Robert and Alyssa sat at a small table by the hearth, playing Nine Men’s Morris, when Dillon entered the solar. Her cowl lay back on her shoulders, discarded and nigh hidden beneath her lovely obsidian tresses. Her pale hands were bare, the sleeves of her robes having been folded back.

Judging by the number of pegs she had captured, his brother was in danger of losing quite badly.

Both looked up with a smile as he closed the door behind him.

“What goes, brother?” Robert asked with good humor.

He shrugged, taking in the empty tray left on the bed. Shifting his focus to Alyssa, he narrowed his eyes. “How much of your supper did my hulking brother consume?”

She cast Robert a guilty glance.

Dillon looked to Robert, who grinned unrepentantly.

“’Twas too large a meal for a maid her size. Chivalry demanded that I lend her my aid.” He winked at Alyssa, earning him a smile.

Dillon frowned. “Get you down below, Cub, and see that my people do not get into further trouble.”

Rising, Robert stretched. “Since I have in some way managed to lose every match we have played this evening, I must admit I am not sorry to go.” He offered Alyssa a gallant bow. “Although your company, as always, has been enchanting, Healer.”

“As has yours,” she replied.

Just as jealousy began to reawaken from its slumber, Robert leaned toward Dillon and said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, “She must have bespelled the board for it absolutely refuses to allow any save herself to triumph.”

When Dillon glanced at Alyssa, he was pleased to see a spark of amusement light her eyes. He slapped Robert on the back. “She is an excellent tactician, brother. Did you truly expect to win?”

Chagrined, Robert raised a humble hand to his chest and lowered his head in a comical gesture of defeat. “In fact, my manly pride did assure me I would. I shall know better in the future than to listen to it.”

Alyssa chuckled, obviously charmed. But this time it did not trouble Dillon.

“Is there aught I can do for you ere I take my leave?” Robert asked her.

“Nay, Robert. I thank you for entertaining me.”

“’Twas my pleasure.” Swiveling on his heel, he headed for the door. “Next time ’twill be chess, Wise One.”

Dillon laughed. “You shall have no better luck winning that game than you did this one.”

Grimacing playfully, Robert ducked out into the hallway.

Dillon closed and barred the door.

“He is more at ease in my presence each time I see him,” Alyssa commented.

“A little too at ease,” he muttered, crossing to sink down on the side of the bed.

“I tried to release him from it again tonight.”

“His vow to serve you?”

“Aye. He would have none of it.”

“My brother is a good man,” Dillon said as he unbuckled his sword belt, “with a soft heart that is oft eclipsed by his monumental stubbornness. He clings to his beliefs like a hound to the only bone in the province. It sometimes takes a force of nature to shake him loose.” He sighed, feeling weary of a sudden, and wondered if he were not still suffering a bit from his recent blood loss.

Then again, it could just be a result of the confrontation below and the stress of battling his people’s unreasonable fears regarding Alyssa. As well as her own belief that they could have no future together.

“Let me help you, my lord,” the woman of his thoughts offered, moving to his side and bending to take hold of his boot to tug it off.

“My thanks,” he mumbled, distracted by her scent and the sight of her loose curls cascading down over her shoulders.

“So you believe ’tis Robert’s soft heart guiding him now?” she asked, setting the first boot aside and moving to the second.

“Hmm? Oh. Aye. He rarely makes the same mistake twice. And this time his mistake was trusting in rumor and hearsay. Now he is taking his own measure of you and—as with me—you appear to have succeeded in capturing his heart.”

She straightened, his other boot dangling from her hand as she cast him a look of dismay.

He grinned. “Only not in the same fashion.”

Emitting a sigh of relief, she twisted to place both boots beside his trunk.

Dillon caught a glimpse of dainty bare feet as the hem of her robe shifted. Strength flowed back into his limbs. The blood in his veins began to warm. Grinning, he leaned forward, snagged a handful of the fluid black material, and gave it a tug.

