The room was unfamiliar to Alyssa. A peasant’s hut by the looks of it. Clean, but one of more modest means than that in which she had been raised.

The dirt floor, worn smooth, had been neatly swept and bore no rushes. The hearth contained a stack of wood and kindling that remained unlit. The small dwelling boasted only one window through which she could see sunlight shining outside. Black draperies hung to either side of it.

A man sat before the window with his back to her, staring out at something she could not see. Beside him, on a small table carved from a tree trunk, rested a single burning candle.

Slowly, she walked in a half circle until she could see his face. ’Twas Matthew, her stepfather, garbed in clothing that was far finer than those she was accustomed to seeing him wear.

“Father?”

He heard her not. Just kept staring through the window.

Wishing to get a glimpse of whatever held his interest, she moved closer and peeked outside.

’Twas a boy. Very young, not long out of swaddling. Cloaked in innocence and little else. He dug in the dirt, giggling, making a mess of himself, and enjoying every minute.

A smile crossed her lips as she looked again at her father who, having been blind these many years (old wounds such as his were often beyond her or her grandmother’s ability to heal), now miraculously could see.

The candle flame danced wildly, drawing her gaze. As she watched, the candle began to burn rapidly, the wax slithering down its sides like a snake to pool at its base, then slip over the edge. The shadow her father cast on the dirt floor deepened, lengthened, blending into the darkness already there until one was indiscernible from the other.

“Father?”

Beneath her uneasy gaze, the dwindling flame flickered, then went out. Ghostly tendrils of darkness escaped the wick, reaching toward the ceiling with charcoal arms that disappeared into nothingness.

* * *

“No.” Alyssa slowly came awake and stared up through the Stygian blackness.

Dillon’s arm tightened around her waist. “Alyssa? What is it?”

“I dreamed of my father,” she whispered.

He must have heard her rising distress, for he pressed a quick kiss to her throat, then raised himself onto one elbow. “Do you need parchment and ink?”

“Not this time.”

Easing back against the pillows, he drew her into his embrace.

Alyssa wrapped her arms around him, so thankful he was there with her, and squeezed as close as she could get. A sniffle escaped her as tears burned her eyes.

“Tell me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her ear.

“He could see, Dillon. And he was dressed in such finery, but… the candle… and the shadow… and the draperies.” Her breath hitched. “I fear it means he is dying.”

“Shh.” His hold on her tightened. “Please do not weep, love.”

Alyssa knew it upset him. She could feel it. His concern. His search for the right thing to do, the right thing to say to calm her, to ease her burden. The way her sorrow became his own.

Oh, how she loved him. How she needed him. Needed this. The strength he offered her. The comfort. The love that had become so necessary to her in such a short time.

“I must go to him. I must see if I can heal him. I am stronger than my grandmother now. If whatever illness has befallen him is beyond her ability to heal, mayhap we can do as Seth instructed and combine our strength to save him.”

He nodded. “We shall depart on the morrow.”

Relief mingled with the worry flooding her. “Thank you.”

“I would do aught for you, sweetling.”

She smiled. And she could face aught with Dillon at her side.

Then duty reasserted itself. For a moment, she struggled against it, then reluctantly surrendered. “Dillon, you should not leave Pinehurst now.” Although she craved his company, she could not in good conscience tear him away from these people whose very lives depended upon him.

“Simon shall remain and oversee the keep whilst I accompany you.”

“Simon is a capable leader,” she acknowledged, “but Pinehurst will need more than that in the coming weeks. Winter fast approaches and there is much left to be done. The people are only now beginning to doubt the terrible tales Camden poisoned their minds and your name with. If you stay, you will have both their loyalty and their love by first snowfall. They need you here, Dillon.”

“But you need me with you,” he contended. “Are you trying to talk me out of accompanying you?”

She frowned. “I do not wish to, but as your advisor—”

“I will accompany you.”

“All right,” she answered, glad he would be by her side even though she knew she should continue to counsel him otherwise. “Thank you, Dillon.”

“Rest now. A difficult journey awaits us.”

Alyssa closed her eyes and listened as his breathing slowly deepened into sleep.

