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  The rag was thin, and through its dampness she could feel the firm shape of his muscles, the hard ridges of his ribs and collarbone. A flutter ran through her abdomen, and her breath came a little faster. She found herself watching the pulse in his throat, thinking about touching it. Finally she did, reaching out and placing a finger gently on it. His skin was blazing; it was also soft and vulnerable there, in contrast to the strength of his body, the force that she had felt in him earlier, when he pulled her back against him. His pulse beat against her finger, firm and fast; it made her own pulse accelerate to feel it.

  She pulled back her hand, swallowing, amazed at the strange sensations coursing through her tonight. She had never felt a tingling quite like the one she felt when she dragged the cloth across his chest; she had never known the heat that flowered in her abdomen. It was all very peculiar and exciting and enjoyable, all at once.

  She brought the cool rag from the water to his chest again and began a long, slow sweep down his body. Her finger passed over his flat masculine nipple, and she thought that it felt much harder and more pointed than it had before. Her patient moaned and turned toward her, kicking off his blanket once more. Priscilla shook her head, and was leaning down to pull it back up to his waist when her eyes fell upon the same member at which she had sneaked a peek earlier. She stopped in midmotion, staring.

  It was different.

  It was bigger and longer, and it seemed to be rising upward. Blinking, she drew her hand back. Automatically she began to wash his chest again, while her mind considered what she’d just seen. As she moved her hand down his chest and onto his stomach, she saw his shaft move. She stopped, amazed, then tentatively stroked his stomach again with her cloth. Again his manhood twitched and seemed to grow.

  She glanced back up at his face. He was still asleep, his eyes closed, but his face looked somehow looser, and his mouth was open slightly. His breath rasped in his throat. Priscilla felt her own throat closing up, and something beginning to pulse deep between her legs. She squeezed her legs together tightly, surprised at the sensation.

  He licked his dry lips again. Priscilla watched him. Then—she wasn’t sure why—she dipped her forefinger into the glass of water she had brought him earlier and touched it to his lips. He pressed his lips to her finger. His hot breath seared her hand, and her stomach was fluttering as if butterflies were warring within it.

  She dipped her finger back into the water and trailed her damp finger across his lips. This time his tongue snaked out, scooping the water from her finger. It was soft as velvet, hot and firm, and heat surged in her loins.

  His eyes fluttered open, and he looked at her. His eyes were glazed and vague; there was no recognition, no questioning, as there had been earlier. His lips curved upward in a way that did strange things to her insides.

  “Nice,” he murmured. His hand came up and curved over her cheek. “How much?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Priscilla looked at him blankly. The touch of his hand on her face, faintly rough and searingly hot, made every thought fly out of her head.

  “For the night,” he went on in a low voice. “For you.” His hand slid down her throat and onto her chest, cupping her breast. “Mm…Madam Chang always knows how to pick them.”

  Heat flooded Priscilla when she realized, from his graphic gesture, exactly what he was talking about. He thought she was a woman of the night! Someone whose favors he could buy!

  “Sir!” She pushed his hand away and started to rise, but he clamped his fingers around her wrist and held her still.

  “Wait. Don’t go.” His other hand went to the back of her neck, cupping it and pulling her down toward him. “Don’t you understand? You’re the one I want.”

  “No! Wait! You are mistaken. You’ve—you’re delirious.” Priscilla braced her hand against his chest, but he seemed to feel the gesture was a caress, for he smiled and murmured something and pulled her even closer, until she was only inches from his face.

  Then his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. She had never been kissed like this before in her life. In truth, she had been kissed only three times, and those had been mere pecks, a brush of the lips. There had not been this heat, this demand, this pounding need, radiating from the man, as there was now. His lips pressed hungrily into hers, opening them, and then, astounding her, his tongue was in her mouth, searching. She stiffened, making a surprised noise, but he did not pull away, only kissed her more fervently. Both his arms were around her now, pressing her into him. Priscilla’s senses were whirling; she felt her muscles going limp as his heat invaded her. She no longer pushed herself away from him; instead, her fingertips dug into his flesh eagerly. Her lips moved tentatively against his.

  He groaned deep within his throat and broke off their kiss. His lips trailed fire across her cheek to her ear. “Take down your hair,” he panted. “I want to feel it all around me.”

  His fingers fumbled at the knot of her hair, sending hairpins flying, and her heavy tresses tumbled down, flooding around them. He combed his fingers through it, surrounding their faces with the veil of her hair. He took the lobe of her ear between his lips, worrying it gently and sending shivers of delight all through Priscilla’s body. His teeth teased at it, and she was flooded with heat. She sucked in her breath.

  “No, wait,” she began weakly, but his lips covered hers again, stopping her words—and all thought, as well. For the next few moments, she was lost in the sweetness of his mouth, drowning in the heat and hunger.

  His hand came up once again to her breast, cupping it through her clothes and squeezing gently. The intimate touch sent excitement sizzling straight down into her loins, but it also jolted her back into reality. This stranger was touching her in a way no man should touch her. And, as if that were not bad enough, she was responding like a trollop!

