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the idea came from, she would never know. Perhaps it was pulled from some insidious place inside her, culled by desperation.
    The single beat of her heart forestalled the notion … then it was no more.
    She crawled atop him, but not before dragging the sheet up over his naked limbs. Carefully she straddled him, nesting her knees beside his hips. A dozen things passed through her mind in that moment. She was heartily glad that Brother Baldric was not here to see her. The very thought made her want to smile, at a time when she’d never felt less like smiling! For what she was about to do seemed terribly intimate … yet terribly important.
    Once more she reached for the cup. This time, however, she tipped it high to her own lips … then bent low.
    Awkwardly her chin bumped his; she felt the bristly scrape of his beard against her tender skin, for he was no longer clean-shaven. It was a strange sensation of awareness, for such closeness with a man other than her father was utterly foreign to Gillian. Yet she did not allow it to hinder her.
    Her heart knocking wildly, she closed her eyes and brushed her lips against his—his were warm and dry. At the contact, a jolt went through her. Yet in that timeless span between one breath and the next, Gareth’s lips parted.
    And so did hers.
    Cool liquid trickled from her mouth into his. Hope bounded within her breast when she felt him swallow. Felt his lips part thirstily for more.
    Thus he drank from her.
    Thus he supped. Again and again, as if he was parched and could not get enough. A goblet full, and then another, and even a bit of broth from the soup. Only then was she satisfied. His breathing was not so heavy now, and he seemed cooler.
    She eased away, her hand going to the small of her back. She was stiff and sore from bending over him so long, and a swirl of hair tumbled across her eyes. She pushed it away impatiently. Lord, but she must be a wretched sight to behold. Her gown was wet and wrinkled. Her hair, never truly tame, was a wavy, disheveled mass down her back and shoulders. With a sigh she moved to replace the goblet in its usual place on the rough-planked table before the hearth.
    When she turned back, an eerie prickle raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
    Her patient had shifted his head. His eyes were wide open and upon her—burning, as he had burned.
    “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
    Her tongue seemed tethered to the roof of her mouth. “I am …” To her horror, she had to grope for the name the villagers believed her to be. “I am Marian.”
    “You lie!” he accused. “Tell me who you are!”
    Gillian could form neither word nor sound. At the iron flex of his jaw, a shiver of something very akin to fear played all through her. His countenance was black, his eyes glittering. She was somehow frightened as she’d not been frightened before. For one perilous, teetering instant, an awful feeling sent her world all atumble. Was Brother Baldric right? Did this man know the truth? Did he know that she was Gillian of Westerbrook?
    She was spared an explanation, yet this was an explanation she would have gladly made, for in the very next instant his eyelids drooped shut.
    Again he’d slipped away.
    Gillian flew to his side. “Gareth!” Her ringers closed around his shoulder. Where before his skin was like fire, now it was like ice! Even as the thought took hold, he began to shiver. The whole of his body shook, as if the chill of the seawater had seeped into his bones. She nearly screamed in despair. Too hot. Too cold. Would he never be well? Would he never truly wake? Was he lost to this world forever?
    She heaved the blankets from the foot of the bed and dragged them over him, yet still he trembled violently.
    Gillian did the only thing she could think of that might help. Her fingers raced even as her mind raced. She clawed at her gown, stripping it from her shoulders; her wet clothing would do him no good. Clad only in her shift,