The dream would not cease haunting her, however, and kept her awake until just before sunrise.

* * *

The fates conspired against him, Dillon vowed. He arose early in the morning, intent on accompanying Alyssa to her father’s sickbed. Kissing her awake, he bid her rise and make ready for their journey, then sought out Hamon the stable master. In short order, he chose a handful of men to accompany them, ordered Hamon to prepare their mounts, then went in search of Simon.

A loud disturbance in the stables drew his notice shortly thereafter. That lunatic horse that had carried Alyssa to Pinehurst had apparently taken an instant disliking to Hamon, who failed to mention this to Dillon because he feared displeasing his new lord. Damn Camden and his sorry lies!

And damn Dillon’s fierce reputation as well. It had proven to be more of a hindrance of late than an ally. Though the people seemed pleased with his treatment of them thus far, they appeared to expect him to lose his head at any moment and begin torturing individuals at random.

Well, the blasted horse went mad when Hamon attempted to saddle him and, after missing several times, finally managed to kick the poor man in the head, knocking him senseless, but thankfully not killing him.

Let loose of his stall, the horse ran amuck through the already weakened stables, bucking and rearing, kicking and causing monumental damage, terrifying the other horses, and injuring half a dozen stable lads ere Dillon made it to the scene and ordered the idiots to stand back.

As he tried to soothe the frenzied beast with serene words, the crowd parted and Alyssa approached with slow, deliberate steps. His heart in his throat, Dillon watched—spellbound—as she strode toward the snorting animal, whispering words that did not carry. Eyes rolling, the horse reared one last time and backed away a step or two, uncertain. Then, to Dillon’s and the crowd’s utter astonishment, it docilely ducked its head and moved forward to nudge her hidden hand with its nose. Seconds later she led it, meek as a lamb, outside the stables.

The damage had been done, though. Years of neglect, coupled with the heavy rains of the past few days and the new holes and broken beams provided by Alyssa’s manic destrier (it was most certainly hers now), left the structure ready to collapse.

They barely managed to hasten the last horse out before it did.

One more undertaking that could not be delayed.

Nevertheless, Dillon remained determined not to let Alyssa leave alone. ’Twould not be fair to her. She needed him.

At least, ’twas what he told himself. More accurately, he needed her to need him. Such would prove that she did indeed love him, despite her continued reluctance to speak of it when lucid. His desire for voluntary verbal confirmation of her feelings grew stronger every day, making him restless and impatient.

Alyssa healed those injured by her stallion, then accompanied Dillon to speak with Simon.

Dillon rapidly fed Simon orders for the construction of a new, larger, stronger stable.

“Comparable to Westcott’s,” Simon murmured.

Dillon nodded. “I wish to install a much larger garrison here and of necessity the stables must be able to…” He trailed off as a rumbling sound arose, swiftly gaining in volume. “What now?” he growled, looking up.

Alyssa, who stood at his elbow, ready to offer counsel, glanced up with interest.

Before their astonished eyes, a large portion of the western curtain wall abruptly collapsed in a jumble of mud, stone, and debris.

All activity in the bailey ceased.

Simon spoke uneasily into the leaden silence that followed. “Mayhap tunneling under it weakened it despite the care we took.”

Beyond furious, Dillon let loose a loud, long stream of expletives.

Surprised, Simon glanced from him to Alyssa, then apologized to her on Dillon’s behalf.

“Ready your horse, Simon,” Dillon ordered, knowing what Alyssa thought without her having to say a word.

Simon looked at him in confusion. “My lord?”

“Do as I say. I shall remain at Pinehurst whilst you accompany the healer in my stead.”

Alyssa nodded. “’Twould be wise,” she whispered.

“Take double the originally intended number of men.”

“Aye, my lord.” Simon sketched Alyssa a quick bow and left to follow his lord’s orders.

“You said I should not go and now it seems I shall not go.” Turning to stalk away in anger, Dillon felt her hand on his arm and stopped.

“Dillon,” she began. Now that none were nigh, Alyssa spoke in her normal voice. “What would you have me do? Tell you to forget all of this? Beg you to accompany me?”

