“Dillon.”

A smile lifted the corners of Dillon’s lips. He dreamed of Alyssa again. He had done so every night since he had left her standing on the steps of the castle, frustrated by his inability to glimpse her features.

No nightmares had haunted him. Only warm, passionate interludes with his beloved wisewoman.

“Dillon, you must awaken.”

He frowned. This dream differed, though. She sounded urgent. Frightened. She had been playful and affectionate in all of his other dreams.

“Alyssa?” he murmured.

Prying open eyelids that weighed almost as much as his horse, Dillon propped himself up on his elbows and searched the room. A familiar shadow, nigh lost amongst the others, stood several paces from his bed. Her hands, the color of moonbeams, emerged from her sleeves and rose to divest herself of her hood.

Anxiety creased the beautiful features she revealed.

This was no dream.

Dillon bolted upright. “Alyssa?” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose and started toward her. “How came you here? Did you follow me after I ordered you to remain at Westcott? Know you the danger you have placed yourself in?”

“Cease,” she commanded, thrusting a hand out in front of her to prevent him from coming any closer.

He halted, astonished. Did she fear him? “Alyssa—”

“You must make haste, Dillon. Camden’s men tarry below.”

“What?” His hand went to his sword.

“In a secret tunnel that opens onto a storeroom that contains several barrels of ale and little else. The door is well-hidden and was overlooked by your men when they searched earlier.”

He took a step toward her, but stopped when she stepped backward. “How know you this?”

“I was there. They plan to kill your men whilst they sleep and you with them, taking the keep from the inside out.”

’Twas not until then—until she took that step that placed her between him and the hearth—that he perceived that something was awry.

His breath stopped. His eyes widened. His heartbeat increased.

He could see through her to the glowing coals and insignificant flames behind her.

“Alyssa,” he whispered, not knowing what else to say, how to ask her what was happening.

“You must leave now, Dillon,” she urged him. “You have little time. Go quickly and wake your men. Prepare them for Camden’s assault and lead them to victory.”

Shock nigh rendering him mute, he nodded, ordered her to remain within the solar, and raced for the door. Gideon leapt to his feet as soon as he opened it.

Dillon cautioned him to be quiet.

“Is it Camden, my lord?” the boy whispered, wide-eyed.

“Aye. I want you to stay here and guard…” He glanced over his shoulder and fell silent when he saw the room was empty.

Alyssa had vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

“My lord?”

He shook his head. “Come with me and make no sound. We must prepare the others.”

Darkness surrounded Alyssa once more, taking her by the hand and leading her back toward awareness. Whispering Dillon’s name, she wished she did not have to leave him and longed for his reassuring presence.

“Nay, ’tis Robert,” a familiar voice responded. “Open your eyes for me,” he coaxed.

She did so and realized she lay in her bed at Westcott. Robert sat beside her on the edge, his face grave, eyes brimming with concern. A cold, damp compress draped across her forehead, alleviating the warmth burning there.

Dread filled her. Had it all been a dream? A hallucination? Naught more?

It had seemed so real.

“Dillon.”

Robert shook his head. “Dillon is at Pinehurst, Wise One.”

“Alyssa.” She corrected without thinking. Sitting up, she discarded the cloth that fell to her lap.

“What?”

“Alyssa. My name is Alyssa.”

“Is it?”

A stab of guilt pricked her. After the kindness he had shown her, she really should have told him earlier, but instead had selfishly cherished hearing only Dillon call her by name.

Dillon.

She did not doubt that her vision of Camden and his men had been accurate because it confirmed her dream. But she knew not what to think of the rest.

Praying that Dillon would remain safe, she started to rise.

Robert held up a hand to halt her. “You should rest. I fear your illness has returned.”

She shook her head and scrambled off the bed. “Dillon needs me.”

He rose. “I do not understand.”

Alyssa retrieved her empty valise and crossed to the shelves that contained her herbs and medicines.

“You have been unconscious for over two hours,” Robert continued, “shivering and muttering things beneath your breath. Your skin burned with the same fiery heat that I felt in your hands when you healed Dillon. Your skin is yet flushed with it. What has happened?”

“I cannot explain it.”

“You have not tried to.”

She frowned. “Treachery stalks Dillon at Pinehurst. Camden and the remainder of his men will attack tonight, pouring into the castle from a secret passageway beneath it. I only pray my… warning… reached your brother in time. If it reached him at all.”

