England, 1198

As still as though he were an extension of the ramparts themselves, Dillon stared out over the slumbering keep. The same fog that partially veiled it stroked his skin with ghostly fingers and lent an eerie echo to the sounds of the guards who walked the walls.

She was there. Behind him. He had not heard her approach, but he could feel her presence as surely as he could the damp, chilly breeze.

“What brings you to these battlements on this dreary night, Seer?” he asked without turning around.

“Your troubled spirit called to me,” she responded, her voice still but a whisper of its former self. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

He did not speak for many moments. His spirit was indeed troubled. He felt so very weary. And old. As old as some believed the crone hidden in darkness behind him was. “Our king has granted me another keep,” he said finally.

“A fitting reward for one of his most loyal subjects.”

“Think you he has forgotten I fought in opposition to him at Le Mans?”

“He would not hold that against you. You were defending your king. I believe he regrets now being a… less-than-dutiful son to Henry.”

“Spoken most diplomatically, Wise One,” he murmured, amused by her reference to Richard’s hostile rebellions.

“And you have since proven your loyalty to King Richard many times over. You took an arrow for him at Acre. You helped put an end to Prince John’s insurrection. ’Tis proper for him to offer his most fearsome knight a prize or two.”

The laughter that rumbled forth from him carried a hint of the despair that had weighed him down of late.

“What amuses you, my lord?” she inquired.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. As usual, she stood in shadows, her robe hiding what little may have been revealed by a rogue ray of moonlight. “Take my hand, Wise One,” he commanded, extending it toward her, “and tell me what you see.”

She reached out and clasped his hand with one of hers. For one brief instant, he caught a glimpse of age-spotted, yellow-tinged skin stretched across blue veins and slender fingers before the sleeve of her robe glided forward to hide both their hands from his view. It was the most he had seen of her in the seven years she had advised him.

The warmth of that hand, so old and frail, surprised him, distracting him for a moment.

“Well?” he prodded. “How fearsome is the man who stands before you? Look closely. What do you see? What do I feel?”

“A great… lassitude, my lord.”

“Aye.”

“You are dissatisfied with your existence. You have grown weary of battle, of killing.”

He looked down at the obscured inner bailey with a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever be able to erase the cursed stench of blood and death from my nostrils, the images of it from my memory.” The wind picked up, swirling the night mist into mystical shapes and patterns from dreams. “What else do you see?”

“You know I cannot read your thoughts, my lord.”

“Nay, but emotions and desires are clear to you, Seer. Interpret mine as you will.”

“Very well.”

Focusing intently on that which he wished her to see, he felt his hand heat where she touched it as she delved deeper with her peculiar gift.

“Your greatest wish is for peace.”

“Aye.”

“And…” She seemed to stall, mayhap mistrusting the information her gift relayed.

“Continue.”

“A wife, my lord.”

He wondered at the surprise manifested in that statement. With her powers, she saw him more clearly than anyone he knew. Even his younger brother, Robert, with whom he shared almost all of his secrets, did not know him as this one did.

Granted, on those rare instances when she touched him, ’twas usually with the intent to heal. But this desire for a wife had lingered in his heart and mind for some time now, growing stronger alongside his discontent. Surely his soothsayer had become aware of it ere now.

“You sound surprised.”

“’Tis true I did not know you wished to wed,” she admitted slowly. “But that in itself does not surprise me. ’Tis your reasons for doing so.”

He chuckled, a sound rife with self-mockery, and tightened his grip on her fingers. “So, tell me, Seer, why the land’s most formidable warrior, save our illustrious lionhearted ruler, desires a bride.”

Shielded by her dark robe, Alyssa hesitated, uncertain of his mood. She had never seen Dillon quite like this before. “’Tis not for the customary reasons, my lord.”

His large, rough, battle-scarred hand gripped hers with an almost desperate need for contact. Or mayhap reassurance. One would think that, after seven years of serving him, such a simple touch would no longer speed her pulse or make her breath catch. Yet, as always, she had to struggle to keep her hand from trembling within his grasp, to restrict her voice to the steady whisper she had worked so hard to perfect.

Dillon turned his face away from her, as if to hide his despondency from her view, though he must know she felt it as strongly as he did when they touched. High forehead. Straight nose, despite the numerous battles he had fought. Strong jaw now clenched in an effort to control his emotions.

It was a handsome face, marred only by two small scars. One divided his left eyebrow. A second adorned the right side of his chin. He had acquired both before she had come into his service just after Dillon had turned a score and three. She had let naught mar him since.

