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  “Oh, no. It has no ammunition. I keep the guns in their case, but I haven’t a clue where to find a ball and powder. It hasn’t been used in ninety years. I’m not sure it would fire even if I had the powder. But it looks quite threatening.”

  “Yes, unless your bluff is called.”

  “You can always turn it around and pop him on the head with the butt. With this fellow, it should do the trick.”

  “Papa!” Priscilla couldn’t suppress a giggle. She reached out and took the pistol, sticking it down into the long pocket of her skirt. “All right. I shall sit with it in my lap to intimidate him should he wake up.”

  “Still, I probably ought to stay with you.” Florian’s eyes darted involuntarily toward his study, where, no doubt, some fascinating tome on chemistry awaited him.

  Priscilla smiled indulgently. “Nonsense,” she said stoutly. “I won’t hear of it. I am perfectly fine by myself, and I have this gun. And you won’t be far away. I can always scream.”

  “That’s true.” Florian brightened at this easy solution to his dilemma. “I’ll come running immediately.”

  Priscilla kissed her father on the cheek and watched fondly as he hurried off toward his study, his mind obviously already on the subject that awaited him. She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Opening the door, she stepped inside.

  An arm lashed out and wrapped around her, effectively pinning her arms to her side and jerking her backward against a hard male body. At the same time, another hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the beginnings of a piercing scream.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PRISCILLA TWISTED AND TURNED, trying to pull away, but the arm around her was too strong. She thought of the gun her father had given her, now lying useless, deep in the pocket of her skirts. She had underestimated her visitor, and she cursed herself bitterly for being so foolishly confident.

  “Now!” his voice whispered in her ear. “Who the hell are you? What am I doing here? And where the hell are my clothes?”

  Priscilla made an irritated noise. How did the fool expect her to speak with his hand over her mouth?

  “I’ll take away my hand,” he went on, “as long as you don’t scream. One scream, and—” His arm tightened briefly in emphasis. “I can snap your neck like a chicken’s.” He paused, then said, “Do you understand? Will you agree?”

  Priscilla nodded. His hand loosened over her mouth, then slowly withdrew. He settled it on her throat, his fingers stretching suggestively across it. Priscilla shivered; the touch of his hot hand on the sensitive skin of her throat sent strange vibrations through her. She could feel his body, hard with muscles, pressed against hers all the way down, and she could not keep from thinking about the fact that he was naked.

  “Answer me,” he prodded, his breath hot against her cheek.

  “I, uh…” Priscilla stopped and cleared her throat, then continued in a stronger voice, “My name is Priscilla Hamilton, and you are at Evermere Cottage. As to what you are doing here, I was rather hoping that you could enlighten me on that score.”

  “Hamilton?” he repeated vaguely, and she could feel his body sag a little. “I don’t know you.”

  “No. Nor do I know you. All I’m certain of is that you collapsed on our doorstep about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Why?” he asked softly, but she got the impression that he was speaking more to himself than to her.

  He removed his hand from her throat and brought it up to his face. He swayed a little and leaned against the wall, his arm loosening around her waist.

  Priscilla knew that her moment had arrived. She stamped down hard on his bare foot with her shod one, and at the same moment lunged forward with all her strength. He let out a grunt of pain and surprise, and his arm fell away, so that Priscilla was able to break away from him. He reached out, grabbing for her, but it was too late. She pulled out the ancient dueling pistol and spun around to face him.

  His mouth dropped open and he stared at the gun in her hand. “You cunning little bitch! You are one of them, aren’t you?”

  “One of whom?” Priscilla retorted, and gestured with her gun. “Move back against the wall. I am the one asking the questions now.”

  He leaned back against the wall, though it looked more as if from necessity than because of any command from her. His face was pale, and sweat stood out on his forehead. From the expression on his face as he closed his eyes, Priscilla suspected that his head was spinning again. Her eyes slipped a little lower. It was extremely uncomfortable standing there dealing with a man who was utterly naked. He seemed perversely unconcerned and at ease in his naked state, which somehow made her feel even more awkward.