“What warning? You have not left my sight. And just what is it you are doing?”

“Packing my medicines and a few other necessities. I shall leave for Pinehurst immediately.”

“Nay, you will not,” he countered firmly. “You shall not step foot outside these walls until Dillon returns.”

Satisfied with the herbs she had chosen, Alyssa stuffed a bundle of clothing into the bag next. “I shall leave with or without your permission, Robert.”

“Do not make me restrain you, Alyssa.”

“You would not.” He would never tie or bind her. She was certain of it.

“Then I shall confine you to this chamber.”

“Nay, you will not,” she stated, distracted. What was she forgetting? Alyssa studied the contents of her valise.

“If ’twill prevent you from placing yourself in danger, I shall,” he assured her, the determination in his voice reaching her at last.

Lowering the bag in one hand, she gave him her full attention. “Do not cross me on this, Robert,” she advised him, half pleading, half commanding. “’Tis something I must do.”

“I have no choice. Dillon has entrusted me with your care. ’Twould be foolhardy to allow you to leave the protection of Westcott and ride into almost certain danger.”

He meant it, she realized. He had no intention of letting her leave. Even if it meant locking her in her chamber and setting men to guard her.

Panic vied with fury as Alyssa stared up at him. She had no time for this. She needed to see Dillon. She needed to be there to heal him if Camden caught him unawares. She needed to see that he was all right, that he still lived.

“I will not let you stop me,” she gritted, her resolve unshakable. Dillon needed her. He needed her. Could Robert not see that?

“Nevertheless I will,” he bit out. Then his voice and expression calmed. “I understand your concern, Alyssa. I shall dispatch men to Westcott posthaste so that we might know the truth. Until then—”

Her patience snapped. Adrenaline and apprehension driving her, Alyssa grabbed the front of his tunic with her free hand and yanked him closer, forcing him through sheer surprise at her actions to bend until their faces were only inches apart.

“You did not see what I saw,” she nigh shouted, trembling with fear and frustration. “You do not know what I know. He needs me, Robert. Pinehurst is under attack and Camden will not fight honorably. Dillon may even now be bleeding from wounds that treacherous dog has inflicted and I am not there to heal him. Do you understand me? He could be dying and I am not there! I should be there!”

Her breath catching on a sob, she shoved him away and raked quaking fingers through her hair. “Y-You do not know what I know,” she repeated anxiously, seeing again all the men who had filled that cave. The men who waited to massacre the unsuspecting occupants of the keep, undetected by the guards posted outside until ’twas too late. “I will not rest until mine own eyes have confirmed that Dillon lives,” she whispered passionately. “I must see him.”

The quiet that filled the room in the aftermath of her outburst was deafening. His face unreadable, Robert reached up with slow, deliberate hands and smoothed his tunic where she had grasped it.

“Please, Robert,” she implored. “I will come to no harm on the ride to Pinehurst.”

“I know you will not,” he said finally. “I shall accompany you myself.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I shall take you to my brother.”

“Nay. You must remain here and protect Westcott in Dillon’s absence.”

“Then you, too, shall remain.”

“A score of men may escort me,” she blurted. “Put Sir Michael in command of them. You trust him above all others, save Dillon. With such an impressive guard, I shall surely be safe.”

He scowled. “I do not feel right letting you out of my sight.”

“’Tis imperative that you tarry here a while longer, Robert.”

“Why?”

“I know not. ’Tis more than defending the castle. I…” She shook her head, helpless to explain. “I know only that the feeling that you must abide at Westcott is nigh as strong as my need to see Dillon.”

He studied her long and hard, then nodded curtly. “I shall choose carefully the men who will accompany you and shall place Michael over them as you suggested. Be ready to leave in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Striding resolutely for the door, he paused as he passed her. Some of the harshness left his face. “Do not make me regret this, Alyssa. Reach Pinehurst safely and send me good tidings of my brother.”

She nodded, appreciating his concern. “I will.”

The men waited nigh the base of the castle steps when she emerged. All were heavily armed and armored. All eyed her warily, uneasy with the task they had been given—to guard a woman labeled Sorceress as she fled the keep in the dead of night.

Alyssa could not blame them. The air was thick with menace, heavy with cloying humidity. The moon had chosen not to bathe the earth with its illusory light. In its place, a phantom fog danced around their ankles and wrapped skeletal arms around them.

