Rowena brewed more of her potions, the older woman set to tending their patient by unspoken consent. Thus it went over the next day and into the night. No more did Rowena stay alone with the stranger as fever raged through his body.
If Hagar found it odd that Rowena would suddenly be eager for her assistance, she made no remark on it. Rowena could only be grateful, for there was no explanation she was willing to voice aloud.
Sir Christian Greatham, heir to his father’s title and lands, opened his eyes and looked at the low, wood-beamed ceiling overhead with confusion. Where was he?
He sat up, taking in the fact that he was lying in what appeared to be a wide platform bed barely long enough to contain his full length. A woolen curtain separated it from the main chamber, but it had been drawn back. His gaze scanned the small but scrupulously tidy interior of a one-room cottage.
Where was he, indeed?
And how had he come to be here?
The throbbing in his head made him reach up. He was not surprised to discover that the pain seemed to originate with the lump he found, although he had no memory of how it had come to be there.
The last thing he recalled was riding his stallion along the edge of the cliffs. It had been full dark, and he had known the path was treacherous, but he had been determined to keep going, certain that he had nearly reached the end of his journey.
According to what he had learned when he stopped at a village near the English border, his destination could not be far ahead. The locals had shown open curiosity at his interest in finding Ashcroft, telling him that he would find little of interest there, naught but a tiny fishing village. From them he had also discovered why it was so little known, for it lay on the point of a narrow peninsula that was near impossible to reach from the inland side, due to the mountainous terrain and constantly swollen rivers. His informants clearly felt that the trouble of reaching Ashcroft, coupled with the lack of any noteworthy object at the end of such a journey, made the going nonsensical.
But Christian had a reason. A reason compelling enough to make him overlook any hardship.
Rosalind. The Dragon’s daughter.
Once he reached Ashcroft he might discover if the fantastic tale told to him by a dying knight had any merit. That Rosalind might still be alive he could not fully credit, but he had to know.
Unfortunately, the delays he had encountered in finding the village where Sir Jack had said he would find her had left Christian incautious in his determination to reach it.
He had been told that the best route, the one that lay along the shore, was hardly better than the inland route. That it was barely traversable even in daylight. He had been driven by the knowledge that he had already been gone five weeks, three more than he had assured his sister he would be gone when he had left Bransbury. He had refused to tell even her where he was going because of his sworn word to the dying Jack. The more people who knew of Rosalind’s possible existence, the more danger there was of her uncle, the present earl of Dragonwick, finding out before her safety could be guaranteed.
Again Christian rubbed his head. His last memory was of his horse rearing up, as a huge wave seemed to rise from out of nowhere. How he had come from that windswept shore to this bed was as much a mystery as where here might be.
Christian slid forward and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In spite of the increased pounding this caused in his head, he realized as he did so that he was completely nude.
At the same time he noted the sounds of someone stirring across the room. He followed the rustlings, and came up short as a woman rose from a pallet on the floor beside the fire.
The first thing he noticed was her hair, a fiery auburn that drew the eye as it hung about her in wildly tousled disarray. The second thing he noted was her long, lithe figure in a flowing gown of white. The third thing, and the one that gave him pause, was a pair of eyes so rich a green he could hardly credit their reality, for they were the color of newly grown moss. Darkly lashed, they had an almond shape that made them even more unusual.
So transfixed was he by those eyes that it was a moment before he realized the expression in them was decidedly apprehensive. He pulled the coverlet about his waist, aware that her slender body was poised as if ready to take flight. He spoke quickly, surprised at the dry and raspy sound of his own voice. “Pray do not fear me.”
She raised her head, her eyes now filled with bravado. “I am not afraid, sir.”
He tried to hold that gaze, but felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. It was with regret that he felt himself sink back on the bed. “That is quite wise of you, for I seem to be too weak to do you ill did I wish to.”
Immediately her face softened in concern. “You have been very ill.” In spite of her change of tone he noted that she remained where she stood.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “How long have I been here?”
“Four days.”
Shock drew him upright. “Four days? But how…?”
His father needed him at Bransbury. Only Christian’s determination to settle the debt to his former foster father could have taken him away, now that he realized his error in staying away for so very long. He must return!
She took a step closer. “One of the village lads found you unconscious on the beach. I…you were brought here so that I could care for you.”
His mind teemed with questions, yet his confusion only served to make the weakness in his body more pronounced. “I recall nothing beyond riding along a rocky and narrow track wedged between a high cliff and a rolling sea.”
She took another step closer. “Then you did not wash ashore from a ship.”
He looked at her. “Nay, I was mounted, trying to find my way to a particular village. A place called Ashcroft.”
“You have arrived at your destination. Well, near enough. My cottage lies in the wood nearby.”
He took a deep breath. “This is Ashcroft?” She nodded and he felt hope growing inside him, for if he had found the village…
She spoke slowly, watching him with those amazing green eyes. There was an intensity in them that surprised him. “Why have you come here?”
He wished that he did not feel so very tired, so weak, so conscious of her mesmerizing loveliness. He sighed. “I am searching for someone. A young woman.”
She bit her full lower lip. “Rosalind?”
He jerked, alert again. “Aye, but how would you know that? Do you know her?”
She shook her head quickly, seeming uneasy at his vehemence. “Nay, I know nothing of a Rosalind. I…you said her name when you were ill. You spoke of Dragons and dead babes. I thought you might be quite mad.”
Disappointment added to Christian’s utter exhaustion as he sighed. “I assure you that I am not mad.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I want to…” He could not quite focus his mind on what it was he did want.
The next thing he knew he felt cool, gentle hands upon his brow. Her soft, husky voice murmured, “Do not worry over anything now. Lie still. There will be time