  She refused to stare at him; it would be in appalling taste. Yet it was extremely hard to look anywhere else. She could not help but notice the breadth of his shoulders or the bony outthrust of his collarbone, or the way his chest was padded with muscles. She had never seen any man naked, of course, but she could not imagine that any of the gentleman of her acquaintance would resemble this man if she was to see them in such a state. Her younger brothers’ lanky, bony bodies were nothing like his, and even Alec, who was a constant and bruising rider, had a wiry build.

  But this man, who was almost a foot taller than she, was anything but wiry. His body looked chiseled from granite; there wasn’t an ounce of excess flesh anywhere on him. Priscilla had never realized that a man’s body could be so…intriguing. Her eyes drifted lower, and she jerked them away selfconsciously, blushing. She was glad that his eyes had been closed and he hadn’t seen how—and where—she was staring.

  “I think it would be better if you sat down while we talked,” Priscilla began stiffly. “Otherwise I’ll have you back on the floor.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I passed out before, didn’t I?”

  “Mm… Twice now.”

  He shook his head and winced. “Damn! What is the matter with me?” He wiped his hand over his face. “I’m sweating buckets. Things just start whirling.” He looked at Priscilla as if these things were her fault.

  “I suspect it’s that large bump on your head. As well as the fact that you are running a raging fever. Now, I suggest you walk back that way and into that little room off the kitchen. There’s a cot there.” She nodded toward the blankets she had dropped on the floor when he grabbed her. “There’s a blanket I brought for you.”

  He turned and looked at them, bent carefully and picked up one of the blankets, then wrapped it around his shoulders, holding it closed in front. He walked through the kitchen and into the side room, moving slowly but with carefully precise movements. When he sank onto the cot, he had to stifle a groan, and his head dropped to his hands for a moment. Priscilla couldn’t keep from feeling a pang of sympathy.

  “I am sorry,” she told him. “I would give you something for the pain, but that’s not really a good idea with head injuries.”

  He raised his head and looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring me this? Why did you bandage my head?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You were obviously hurt and…and, well, you needed a blanket. Anyone would have done the same.”

  “But you…aren’t you working with them?”

  “Who is ‘them’? I am not working with anyone.”

  “I don’t know their names. The two that had me tied up. The drunk, and the other one.”

  “A tall fellow? Thin? With a scar?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. What is he to you?”

  “Nothing. He and a short man who struck me as having imbibed too freely just came to our door, looking for you.”

  He continued to stare at her in confusion. “You didn’t give me to them?”

  “No. Papa told them no one had come here tonight. He thought they looked a proper pair of ruffians, and they did.”

  “So you aren’t working with them.” He relaxed. “Thank God. Then why are you holding a pistol on me?”

  “May I remind you that you were the one
who attacked me as I entered the kitchen? I thought a gun seemed an excellent idea, actually.”

  “You’re right.” He wiped his hand across his forehead again. “I apologize. My behavior was…exceedingly impolite.” A long shudder racked him. He pulled the blanket closer around him. “I feel very strange.”

  “You have a fever. How long were you tied up? And were you, uh, dressed that way the whole time?” Priscilla asked, blushing.

  He looked down at himself, puzzled. “Yes. I think so. I don’t remember when—That is, I woke up, and I was like this, only bound hand and foot. They were there, on guard, and they changed sometimes. First one and then the other. But it was terribly hard to keep track of the time. I think it was days—it seemed forever. But I think there were just two nights and two days—after I came to, of course. I have no idea how long I was there before that.”

  Another shiver shook him, and he said, “Is it cold in here? I feel quite cold.”

  “I’ll get you the other blanket.” Priscilla got up and went out into the kitchen. She was no longer really frightened of the stranger; he seemed too weak at the moment to harm her, anyway. But she was careful not to turn her back to him, even so. She returned and tossed the blanket to him, also careful not to get close enough for him to grab her arm.

