woman affect him like this, so that he wanted to hold her close and banish her sickness, and with his kisses make her well again? As she closed her eyes, he studied her still form under the sheet. She turned onto her side, lips parted, her long, silky hair flowing past her shoulders. An overpowering longing seized him, an intense need to stay by her side throughout the night and for all the nights and days to come.
Don't become involved with this lady, his common sense told him. He must remember his profession. Besides, he knew so little about her, and what he did know raised too many doubts in his mind. Any woman who claimed to be from the future was either a Bedlamite or a liar. Equally unfortunate, the possibility remained she might be a spy.
But fierce yearning overruled common sense. Countless long moments passed before he forced himself to leave her and go downstairs.
* * *
Wracked by chills, Gwen awoke during the night. Her teeth chattering, she forced herself to reach to the foot of the bed and pull a quilt up over her. She lay back down, panting with exhaustion.
Hours later, she awoke again, her nightgown damp with cold perspiration. She tried to rise, but fell back on the bed, breathing heavily. Using her elbow for leverage, she finally forced herself to her feet and stumbled over to the dresser drawer for a clean nightgown. She wished she could change and get it over with, but her arms felt as if they weighed a ton.
After several tries, she drew her damp nightgown over her head and shoved it aside. She reached into the drawer for a clean nightgown, then--
"Gwen?"
Christian strode into the room, his face and body clear by the light of a full moon.
She leaned against the dresser, her face hot with embarrassment. Unable to move or say a word, she remained still, her back to him.
"Here," he said in a soft voice, "let me help you with your gown."
Silently, she nodded and turned around, then handed him the gown.
A world of emotions blazed in his dark eyes. His gaze raked her body, but he quickly lifted his eyes to her again. His hand trembled, the gown quivering in his grip as he eased the gown over her head, his fingers warm and easy against her skin.
"Now raise your arms," he murmured as an expression of tenderness defined his face. Or did she only imagine his look, a fabrication spawned by wishful thinking?
She did as asked, and he slipped her arms through the sleeves, his hands lingering on her shoulders. Her earlier embarrassment banished, she wanted to lean against him, absorb his warmth and strength. She remained still, too sick to move.
"There." He wrapped his arm around her waist. "Let's get you back to bed."
Scads of sensations rattled her as she trudged over to the bed and sank onto the mattress,
then stretched her body out on the bed. With gentle hands, he drew her linen sheet over her.
"Christian, I..."
"Yes?"
She shook her head. "Nothing." She wanted to tell him all the thoughts that haunted her mind, but the words got stuck in her throat. If only she could ask him to stay the night, to hold her close and tell her she'd soon get well, to whisper how much she meant to him. She tossed her wayward thoughts aside, recognizing she meant nothing to him, no more than any other patient.
Christian came to her several times during the night, speaking in his low, quiet voice as he sponged her and coaxed her to drink tea. Through a feverish haze, she wondered how hands could be strong and yet so gentle. His fingers traced a path from her cheek to her throat, his touch light and tender.
"You're going to get well," he murmured. "You-are-going-to-get-well."
The following morning, she awoke to the sound of footsteps and looked up to see Christian enter the room. He held the lancet in his hand, a questioning look on his face.
She unbuttoned her long sleeve and pushed it past her elbow. "Go ahead. I'm too sick to argue."
"I won't draw blood without your permission, but I assure you, 'twill
Don't become involved with this lady, his common sense told him. He must remember his profession. Besides, he knew so little about her, and what he did know raised too many doubts in his mind. Any woman who claimed to be from the future was either a Bedlamite or a liar. Equally unfortunate, the possibility remained she might be a spy.
But fierce yearning overruled common sense. Countless long moments passed before he forced himself to leave her and go downstairs.
* * *
Wracked by chills, Gwen awoke during the night. Her teeth chattering, she forced herself to reach to the foot of the bed and pull a quilt up over her. She lay back down, panting with exhaustion.
Hours later, she awoke again, her nightgown damp with cold perspiration. She tried to rise, but fell back on the bed, breathing heavily. Using her elbow for leverage, she finally forced herself to her feet and stumbled over to the dresser drawer for a clean nightgown. She wished she could change and get it over with, but her arms felt as if they weighed a ton.
After several tries, she drew her damp nightgown over her head and shoved it aside. She reached into the drawer for a clean nightgown, then--
"Gwen?"
Christian strode into the room, his face and body clear by the light of a full moon.
She leaned against the dresser, her face hot with embarrassment. Unable to move or say a word, she remained still, her back to him.
"Here," he said in a soft voice, "let me help you with your gown."
Silently, she nodded and turned around, then handed him the gown.
A world of emotions blazed in his dark eyes. His gaze raked her body, but he quickly lifted his eyes to her again. His hand trembled, the gown quivering in his grip as he eased the gown over her head, his fingers warm and easy against her skin.
"Now raise your arms," he murmured as an expression of tenderness defined his face. Or did she only imagine his look, a fabrication spawned by wishful thinking?
She did as asked, and he slipped her arms through the sleeves, his hands lingering on her shoulders. Her earlier embarrassment banished, she wanted to lean against him, absorb his warmth and strength. She remained still, too sick to move.
"There." He wrapped his arm around her waist. "Let's get you back to bed."
Scads of sensations rattled her as she trudged over to the bed and sank onto the mattress,
then stretched her body out on the bed. With gentle hands, he drew her linen sheet over her.
"Christian, I..."
"Yes?"
She shook her head. "Nothing." She wanted to tell him all the thoughts that haunted her mind, but the words got stuck in her throat. If only she could ask him to stay the night, to hold her close and tell her she'd soon get well, to whisper how much she meant to him. She tossed her wayward thoughts aside, recognizing she meant nothing to him, no more than any other patient.
Christian came to her several times during the night, speaking in his low, quiet voice as he sponged her and coaxed her to drink tea. Through a feverish haze, she wondered how hands could be strong and yet so gentle. His fingers traced a path from her cheek to her throat, his touch light and tender.
"You're going to get well," he murmured. "You-are-going-to-get-well."
The following morning, she awoke to the sound of footsteps and looked up to see Christian enter the room. He held the lancet in his hand, a questioning look on his face.
She unbuttoned her long sleeve and pushed it past her elbow. "Go ahead. I'm too sick to argue."
"I won't draw blood without your permission, but I assure you, 'twill
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