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male body. Despite the circumstances, the danger and his condition, she felt giddy at his closeness, in much the same manner as when she had partaken of  too much wine at her cousin’s wedding. She drifted off to sleep with the rebel’s head on her shoulder, his arms and legs entwined with her own.
     
    Richard Morgan was lost to his haze of dreams, frantic visions which tortured him as he twisted and turned in the throes of sleep. Edlyn. He could see her face before him. No. He did not want her. Tricked. Tricked by his own mother for gold.
    “No. How could you? You knew all along. Edlyn. I am bound now. No happiness for me.” He reached out his hand, grasping, groping like a drowning man, wanting to escape, to get away from this madness. “Edlyn.”
    His loud mumbling woke Heather. Fearing that his thrashing about would do injury to his wound, she sought to quiet him, putting her hands on the center of his chest to hold him down. What had the barber given him to make him act in such a manner?
    In the haze of his dreams Richard Morgan felt the hands upon his chest and tried desperately to escape them. It was  if he were walking down a long tunnel, moving toward a garden, but someone was holding him back, trying to keep him from his destination. He saw the face looming in his path, blocking his way.
    “Seton! Hugh Seton. You devil. Get out of my way. Let me go,” he murmured, reaching out to clutch at the villain’s throat. Destroy him. He had to destroy him just as Seton had tried so hard to destroy the Morgan family. He reached up to squeeze the neck of that leering face which mocked him.
    Heather fought wildly against the strength of the hands which held her. His fevered energy was nearly more than she could manage as she sought to tear his fingers from her slender neck. He was choking her; she couldn’t breathe. He envisioned her as some devious enemy.
    She tried to call out for Harold, for her beloved Perri, but no sound escaped her lips until at last she managed to gasp, “It is Heather. Heather.”
    As if he recognized her name, his hold upon her loosened. Heather’s heart was still pounding wildly in her breast as she sought to calm her trembling. A nightmare had caused his violence and she wondered what demon he had been grappling with.
    “It’s only a dream,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his brow. There was no sign of a fever. The barber’s potion then? Her words soothed him, for he quieted.
    “Heather.” He was calling out to her, yet she could see in the dim moonlight that his eyes remained closed. He was still in that state of  consciousness halfway between reality and dreams.
    Fearing that his thrashing about had reopened his wound, she gently examined it with her fingers. At her touch he stiffened and issued forth a moan, but the wound was dry. The barber’s stitches had held tight.
    “Heather. So lovely.” She felt the warm, soft touch of his fingers upon her breast, sending a shiver of desire coursing through her blood. His hand cupped the tender flesh, caressing the peak through the thin material of her chemise with infinite tenderness. She moved her hand with the intent to remove the fingers, but the sensation was so stirring that she somehow could not bear to do so. She rationalized that he did not know what he was doing, that she must not wake him.
    His exploring hand moved lower, sliding over her small waist to rest on the full curve of her hip. She had never known that a man’s caress could cause such a spark, a fire in the blood. The shock of pleasure took her breath away and she shivered, or was it the night air which caused her to tremble so? Seeking his warmth, she nestled close to his body once again. His warmth enveloped her and she raised her hand to touch his face. Somehow she had the feeling that she was dreaming too. If that was true, then she never wanted to awaken.
    Richard held the vision of loveliness tightly in his arms. He had dreamed about her so many