“Aye! If you truly wanted my company, you would.”

“’Tis not how it works. You know that. You are the earl—”

“My title has naught to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with this!”

His lip curled as he turned to face her. “You use my title as an excuse to avoid discussing our future!”

“Nay, I use it to remind you that we have no future. You may delude yourself into believing our positions mean naught, but eventually reality and your king will convince you otherwise.” Taking a deep breath, she released it slowly. “Dillon, please, you must understand. I did not relinquish my role as your advisor when I became your lover.”

Hearing the regret in her voice, he wished, as always, that he could see her face.

Glancing around, she reached up and eased her cowl back just enough for him to glimpse her features whilst keeping them hidden from the view of others.

Her misery mirrored his own.

“As your advisor, I cannot support your leaving Pinehurst and the people here who need the stability and protection of their new lord in order to sit by your leman’s side and hold her hand whilst she nurses her ailing father.” When he would have protested, she shook her head. “As your lover, I desire naught more. But I cannot let that influence me. You belong here.”

Dillon cursed his inability to touch her then, to draw her close and slip his arms around her.

“Do not be angry with me,” she whispered. “You know ’tis how it must be.”

“I am not angry with you,” he assured her. Circumstances infuriated him, not her. Because, as always, she was right. ’Twas not a good time for him to leave Pinehurst, no matter how strong his desire to do so. The damned place was falling down around him. The people wandered about like lost children seeking the guidance of a parent. And, with Camden dead, he had little reason to fear for Alyssa’s safety.

As for the other, ’twas merely frustration that had made him lash out at her. He knew she was not ready to admit they belonged together, regardless of the impediments they faced. “In truth, I simply dread being parted from you again so soon.”

She nodded. “As do I. But I shall take with me your love to hold close in the coming days. And I shall visit you in visions so that we might not be long apart.”

The urge too strong to resist, he slid his hand inside her cowl and cupped her face, brushing his thumb across one silky cheek. “Nay. ’Twill tire you too much to do so and well you know it. You will need your strength to aid your father. I would not have you drain your energy in visions simply to pacify me. ’Twould not be fair to either of you.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. “Then I shall return to you with all due haste, my lord.”

“I shall be waiting.”

She turned her face into his hand. “Until then…”

“Good journey, love.”

Her gaze roaming his face, Alyssa pulled her hood forward once more and left to retrieve her things. Soon after, she joined Simon and the others assigned to protect her.

The thunder of hooves accompanied their departure as mud splattered in their wake.

Left behind in the crowded bailey, Dillon had never felt so alone.

The first day of travel proved to be pleasant. Though recent rains had left the road muddy and difficult to negotiate in places, the sun shone brightly all day. A brisk breeze pinkened their cheeks and noses whilst it kept the men cool in their armor and thickly padded gambesons.

Lamentably, the same could not be said for the days that followed. The rain returned the following morning, a steady downpour that lasted all day and continued into the next. Despite Simon and Michael’s entreaties, Alyssa refused to seek shelter until the storm passed, insisting on plodding forward however slowly.

In addition to Simon and Michael, twelve knights rode in their party. None offered a word of complaint. The men merely tucked their chins to their chests and pulled their sodden cloaks closer about them in an effort to block out the worst of the weather.

Simon insisted that Alyssa wrap his cloak about her, leaving him exposed. Michael had offered his first. And there had been a tense moment when she had refused it. She had feared the poor weather would make his lungs protest and had not wanted to aggravate his condition further by removing his only source of protection and warmth. Unfortunately, explaining her reasons had only darkened his mood further.

He had spoken nary a word since.

Exhaustion began to take its toll on Alyssa and ’twas only their third day of travel, which admittedly was much less taxing than her last expedition. Sleep had eluded her the previous night. Worry over her father had plagued her, compounded by disquiet over the argument she and Dillon had engaged in when last she had seen him. ’Twas only the first of many arguments, she suspected, because her father was not her only cause for concern.

Her belly roiled with nausea with every step her destrier took. What would have merely tired her before, now left her barely able to hold up her head. The scents around her seemed magnified, a constant aggravation that made the nausea worse. And her breasts were tender and heavy, confirming what she had already guessed weeks ago.

