“Good job,” he said approvingly as he fastened the last of the buttons. “Now see if you can dry my hair. It feels like it’s turning into icicles around my ears.”

It took Amanda an instant to realize that he meant for her to use what was left of her petticoat for that purpose. Hesitating only a moment, she picked up the ragged garment and, inching closer to his head, began rather gingerly to dry his hair. The icy wetness of the curling black strands soon penetrated the thin linen of her petticoat, chilling her fingers. He was soaked to the skin; she could feel the muscles of his neck and shoulders trembling with cold. If she hadn’t been so afraid that he meant to murder her at any minute, she would almost have felt sorry for him. After all, she wouldn’t have been able to stand seeing even a mad dog in his condition without wanting to do what she could to alleviate its suffering. But, then, a crazed murderer, sick or well, was a different proposition from even a mad dog…

Finally his hair was as dry as she could get it, and she sank back onto her heels, eyeing him, the petticoat in her lap.

“Wrap that thing around me as well as you can, will you?” he requested next, and it was a request, not an order, despite the gruffness of his tone. Amanda did as he told her, spreading the damp linen over his chest and tucking it in around his shoulders and neck. It covered perhaps a third of his body, leaving his hips and long legs protected from the wind only by the raggedy breeches. The petticoat could not have provided much comfort, but he snuggled into it as if it were the woolliest of blankets.