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long tail of hair that brushed against his cheek. Isabella? Ah, Issy . . . He lifted his hand to her nape, stroked her earlobe with his thumb. She smelled sweet, so sweet. “Leannan,” he whispered.
    Isabella whispered to him, but Jamie couldn’t make out her words. His hand was drifting down, brushing against the swell of her bosom, and he was pleasantly, warmly, reminded of how it was to hold her, to kiss her, to feel her. An overpowering need to fill her now began to pulse in him, and Jamie pulled her down to him, whispering, “ Leannan ,” before he kissed her.
    The kiss sent a shiver through him. It was so delicate, so reverent. He shaped his lips around hers, and warmth filled him, sliding out to his limbs, swirling around his wounds. The sensation was so light that it seemed almost a dream, as if he were drifting on a cloud. Maybe this was an angel’s kiss for a dying man.
    He felt pressure against his shoulder. She was pushing against him. He felt her knee move against his hand and knock into his side, causing fire to streak down his leg. Jamie groaned and opened his eyes; his gaze was blurred, but he was aware that weak light was filtering in from someplace above him. It slowly began to dawn on him: he was not at Dundavie.
    He was in the Sassenach’s cottage.
    A small hatch of a window above his head was open to allow a soft breeze and what seemed like morning light. His finger was between the bed and a rough stone wall. Jamie slowly turned his head, saw the vase of wildflowers beside him. He blinked, his vision coming into focus. He moved his head again. The pain was bearable; he glanced down the length of his body and his gaze fell on a young woman.
    She was sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed, a plaid around her shoulders. Her knees were tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins. And her hair, tied into one long tail, hung over her shoulder. Honey, he thought. The color of her hair made him think of warm honey.
    He remembered her—he’d seen her before.
    She blinked. “Sir?”
    Sir? No one called him sir. They called him laird.
    “Are you awake?”
    English. It was coming back to him. He vaguely recalled her standing rigidly, gaping at him. Aye, now he remembered—she’d been staring at his cock. Who was this English female, and why did it suddenly seem as if the Highlands were teeming with them? Was this the woman he’d kissed, or had he dreamed it?
    “You’ve been asleep for two days, I think,” she said. “Or rather, two days that I know of.”
    Two days?
    She inched to the edge of her chair. “Do you speak English?” She stood up, warily coming closer, as if she expected him to suddenly snatch her like a corpse rising from his grave. She glanced nervously at the door and shifted even closer, hesitantly reaching out her hand. Long, elegant fingers. Jamie realized she meant to touch him and reacted unthinkingly, jerking his head away. He instantly felt the throb of pain in the back of his head and was momentarily stunned by it, at which point she pressed the flat of her palm lightly against his forehead.
    Jamie grabbed her wrist and pulled her down so that he might see her in the fog that surrounded his brain and his vision. Her face was close to his, a young, beautiful face. His gaze roamed over her features, trying to understand. Deep golden-brown eyes, dark brows, a slender nose, and full lips. “Who are you, kitten?” he asked in Gaelic. “The devil in disguise?” His mouth was dry; he licked his cracked lips. Her gaze fell to his mouth. Jamie tightened his grip, felt the small, slender bones of her wrist, the way she strained against him.
    “I think your fever has broken,” she murmured, andtugged at her arm. Jamie let it go, and she slipped away from him like a whisper of silk. “Thank the Lord for it; I’ve feared for your health.” She knelt down beside the bed, just beyond his reach. Her eyes, Jamie noticed, were only slightly darker than her