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at him, noting several things that she had missed when he’d been sitting next to the fire: the proud tilt of his head; the healthy look of his skin tone, even though its color was a few shades darker than her own; the long fingers that looked capable enough to snap her in half, if he desired. As she gazed up into his eyes, she beheld a gentle look about him as well, and it was toward that spark of kindness that she responded. “I think that I can sit up. Shall I try? ”
    He nodded and waited.
    She struggled to do it. But to her chagrin, she was too weak to accomplish more than coming up onto her elbows. Moreover, even that small movement sent her heart to beating heavily in her chest. Her breathing quickened as a result, which caused her some anxiety. Not knowing him, fearing he might be untruthful about his intentions toward her, she was afraid the movement of her chest might attract his attention toward her bosom, a thing she wished to avoid.
    But it didn’t. His eyes seemed focused on her facial features alone. However, he made no move to help her sit into a better position, either.
    At last, casting him what was probably an irritated glance, she said, “I fear ’tis as far as I can come.”
    Again, he nodded, and setting the shell carefully to the side, he placed an arm around her back, bringing her up into a full sitting position. Only then did he say, “It is good that you tried to rise up on your own. There is no other way to regain your strength.”
    His voice was low and pleasant, a deep baritone, and his face was so close to hers, the intake and exhale of his mint-scented breath was soft upon her.
    However, it caused her to wonder at the odor of her own mouth, and she closed her lips, as if that might keep any offending smell at length.
    Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around her, he picked up the shell that contained the delicious smelling liquid, and brought the concoction, to her lips.
    “It is hot,” he warned. “Beware. Do not drink too much at first.”
    Eyes wide, taking in his image, she obeyed, for there was no reason not to. She took a tentative sip of the brew and decided at once that it was good. Indeed, in her state of mind, it tasted as if it might be the nectar of the gods.
    “Hmm …” Briefly she closed her eyes. “’Tis an excellent cook, you are, sir.”
    A simple nod of his head acknowledged her compliment.
    “I’d like some more, if you please,” she said.
    He accommodated her, bringing the shell once more to her lips. But he said very little to her, making her wonder if there were a reason why he was niggardly with his words. She brought her hands up to his, helping him to guide the shell toward her, and every now and again she gazed up at him. His features remained handsome even so close up, she noted, though she was amazed to discover there was not even a hint of a beard on his countenance. Did he shave it, or did he honestly not have one?
    She tried to recall what she might know of the Indians, but unless her mind volunteered the information, there was little for her to gain from her memory.
    As she stared directly at him, she noticed that his eyes were dark, almost black in hue, and as he stared back at her and their gazes met, she recognized a strength of spirit that was at odds with her impression of what the Indians were about.
    But what impression was this? Was it a memory?
    Sarah tried to bring the recollection back to mind, though it was impossible to keep it from fleeing. Her brow knitted in a frown.
    “Do not worry,” he said as he reached out to smooth the lines between her brows. “You will regain your strength. Here, eat more. If you are to recover, you will need to nourish your body.”
    “Aye, yes, of course you are right,” she said. “Thank you for helping me, and for this meal. It must be vexing for you to have to prepare it.”
    “It is nothing,” he said. “A man learns enough about cooking to do it a little, since he is often away from his