She pivoted, glancing down to see what her robe had caught on, then followed a path from his hand to his face.

Using his hold as leverage, he slowly drew her closer. “What wear you beneath this robe, Healer?” he questioned in a low, suggestive voice. Color immediately flooded her cheeks. “Not much, I would wager.” He gave the material another yank. “Why do you not remove it and come to bed?”

Her face an intriguing shade of crimson, she nodded and walked around the foot of the bed to the other side. Dillon stood and turned to face her. When Alyssa’s eyes flickered up to shyly meet his, he sent her an encouraging smile.

Taking a deep breath, she whipped the robes over her head, revealing an almost-transparent shift, then dove beneath the covers. By the time he could breathe again, she lay against the pillows with the blankets drawn up to her chin.

Dillon stared down at her, unable to help himself, his heart slamming against his ribs. Would she always affect him thusly? One glimpse of her tantalizing form had left his pulse racing, his hands shaking, and his body hard with desire.

Yet he would not make love to her tonight. ’Twas too soon. She had been so ill. She had been a maiden as well. And he had already taken her twice today.

Giving her his back, he sat on the edge of the bed and attempted to cool his raging ardor.

“You did it again, did you not?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Did what?”

“Spoke to your people about me.”

He swore silently. “How did you know?”

Her lips curled up in an indulgent smile. “Dillon, your voice makes thunder seem a whisper when you are angry. I had little difficulty discerning some of your words, despite your brother’s not-very-subtle attempts to drown them out.”

Berating himself for not restricting his shouts, he faced forward and dragged his tunic over his head.

“You cannot order your people to befriend me,” she admonished gently.

“I did not,” he protested, his linen shirt landing atop his discarded tunic. “I merely ensured that they learned the truth of what transpired the night of my wounding, exposed the lies they had been told, and suggested that those were not the only misconceptions they have been harboring. There is no harm in that, is there?”

The bedding rustled behind him. His flesh jumped when her smooth hand touched it, stroking a path of fire down his back.

“I simply do not wish to see your hopes crushed.”

“Their attitudes will change in time, Alyssa,” he insisted.

“But my parentage will not.”

Closing his eyes, he lay back and rested his head in her lap. Some of the tension eased from his neck and shoulders when she began to comb her fingers through his hair.

“You never told me who your father is,” he said sometime later, half asleep, lulled by her soothing hands.

“Your skin grows cold,” she whispered. “Why do you not finish disrobing and join me beneath the blankets?”

Dillon nodded drowsily and stood. Once he removed his hose and braies, he slipped beneath the furs and slid over until cool flesh met warmth. A sigh of contentment escaped him as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, her face snuggled to his chest, their legs entwined.

“I know not my father’s name, nor whence he came,” Alyssa said. “Nor would I recognize him did he stand before me, for I have never seen his face.”

Leaning back, Dillon reached down for the hem of her shift, deftly divested her of it, then pulled her close once more, no barriers between them. “Better.”

Her heart pounded, as it always did at the feel of his warm muscled body pressed to hers.

“Continue,” he murmured.

She smiled against his chest “He sought out my grandmother, a serf dressed in his cleanest rags, his face concealed by the shadow of his cowl, and asked her for her aid. My mother had foreseen his coming and told my grandmother to direct him to her cottage in the forest.”

“From what ailment did he suffer?”

“He knew not. ’Twas what he wished to discover. He had been wed for several years, but despaired because his wife had borne him no children.”

“Was she barren?”

“Nay. His marriage was not a happy one, you see. He had known his wife for most of their lives and wed her to remove her from her cruel father’s clutches.”

“Very noble of him,” he commended.

“Aye. He felt genuine affection for her at the time, but soon realized he had been played for a fool. She cared naught for him and had only used him to escape her father’s household. Once they were wed, her manner toward him changed. And he was wretchedly disappointed. His one hope for happiness, he said, was to sire a son who would lighten his days and bring him laughter as they toiled side by side.”

“Did his wife deny him his husbandly rights?” Dillon asked.