The horses picked up on the tension and pranced nervously despite the soothing words offered by the warriors who stood beside them.

Her cowl shielding her from the men’s scrutiny, Alyssa descended the steps and strode past them. She took note of each man’s identity as she did and soon came to the conclusion that they had been chosen on the basis of three qualifications: strength, prowess, and a recent softening in attitude toward her. In fact, many of them had been amongst those who had surprised her earlier by smiling at her praise.

Well, they did not smile now.

She approached Robert, who spoke with Sir Michael.

Noting her presence, Michael nodded, unsmiling. “Wise One.”

Her hood dipped with her own nod of acknowledgment. “I regret having to disturb you all at this hour, but time is short,” she whispered. “I could not wait for the morrow.”

“Robert has explained as much. If you are ready, we can depart forthwith.”

“Nay,” Robert declared, overriding her agreement as he faced the anxious knights. “Ere you leave, I will hear every one of you vow to protect the wisewoman with your life.”

Much to Alyssa’s astonishment, they did not hesitate to offer their oaths.

Robert guided her over to a powerful black stallion, one of Dillon’s favorites. “Can you handle him?” he asked softly as the others mounted their battle-hardened destriers.

Alyssa stroked one hand down the muscled neck and shoulder of the beast only Dillon and Robert had been able to ride in the past. “Aye,” she answered, confident that she could.

“Good. Should you come under attack, he is the best mount to have beneath you. But I worry that he may be too spirited.”

“He and I shall do well together.”

She handed Robert her bag and stood patiently whilst he fastened it to the back of her saddle. Once finished, he turned and stared down at her, his handsome face dark with misgivings.

“Worry not, Robert,” she said, voice low, and placed a hand on his arm.

He covered it with his own. “I shall worry until you send me news of your safe arrival at Pinehurst and of my brother’s well-being.”

“A messenger should arrive by week’s end.”

“Does he not, I will assume the worst and lead an army in your wake.”

She nodded. When she would have pulled away, he tightened his grip on her hand.

“How Dillon must hate those robes,” he murmured, beyond the hearing of others. “’Tis difficult to bid you farewell when I am unable to see your face. It must be a hundred times harder for him.”

Tears threatened to choke her as she recalled Dillon’s expression just before he had thundered through the gates to conquer Pinehurst. “’Tis difficult for me as well.”

He hesitated for a long moment, his fear for her and Dillon inundating her and clutching at her heart. “Fare you well, Alyssa.”

“And you, Robert.”

Dropping his hands to her waist, he lifted her and set her in the saddle. “Michael,” he called.

Michael directed his beige warhorse over to Alyssa’s.

“’Tis time.”

The two turned their horses and, side by side, rode swiftly through the gates, the others falling in behind and stonily keeping pace.

Darkness enshrouded the tarnished great hall. Only the diminishing flames of a single hearth allowed Dillon to see the figures creeping forth from the storeroom like rats looking for a bit of cheese.

He and his men remained utterly still, cloaked by the shadows that swallowed the walls.

Alyssa had been right. How had she known?

Making only the slightest sounds, Camden’s men slunk toward the pallets in the center of the room. Pallets that supported lumpy forms covered with blankets, which they mistakenly believed were the men who instead watched them with carefully restrained wrath from their positions around the hall.

Dillon strained to see the soldiers’ faces as they closed in on their counterfeit prey. He had hoped he would be able to locate the one who had escaped his clutches ere he launched his attack, but ’twas too dark to see individual features.

When a man stood over every pallet, the intruders raised their weapons and looked to the doorway of the storeroom. The auburn hair of the one who stepped through it glinted with red highlights.

Camden.

Camden nodded. The ragged army he commanded instantly buried their weapons in the hapless lumps of clothing.

Dillon roared a battle cry as he and his men leapt forward.

The slayers jumped and looked around wildly.

Gleaming in the light of the dying flames, swords swung toward bodies frozen in shock.

Steel met flesh. Cries of pain shattered the night.

Panicked, Camden’s men began to fight with feral desperation.

Dillon saw Camden’s auburn head disappear through the doorway of the storeroom and swore foully.

Not this time, he vowed. The bastard would not escape him again.

Stepping over his opponent’s fallen body, Dillon began to cut a swath toward his absent enemy. “There!” he called, alerting Simon to their quarry’s whereabouts.

Nodding, Simon swung his sword and joined Dillon in forging a path.

