Doing his utmost to ignore the tempting sight, Marrok draped one of the cool, wet cloths across her torso. Screeching, Morganna came up off the bed and tore at it as if it scalded her. Marrok held the cloth in place while she thrashed like a wild thing. What the hell was wrong?

“Morganna?”

“No!” Her wild violet stare leapt from her pale face. She shoved at the little towel again, baring her breasts and taut nipples.

Even in the midst of illness, not only did she ignite his desire, but she insisted she was not Morganna. Hellfire, she was taking this pretense far.

What if it were not a pretense at all? The possibility jolted him with horror.

Bollocks! The le Fay woman he would have killed for his freedom, he now tried to save. All he could think of was her suffering, her need…and the possibility that she was not Morganna. Regardless, letting her die was no option.

“Touch…me.”

“With the ice?” He grabbed the bucket.

She clutched his shirt, dragging him against her, nearly spilling the frozen cubes. “Your. Hands.”

She wished him to touch her sexually? Marrok stared at the hunger in her brilliant gaze. She wanted him? Now? He searched his memory for some side-effect of the magical mating words they had spoken. He recalled none.

“Relax.”

He lifted the wet towel off her and fetched a fan he kept in the wardrobe. After frantically rummaging, he found the whirring device and plugged it in. As it stirred the still air, he looked again at the woman. Morganna? Olivia? Whoever she was, she was beyond ill, her fever spiraling out of control. The desire for sex must be delusion.

God, what had he done to her?

Had he, by chance, kidnapped the wrong woman and stolen her innocence? Morganna could not have been a virgin. Nor would she have ever shown this vulnerability. What if this truly was Olivia Gray?

She’d want to skewer him, and he would deserve it. But now, he must discern what ailed her. She was growing paler by the moment, her breathing more agitated, her body more restless.

She rubbed her hand across her belly, then slid it lower, between her thighs. Delicate fingers parted her folds and plunged inside. Dear God, she glistened, wet.

“Marrok…”

Her breathy plea went straight to his cock. He scowled. Maybe she would improve if he left the room and her sight. Perhaps his presence agitated her…

Marrok retrieved two aspirin and sloshed water in a cup, then approached. He fought her until she swallowed the tablets and half the water. The woman needed sleep, not sex. He paced to the living room, worried as hell, returning to the sofa and the carving he’d begun earlier. Still, he could not take his mind off the woman in his bed.

For the next hour, she screamed—his name, pleas for him, for sex. The screams became whimpers, then, as afternoon approached, those dimmed to occasional moans. Then silence, only a restless thrashing of her body breaking the eerie quiet.

For the hundredth time, Marrok crept down the hall and shoved the door wide, risking a peek at his magical “wife.”

Now she lay as still and pale as death. He raced to her side and pressed his fingers to her carotid. Thin, erratic pulse. She scarcely breathed. At the thought of losing her, something inside him lurched in furious denial.

Who the bloody hell should he call? A doctor? Aspirin had done nothing, and he’d never seen anyone suffering from a flu-like fever crave sex.

This had to be a magical malady.

Who could he…? Bram. Yes. He would summon the wizard, pray the man knew something useful.

Marrok darted across the room and yanked open a drawer. Inside, he found the small rock Bram had given him just yesterday. He ran to the back door, flung it open, and tossed the rock in the air. “Bram Rion.”

Seconds later, there was a pop, then a screech as the rock became a large white bird and flew away.

Less than two minutes later, Marrok heard a knock on the door and pulled it open. There Bram stood.

“It worked.” Marrok frowned.

He had been around magic for centuries, had suffered its cruelties. Yet some feats still amazed him.

“Of course. That is a simple spell. I bewitched my first rock at age four.” He rolled his eyes. “You called—” Bram blinked. Then his jaw dropped. “You mated with her? You spoke the magical vow?”

Marrok stilled. “How did you know?”

“You have a magical signature now. It’s fuzzy, but muted with her color.” Bram paced a circle around him. “How did you know the actual words?”

“She spoke them and…the reply just came out.” Marrok ignored Bram’s surprise and raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “Will you help her or waste time asking questions?”

“Of course, I’ll try. But this signature, something isn’t quite right.”

“Later,” Marrok snarled. “Mor—Olivia…” he said, uncertain what he should call her. “She is barely alive.”

Bram’s expression tightened with concern. Storming down the hall, Marrok was relieved to hear the wizard directly behind. He rushed into the room, quickly covering her naked form. If possible, she had worsened in the past few minutes.

“Oh, dear God,” Bram murmured.

“What ails her? Is it magical?”

Bram approached the bed, laid a palm over her forehead, the pulse at her neck. Even if she was ill, knowing that Bram touched her, that he stared at her body covered in nothing but a thin sheet, made him want to shove the wizard away with a growled threat.

When she kicked out, exposing a sleek hip and thigh, Marrok blocked the wizard’s view and covered her again, brushing a gentle palm over her shoulder.

She clasped surprisingly strong fingers around his wrist. “Need…Touch.”

Marrok closed his eyes. He had touched her last night, and his body had reveled in every second. And he ached to do it again when she was not at death’s door.

“What ails her is magical, is it not?” Marrok demanded as he gently extracted himself from her grip.

“I have my suspicions,” Bram answered carefully.

“Listen, you spell-casting bastard, ponder later the fact I have likely bound myself to Morganna or some witch much like her for eternity. Now, you will tell me what the bloody hell sickens her. I refuse to watch her die.”

“My aunt Millie should see Olivia. Her magic is of the heart. Millie is an expert in matters of mating and family. She can, no doubt, explain this. Then, I will do a bit of research of my own—”

“We cannot wait to locate people and look in old tomes. Do something now!”