“Nay.” Yawning, she rubbed her cheek against his chest. “I mentioned earlier that my mother can see things.”

“Aye. What did she see when he sought her out?”

“His wife was using herbs to prevent conception without his knowledge.”

Dillon swore. “Did he confront her?”

She shook her head. “My mother advised him to say naught, but to discern through stealth the location of the hidden cache of herbs, showing him what to search for. He was to return in a fortnight, at which time she would give him alternate herbs that were similar in appearance and taste to those in his wife’s possession. These, however, would do naught to prevent his wife’s body from ripening with his seed.”

“I do not understand why he did not simply acknowledge her deception and take the herbs from her.”

“He feared that if he did so, she would refuse him his rights as husband, and he could not stomach the notion of forcing her until she became with child.”

He grimaced. “I see his point. Did he return as bidden?”

“He did. ’Twas then my mother named her price for aiding him.”

“If he was a serf, I do not expect he had much to offer her.”

“He could offer this.”

“What did he give her?”

“Me,” she said simply.

A startled pause ensued. “The price was to get her with child?”

“One night in my mother’s arms was his payment,” she corrected. “And ’twas all she told him. But my mother had seen in a vision that he would give her a daughter.”

“And she… surrendered herself to him? A man who was a stranger to her?”

“You must understand. She was very lonely, Dillon. Her turbulent childhood had made her fearful of living amongst others. Having spent most of her days in almost total isolation, she was eager for someone with whom she could share her life, a child who would love her and not fear her.”

“I see.”

She smiled again. “Her visions had not informed her that she would meet, fall in love with, and marry a wonderful man less than a year later.”

“Who?”

“A carpenter who had been blinded in an accident and sought her aid, mistaking her for my grandmother. He is the one I have called Father all my life.”

Dillon hugged her tighter. “Did he treat you well, Alyssa?” Some men would not accept a child who had not sprung from their own loins.

She nodded. “He has told me often that he could not have loved me more had he been the man to sire me.”

“Good. ’Tis a most unusual story. An extraordinary beginning for an extraordinary woman.”

She yawned again. “You do not think less of me?”

“Of course not.” Tilting her chin up with one finger, he touched his lips to hers. “Thank you for sharing your tale with me.”

Her pulse jumping, she curled her hand around his neck and drew his lips down for another, longer melding. “If I could, I would share everything with you, Dillon.”

The room was unfamiliar to her. Deserted. Lacking any furniture or adornment. Dark and shadowed. ’Twas a great hall that seemed to have been uninhabited for many years.

The rushes beneath her feet were old and soiled, musty-smelling, infested with insects and animal excrement. Dirt and soot had turned the barren walls gray, a sharp contrast to Westcott’s clean, whitewashed interior and colorful tapestries. ’Twas smaller, too, its corners—barely definable amongst the gloom—draped in gossamer gowns of translucent webs that rippled from a breeze that did not touch her.

Her feet carried her forward, down a long passageway. No torches lit it, yet the darkness was not complete. Alyssa had no difficulty discerning where she strode.

A doorway lay ahead. To a tower? To the kitchens?

Nay. To a bed chamber.

Cautiously, she entered. Darkness cloaked this chamber, too. Begrimed and thick with shadows, it boasted only a bed and a chest.

A man sat upon the chest with his back to her, his head bent as he stroked a brown cat that sprawled in his lap. Another cat, yellow with brown and black splotches, emerged from beneath the bed and rubbed against his leg, purring loudly. Two more trotted past from the hallway behind her. All were fat. All received a stroke or a pat from the man.

Something about him made her heart pound and her throat tighten with fear. Wanting to see his face, she began to circle the room, keeping a careful distance between them. Slowly. One half step at a time, her back to the wall.

The occasional feline of various hues continued to appear and stroll past her.

’Twas too dark to determine his hair color. Red mayhap? Light brown? She simply could not tell, only noting that it curled over the collar of his dark tunic.

