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she crawled into bed and wrapped her limbs around his, as if to guard him, to shield him, to give him warmth … to give him life.
    Little by little, by subtle degrees, his shivering began to subside. His breathing went from hard and labored to slow and rhythmic.
    Her fingers threaded through his hair. It was warm and soft and silky. “There,” she whispered, “that’s better, is it not?”
    As if in agreement, his face turned into the hollow of her neck.
    Evening came nigh and shadows crept into the cottage. Before long, she felt her body begin to loosen, her limbs begin to slacken. All at once she was incredibly weary. Oh, she’d dozed now and then, but how long since she’d slept, and slept deeply…. Even on the journey here, afraid the king’s men would appear at any moment, she and Brother Baldric had been able to snatch a few hours of sleep each night. How long had it been? she wondered. Several days, surely.
    Brother Baldric was right, she acknowledged hazily. She shouldn’t have taken him in, for now there was nowhere to sleep. She really should rise and dress, then make her bed near the hearth. The prospect was not at all inviting, particularly when she felt so cozy and snug. Nonetheless, she told herself that she would, in just a few short moments.
    But Gillian was suddenly too tired to think anymore. Too tired to move. Too tired to care. She felt herself drifting into the blissfully tranquil abyss of sleep, and could do naught to stop it.
     
    His dreams were like none he’d ever dreamed before.
    A creaking, tearing sound seemed to vibrate through his entire body. There was a massive, jarring shudder beneath his feet, followed by a heaving roll. Pain seared his lungs, his leg, his entire body.
    All around were voices. Shouts. Screams of terror that shrilled to a piercing shriek, then feel eerily silent. Was any of it real? He hoped not. He prayed not. For he was drowning. Adrift in darkness, hemmed in by walls of numbing cold. Then suddenly his body was afire. When darkness threatened to close in all around him, he did not resist.
    But then came another voice. This one was different. Melodious and dulcet and honeyed. The voice of a woman.
    The hands of a woman, drifting over him, small and soft, blessedly cool. Lips, warm upon his, flowering open upon his.
    She was the one he clung to. Those hands. That voice. The only light in a void of endless black.
    Consciousness departed little by little, like newly fallen rain beneath the blanch of the sun. The scent and feel of warmth and woman swirled all around; soft, feminine curves melded tight against his side. He need not open his eyes to see the soft tendrils of hair coiled upon his chest and belly, as if he were wrapped in a silken cocoon. The mists of darkness beckoned anew, yet this time Gareth fought it. He might have gladly savored this incredible sweetness; it was a feeling not unknown to him, yet somewhere in the depths of his being lurked the certainty that it had been a long while since he’d lain thus with such alluring, womanly nakedness draped upon his form.
    Alas, mingled with that sweetness was pain. And as he felt himself dragged from the lure of slumber, it was the pain which overtook him.
    His companion stirred. Almost reluctantly, he pried his lids open.
    Their eyes locked.
    His thoughts were hazed. He grappled for her name, even as she seemed to grapple for breath. Thick, gleaming waves of darkest midnight tumbled over her shoulders, trailing upon the hand stretched at his side. She stared at him with eyes the same vibrant hue as a clear summer sky. Gareth had the oddest sensation, almost as if she were struck dumb by the sight of him. It spun through his mind that she was not naked, as he’d thought. Through the linen of her shift, round nipples peeped clearly visible. It was a sight that was a veritable invitation to linger—and indeed, he might have indulged the temptation had she not grabbed the sheet and snatched it to her