  He seemed to have no interest in doing anything like that, anyway. He wrapped the other blanket around himself and sat, shivering. Yet his face was flushed, and sweat was pouring off him. “Do you mind? I think—I think I have to lie down.”

  He lay down on his side on the cot, his eyes fluttering closed.

  “But, wait. Sir…” Priscilla moved closer, bending down to peer at him. “You have not told me yet. What happened to you? Why are those men after you?”

  “I—I don’t know.” His teeth chattered, and he curled up into a tight ball. “It’s so cold.”

  Priscilla hesitated. Then she stuck the empty pistol back into her pocket and hurried out of the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with three more blankets, cautiously opening the door and peering into the room before she entered. Her guest was nowhere in sight.

  She found him lying on his cot, but he had turned over onto his back and now slept with all his covers thrown off and his arms flung wide. Priscilla moved closer hesitantly. His skin was red with heat, and sweat dampened his body. He had obviously gone from a chill back to a fever. Still, he should have cover. Priscilla edged closer, feeling strangely reluctant and guilty.

  It was foolish to feel guilty, she told herself, though she knew why she did. It was because she was tempted to look down, to let her eyes drift lower, past their visitor’s flat stomach, down to the nest of hair and the…thing that lay there. The very male thing that she had been trying to avoid looking at from the moment she first answered the door this evening, yet which she could not keep her eyes from straying to now and then before she caught herself and pulled them back.

  It was just that she was curious. She had never actually seen one of those. No woman of decency had, unless she was married, and Priscilla wasn’t really sure one did even then. It was something she was not supposed to know about, and true ladies, she had been told when she was a child, would not even be curious about such things. However, Priscilla had decided some time ago that she probably did not have the soul of a true lady. She found most ladylike endeavors boring, and the thing she loved to do, and which brought her much needed income, was not considered a fit occupation for a lady, either.

  Her secret love was writing—and not ladylike diaries or accounts of travels, or the sort of bad poetry young women were supposed to scribble, but full-blooded, hair-raising adventure stories. There was nothing she loved like a foreign setting, a stalwart hero and plenty of dangers to overcome. She had grown up reading the Gothic horrors of the Brontë sisters and the sweeping heroic tales of Sir Walter Scott. Books had carried her away to lands she dreamed of and knew she would never see, had introduced her to brave and wonderful people, the sort she knew must exist somewhere.

  Her entire life she had lived a quiet existence, but in her head she had seethed with excitement. Reading the stories had not been enough; other stories danced in her head, compelling and intriguing her. So she had begun to write, traveling to exotic locales in her mind, creating the sort of perfect, adventurous men who lived only in her imagination. Men who did not stay on their estates, growing old and chasing foxes, perhaps traveling to London for a treat, men well content to be who and where they were. The men in her mind, the ones who flowed out of her pen and onto paper, were adventurers all, most of them brave and noble, some of them villainous, but all of them seekers—of treasures, of truth, of excitement. Men who risked everything.

  The man who lay before her could have passed for one of those men. He looked the part: tall, handsome, strong, mysterious, and in danger. It was exactly the sort of thing a hero in a book would do, come knocking on a lady’s door with men in pursuit of him—except, of course, that he would be clothed and, normally, he would fight off his pursuers. But real life, of course, could not be exactly the same as a book; real life was usually so unmanageable. This man was the closest she had ever come to one of the larger-than-life men who lived in her books. It was no wonder, she told herself, that she was curious.

  Of course, one of the genteel heroines of her books would never think of looking on an unclothed man. They were the proper women that society expected, even if they did get into predicaments that no real lady would. Priscilla, however, was well aware that she was not one of her heroines. And she was thoroughly curious about the male anatomy.

  She thought about how embarrassing it would be if he happened to wake up and catch her staring at him. But even that thought could not deter her for long. She turned and looked down his body, then quickly away, and then back, blushing furiously, but unable to keep from gazing at him.