Though still a young man, the hair at his temples was almost entirely silver. The rest of his thick locks were only sparsely peppered with gray. Those that teased his collar remained as dark a brown as the day he had come into this world. So dark they were nigh black.

How often had she wished she could reach up and touch those locks, discover if they were as soft as they appeared?

“You do not seek a woman to bear you heirs or increase your lands and fortune as most do,” she said.

“Do I not?”

“Nay, my lord.”

“What then?”

Energy strummed through her as she sifted through his emotions. She had come to know him well over the years. Better than most. Mayhap that explained why her gift always seemed to stretch a bit further with him, allowed her to see more.

“You seek a tender smile and a warm embrace, awaiting you on the steps of the donjon each time you return from venturing forth on the king’s business or on your own.”

His eyes squinted slightly, deepening the faint lines the sun had placed at their corners. “What else?”

“You want a loving presence to sit with you by the fire of an evening. To converse with you. Teach you how to laugh again, to find joy in life. Someone in whom you can confide.” She frowned. “Someone who will be as gentle with you as you wish to be with her.”

The hand in her grasp gradually relaxed, as though he were being lulled by her revelation of his deepest fantasy.

Regret that she could not fulfill that fantasy left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Alyssa’s grandmother had warned her that she would one day come to loathe these robes and the silence they required. Her mother had, too. But she had been young when she had donned them and accepted the many responsibilities of Westcott’s wisewoman—a mere ten and six—and had not seen beyond the opportunity to be close to the compassionate, courageous (and, aye, comely) Lord Dillon.

“You wish your bride to come to you innocent,” she forced herself to continue. “Pure, but without fear. You dream of spending many long nights… making love with her.” Her face heated. “And many more falling asleep with her cradling you close to her, chasing off the grisly nightmares that plague your sleep.”

Silence engulfed them when she finished. He withdrew his hand, seeming almost reluctant to sever the contact.

“I ask again,” he said softly, his lips turning down at their corners. “How fearsome is the warrior who stands before you?”

“No less fearsome than he was ere I saw him.”

He shook his head. “How they all would laugh if they knew the truth.”

“And what truth might that be, my lord?”

“That one of England’s most ruthless killers—a man who inspires terror in all, leaves blood and destruction in his wake wherever he travels, and is rumored to devour small children for supper—desires only peace and a wife who will be little more than a nursemaid to him.”

“A nursemaid to your children mayhap. A companion to you. There is no shame in loving, my lord.”

He turned to her, his features alight with curiosity. “Know you of love, then?”

Aye, ever since she was a child and had witnessed—from a distance—his kindness toward her grandmother, his defense of her when others repudiated her. “I have not attained this age without knowing it, my lord.”

“I confess I know not precisely what age you have attained, Seer.”

“You are not alone in your ignorance.”

He grinned at her evasion, as she had known he would. “Fear not. I will not press you.”

“How very wise of you,” she drawled, eliciting a sharp laugh.

“Why should I,” he continued in teasing tones, “when your age does not rouse nigh as much curiosity as your appearance?”

“I have long considered curiosity a bothersome, unhealthy emotion, my lord.”

“Then why do you take such pleasure in generating it amongst my people?” he countered.

She allowed her laughter to emerge as a raspy chuckle. “Mayhap you are the true seer here, my lord, for you know me too well.”

Dillon stared at her, wishing that were true. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder. ’Twould be so easy to reach out, drag back the cowl that covered it, and finally discover what he had spent far too much time pondering. But he would not do so. He would never violate her trust in such a way. Not when she treated his own with such care.

“Why is it that you think you will never find the wife you long for?”

His stomach clenched. “Because she does not exist.”

“You do not believe there is a woman in all of England capable of the tenderness and devotion you desire?”

“I believe there are many such women. But each and every one of them cringes at my approach. When I come to bed at night, I want my wife to tremble with passion, not fear.”

“All women do not fear you,” she stated plainly. When he raised a brow, her cowl tilted to one side. “Think you I do not know all that transpires in your domain?”

A warm flush crept up his neck when he realized she referred to the women who occasionally satisfied his needs. “Do not think that because they sought me out and shared my bed those women were not just as frightened as the others.”

“If they were frightened, they would not have approached you.”

Frowning, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You cannot have lived so many years and remained that naive.” When she remained damningly silent, his tone mellowed. “Or have you?” ’Twas something he had never considered before, her innocence or lack thereof. As many years as she had lived and as much of the world as she had seen, he had assumed that at some point…

Well, he had once even found himself wondering if she and his father had not been lovers for a time.