She squinted, his profile gradually taking form.

Suddenly, he raised his head, shoulders straightening, as if he sensed her presence for the first time.

Breathless, she watched as he swiveled on the chest to face her.

Alyssa jerked awake. Blinking against the blackness, she felt Dillon move beside her. She lay on her back, his arm looped around her waist, one of his muscled thighs draped heavily across hers.

His face burrowed deeper into her hair, breath tickling her ear. His arm tightened. “Another nightmare?” he asked, voice gravelly.

“I dreamed,” she whispered, anxiety coursing through her.

His head came up. “What?”

“I dreamed,” she repeated, sitting up. “I need parchment. A quill and ink.”

When she started to toss back the covers, he stopped her. “I shall fetch them for you. Stay here, where ’tis warm.”

Before she could protest, he exited the bed and touched a candle to the coals that still glowed in the hearth.

A light shiver shook her. Watching Dillon, Alyssa drew the covers up over her breasts and tucked them beneath her arms.

Golden light bathed his beautiful bare body and sleep-tousled hair as he retrieved the items she requested. Setting the candle on the bedside table, he handed her the rest, then turned away.

Alyssa opened the ink bottle, dipped her quill into it, then frowned.

“Here, love. Use this.” He placed the now-empty supper tray in her lap and arranged the parchment and ink bottle upon it for her.

Her heart leaping at the endearment and how naturally it had flowed from his lips, she smiled up at him. “Thank you, Dillon.”

He returned her smile and bent to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, his love and concern pouring into her like the purest of wines, warming her insides and strengthening his hold on her. It took a heroic effort to drag her attention away from him as he bent to stoke the fire, then retook his place beside her beneath the blankets. But she wanted to record the dream ere any of the details escaped her memory.

It did not take long. Once she finished, Alyssa read back through it, frowning as key words and phrases leapt out at her. At last, she transferred the tray to the table and lay back against the pillows.

Dillon’s hand found hers beneath the blankets and brought it to his lips. “Was it another nightmare?”

“Nay. But now I wish more than ever that I were accompanying you to Pinehurst. I fear for you, Dillon.”

He frowned. “Did you see me wounded then?”

“Nay.”

His thumb smoothed over her palm, circling, stroking, tempting unintentionally as he considered her words. “What did you see, Alyssa?”

She told him, relating every detail that had drawn her attention. All except for the ending, which she had forgotten upon waking.

“You remember naught of the man’s features?”

“Only a feeling that he was young and was smiling.”

“Hmm.” His frown deepened. She could feel his confusion as he began to slide his hand slowly up and down her forearm in an absent caress. “In truth, I fail to comprehend what has upset you. I see naught sinister in a man stroking a cat. It seems a harmless dream.”

“Cats,” she corrected, stressing the s. “There were several. Half a dozen at least.”

He shrugged apologetically, telling her without words that it made no difference in terms of his understanding.

“My dreams are rarely meant to be taken literally,” she explained. “What is straightforward to you is symbolic to me.”

It had always been so. Her mother had taught her how to decipher dreams, to identify symbols and who or what they represented, at a very young age. Sometimes Alyssa did not discern the full meaning of a dream until it came to pass, only translating enough of it to be forewarned. ’Twas frustrating. But her dreams had often aided her in advising Dillon wisely in the past.

He gave her wrist a little squeeze. “Help me to understand.”

“You see a man stroking a cat,” she began. “I see a villain plotting adversity. Cats frequently represent mischief in dreams. They howl and spit and tear things with their claws. To pet one is to invite trouble. To welcome it. The fatter the cat, the greater the mischief and these were all large cats. Some were yellow, indicating cowardice. Others were brown or black, indicating darkness, death, mystery. The man enjoyed stroking them, took pleasure in his negative emotions. His clothing was dark, possibly brown. That is negative. There were spiders’ webs aplenty. Webs ensnare or trap one. The castle was poorly kept and dirty. That, too, is negative. The darkness. ’Twas all negative, Dillon.”

