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French army officer, she was certain. He might even be a nobleman—some of the French nobility had supported the revolution and now supported the Republic. He had suffered a terrible defeat in which many of his men had died and it was haunting him. She ached for him. But how on earth had Jack found him? Jack did not support the revolution, yet he wasn’t exactly a British patriot, either. He had told her once that the war suited him immensely—smuggling was even more profitable now than it had been before the revolution.
    The man was so hot to the touch. She stroked his brow, suddenly angry—where was Amelia? Where was the ocean water? “You are burning up, monsieur, ” Julianne told him, continuing in his native tongue. “You must be still and get better.”
    They had to get his fever down. She re-wet the cloth, and this time, stroked it over his neck and shoulders. Then she laid the cloth there, picking up and wetting another one.
    “At least you are resting now,” she said softly, then realized she had lapsed into English. She repeated what she had said in French, sliding the cloth across his chest. Her pulse accelerated.
    She had just laid the wet cloth on his chest again, where she meant to leave it, when he seized her wrist violently. She cried out, shocked, and her gaze flew to his face.
    His green eyes were blazing with fury.
    Frightened, she gasped, “Êtes vous reveillé?” Are you awake?
    He did not release her, but his grasp gentled. So did his eyes. “Nadine?” he whispered hoarsely.
    Who was Nadine? Of course, she knew—the woman was his lady love or his wife. It was hard to speak. She wet her lips. “ Monsieur, you have been wounded in battle. I am Julianne. I am here to help you.”
    His stare was feverish, not lucid. And then suddenly he reached for her shoulder, still holding her wrist.
    He winced, breathing hard, but his gaze did not waver. An odd light flickered there and she became breathless.
    He slowly smiled. “Nadine.” And his strong, powerful hand slid across her shoulder, to the back of her neck. Before she could protest or ask him what he was doing, he began to pull her face down toward his.
    In shock, she realized he meant to kiss her!
    His smile was infinitely seductive, confident and promising. And then his lips were plying hers.
    Julianne gasped, but she did not try to move away from him. Instead, she went still, allowing him the shocking liberty, her heart lurching, her body tightening. Desire fisted, hard.
    It was a desire she had never before felt.
    Then she realized that he had stopped kissing her. She was breathing hard against his motionless mouth. She was acutely aware of the fire raging in her own body. It took her a moment to realize that he was unconscious again.
    Julianne sat up straight, in shock. Her mind scrambled and raced. He had kissed her! He was with fever; he was delirious. He hadn’t known what he was doing!
    Did it even matter?
    He had kissed her and she had responded as she hadn’t dreamed possible.
    And he was a French army officer—a revolutionary hero.
    She looked at him. “Whoever you are, you are not going to die—I won’t allow it,” she said.
    He was so still that he could have been a corpse.

CHAPTER TWO
    T HERE WERE DOZENS of men in the mob, screaming in rage, fists shaking in the air, and he knew he must run… As he did, the cobblestones beneath his feet changed, turning red. He did not understand—and then he realized he was running in a river of blood!
    He cried out, as the stately Parisian buildings vanished. Now, the river of blood was filled with screaming, dying men. Panic and fear consumed him.
    And he knew he must wake up.
    He felt cotton beneath his hands, not dirt, not blood. He fought the bloody river and saw Nadine smiling at him, her eyes shining, the moon full and bright behind her. He had kissed her—except, that wasn’t right, because Nadine was dead....
    Nadine was dead, and he was lying in a bed— Where was