Camden’s men preceded them, backing toward the doorway through which they had crept with such malicious glee earlier. Dillon could not tell if they sought to protect their cowardly leader or merely wished to retreat and thought this their only means of escape.

With swords clashing, curses spewing, and blood spilling, all flowed toward the storeroom. Bodies began to fall beneath the superior might of Dillon’s men and formed a dam before the entrance, blocking access.

Frustration mounted. Then Gideon and several other squires plunged forward to pull the bodies away.

Dillon sucked in a breath as a blade barely missed Gideon’s neck. But the boy was fast and remained alert enough to evade injury as he cleared the path.

Camden’s men, their panic rising, pried open the hidden door and hurtled themselves through it in a bid to flee with their leader.

Dillon would have none of it. He and Simon followed, his men—those who were not still engaged in battle in the great hall—fast on their heels. They had just enough time to register a long tunnel mayhap wide enough for a dozen men to stand shoulder to shoulder ere Camden’s ragged army began to extinguish the torches.

“Gideon!” Dillon bellowed even as he caught up to the first man and cut him down.

“Aye?” he barely heard Gideon call from the storeroom.

“Torches!”

If Gideon responded, Dillon did not hear him. The sounds of battle resumed as Dillon and his men raced forward to end the retreat of Camden’s. So little light remained that he would have been unable to tell friend from foe if his men’s armor—far better cared for than that of the malefactors they fought—did not reflect the flames of the torch or two that remained. Such also made them clearer targets, however.

Past the straining, swearing warriors in front of him, Dillon caught a glimpse of Camden. ’Twas too dark to see with whom he fought.

Dillon had to look away to cut down his opponent. When he turned back, Camden was gone.

Had he fallen? Escaped?

The battle slowed as bodies crumpled to the ground.

Gideon and several other squires, poured into the tunnel, each bearing a torch in one hand and a sword in the other.

Blessed light bathed Dillon and his warriors as they defeated the last of Camden’s army, their shadows engaging in a phantom battle on the walls around them.

Dillon took the torch Gideon offered him and began to search the faces of those fallen.

Simon grabbed a torch of his own and examined the faces of the dead and wounded. “Was he here when we entered the tunnel?” he asked after a moment.

“Aye. I saw him, but lost him in the fray.” Dillon’s frustration mounted as he continued to scrutinize the carnage, but failed to find the face he sought.

“Here!” Simon called.

Head snapping up, Dillon crossed to Simon and knelt beside the body his second-in-command studied.

The fallen man lay facedown, but bore the auburn hair for which Dillon’s enemy had been known.

Simon turned the man onto his back.

Both grimaced.

He appeared to have taken a mace to the face, amongst other things. His chest no longer rose and fell with breath. Though badly mangled, his features still managed to carry the look of Westmoreland, his father.

“’Tis Camden,” Simon said.

Dillon nodded. “Aye.” Relief relaxed the muscles knotted in his neck and shoulders.

Camden was dead.

’Twas finally over.

In the distance, she saw him. Dillon stood, silent and stoic, staring at the road leading to the unfamiliar gates below him. He was watching for her. Waiting for her. Was desperate for the sight of her.

He, too, sought reassurance and prayed for her safety, knowing that somewhere out there her robe blended in with the night as she steadfastly made her way toward him.

“I am coming, Dillon,” she whispered.

A hand gently grasped her arm, steadying her. Blinking, Alyssa realized Michael had just kept her from sliding out of the saddle. She had fallen asleep again.

And dreamed of Dillon.

Over forty hours had come and gone since they had left the safety of Westcott’s walls. She had not slept for more hours than that and craved rest. Yet she would not allow them to halt.

Thrice she had dozed off and caught glimpses of Dillon. Hazy, cryptic impressions of him seeing to his wounded men and disposing of the bodies of Camden’s army.

Did he know she was coming?

Her heart leapt with anticipation, but she would not abandon her fears for him just yet. Such brief visions were new to her. She was reluctant to place much faith in them, particularly since they were not as strong as that which had assaulted her in Robert’s presence.

“I thank you,” she whispered, struggling to sit straighter and stave off her fatigue.

He released her. “There is a clearing up ahead. We shall rest there until dawn breaks.”

“Nay. We shall continue on until we reach Pinehurst’s gates.”

“Pray do not argue with me, Wise One. A woman of your advanced years must not push herself so. ’Twill make you ill.”