He said naught for long minutes, digesting the information given him. Though the newly acquired ability disturbed her, she was glad she was privy to his thoughts, for they told her that he took her concern seriously and doubted not her interpretation of the dream’s symbols.

“How does the dream relate to me?” he queried, puzzled because he had not appeared in it.

“Hallways indicate transition. You leave on the morrow to wrest Pinehurst from Camden. Both the castle and your life will be in transition until the siege ends and you have succeeded in ousting any and all who refuse to pledge their loyalty to you.”

“But ’twas you who negotiated the hallway, not I.”

Alyssa frowned. “Aye. But your departure weighs heavily on my mind. I am almost certain ’tis a warning for you, that more trouble awaits you at Pinehurst than we anticipate.”

Dillon was apparently unconvinced, however, for he directed his mind toward identifying possible threats to her safety, rather than his own. “I want either Robert or Harry to accompany you if you must tend your garden in my absence,” he stated and her heart sank. “Both if ’tis possible, though I would prefer that you remain inside the gates until my return.”

“But that could be months,” she protested. “’Tis said that Pinehurst was in poor condition, its people starving, long before the siege began. Even if you forego utilizing the destructive siege engines, ’twill take time for you to put it in order. My garden is my only solace, Dillon. Do not take that away from me. I truly do not believe I am in any danger. ’Tis you the dream seeks to protect.”

“What of the people? Did my lecture not reach them, I fear they may seek to harm you.”

She smiled. “In which case my garden is the safest place for me, for all here are terrified of that section of the forest.”

His brows knitted in a scowl as she felt frustration bubble up inside him. When his lips parted to demand she take this seriously, she covered them with her own, stealing his voice. She placed her free hand on his lightly furred chest, sliding it up to curve around his neck and toy with his thick, silken hair. His beard stubble abraded her skin as she moved her mouth across his, teasing him, tasting him, taking his lower lip gently between her teeth before surrendering her hold and backing away.

Heart thudding in her chest, she stared up at him in the light provided by the candle and the fire.

His eyes were smoky and unreadable. But his pulse beat faster beneath the hand she had curled around his neck.

He cleared his throat. “Do not ignore the threats to your own safety, Alyssa. My reputation may not be enough to protect you this time.” He brought a hand up to tuck a thick lock of hair behind her ear, then slipped it down to fondle her bare shoulder. “I have only just found you, sweetling,” he added more softly. “Should aught happen to you…”

Sensing his fear, his despair at just the thought of losing her, she tightened her hold on him and drew his head down for another kiss. His thoughts scattered, as did her own, swept away by the rising tide of desire.

He loved her. Without question. Knowing everything he did about her.

The wonder of it overwhelmed her, made her eyes fill with tears, her body burn for his touch. To know that she mattered so much to him, to this man she had wanted for so long… ’Twas not lust or mere infatuation that made him quake at the idea of her being harmed, but the same deep abiding love she had carried in her heart for him for years.

Urging him closer, she slipped her tongue past his lips to boldly tangle with his. He groaned his approval and rolled atop her, sliding his legs between her own. One hand burrowed into her hair. The other eagerly captured her breast, thumb circling its hardened peak and sending shards of pleasure cutting through her.

Alyssa gasped and arched into him.

His lips left hers and scorched a searing path down her throat, over her collarbone, to her other breast.

Their bodies hummed in unison, trembling with need.

“I should not,” he whispered, lips hovering above the pink tip.

“You should,” she moaned. Combing her fingers through his hair, she pressed him to her. “I need you, Dillon.”

When the hand at her breast tightened, she cried out for more. His teeth found the bud she guided him to, then his tongue, making her squirm with pleasure. She could not get close enough. She needed more and more and more. She would never get enough of him.

And he was ravenous for her, unknowingly driving her mad with his erotic thoughts. Thoughts he did not hesitate to act upon as he glided down her body, tucked his arms beneath her bent knees, and took her with his mouth.