“Very well,” he said when no rejoinder was forthcoming. “The women who have offered themselves to me did so because fear excites them. They did not come to me for lovemaking. They came seeking domination.”

“And who better to dominate than one with your reputation,” she finished for him.

“Aye.” Dillon tamped down the anger and embarrassment that threatened. He had never divulged that particular secret before, not even to Robert, who often bedeviled him about his long, self-imposed bouts of celibacy. A woman had not sought Dillon out with affection since he had left on his first campaign. Even women who desired the power and wealth Dillon possessed kept their distance, dissuaded by the rumors of violence that cloaked him.

The wisewoman stepped up beside him, close, but not touching.

He did not look at her. He could not.

“’Tis true, I know little of such things,” she murmured.

And he knew how much that admission cost her. In their years of dealing with each other, she had revealed very little of herself to him, yet did so now as an act of contrition for pushing him to discuss what he obviously did not wish to.

“In this instance, I fear we share the same complaint, my lord,” she added sadly.

“What complaint is that?” Dillon found himself holding his breath, unsure how to proceed, since she had never before offered up such personal information to him.

“Very few bother to look beyond our reputations to the individuals they conceal. If you recall, I inspire as much, if not more, fear in those who encounter me.”

He realized the truth of her words as soon as she spoke them.

“I see the people cross themselves whenever I walk past, see mothers tug their children closer to them for protection, hear men hurl accusations of witchcraft and link my name with Lucifer’s. I have even had a stone or two thrown my way.”

His head snapped around in furious disbelief. “Who dared to—?”

“Do not exert yourself on my behalf. ’Twas long ago and the culprits have since been repaid for their actions tenfold.”

He found his anger slow to ebb. “Did you…?”

She sighed. “Alas, nay, though the blame was placed with me.”

“There have been other crimes perpetrated against you, have there not? Crimes you never mentioned to me?”

Her hood swung from side to side. “Only declarations of intent, my lord. The very reputation you despise has been my staunch defender these last seven years. Knowing the trust you place in me, none would dare incur your wrath by following through on their threats.”

At least it had done someone some good, he thought morosely, wondering at the same time if he should not call his people together and make his displeasure known over their harsh treatment of the woman at his side. The same woman who had healed many of them with her hands, sometimes bringing them or their children back from the brink of death.

“Why does King Richard’s gift not please you?” she asked, guiding the subject back to their conversation’s origins.

“Because I must lay siege to the keep in order to claim it. ’Twould seem its previous owner is not ready to relinquish his hold on it.”

“Yet another battle for you to fight.”

“Aye.”

“There is more.”

He could hide naught from her. “’Tis Pinehurst I’ve been given.”

“Lord Camden’s holding?” Camden was son to Dillon’s nearest neighbor Lord Everard, Earl of Westmoreland, whom Dillon had admired and respected ever since he was in swaddling clothes. “He has finally done it, then.”

“What?”

“Beggared his estate through his own greed. His father worried that he would do as much and should not be surprised by this turn of events.”

“I suppose not.”

“No doubt Camden compounded the problem by insulting the king. He has always acted rashly and with little thought.”

“’Tis the way of it. His support of John during Richard’s imprisonment was only the beginning, ’twould seem.”

“When do you depart?”

“On the morrow.”

“Perchance you could employ the same tactics you used to take Brimshire, thus eliminating the necessity of fighting.”

He smiled. “Plan to steal in and lace their food and drink with another of your tasty sleeping potions, do you?” he asked, delighted by her inference that it had been his plan all along. In truth, he had not learned until the keep had fallen how exactly she had aided him that night.

“You need only ask and I shall do as you command.”

He shook his head. “I dislike your taking such risks. Were anyone to discover you…”

“They expect treachery to come in the form of brawny soldiers, not”—and he could actually hear her smile—“from a frail, old woman.”

Dillon paced away from her. It had worked well the last time. She had succeeded in drugging nigh every soldier within the gates. Those who had retained their faculties had surrendered as soon as they had seen him riding inside, his men directly behind him. No violence. No destruction. No unnecessary deaths. Yet, unease trickled down his spine.

“Nay.” He returned to her side. “I like it not. Mix your potion, if you will, Wise One, but I shall find another to smuggle it inside.”

She straightened. “A premonition, my lord?”

“You know I do not share your gifts.” He dragged an impatient hand through his hair. “I merely sense… danger.”