She carried Dillon’s child.

And feared he would do something rash when she told him.

He would not wish her to leave Westcott, would want her to remain so the two of them could raise their child together. But how could she stay and maintain her guise as she ripened with his babe? How could she keep their child safe if Dillon insisted she abandon the elderly wisewoman guise that had protected her with rumors of immortality?

Alyssa’s mother had been set aflame as a girl by those who feared Alyssa’s grandmother’s gifts. Alyssa would not risk the same happening to her own son or daughter.

One of the men behind her sneezed, startling a few birds from the surrounding trees. Each of the burly knights had been chosen from her previous escort and no doubt thought her deranged as well as wicked. Alyssa hoped Robert would not be too disappointed when they arrived at Westcott and he discovered that she had single-handedly sabotaged his noble efforts to transform the men into her friends by making them all ill.

The downpour dwindled to a drizzle, though she saw no break in the leaden clouds. Glancing around her, Alyssa realized they were roughly halfway to Westcott. A discussion with Simon and Michael was thus in order.

Nudging her mount, she pressed forward through the protective barrier of Sir Rolfe and Sir Alain and eased her massive destrier between Simon’s and Michael’s.

Simon regarded her with some surprise whilst Michael continued to brood.

“’Tis time we discussed our destination,” she rasped in her elderly wisewoman voice.

“Are we not escorting you to Westcott?” Simon inquired with a frown.

“Nay, our destination lies elsewhere. Lord Dillon did not feel the need to explain when he thought he would accompany me himself. Alas, when our plans changed, there was not time ere we left.” Keeping her gaze on the road ahead of them, she wondered how she might convey her needs without revealing too much. “I find myself in quite a quandary as result. And I fear I must ask a boon of each of you ere we go any farther.”

“We shall aid you in any way we can, Wise One,” Michael assured her, his interest piqued.

“Aye, Healer,” Simon seconded. “You need only ask.”

’Twas just the reaction she had hoped for. “There is one who requires my aid,” she began. “One who is very dear to me and whose safety would be threatened were his location to become known.” As well as his relation to her.

The men exchanged a quick glance.

“Aside from Lord Dillon and Sir Robert, along with Harry and Ann Marie,” she added, refusing to leave out her two friends, “there are none at Westcott whom I trust more than I do the two of you.”

They stared at her so long she began to fear her cowl had slipped.

“You honor us, Wise One,” Michael said gravely.

“Aye. ’Tis a great honor,” Simon agreed.

Alyssa smiled. She had been right to place her trust in them. “We shall reach a point on the morrow at which time your men will halt and travel with us no farther. Only the two of you may accompany me on the rest of the journey. And you must pose no questions when we reach the location I seek.”

Twin frowns greeted her words.

“Lord Dillon entrusted us with your safety, Wise One,” Simon said with some concern. “I fear ’twould not be—”

“I shall be safer there than I am here,” she assured them.

They remained silent, doubtful.

“No villains or cutthroats tread where we shall venture,” she informed them wryly.

Simon swallowed. “Does any mortal tread there?”

A startled laugh escaped her before she could cut it off.

Their jaws dropped in astonishment.

“Forgive me,” she beseeched them, struggling to contain her amusement. “’Tis only—”

That bizarre buzzing abruptly took up residence in her ears as painful pinpricks of unease raced through her body. Pulling hard on the reins, she stayed her horse and motioned for the others to follow suit.

“Wise One?” Michael questioned.

She held her arm out to quell him.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword, as did Simon’s and the other knights’.

The air was still, heavy with the constant threat of storms. No birds twittered. No rain fell. Only the soft patter of moisture falling from drooping leaves broke the silence.

The buzzing increased. The scenery around her blurred, shifted.

She stood within the forest, looking out on her party from a distance. Around her, seemingly a part of the sopping foliage, men armed with swords and longbows cloaked themselves in shadows.

Many men. Awaiting a signal.

“Wise One.” Michael’s voice wrenched her back. “Are you ill?”

“Nay,” she responded, head swimming.

“Then what—?”

“Ambush,” she warned shortly.