“Dillon.” Shocked, she fisted his hair to pull him up. (Men were not supposed to kiss women there, were they?) Then he stroked the heart of her with his tongue and pleasure arced through her. She gasped. Again his tongue moved. She moaned. And again and again. The hands she had buried in his hair now held him to her and urged him on until ecstasy exploded within her, wringing a cry from her throat.

“More,” she heard him utter, voice hoarse with hunger, as he renewed his sensual assault, his fingers joining his tongue in tormenting her. On and on it went. So good. So devastating.

Moans poured from between her lips as she moved her hips, the pleasure building until ecstasy once more seized her.

Replete, breath coming in gasps, she welcomed Dillon’s weight as he rose above her, then whispered in her ear, “You will tell me if I hurt you.”

“You will not hurt me,” she assured him, knowing no amount of pain would make her stop him now.

He touched his tongue to her earlobe, sending shivers dancing through her. “Do you speak as a woman or as a healer?”

“A woman.” Alyssa wrapped her legs around him the way she knew he wanted her to. “Please, Dillon. I need to feel you inside me.” She kissed his bristly jaw just below his ear. “Now.”

Groaning, he complied, his arousal teasing her entrance, then sliding in deep. She was a bit tender, but… oh, the feel of him. Stroking her. Filling her. The way he worshipped her with his mind, heart, and body. So completely. So desperately. Calling her name in a voice both beautiful and rough with passion as he found his release and flung them both over the edge.

The way he held her close, pressing tender kisses to her lips, her throat, her shoulder, whilst she floated back down to earth, his body curled possessively around hers.

As she drifted off to sleep, a contented smile curling her lips, Alyssa prayed that he was right, that there was some hope of a future together for them. A future as man and wife, free from the condemnation of others. Free from the shackles of superstition.

For Dillon had given her more than wave after wave of unspeakable pleasure that night.

So much more.

* * *

Alyssa found their parting the next morning unbearable. Surrounded by men on horseback and numerous onlookers, she stood placidly in her dark robes and watched as Dillon mounted his loyal destrier.

They had dressed silently at dawn, each trapped in his or her own thoughts. Before calling Gideon in to dress him in Simon’s armor, Dillon had repeated what Alyssa now thought of as his ritual. Helping her don her robe, he had gazed down at her for many long minutes before dipping his head to steal a quick, hard kiss. Then, his resentment clear, he had drawn the hood up to hide her features. But he had embraced her, too, clutching her so tightly she had thought she might break, his fear still for her rather than for himself.

Were she his wife, she would run to him now and beg a passionate farewell kiss, admonishing him to have a care for his safety and to return to her with all due haste.

Were she his wife, she would tell him she loved him.

But that honor would never be hers. So, tamping down her emotions, she simply nodded and wished him a quick and easy victory from within the confines of her cowl.

After delivering a few last-minute instructions to Robert, Dillon herded his men toward the barbican, the hooves of their warhorses churning up the ground. There he paused to look back at her, where she waited on the steps of the keep.

Alyssa need not touch him to know how much it disturbed him that he could not see her face just then.

His wishes thwarted, he turned and charged through the gate, disappearing from view.

She bit her lip, the tears he could not see forging slick paths down her cheeks. Why could things not be different? Why must people be so suspicious of that which they did not understand? Why could they not accept her for who she was, not what she could do, how she was dissimilar, who her parents were, or whether or not she had been born on the right side of the blanket?

Why could she not leap at this chance for happiness with Dillon and say to hell with what everyone else thought?

Her shoulders slumped. Because, in the end, ’twould bring Dillon more headache than happiness. And she would do naught that might endanger his position as Earl of Westcott.

But his expression…

How she wished she could have doffed her hood, waved wildly, and given him a smile that would have sent him on his quest with a grin and a light heart. Mayhap then she would not be plagued by this feeling that something dreadful hovered just over the horizon.