With a nod, Bram left the room. Marrok knew he should follow and watch the impertinent weasel, but he could not bring himself to leave Morganna/Olivia.

Moments later, he heard a knock at the door and jogged down the hall.

“Invite my aunt in,” Bram demanded.

Marrok opened his mouth, then thought better. Easy capitulation was unwise. No matter that Bram pretended to be a friend. He merely wanted the Book of Doomsday. If not for the little tome, the wizard might well have left Marrok’s feverish mate to die.

Scowling, he looked at the woman standing just outside the door. She was a tiny, fey-looking female—small stature, dancing blue eyes, glowing skin. Her age…She could be anywhere between forty and four thousand.

“You have an ill mate?”

The witch had a sweet smile. Marrok saw clearly that her power came from her heart. She wore joy and goodwill like a fine coat.

“Come in, please.”

Nodding crisply, the woman crossed the threshold. “In bed, dear?”

Marrok nodded and took hold of the woman’s arm. “Follow me.”

He urged her down the hall, barely short of a run. She neither struggled nor protested, as he prodded her to Morganna/Olivia’s side.

“You spoke magical mating vows.”

“Yesterday.”

The woman’s blue gaze danced around him, as if tracing his figure. “Clearly, you merged with her. And yet…not wholly.”

Marrok did his best not to flush. Could they tell that he had not found his pleasure and released his seed inside her? “Aye.”

“There is your problem. She is an underage witch, and it is unadvisable for anyone who has not yet attained their powers to mate. It creates a dependence that, unfulfilled, can be fatal. That you’re nonmagical…” Bram’s aunt shook her head. “It will take you twice the effort to keep her alive. Despite how virile you look, she may require care beyond your capability. It’s tragic, but perhaps you’re better off to make her comfortable before she passes to her nextlife.”

Marrok heard her words and understood few of them. He glared at Bram. “I will be damned if I simply sit idle while she dies.”

“You’re already damned.”

Resisting the ugly curse on the tip of his tongue, he took a menacing step toward Bram. “Give me the nonmagical translation for your aunt’s prattling. Now.”

“What’s in it for me?” He raised a golden brow.

Mercenary varlet. “I might know something about that book you seek. But if she dies…”

“You and Olivia are mates. A vow was spoken and answered. Normally, consummating the union seals it and provides the energy exchange that keeps someone magical healthy and alive. It appears she gave her pleasure to you, and you did not give her yours in return. Magically speaking, she gave of her power and spirit, but you did not mingle it with your own and give it back. That leaves a power deficit in her, which makes her weaker by the moment. This,” he reached for the laggagh stone about her wrist, “makes her even weaker. It was created to drain a witch of Morganna’s immense, centuries-old power. Olivia is a witch who has not yet attained her abilities. She won’t for a few years. So the bracelet is speeding up her rush to death.”

“So…we are mated and I must bed her often to keep her alive? And the bracelet is draining and killing her?”

“Yes to all. No one has used the bracelet in centuries, so I’m guessing on that. But you missed the middle.”

“The middle made no sense.”

“I’ll put this in small words.” Heaving a sigh, Bram edged closer. “The fact you haven’t orgasmed inside her means her body perceives that you haven’t given her your vitality, only taken from her. Because you two are mated, she is now dependent on you for her energy. Because she hasn’t reached transition, she needs more of your…um, vigor than a mature witch. Without you sharing your body—regularly—she will lose power until she loses her life.”

Marrok felt the blood drain from his face. He pulled Bram aside, growling, “You mean if I fail to spill my seed inside her, something I have not achieved with any woman in fifteen centuries, she will die?”

“Yes. You are now the battery that powers her existence.”

“Skin-to-skin contact will briefly provide her a boost, dear,” Aunt Millie added, then winked. “But a rousing romp in the hay to mutual satisfaction will revive her for hours, perhaps days, depending on the pleasurable energy exchanged.”

Staggering back, Marrok crashed into the wall. His mate was doomed. And while he’d sought Morganna’s downfall for centuries, the thought of this woman’s death filled him with panic. Damn, she might not be Morganna at all.

Bram leaned closer. “Magical matings have been known to break a curse or two. Maybe…in addition to the sex, a little remorse on your part for spurning Morganna centuries ago would help.”

“If I had but known the risk of mating with her…” He raked a hand through long hair. It was one thing to kill in battle, fighting for one’s country, chieftain, or king. But dying from absence of affection and pleasure seemed intolerably cruel.

“Don’t give up yet.”

Marrok knew he would not until she took her dying breath. He had no idea why the notion of saving her compelled him so, but the thought of living without her, even for a day, crushed him with grief.

“In the meantime,” Bram went on, “we must get this laggagh stone off her wrist.”

Bram leaned in to uncuff her. Marrok grabbed his arm to stay the man. “You are certain it’s harmful?”

“Quite,” his aunt answered. “Having the bracelet on her is a bit like trying to use a simple power point to light up all of London. It’s overwhelming her system.”

“If she truly is not Morganna, I understand. But how can we know for certain?”

“If the woman in your bed was Morganna, she’d still have days, maybe weeks, of power under her skin. The laggagh stone blocks her from performing magic, but takes much longer to drain her. Your mate has been wearing this for less than a day,” Bram pointed out.

Marrok couldn’t concede that quickly. If the naked, unconscious woman on his bed was Olivia, not Morganna, that would mean he’d taken an innocent woman’s virginity, bound himself to a stranger, and made a fatal mistake. “Perhaps she is Morganna reborn?”