“Where?” Simon demanded, his sharp eyes studying the forest around them.

“The trees up ahead. On both sides of the road where it bends. Men, heavily armed, outnumbering us four to one.”

“To arms!” he called.

As soon as the men drew their weapons and raised their shields, swiftly closing ranks to surround Alyssa, arrows showered down upon them.

Simon yanked his shield above Alyssa for her protection and grunted when an arrow embedded itself in his shoulder.

“Worry not about me!” she shouted. “Save yourself!”

Fear, fury, and pure rabid energy raged through her as men poured from the forest and sped toward them, roaring battle cries. It filled her ears and scoured her flesh, made her head ache, her veins burn, as she struggled to control the skittish beast beneath her. The horse could sense it, mayhap could even feel it—the scorching, searing power that screamed inside her and demanded an immediate outlet.

When another flurry of arrows flew their way, Alyssa thrust a hand toward the sky without thought. Lightning crackled above them. Thunder rumbled through the air. As though blown by a powerful gust of wind, the arrows reversed their course and targeted the archers who had let them fly.

Dillon’s knights gaped and hastily crossed themselves, now more fearful of her than of their attackers.

“Fight, damn you!” she roared. “Fight!”

The villains set upon them in the next instant.

Still in the center of their protective circle, Alyssa retrieved two daggers from beneath her robe and prepared to throw them should any of her defenders need her aid.

Swords clashed. Warhorses reared, kicked, trampled those fallen. Grunts and cries of pain abounded. Curses flew from blood-stained lips. Armor flowed crimson.

Sour sweat and the metallic scent of blood assaulted her as Alyssa spun this way and that within the fray. More men joined the melee, slowly luring her protectors away. She had lost count of how many there were, but knew not how so few knights could stand against them.

A bearded man covered in mud and filth broke through the ranks and attempted to drag her from the back of her horse. Alyssa lashed out at him with her dagger, slicing him from forehead to chin, then drew her knee back and kicked him as hard as she could. He stumbled backward, howling as he grasped his bloodied face and went down. The powerful destrier beneath her took care of the rest.

Another followed, then another. Alyssa soon found herself fighting alongside Dillon’s men. When her third adversary went down, she glanced over at Simon and Michael to see how they fared. Both fought with valor and skill, sending one after another to his death. Yet, as she watched, a second opponent came up behind Michael and prepared to strike him, unseen.

Alyssa swiftly threw a dagger, impaling the man in the back, the blade tearing a path to his heart.

Michael dispatched his enemy and spun around at the second man’s cry. His eyes flew from the crumpling form to Alyssa, then widened. His mouth opened. Words emerged, but were drowned out by the chaos that surrounded them.

A warning?

Breath catching, she raised her remaining dagger high and drove it down and backward with all her might. Her weapon met with flesh and sank deep seconds before pain exploded in her head.

She never saw her assailant.

The world tilted, darkened. All strength left her limbs.

Alyssa tumbled from the saddle, the ground rising up to pummel her. Her horse’s hooves danced only inches from her face. The sounds of battle grew muffled, muted, soon silencing altogether as she wrestled against the blackness that rose up to claim her.

Whispers filled her ears. Adamant. Arguing.

“We must remove her cowl.” Simon. ’Twas Simon who spoke so emphatically.

“Nay. As long as I have drawn breath, the wisewoman has kept her face hidden from all. I will not betray her now by revealing it whilst she lies so vulnerable.”

“We agreed, Michael,” Simon said. “We agreed that did she not awaken after a full day, we would remove her cowl and see what must be done.”

“Naught can be done, I tell you. I reached beneath her hood myself and felt the lump on the back of her head. The bleeding has stopped. With no herbs to apply to it, there is naught more we can do.”

“But she is injured,” Simon persisted.

“None knows that better than I,” Michael hissed. “’Twas my fault, Simon. Mine. She was guarding my back when the bastard struck her down, instead of looking to her own. Had I been more vigilant—”

“You are not responsible,” she interrupted, her feeble voice unfeigned for once. Pain radiated through her head and down the back of her neck. Nausea twisted her stomach into roiling knots until she had to fight to keep from retching.

