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Edwyn!”
    Gillian gaped at him. She was stunned. Amazed. Overwhelmed … and all at once!
    “Wh-what am I to call you, then?”
    He tugged her close, so close she felt the warm mist of his breath mingle with hers, and she could clearly discern the flecks of gold in eyes that were the same lush green as the forest near Westerbrook.
    Those eyes seemed to pierce into the very depths of her own. “Gareth,” he said with utter fierceness. “I am Gareth.”
    And then he slipped back into unconsciousness.
     
    *Chapter 3*
     
    Gillian gave a stricken cry. “Edwyn … Gareth.” The name tripped awkwardly from her tongue, for already she’d grown accustomed to calling him Edwyn.
    With both hands she shook him, be it roughly, be it gently, she knew not. She cared not.
    “Wake up, Gareth! Wake up!”
    A lean hand fell limply to his side. Her efforts to rouse him were in vain. Gillian wavered between buoyant exultation and a dragging disappointment, but it was just as before. As if all strength and effort had been bled from him.
    But he had awoken. He had opened his eyes … and spoken.
    She took up her vigil with renewed hope. With avowed conviction. Though the world beyond still summoned him, Gillian was suddenly determined. She would not allow death to stake its claim on still another man.
    Not today.
    Not tomorrow.
    Not this one.
    It was then she noted the warmth emanating from his skin. Heat seemed to rise from his body. Alarmed, she laid the backs of her fingers against his cheek. He was hot to the touch, and it had naught to do with the heat of the fire.
    “Sweet heaven,” she breathed, “you’re ill with fever.” No wonder he’d tried to push aside the blankets!
    Once again she bolted for water, only this time she did not warm it. She dipped the cloth in it, then dragged it down his face and neck and shoulders, clear to his waist.
    It was as if the fever had caught fire within him— as if it burned from the inside out and now raged out of control beneath her hand—before her very eyes. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip. His skin was no longer colorless but glowed with an unhealthy pallor. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if every breath was a struggle … as indeed it was.
    Gillian raged at the heavens—and at herself. There must be something else she could do, she thought frantically, but what? What?
    Wringing the water from the cloth, she drew it down the side of his face, venting her despair. “Ah, Gareth, Gareth! If only you could help me!”
    He turned his face into the cloth, as if he sought the coolness. It struck Gillian then. Was he thirsty? Of course he was. He had not drunk nor eaten throughout the long hours spent in her cottage. She chastised herself roundly for not realizing sooner.
    Her mind vaulted forward. He could not chew or eat in his present state. But if he could but drink, perhaps later he might take the broth from the soup she had last eaten and thus gain strength.
    Slipping an arm beneath his shoulder, she lifted his head and held the goblet to his lips. His head rested in the palm of her hand; lord, but it was heavy! “Drink, Gareth,” she said softly. “Just a bit, that’s the way.”
    Carefully she eased the goblet forward. He made a strangled, choking sound and began to cough. Hastily Gillian withdrew the cup, spilling half the contents as she did so. Water drenched the front of her gown, but she paid no heed. She would change it later.
    Not to be dissuaded, she seized her spoon and dipped it into the cup, seeking to dribble it into his mouth. Like a willful child, he turned his head away. His lips pressed together, a stubborn refusal. Gillian tried patiently again and again, coaxing and cajoling, until at last she flung the spoon aside in fury and frustration.
    Gritting her teeth, she regarded her patient. “You will not die,” she pronounced. “I will not allow it, do you hear? And you will drink, even if I must pour it down your throat.”
    Where