  Shame flooded her, and she jerked away from him. Her movement was so swift and so unexpected that he was not able to hold on to her. He lay there, looking befuddled, his arms stretching out emptily for her.

  “Honey, don’t go,” he said plaintively. “What’s the matter?” He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat. “Damn!” His eyes wavered and closed. “I’ve got the money,” he persisted faintly, his words growing more and more slurred. “Around here somewhere. Just wait. I’ll—Where’s Madam Chang? She will tell you.”

  He mumbled a few more unintelligible words before he lapsed into silence. Priscilla remained standing a cautious distance from him. She put a trembling hand up to her hair. It lay loose and full all about her shoulders; just the feel of it reminded her of his fingers in her hair, his passionate words. Even now, it made her feel like melting wax inside. And his kiss! She had never imagined that a kiss could be like that; nothing she had ever experienced or heard about had prepared her for it. The fact that it was a stranger who had kissed her so fully, so intimately, so…delightfully made it seem all the more unreal. Surely such a kiss should pass only between those who loved each other.

  There were too few hairpins for her to put her hair up again, so she pulled it back with shaking fingers and braided it, tucking the coil up into a tight bun with the two pins she found still tangled in her hair. She had to admit to herself that the fault was more hers than his. Though he had pulled her to him and kissed her forcibly, he at least had been in the throes of a delirium dream and thought she was someone else. She, on the other hand, had known full well that he was a stranger, nothing to her, yet she had kissed him back fervently. Priscilla could not imagine where this wanton streak had come from.

  To make it worse, she knew that she should be deeply shamed, yet her thoughts kept running back, not to how shameful it was, but to how wonderful it had felt. She could still taste him on her lips, still smell his scent in her nostrils, and it made her shiver. Was this the way her heroines should feel about the heroes in her novels? How very odd. What she had imagined for them seemed quite tame right now.

  She went into the kitchen and splashed water on her fa
ce. It was cool against her heated skin, and she smoothed it down her face and onto her neck. She remembered his hand there, sliding like silk, like molten fire. Priscilla closed her eyes. This was not helping much. Sternly she straightened, opening her eyes, and wiped the water from her face.

  She had to be practical, she reminded herself. The man in the other room was sick and needed her. She had to help him, not stand around thinking crazy things. He was a stranger to her, as she was to him. What had happened was a product of his delirium, nothing else. He had not even known who she was; he had thought she was someone else, no doubt someone from his past. Why, he hadn’t even thought she was a decent woman; he had obviously thought she was a woman of the streets—talking about paying her and calling her one of some madam’s girls.

  Priscilla walked back to the door of his room and looked in on him. He was curled up into a ball, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders, and he was visibly shivering. His fever had turned into the chills again.

  Priscilla hurried into the room and spread two of the extra blankets over him, pulling them up to his shoulders and tucking them in. He said nothing, just continued to shiver so hard his teeth were chattering. His eyes were closed, and now and then he let out a small moan. There seemed nothing dangerous about him now; his size, and the firm swell of his muscles, only made a mockery of his strength. Priscilla hovered close, frustrated by how little she could do to help him.

  But it was not long before he was pushing the covers aside again, sweating and mumbling incoherently as he tossed and turned. Priscilla managed to keep him on the cot and covered most of the time, but it was a tiring task. In his delirium, he continued to try to get up, no matter how many times Priscilla planted her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down on the bed. But at least he no longer thought she was one of the occupants of a brothel.

  She poured him another draft of the tonic. It was a bitter battle getting it down him, and finally he knocked it out of her hand and sent it crashing onto the stone floor. While she was cleaning it up, he got out of bed and staggered around the room for a while before she was able to persuade and cajole him back into bed. It was a relief when he fell back into a chill and huddled in upon himself on the cot.

  So it went the remainder of the night, with her patient passing from fever to chills and back again, and Priscilla worriedly watching him, forcing him as best she could to drink the draft and trying to keep him covered, as the long hours passed. Finally, when dawn was first beginning to appear on the horizon, Priscilla awoke with a start and realized that she had fallen asleep sitting up in the chair. She turned immediately to her patient.

  He was sleeping, his arms flung out over the cot, and the blanket lay over him almost up to his arms. He was still, and for one horrible instant she thought he was dead. Then she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest, and she realized that, though his face was still tinged with a flush, he was sleeping peacefully. She jumped to her feet and hurried over to lay her hand on his forehead. It was warmer than normal, but far less so than it had been during the night. His fever had broken.

  Priscilla let out an enormous sigh of relief and sank down onto the floor. Her knees suddenly felt like rubber. She leaned her forehead against the cot, weak with relief. In the aftermath of tension, her muscles began to tremble, and she realized, amazed, that there were tears spilling out of her eyes.

  A hand touched her head, gliding softly over her hair. Priscilla raised her head, startled, and found herself staring straight into a clear green gaze.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly, and his hand once more stroked her hair. During the night’s struggles with him, her hair had once again fallen out of its pins and come loose from her braid until it lay softly over her shoulders, and she had given up trying to keep it back. She knew it was far too intimate to wear it this way around a man. Yet he did not seem at all uncomfortable with it; his hand caressed it naturally, as one might run one’s fingers over a lovely sculpture or piece of porcelain.

