension, lying prone beneath her. He was too weak to defend himself and he knew it. She must realize it, too.
    But a weapon did not appear in her hand. Instead, she touched his bare shoulders, clasping them. “ Monsieur! Did you faint?” Her tone was hoarse. And then he realized why.
    He was naked; she was entirely clothed.
    “I fell, mademoiselle, ” he lied smoothly. He would never let her know how weak he was. She must believe him capable of self-defense—even aggression. Somehow, he lifted his hand and touched her cheek. “You remain my savior.”
    For one moment, their gazes collided. Then she leapt to her feet, turning her head away, to avoid looking at his body now. She was crimson.
    He felt certain she had never seen a naked man before. Her inexperience would make her easy to manipulate. “I beg your pardon,” he said, praying he would not collapse again as he sat up. “I cannot find my clothes.”
    “Your clothes,” she said roughly, “were laundered.”
    He saw that she had her glance averted still, so he stood. He wanted to collapse upon the mattress; instead, he pulled the sheet from it and wrapped it around his waist. “Did you undress me?” He glanced at her.
    “No.” She refused to look at him. “My brother did—we had to give you a sea bath, to reduce the fever.”
    He sat on the bed. Pain exploded but he ignored it. Long ago, he had mastered the skill of keeping his expression frozen. “Then I thank you again.”
    “You came to us only in breeches and boots, monsieur. The breeches are not dry yet. It has rained since you came to us. But I will bring you a pair of my brother Lucas’s breeches.”
    He now sought her gaze until she met it. She remained undone by having glimpsed him unclothed. If he were fortunate, she hadn’t noticed how incapacitated he was. He smiled. “I would appreciate a shirt, as well.”
    She looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language she did not understand. Nor did she find humor in his remark.
    He sobered. “I am sorry if I have offended your sensibilities, mademoiselle. ”
    “What were you attempting to do, monsieur? Why would you arise without my help?”
    He was about to respond when he saw her letter, lying on the floor behind her, where he had dropped it. He knew better than to try to avert his eyes; she had already turned, to look behind her.
    He said softly, “When I fell, I knocked over the chair and I also bumped into the table. I apologize. I hope I have not broken the chair.”
    She swiftly retrieved the letter and placed it by the inkwell; as quickly, she lifted and righted the chair.
    “I was thinking to open the window for some fresh air,” he added.
    Without turning, she hurried to the window, unlatched it and pressed it outward. A cool blast of Atlantic air rushed into the room.
    He studied her very closely.
    She suddenly turned and caught him staring.
    And he knew he did not mistake the new tension that had arisen between them.
    Finally, she smiled back slightly. “I am sorry. You must think me very foolish. I…did not expect to return to the chamber and find you on the floor.”
    She was a good liar—but not as good as he was. “No,” he said, “I think you very beautiful.”
    She went still.
    He lowered his gaze. A silence fell. To be safe, he thought, all he had to do was play her.
    Unless, of course, she was the spy he feared, and her naiveté was theatrics. In that case, she was the one playing him.
    “J ULIANNE ? W HY ARE YOU so concerned?”