  So that was how men were built. It seemed quite strange, so different from women, and yet…there was something fascinating about it. Looking at him, she felt an odd sensation stirring deep in her loins, and she was aware of a completely improper urge to reach out and touch him. She would not, of course; even she was not that lost to propriety—or that daring.

  The man stirred on the cot, and Priscilla jumped. Hastily she covered him with one of the blankets she had brought. The man was ill and needed her help, she reminded herself. She put her hand on his forehead. He was burning up.

  She returned to the kitchen and got a fresh bowl of water and a new wash rag, then went back to her patient. After dipping the rag in the water, she squeezed it out and laid it on his forehead. Leaving it there, she went back into the kitchen to search for the bottle of tonic that her friend Anne had given her the last time Philip had a fever. It had worked rather well, as she remembered. She found it at last in the back of a cupboard and mixed a spoonful of it in a glass with a little water.

  She returned to her patient. He was moving restlessly on the cot and had already shoved his blanket down to his waist. He murmured something unintelligible as Priscilla knelt on the floor beside him. “Mr….” She wished she knew his name; it seemed strange to be tending someone she could not even address by name. “Sir, can you sit up? I have something for you to drink.”

  When he did not awaken, she prodded his shoulder tentatively. His skin felt like fire. “Sir? Please, wake up.”

  His eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his head. His gaze was hazy and unfocused. “What?” He ran his tongue over his parched lips. “I’m so hot. Where am I?”

  “Evermere Cottage,” Priscilla replied evenly. “I told you before. Don’t you remember?”

  He shook his head slightly and wet his lips again. “Thirsty.”

  “I know. You need to drink some water. But first you need to drink this. It will help you feel better. Can you sit up?”

  He nodded, but made it only up onto his elbows. Priscilla put her hand behind his head to help steady it and raised the glass to his lips. He drank greedily, then pulled back,
grimacing.

  “What the devil! Are you trying to kill me?”

  “No. It’s a tonic for your fever. You need to drink it. I know it tastes wretched, but you really must drink some more.”

  “The hell I will!” he retorted belligerently.

  Priscilla set her jaw and gave him a steely gaze. She hadn’t dealt with two lively boys all these years for nothing. “Yes,” she told him firmly. “You have to. Now open up.”

  “I want water,” he replied with equal stubbornness, and the mutinous look on his face was so much that of a young boy that Priscilla almost had to laugh.

  “And you shall have some…as soon as you take your medicine.”

  He stared at her in silence for a long moment. Priscilla returned his gaze with calm determination. Finally he grimaced, saying sullenly, “All right.”

  He drank the whole draft, then fell back on his bed, his mouth twisting expressively. “Tastes like poison. Who hired you? Father?”

  “No one hired me. I am trying to help you of my own free will, but I must say, at the moment you are making me reconsider my decision.”

  He smiled faintly at her retort, and she left to get him a glass of water. By the time she returned, his eyes were once again closed. She set the glass down on the small dresser and returned to his bedside. He was sweating profusely and had once again thrown his blanket almost completely away. Priscilla straightened it, then brought up the stool that sat in the corner of the room and sat down beside him. She washed his face with the rag, soaked it in the bowl, then washed his face again.

  The cool water on his face seemed to make him a little more peaceful, but he continued to move his head and mumble something now and then, and several times he thrust the blanket down impatiently. His fever continued to rise.

  When the boys ran a really high fever, she had usually sponged their chests, as well, Priscilla remembered, but she felt a little odd about doing that to a strange man. However, after a while, she decided that she had no choice. His fever was simply too high. So she dipped the wash rag in water, squeezed it out and began to bathe his chest with it, slipping it behind his head to cool his neck, as well. She brought the rag down his chest to his stomach in long, rhythmic strokes, and when it grew warm from his body heat, she dipped it in the cool water and started all over again.