  “Yes,” Priscilla replied, trying to smile at her foolishness. She quickly brushed her fingers across her cheek to rid them of the tears. “I’m sorry. I—it was relief. You have been out of your head all night, and when I saw that your fever had broken, well…”

  “I see.” He smiled faintly. He let her hair sift through his fingers, watching it. “You are very beautiful.”

  Priscilla felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  He frowned a little. Finally he asked, his voice puzzled, “Do I know you?”

  Priscilla looked at him oddly. “No.”

  His words seemed to recall her to propriety, and she stood up, sweeping her hair back. “Don’t you remember coming to our door last night?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “I— Things are foggy.” He sat up slowly, and the blanket slid down, revealing his bare chest. He looked down, and a peculiar look crossed his face. “I haven’t— Where are my clothes?”

  “I don’t know.” Priscilla’s blush intensified. “That’s the way you arrived on our doorstep.”

  “Naked?” he asked in astonishment. “Are you joking?”

  “No. I have no idea why. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Who I am?” he repeated vaguely.

  Priscilla nodded. “Yes. That would be somewhere to start. What is your name?”

  He looked back at her blankly. “I—I’m not sure.” She could see panic touch his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know who I am!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  PRISCILLA STARED. “You don’t know who you are?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know my name. I—” He looked around the room, as if that would somehow give him the answer he wanted. He raised a hand to his head, saying, “Ow…my head hurts. I feel so strange. And dizzy.”

  “You have a large knot on your head, and it bled, as well. I would say someone gave you a nasty crack. You’ve also been running a high temperature, and it isn’t back to normal yet. You passed the crisis point within the last hour or so.”

  The man eased back down onto the bed with a groan. “Does that make you lose your mind?”

  “I don’t know that you’ve lost your mind. Only your memory.” Priscilla tried to sound heartening, though her own heart had sunk at his words. How could someone forget who he was or what had happened to him? “Perhaps it is a result of the fever or the knock on the head. I suggest that you go back to sleep. Get some rest, and probably when you wake up you will remember everything. You know how it is when you’re sick sometimes. Things get hazy and strange.”

  “Not this strange,” he muttered, but he did close his eyes. A few moments later, he had slid back into the escape of sleep.

  Priscilla sat watching him, hoping that she was right. It sounded sensible. She remembered how once, when she was little, she had had a fever and imagined all sorts of strange things, even that there were little elves up in one corner of her room, where the walls met the ceiling, building a little house. It had been very disorienting and confusing; surely it wouldn’t be all that strange to forget who one was. Once the fever was gone, and he was feeling better, he would remember.

  On that optimistic note, she went into the kitchen to prepare a small breakfast and eat it. She thought about making something for her patient to eat, but she decided it would be better to let him sleep. A few minutes later Miss Pennybaker came downstairs, a worried frown on her face. Every hair was in place in a tight bun atop her head, as always, and she looked as neat and tidy as ever in her severe brown dress. However, it was obvious from her manner that inside she was a mass of nerves.

  “Are you all right? Oh, my dear, I had the worst night. I tossed and turned all night. I don’t think I slept a wink. I kept thinking about you. Worrying that something would happen to you. What happened?” She came to a halt breathlessly, her eyes huge and her hands twisting together in front of her breast.

  “Well, he was in a state of delirium most of the night,” Priscilla rep
lied practically. “He had a high fever and chills, but the fever broke not long ago, and now he is sleeping peacefully.”

  Raising her finger to her lips in a gesture calling for quiet, Priscilla led her former governess to the door of the small bedroom and showed her their patient, sleeping like a child on the cot. Looking at him in the light, with his dark lashes shadowing his cheek and his face relaxed in the vulnerability of sleep, Priscilla realized all over again how attractive the stranger was. He did not, perhaps, have the handsome perfection of an Adonis, but his sharp cheekbones and square jawline were powerful and intriguing, even with the dark stubble of several days’ growth of beard.

  Miss Pennybaker, beside her, shivered. “How could you have stayed alone with him all night? Weren’t you afraid?”

  Priscilla glanced at her in surprise, wondering how the woman’s only reaction to his masculine beauty could be fear. “It was rather…exciting,” Priscilla answered honestly. “I mean, I was a little frightened once or twice, but when I was nursing him through his fever, it was like a battle, me against the fever.” She smiled. “And I won.”

  “You do say the oddest things. Well, you can go up to bed now. I shall watch him.” With a determined set to her chin, Miss Pennybaker picked up a chair from the kitchen table and set it down in the middle of the doorway, just outside the bedroom. With some amusement, Priscilla thought she looked more like a jailer than a nurse, but she did not comment. No doubt the woman believed herself to be facing down lions for Priscilla’s sake.

  Priscilla smiled to herself and went upstairs. She realized as she walked into her room how deadly tired she was. She slipped out of her clothes and fell into bed wearing her chemise and slip, not bothering with putting on her nightgown, a fact that she was sure would scandalize Miss Pennybaker if she knew it. Within moments she was asleep.