She sighed. She was exhausted. Too exhausted to engage in another battle of wills similar to the one she had fought with Robert.

“Does it trouble you, Sir Michael?” she posed in her whispery voice.

His brow creased. “What?”

“When others do not allow you to perform tasks you are more than capable of carrying out because of the weakness they perceive in you, does it trouble you?”

His lips tightened. “I am no weaker than they.”

“Some believe otherwise.”

“They are wrong.”

“Then it does trouble you.”

“Aye, Sorceress, it troubles me,” he grated.

She nodded. “Now reverse our conversation. Apply your frustration to me and cease grappling with me over this. I give you now the same words I gave Sir Robert. I will not rest until mine own eyes have seen Lord Dillon. If you have to tie me to this saddle to keep me from falling out of it and slowing us down, so be it. But we will none of us seek shelter for the night. I wish to have crossed Pinehurst’s drawbridge by the noon hour on the morrow.”

Turning her head, Alyssa awaited his response.

Michael studied her dark form for several long moments. “As you wish, Wise One. I meant no insult.”

She smiled, though he could not see it. “I know. And I appreciate your patience. You must all be nigh as weary as I.”

He shrugged. “We are accustomed to such, Healer. You are not.”

The clearing Michael had mentioned came and went on their right. Hopefully the men would not be too angry with her over her insistence that they keep moving.

Michael seemed to understand.

“I hope you did not mistake my words,” Alyssa said, worried that she may have injured his feelings. “I merely sought to make a point.”

He regarded her curiously.

“I see no weakness in you, Michael. You are one of the strongest, bravest men under Lord Dillon’s command. Anyone who fails to comprehend that is too great a fool to look beyond what they consider your flaw and see you for what you are.” She nodded for emphasis, knowing that there were many men at Westcott who underestimated his abilities. “And I assure you that neither Lord Dillon nor Sir Robert are fools. Nor am I. We know your true value.”

For a moment, he did not seem to know what to say. She feared he had received very little validation in his six and twenty years.

“I thank you, Wise One,” he said at last. “’Tis good to know there are some at Westcott who believe in me. And to hear those words come from you, who know the extent of my illness, gladdens my heart.”

Alyssa smiled, pleased she had spoken.

He continued to stare at her, almost as though he could see through the midnight material that enshrouded her. “It makes me wonder, though, if I have not been as great a fool as those who have misjudged me,” he murmured, alluding to his own beliefs regarding her.

Surprised, she faced forward. “We are all fools at some point in our lives.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “but some are greater fools than others.”

Dillon stood on the wall walk nigh the barbican, gazing out over the pitted road that led to Pinehurst. The sun shone high overhead, bleaching the sky to a pale, pale blue. A nigh constant breeze bent the trees in an awkward dance and made the tall grasses in the meadow between forest and wall ripple like ocean waves.

She was close. He could feel Alyssa’s presence growing stronger. Thrice he had seen her since her mysterious appearance in the solar the night of Camden’s failed invasion. Her face and form had been ghostly, indistinct, not as vivid as they had been that first night. Her voice when she had spoken—I am coming, Dillon—had been barely audible. One might even have surmised it a trick of the wind or a figment of his lonely imagination. And he did wonder.

Those around him appeared to have seen and heard naught, though he had been in the company of others each time he had glimpsed her. It puzzled him. Alyssa’s warnings were normally delivered in person and stemmed from dreams, not prophetic visions. Those, she had said, were only granted her mother.

As for Dillon, the only dreams that had toyed with him in recent years were nightmares spawned by his time in the holy land and, more recently, erotic dreams of hours spent making love with Alyssa.

So, what did it mean? What had changed? Or had anything?

Simon approached and leaned into one of the crenellated openings in the wall. Dillon had felt the intense scrutiny of his second-in-command often in the hours he had stood there.

“What do you watch for, Dillon?”

His gaze did not stray from the road. “You will see it with your own eyes soon.”

“You anticipate trouble?”

“Nay.”

“What then?”

“Have the men raise the portcullis,” he pronounced in lieu of an answer.

Brows drawing together, Simon opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He knew better than to question a command issued by the Earl of Westcott, friend or no friend. Turning on his heel, he left to convey his lord’s orders.

Soon the clunking and clanking of the heavy metal gate raising assaulted Dillon’s ears.

Simon returned and, without saying a word, joined his friend in a silent vigil.

