She bundled up the quilt to make it into Hadrian’s Wall—a sop to propriety, and yet what mattered propriety when she’d sponged almost every inch of his naked body? Nevertheless she shoved it in ahead of her and slipped between the sheets.
Thrashing limbs and feverish muttering woke her in the night. “No,” he mumbled. “No, no.” His head rolled frantically, and clenched fists flailed at the air, beating off some invisible foe. “No, no . . . You can’t . . .”
Keeping a wary eye on the wildly flying fists, Maddy felt his skin. Burning up, hotter than ever. She sponged him down, murmuring, “Hush, hush, I’m here now,” as she smoothed his burning skin with the cool moist pad. “You’re all right now . . . Nobody will harm you.”
He turned his face toward her voice and opened his eyes, staring at her blindly, his expression anguished. But the big fists unclenched and the hands slowly dropped.
She kept on murmuring soothing words and slipped her arm under his head. “Drink this; it will make you feel better.” She slipped the spout between his lips. He clenched his teeth in mute refusal. She tried again, but he jerked his mouth away, sending liquid everywhere. He thrashed his head around, muttering a string of words that didn’t make sense to her.
“You have to drink this,” she told him. “It will bring the fever down from within.”
Again he looked at her with that blind, tortured stare.
Her voice. He was responding to her voice. She didn’t know who he thought she was, but if it worked . . . Murmuring soothing phrases, she tried again to make him drink. He clenched his teeth and shoved her hand away.
She could think of only one thing to do. She took a mouthful of the bitter-sweet liquid and, stroking his face gently, she pressed her lips to his. His lips parted instantly and she let the liquid slowly dribble in. He swallowed without hesitation and grabbed her wrist, staring at her mutely.
She took another mouthful of medicine and fed it to him the same way, then another and another, until she thought he’d had enough.
That exchange, so desperate, so intimate, had awakened something in her. The struggle was now intensely personal. He was hers and she would not let him die.
She fed him water and medicine through the night, slow mouthful by slow mouthful, kisses of life. She didn’t know how long it took, she was beyond caring about anything except the man in her bed, but finally, exhausted, he lay back against the pillows.
She pressed her cheek against his chest to listen for his heartbeat, but instead, exhausted, she slipped into sleep.
She woke some hours later, in the cold gray light just before sunrise, shivering with cold, her cheek wet. Was she weeping in her sleep?
Not tears. Sweat. The fever had broken, thank God, thank God. She pulled the bedclothes up around him, tucking him in one-handed so he wouldn’t catch a chill.
Weak with relief, exhausted beyond caring, she fell asleep pressed against his body, her imprisoned hand still tucked in his loose but unbreakable grip.
She woke with a naked man wrapped around her. Like the previous morning only . . . more so. His hand cupped her breast again, only this time there was no nightgown between his hand and her skin. His questing hand had found the opening. He sighed, his hand moved, and her nipple hardened against his palm with exquisite sensitivity. Her mouth dried.
She ought to pull away.
She couldn’t make herself move.
His breathing was steady, rhythmic, undisturbed: he was sound asleep. She lay quite still so as not to disturb him, eyes closed, savoring the feel of his big, masculine body against hers.
No morning dream, this. It was so much better . . .
Her warm, thick, respectable nightgown was bunched around her waist, and her hips and thighs were naked, quite naked, and plastered against his nakedness.
Intimately.
His bent knee lay between her thighs, clamped between her thighs, nudging the cleft between her legs. With every breath he took, his knee moved ever so slightly, rubbing lightly against her in a slow, enticing friction.
Without conscious volition, she found herself pressing back against him, arching her back, deepening the friction. It sent shivers through her, delicious ripples of sensation that—
“Maddy, when are we having breakfast?” a voice called from upstairs.
Hurriedly, Maddy pulled away. She tugged her nightgown down, pulled a knitted shawl around her, and slipped from the bed. The icy floor doused her heated body with the chill of reality.
She flew about the cottage, putting the porridge on to cook as she hastily washed and dressed in the scullery. She’d been playing with fire. If he’d been awake, he would have pressed her further. Would she have resisted?
Embarrassment washed over her. She’d always thought of herself as a woman of strong character, but the truth was, she hadn’t even been able to resist his unconscious touch; in fact, she’d increased it.
If morning dreams unsettled her, this . . . whatever it was, completely undermined her.
