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“I am an artist. I am going to be a great artist. I intend to study and work until I’m as great as Da Vinci or Del Sarto.”

“I admire your confidence.”

A sudden smile lit her face. “You mean you think I have no modesty. Artists can’t have modesty or their talent withers. Men persist in believing women can paint only shallow daubs. I do not—Why are you looking at me in such a peculiar way?”

“I was wondering how old you are.”

She frowned. “Four and ten. What does that matter?”

“It may matter a great deal.” He closed his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I can sleep now. Run along to your own chamber.”

She did not move.

He opened his eyes again. “I said for you to go. I think it will be for the best if you leave for the palace tomorrow morning.”

She felt an odd pang. “You want me to go?”

“Yes.” His voice was rough. “I have no need of you here.”

Her jaw set stubbornly. “You do need me. Look at you, weak as a babe and still mouthing nonsense. I won’t leave you. Do you think I want to remember I owed you my life and let you die before I could repay you? I’m not my mother. I take nothing without giving something in return.”

His gaze narrowed on her face. “Your mother?”

She shook her head impatiently. “I did not mean to mention her. My mother has nothing to do with this.” She raised her chin.

“You did me a service. Therefore, I must do one for you in return. I’ve already sent word to the queen that I’ll stay here until you’re well enough to go to Versailles and receive her thanks. ”

“You’ll soon regret staying. I’m not a good patient. I detest being ill.”

“And I detest bad-tempered patients. I shall be as foul-natured as you, and you’ll get well quickly so that you can rid yourself of my services.”

A reluctant smile touched his lips. “There’s something in what you say.” He suddenly gave in. “Stay if you like. Who am I to refuse the gentle ministrations of a damsel for whom I’ve given my life’s blood?”

“I have little gentleness, but on no account will I allow you to die.” She straightened briskly in the chair.

“Naturally, I can’t have my painting interrupted while I care for you.

I think I shall set up my easel in that corner by the window.

The light should be very good there.” She smiled.

“I’m sure we’ll deal very well together, and I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. ”

“As I told you, I’m a man who seldom denies himself for chivalry’s sake.” He settled more comfortably, wearily closing his eyes. “Someday I may remind you that I tried to send you away.”

“Someday?” She shook her head. “You’ll be well and hearty in a fortnight or so and we shall part. There will be no someday.”

“That’s right. I must not be thinking clearly. Perhaps I do have a fever.”

“Truly?” An anxious frown wrinkled Juliette’s brow as she reached out to touch him. She sighed with relief. “Not yet.”

“No?” His eyes remained closed, but he smiled, curiously, Juliette thought.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Someday…”

Jean Marc’s temperature began to rise in the late evening.

Juliette bathed him with cool water and tried desperately to keep him from tossing and spilling out of the bed onto the floor.

During the middle of the night the fever receded and severe chills took its place. The chills racked him, and his great convulsive shudders worried Juliette more than the fever had.

“I—have—no liking—for this.” Jean Marc’s teeth were clenched to keep them from chattering. “It should teach me well the foolishness of—” He broke off as another shudder ran through him. “Give—me another blanket.”

“You have three already.” Juliette abruptly made a decision. She stood up. “Move over.”

“What?” He gazed at her blankly.

She drew back the covers, lay down beside Jean Marc, and drew him into her arms. “Be at ease,” she said impatiently as she felt him stiffen against her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only seek to warm you. I often held Louis Charles like this when he had the night chills.”

“I’m not a child of two.”

“You’re as weak as a puling infant. What difference does it make?”

“I believe a great many people would be happy to enumerate the—differences.”

“Then we shall not tell them. Are you not warmer with me here?”

“Yes, much warmer.”

“Good.” His shivering had almost stopped, she noticed with relief. “I’ll hold you until you go to sleep.” She reached up and gently stroked his hair as she did Louis Charles’s. A few minutes later she said impatiently, “You’re not at ease. I can feel you hard as a stone against me.”

“How extraordinary. Perhaps I’m not accustomed to females slipping into my bed only in order to ‘ease’ me.”

“As you say, the situation is extraordinary.” Juliette levered herself up on one elbow and gazed sternly down at him. “You must not think of me as a female. It’s not good for you.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll endeavor to dismiss your gender from my mind. I’ll think of you as a thick woolen blanket or a hot, warming brick.”

She nodded and again lay down beside him. “That’s right.”

“Or a smelly sheepskin rug.”

“I do not think I smell.” She frowned. “Do I?”

“Or a horse lathered from a long run.”

“Do you have the fever again?”

“No, I was merely carrying the image to greater lengths. I feel much more comfortable with you now.”

“You laugh at the most peculiar things.”

“You’re a most peculiar fem—sheepskin rug.”

“You are feverish.”

“Perhaps.”

But his brow felt only slightly warm to the touch, and the shaking of his body had stopped almost entirely.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m here. All is well.”

A few moments later she felt him relax, his breathing deepen.

At last he had fallen into a deep slumber.