“Wise One.” Robert stood at her side, having joined her as the men crossed the drawbridge. “I would speak with you privately. In the solar, if ’tis satisfactory.”

“I have work I must attend to in my chamber,” she choked out.

“’Twill take but a moment.” His face impassive, he motioned for her to precede him into the castle.

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Alyssa did so, struggling to regain some sense of control as she trod up the stairs and into the solar. She stopped in the center of the room, facing the oversized bed that held so many new and tender memories.

The door closed behind her with a thud.

Robert’s footsteps echoed loudly in the silence as his boots carried him toward her, stopping close to her back. Though she tried to concentrate on donning her role of advisor for whatever difficulty Robert brought to her, Alyssa could think of naught other than her desire to be at Dillon’s side, ensuring his safety and healing the wounds he would inevitably incur in the coming battle.

Her breath gave an involuntary hitch that she fervently hoped went unnoticed.

Robert circled her slowly, halting in front of her, legs braced apart in a stance reminiscent of his brother. Before she could guess his intent, he reached out and swiftly drew back her cowl.

She tried to duck her chin to hide her wet cheeks.

Robert would have none of it. Touching a finger to her chin, he applied gentle pressure to raise it. “He will fare well, Seer,” he stated, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Dillon would not give up his life in so puny an undertaking as this after you labored so hard to save it.”

Alyssa bit her lip. Though she tried to prevent it, another fat tear spilled over her lashes and raced down her cheek.

Brow furrowing, Robert lifted one hand and slowly—as though he feared she might object—cupped her face in his large rough palm. He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, sweeping away her tears. “All will be well,” he insisted.

’Twas odd, she thought. There had been several times during her years at Westcott when she had broken down and wept. From loneliness. From pain, both physical and emotional. And she had always believed that if she could just unburden herself… to Dillon… to her family… to anyone who cared… that the need for catharsis through tears would vanish. Yet, now, as Robert smiled reassuringly and offered her his sympathy and understanding, something seemed to shatter deep inside her. Violent sobs erupted. Tears flowed freely. Simply drawing in air became a struggle.

He swore. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then, after another moment’s hesitation, he drew her into a loose embrace and pressed her head to his chest. “Shh,” he crooned. “All will be well.”

Illogical though it may seem, it only made her cry harder. Dragging in great gulping breaths, Alyssa drowned herself in his kindness.

“You will make yourself ill do you not cease,” he chided in soothing tones as he patted her back and patiently waited for the storm to subside. “And all for naught. Dillon will be as irascible and full of bluster as always when next you see him.”

Touching him as she was, she knew he firmly believed that. “But I had a dream…”

“I know,” he admitted with some reluctance. “Dillon took me into his confidence so I would be prepared should trouble arrive at Westcott during his absence. I hope that does not anger you. He meant no disrespect.”

“Nay. I trust you, Robert.” When, at last, the wellspring of tears dried up, Alyssa stepped back with a sigh and swiped at her cheeks. “Forgive me. I am not accustomed to… I did not intend to…”

He held up a hand. “You are worried and overtired.”

She hoped fervently that he did not know why she was overtired.

“Why do you not rest for a bit? Here, where Dillon’s presence and belongings will surround you and bring you comfort. I shall see to it that no one disturbs you.”

Her eyes burned anew. Robert said so much with that request.

That he knew she cared for Dillon. That he did not object.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

With a smile and wink, he headed for the door. “Oh.” He turned back, his handsome face crinkling with a wince, “You will no doubt be displeased by this, but I must insist that you do not leave the inner bailey without my protection. Dillon expressed some concerns for your safety. And you are still vulnerable from your illness.”

She sighed once more in defeat. “As you wish, Robert.”

His smile returned. “Rest now.”

* * *

Shame settled on Robert’s shoulders as he descended the stairs to the great hall. Its talons digging into his chest, it pecked and pecked and pecked at him until a scowl as ferocious as his brother’s darkened his features.