“Wise One?”

She lay on a cold stone floor, the material of her robe protecting her cheek from the abrasive surface. Her damp, chilly clothing raised gooseflesh on her arms and legs, inspiring an occasional shiver.

“Where are we?” Bracing her hands beneath her chest, Alyssa pushed herself up to sit with her back against the intersection of two slimy walls. She appeared to be scrunched up in a dark, dank corner. All else around her remained hidden by her two protectors’ bulky bodies as they crouched on their haunches and hovered over her.

“Westmoreland’s dungeon,” Michael responded, one hand extended in case she should need his support.

“Westmoreland?” she parroted, disbelieving. “That cannot be.” Lord Everard loved Dillon like a son. More than his own son, it often seemed. She could not conceive of his attacking Dillon’s men to avenge Camden’s death.

“’Tis true, Wise One,” Simon confirmed, his smudged face grim.

“How came we to be here?” she asked slowly.

Simon glanced at Michael.

Michael looked at Alyssa. “After you fell…”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “’Twill be quicker if you show me.”

Confusion creased his brow as she reached out and curled her blood- and dirt-encrusted fingers around his wrist.

Images flooded her mind. Of herself, a pool of black material inundated with mud, her loyal destrier standing guard over her and keeping her from being trampled by the many knights and horses that surrounded her. Of the opponents who kept Michael from reaching her side and steadily conquered and disarmed the others, killing seven, inflicting wound upon wound on the rest. Of Michael and Simon surrendering their weapons because they feared for her safety should they continue to fight to the death and leave her alone and defenseless.

The dead men left behind.

The unconscious and dying carelessly tossed over the backs of horses.

Those men who remained conscious, but broken, being bound by long ropes attached to their enemies’ saddles and forced to walk or be dragged all the way to Westmoreland.

And Michael nigh losing his life when he stumbled to her side and, refusing to release her, insisted upon carrying Alyssa instead of handing her over to the men who itched to punish the Cursed Witch.

She swallowed. That kind of loyalty went beyond Dillon’s orders.

How had she come to possess such staunch defenders as these?

Sliding her hand down, she took Michael’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Startled, he looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her, his desire to see beyond the shadows of her cowl almost tempting her into removing it.

But she did not. Instead she thanked him, knowing she was at least partially responsible for the difficulty he was having breathing.

Aye, she could hear his breath, wheezing in his chest, despite his attempts to appear and speak normally.

“Thank you, Sir Michael.” Reaching out, she found Simon’s hand as well. “And you, as well, Sir Simon. You saved my life, most likely at the expense of your own. I shall remain in your debt for as long as we live.”

Simon shifted. “I fear that may not be for very long, Wise One. I know not what Westmoreland has in store for us, but think ’twill not be to release us.”

“Nay,” Michael agreed. “We suspect he has gone mad.”

She nodded. “Lord Everard loves Dillon like a son. I know not what else would have driven him to do this.”

She felt a little jolt go through both men and realized she had spoken Dillon’s name familiarly, forgetting his title. Withdrawing her hands, she tried to peer over their shoulders. “Where are the rest of the men? I know Sir Rolfe and six others were slain, but what of the rest?”

Simon frowned. “How…?”

“Michael showed me. Where are they?”

Michael stared down at his arm where she had touched him as though it were some foreign object just come into his possession.

“Where are the men?” she repeated when neither knight responded.

Mute, they sat back on their heels and parted like a pair of double doors swinging open. Beyond them, on the other side of their prison, she could see the rest of her guard slumped in a jumble of arms and legs amongst the filth that littered the floor. They had been stripped of their mail and hauberks, leaving them clothed in only their hose, braies, and linen shirts. The mud and blood that liberally coated all of them had dried to a dark crust that cracked a little more with each jagged breath or fitful movement.

Four of the five were unconscious. The fifth stared at her, forehead beaded with moisture, gritting his teeth against the pain.

They would die if she did not heal them. All five of them. And without her medicines, under these squalid conditions, she would have to heal them as completely as she could in order to avoid losing them later to fever from infection. Simply stopping the bleeding would not suffice.

