Evelina hung her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft as the night. “What must you think of me! I was dreaming . . .” She blushed so deeply that he could see her flush even in the lambent starlight. “Please forgive me, Your Highness.”

Not knowing what else to do, he patted her hand soothingly, all the while keeping watch in the woods.

“Is there something out there?” she asked, noticing his preoccupation and clutching his hand tightly in alarm.

“I thought I heard a noise. But it may have been an animal. I haven’t heard it again.” He gently disengaged his hand. “We should be going. I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep at all,” said Evelina remorsefully. “It’s just ... I was so tired . . .”

He soothed and petted her again and thought about the spell he was going to cast on the boat.

“How do your hands feel after all that rowing?” Evelina asked suddenly.

“Like raw meat,” he said ruefully.

“I’m so sorry,” said Evelina, and her eyes shimmered in the starlight. “When we stop to rest, I will make a poultice to put on them. You will have to leave it on for several days and not do any more rowing, but it will heal them, and when they are healed, we can continue our journey.”

“A kind thought, but we don’t have time,” said Marcus. He was busy constructing the magic in his mind.

“I was thinking, Marcus. This may be unseemly of me to offer, but if I tore off some strips of the hem of my chemise, you could use them to bandage your hands. It might help a little—”

“That’s a good idea.” He knew what he had to do and he turned his attention to her. “If you don’t mind—”

“I don’t mind.”

Evelina lifted her skirt and folded it back over her knees. Marcus realized a bit belatedly that a gentleman should turn his head away, and he did so, but he took with him the image of shapely legs, white in the starlight. He heard fabric rip and tear, and when she told him he could turn around, she held up two long strips. She wrapped Marcus’s hands herself, apologizing profusely for the fact that the cloth was travel-stained and frayed.

“That feels better already,” he said, as she was carefully winding the cloth around and around his blistered palms. “I’ll have my mother’s seamstresses make you a new chemise when we reach my home. Made of the finest silk.” He had only a vague idea what chemises were made of, but silk seemed safe. “With a hem of lace.”

“I would like that, Marcus,” said Evelina, and her hand stroked his hand gently as she finished her bandaging.