Not five minutes later the first figures rounded the bend in the road and came into view.

“Riders approach,” Simon announced unnecessarily, straightening.

Dillon nodded, squinting against the sun’s brightness.

“At least a score, riding hard,” his companion continued. “Too far away to see what banner they carry.”

“They carry my banner,” Dillon stated with absolute certainty.

Simon darted him a look, then leaned forward and squinted in an attempt to confirm his words. “’Tis as you say. I was not aware you had sent for reinforcements.”

“I did not.” A deep scowl creased Dillon’s forehead as he searched the figures for the one he awaited with scarcely contained impatience. His gaze roved one armored knight after another until he found her. There. In the center. Riding beside Michael. Protected in front and behind. A small, dark figure that could only be Alyssa.

Relief swept through him. At last. She is here. She made it safely. Yet…

His pulse leapt with trepidation. She was slumped forward over her stallion’s neck, Michael’s careful hold on her arm the only thing keeping her in the saddle.

Ignoring Simon’s rapid-fire questions, Dillon turned and raced for the gatehouse, down the stairs, and into the spacious single bailey the castle offered. The rumbling of hooves meeting dry, packed earth accompanied the party’s arrival as the horses cantered through the barbican.

“Secure the gate behind them,” Dillon ordered Simon, who was fast on his heels.

A look of sublime relief lit Michael’s features when he marked Dillon’s approach. “My lord, I—”

“I know why you are here.” Grabbing the reins of Alyssa’s horse, he brushed Michael’s hand aside and steadied her with his own. “What happened to her? Is she wounded?”

“Nay, she is unharmed.” Dismounting wearily, Michael stared up at the wisewoman and shook his head. “She is simply exhausted. She refused to halt. And she would not ride with me or any of the others in order to find rest, despite my urging.” He shrugged helplessly. “Forgive me, my lord, but I did try. I knew not what else to do short of forcing her.”

“I understand,” he said, wishing he could see her face, to confirm with his own eyes Michael’s words. “She can be quite stubborn at times.”

“My lord?”

Some of the tension left him at her familiar whisper. “Aye.”

Her cowl lifted as she straightened sluggishly and turned to face him. “Have we reached Pinehurst then?”

“Aye, you have.” He could not stop the tender smile that crossed his lips, despite their audience. Most of the men who had accompanied her as her guard remained seated atop their destriers, watching them with avid curiosity. “Allow me to help you dismount.”

At her slow nod, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her down. Had he not maintained his hold, she would have crumpled to the ground. Her hands, cloaked in her customary midnight garb, came up to grip his biceps. He could feel her trembling and wanted naught more than to yank her into his arms and hold her.

But he could not. Not until they were inside, away from prying eyes.

At last she raised her head. “You are well?”

“Aye. Your message reached me in time.”

“Message?” he heard Simon mumble as he stepped up to Michael’s side.

She nodded, her grip tightening as she wavered where she stood. “I was so afraid that it had not. ’Tis why I would not stop until I reached you. I feared you would be wounded.”

“Well, you may rest easy. ’Tis over. Camden’s plot failed and he and his men are dead. Come now. You are weary from your arduous journey.” Ignoring his fascinated men, he draped an arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the castle. He knew not what shocked them more, that he had performed the act with such casual affection or that she had allowed it, leaning into him to let him take some of her weight.

They had only gone a few steps when she stopped short. “Wait.” Alyssa faced the men. “I thank you for escorting me with such patience and diligence. You are all strong, loyal, honorable men. I could not have asked for a better guard.”

Several mouths dropped open. A few rough-hewn, beard-stubbled faces flushed. Heads dipped and nodded in response.

Michael sketched her a formal bow. “The honor was ours, Wise One.”

“You are very kind,” she whispered. When she swiveled to face the donjon, she staggered into Dillon.

“Easy,” he murmured as he steadied her. Supporting her with a hand at her elbow, he practically held her upright. “Can you walk?” he whispered.

“I must,” she returned, valiantly forcing her shoulders back and her head up, determined to maintain a show of strength.

“Then we shall take it slowly.”

The men behind them remained motionless, watching as he and Alyssa painstakingly made their way to the steps that led up to the castle doors. How badly he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and cradle her against him. To let her head rest against his shoulder, feel her face burrow into his neck, as he carried her to their destination instead.

“Do not let them think me weak.”