Could she do it? Had she strength enough not only to help them, but to help them without harming the babe she carried?

Her grandmother had continued to use her gift when she was with child. Alyssa could only hope ’twould be safe for her to do so as well. For she could not let the men who had fought so hard to save her life lose theirs if she could save them.

“Let me see your shoulder, Simon.”

“My shoulder?” he asked, surprised.

“Aye. I shall heal the two of you first, then take care of the rest. Quickly, now. Remove your shirt.”

He hesitated. “My shoulder is fine, Healer.”

The unexpected falsehood rendered her speechless for a moment. “You would lie to me?”

Swallowing, he looked to Michael for assistance.

Michael’s wheezing worsened. “’Tis not a lie…, Wise One.”

“You, too?” she retorted, undone. “Think you I did not see Simon take that arrow for me?”

“’Twas, uh, poorly aimed,” Simon stuttered. “It barely penetrated my hauberk. ’Tis but a paltry scratch and requires not your aid, Healer.”

Scowling, she latched onto their wrists again to learn what drove their protests.

Michael had guessed that healing hurt her and had told Simon. Now both sought to spare her.

Rolling her eyes beneath her hood, Alyssa tossed their arms away from her with an indelicate snort. “You are both as bad as Dillon,” she muttered, unthinking. “Now remove your shirt, Simon, or I shall snap my fingers and make it doff itself.” An empty yet quite effective threat.

Fearful of another show of her mystical powers, he peeled the garment off without another complaint.

“You men and your paltry wounds,” she complained beneath her breath as she wiped one hand on her robe to clean it as best she could, then placed it above the jagged hole he revealed.

The feverish heat that had already bloomed in his skin where she touched him drained away as she closed the festering wound.

“’Tis your turn, Michael,” she said when finished, her shoulder throbbing minutely.

“You need not… squander your gift on me, Healer… There are others who need you more.”

“But your difficulty breathing—”

“Is not grave.”

“And your leg?”

“’Tis naught.”

“I shall have to curb this new tendency of yours to spout falsehoods,” she murmured, healing the wound in question despite his protests. The worry and guilt her statement spawned flowed into her alongside the pain that settled in her thigh. Once the jagged tear was securely sealed, she gave him a reassuring pat. “I jest, Michael. Do not fret. I understand that you seek only to protect me.”

A ruddy flush crept up his cheeks, inspiring a grin as she used her gift to ease his breathing, then rose and crossed to the other men.

Kneeling before the one who had been staring at her as he stoically bore the torment of his ghastly wounds, she took his bloody arm—torn open from wrist to elbow—gently in her hands. “’Twill only take a moment, Sir Philip. Then your pain will be no more than a memory.”

“My thanks, Healer,” he managed to grind out.

One by one she healed them, taking away their pain, reducing their fever, restoring consciousness. Their wounds were deep and numerous, requiring more strength than Alyssa had believed she possessed. More even than Dillon’s had required. She could only assume that the gifts she had gained through her own healing had indeed heightened her power. For, when the last raging laceration had been mended, she yet lived.

A moan escaped her.

Aye, she lived. But such agony assailed her that it took all of her concentration to control it.

Most of her body either ached, burned, or screamed with pain. Even her belly cramped and continued to churn horribly, making her fear for the babe. Chills racked her with annoying constancy, a result of the blood pouring from wounds that had opened on her limbs, torso, and face as her strength was depleted and she lost the ability to heal herself. Though no injury afflicted her lungs, her breathing grew as ragged as Michael’s had been, echoing loudly in the oppressive silence.

The knights all watched her black-enshrouded form uneasily, hearing her struggle and wondering what it meant.

Simon and Michael knew. Their faces paled with downright fear as they listened to her fight for breath, saw her robe’s violent quaking, and feared she would expire in the next instant.

Michael knelt beside her where she crouched, unable to rise. “What can we do, Wise One?” he whispered with such compassion.

She shook her head. “Help me to the corner… away from the others.” He moved in front of her, clasped her elbows, and drew her to her feet. “I must… ressst.” Collapsing against him, she let darkness surround her and blessedly steal the pain.