He had never seen anyone weep with such intensity. ’Twas as if all the pain the wisewoman had suffered during her years of service at Westcott had come pouring out to bathe his chest. And all she had needed to relieve herself of it was a little kindness. Just a little. Not so very much to ask, was it?

Several foul names came to mind, all of which Robert heaped upon his own head. He cursed himself for every instance he could have shown her a kindness in the past and had not, every grudging thanks he had offered her for healing one wound or another instead of showing her true gratitude for taking away his pain. Knowing she had taken it into herself only worsened his guilt.

“William!” he bellowed, sighting the man across the hall, where he upbraided a servant nigh the entrance to the kitchens.

Tossing one last rebuke over his shoulder, the snowy-haired man hurried to Robert’s side. “Aye, my lord?”

“No one is to enter the solar unless ordered to do so by myself or the healer.”

“As you wish.”

Expression still dark, Robert took himself outside and crossed to the stables. His favorite destrier had been wounded during the ambush that had nigh taken Dillon’s life and he worried that it would no longer be strong and agile enough to carry him into battle.

Bright sunlight gave way to darkness as the stables, musty with the scents of hay and animal, enveloped him. A muted male voice broke the hush, drawing him toward Berserker’s stall.

The stable master murmured something in the warhorse’s twitching ear as he stroked its sleek chestnut coat, hypnotizing it into nigh motionlessness. At least a head shorter than Robert, Thomas boasted a stocky build, a quick smile, and an easy disposition. Mayhap two-score in age, he was well-liked by the people of Westcott.

Hearing his approach, Thomas looked up.

“How fares he?” Robert asked. As soon as Berserker saw him, the horse stretched his neck out and nudged Robert with his velvety nose.

“On the mend, milord. Another sennight and he will be all that he was before, if a little bit uglier. No lasting damage.”

Relief brought a broad smile to Robert’s face. He watched Thomas check the wound on Berserker’s right shoulder without any protest from the huge stallion. The man had a fascinating rapport with animals. Even Dillon’s vile-tempered beast calmed when Thomas gave him his attention.

Hmmm… Now, there is an idea.

Mayhap he could do something for the wisewoman after all.

Hiding a smile, Robert leaned casually against the stall door. “You have an amazing way with animals, Thomas.”

He grinned. “That I have, milord. That I have. Been that way all my life.”

“I suppose I am not the first to notice it.”

Chuckling, Thomas straightened. “Nay. There have been many over the years what have commented upon it.”

Robert furrowed his brow. “Does that not concern you?”

“Why would it?” he responded.

“Well, there are some who might suggest your gift with animals may have… unnatural origins.”

Thomas’s smile faded. “I am not sure as I follow you, milord.”

Robert offered a negligent shrug. “I have heard it whispered about that one with a gift such as yours must surely have surrendered his soul to the devil in exchange for it.”

The man’s mouth, normally so eager to boast of his skills, fell open. His face turned a mottled red, then paled when he looked past Robert and saw two stable lads cross themselves.

“’Tis a lie!” he exclaimed belligerently. “I was born with this gift, I was. Like my father before me. I did not acquire it through wicked means. ’Tis shameful for any to suggest such a thing!”

Straightening, Robert kept his tone light. “The wisewoman was born with her gifts, like her mother before her.” He had no idea if her mother shared her gifts or not, but saying so suited his purpose. “Yet you believe she gained them through wicked means. Why then should it surprise you that others believe the same of you?”

The only sounds in the stables were those made by the horses.

Giving Berserker one last loving stroke, Robert smiled. “I suppose the miraculous job you have done on Berserker here will only fuel their speculation. I am very pleased with the progress he is making. You have my gratitude.”

Poor Thomas looked terribly disturbed as Robert turned and walked away. “Aye, milord.”

Robert did not miss the strange sidelong looks the other occupants of the stables gave Thomas.

Whistling a cheerful ditty, he stepped out into the brisk wind and decided to pay the weaver a visit. He could use a couple of new tunics. And the man just happened to have a true gift when it came to turning out the finest quality materials.