“They dare not after the way you drove them to cover so much ground in so little time.” He knew of no other woman who could have pushed his men, all of whom towered above her and were twice her weight—thrice it if you counted their weapons and armor—so hard, forcing them to do her bidding and flattening any protests that arose. Who else but Alyssa could have made it to Pinehurst so quickly? Who else would have even dared try, not knowing what danger might confront her upon reaching her destination?

As usual she had placed his safety above her own. ’Twas an affliction of hers he would soon have to cure.

“’Tis not an affliction,” she whispered lethargically as they stepped through the massive double doors.

Dillon’s head snapped around. “What?”

“My need to see you safe. ’Tis not an affliction, but love that feeds it. Should that not please you?” Her words began to slur with fatigue.

Dillon wondered, heart pounding, if she was even aware of what she had said.

Did she mean it? Did she truly love him?

“Of course I am aware. And aye, I meant it. I love you, Dillon. I wanted to tell you ere you left Westcott, but did not think I had the right.”

Which answered the other question that had arisen. The question he had dared not even ask.

Stopping at the foot of the stairs that led to the sleeping chambers above, she swayed as she peered up them. “Oh, Dillon. I do not think I can climb those stairs. I am so weary. If no one is looking, would you please carry me?”

Carefully guarding his thoughts, he swept her up into his arms, not giving a damn if they had an audience, and carried her up the stairs and into the solar, kicking the door closed behind them.

He crossed to the large, comfortable bed he had spent the last three nights in and lay her down atop it. Only then was he able to push back her cowl and gaze at the face he had so swiftly grown to cherish.

Sleep already claimed her.

Drawing gentle fingers down her pale cheek, Dillon sat beside her on the bed and savored the sight of her. Her long, raven hair was pulled back in a loose braid. Several resilient curls had sprung free about her face, refusing to be bridled. Dark circles pooled beneath her eyes.

So deeply did Alyssa sleep that she did not stir whilst he divested her of her clothing and slipped her naked beneath the covers. Her hands were free of the paints she often used to give the illusion of age, her arms as limp as a rag doll’s.

Smiling, Dillon leaned over to stroke her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Sleep, love,” he whispered. “We shall talk when you awaken.”

And they would talk, he vowed as he exited the chamber, went below, and sent Gideon up to stand guard.

Aye, they would talk. For Dillon was suddenly quite certain that she did indeed experience the same visions her mother did, as well as the ability to project them into the minds of others over great distances. And, mayhap more disturbing, that she possessed the ability to read his thoughts as clearly as her own.

Why had she lied? Why had she hidden it from him for so long? And how could she continue to deny it after today?

For, exhausted by days without sleep, she had grown less cautious and answered his thoughts as easily as though he had spoken them aloud.

Thinking back to their tour of her garden at Westcott and their recent forays into lovemaking, he suddenly understood that it had not been the first time she had done so either. There had been quite a few instances in which she had responded to his unspoken ideas and desires. He had marveled at the time over how well she knew him, thinking she simply reacted to his emotions—all that she had claimed she could read. Yet such was clearly untrue.

Dillon could not bring himself to believe that she intended to harm him in some way with the knowledge she gained from perusing his uncensored thoughts. Nay. She had given him too much of herself for that, had nigh sacrificed her life for him. She had ceded her love and placed her heart in his admittedly clumsy and less-than-capable hands, always putting his well-being and happiness before her own.

Why, then, had she lied?

Could it be that, despite her professed love, she did not trust him? Did she fear his response should he learn the true extent of her gifts? Did she think he would spurn her, believing as others did that she was the devil’s get?

Surely not. Not when she knew how deeply he loved her, how completely he adored her. As she must know.

Several of the men who had escorted Alyssa to Pinehurst entered the great hall and trod dully over to the trestle tables that had been erected for them. Dillon watched from his place nigh the great hearth as timid women, still far too thin, brought food and drink from the kitchen to bolster the tired soldiers.

He was both surprised and displeased that Robert was not amongst them. He had placed Alyssa in his brother’s care with the expectation that she would not be allowed out of his sight. But, having searched the face of every man who had acted as her guard, Dillon knew that Robert had remained at Westcott.

Michael entered the hall.

Dillon resolved to ask him news of Robert and strode toward the table to join him.

His questions surrounding his discovery of Alyssa’s dishonesty would have to wait until she was rested.

Then Dillon would demand his answers.

As well as her trust.