“To me? Or to yourself?”

“Naught so clear as that.” He shook his head. “We both know what a knave Camden is. He will not fight honorably. I ask that you remain here, where I may be assured of your safety.”

“And what assurances will I have of your safety, my lord? I should be by your side should you have need of my services.”

He could not help but be pleased by her concern. Whilst others thought him invincible, she worried over his safety as his mother might have had she lived. “I shall send for you, Healer, should I need you.”

She nodded with notable reluctance. “And I shall fly to you on the wings of your swiftest stallion, my lord, the moment your messenger arrives.”

His lips stretched in a grin others scarcely saw. “So long as you do not truly give the steed wings or my men may flee.”

She responded with another raspy chuckle.

Dillon pondered their conversation later as he lay sleepless in his bed. It might very well have been the most personal they had shared.

It had certainly been the most revealing.

She had always been a solitary figure, the wisewoman, rarely speaking to anyone other than himself unless she was healing a wound. For some reason, he had assumed she wanted it thus. That her powers set her apart. That she preferred her own company to that of others, particularly since others were less than kind to her and seldom thanked her for her efforts when she helped them.

But now…

What a lonely existence she had led. Year after year of enforced solitude, surrounded by people who feared and mistrusted her because of the gifts bestowed upon her at birth. Gifts that were a blessing, but more often were viewed as a curse. Gifts that should have exalted her, but instead had transformed her into a mere vessel to be used by his grandfather, then his father, and now Dillon.

How had they rewarded her? What had they done to make her life easier, to ease her burden when she had eased theirs in so many ways?

The thought unsettled him. His wisewoman had been sorely misused, yet had never in her years of service uttered a single complaint. Even tonight, when she had spoken of those who had thrown stones at her, she had done so matter-of-factly, as if she had never considered that he might be willing to seek justice on her behalf.

It pained him to know she thought as much, that she believed he did not value her more, considering the many days and nights she had staved off the worst of his loneliness. For, when she was not healing an illness, rendering aid to any who incurred an injury, or ensuring that his steward kept his castle running smoothly, the wisewoman frequently remained at his side.

The women he had met at court could barely manage to stutter a greeting when he joined them. The same held true for the men. Rumors of Dillon’s supposed cruelty preceded him into every room, stilling a majority of the tongues present and widening all eyes before he entered. ’Twas why he never stayed any longer than he had to and left feeling like a fire-breathing dragon the villagers prayed would not demand a sacrifice.

His companions, his knights, even his brother all knew how to praise and flatter and turn a pretty head. Dillon had no inkling where to begin. His resulting reticence and unsmiling countenance, coupled with the ruthless reputation he had earned on the battlefield, had therefore proven far too intimidating for the noblewomen he had met, inspiring the fear he had eventually, resignedly, come to expect.

But such was not the case with the wisewoman. She alone seemed invariably at ease in his presence. He felt no need to mince words with her. No need to examine every thought before he spoke it for fear of frightening or offending. No need to modulate his tone when vexed nor monitor his bark when angered.

Mayhap ’twas her age and her own power that made her such a comfortable companion for him. A kindred spirit, as she had implied on the battlements, garnering the same fear in others, unable to function normally in society because of it.

Or mayhap ’twas because she alone was comfortable enough around him to always speak her mind. He knew only that he could relax with her, be more himself, though he always maintained a respectful distance.

A scarcely audible scraping sound met his ears, disrupting his musings. Bolting upright, Dillon grabbed the sword he always kept within reach and prepared to defend himself. He listened, motionless, unable to locate the intruder in the dim light of the dying fire.

“Rest easy, my lord.”

“Wise One.” His muscles relaxing, he returned his sword to its resting place. “Did my troubled spirit call you to me again?” he queried, wondering what had drawn her to his chamber.

Had she known he was thinking of her?

“Nay.” She drew closer, a small silhouette separating itself from a host of others. “This time ’twas my own troubled spirit.”

Remembering his desire to repay the debt his family owed her, he waited until she reached his bedside, then asked deferentially, “How may I serve you, Wise One?”

The question seemed to take her aback. “’Tis I who serve you, my lord,” she responded with some confusion.

“You said your spirit is troubled. Is there naught I can do to aid you?”

She shifted. “You misunderstand.”

“Then, please, explain.”

“I was pondering the words we shared earlier,” she began haltingly. And he felt his bothersome, unhealthy curiosity mount. “Though I cannot locate your bride for you, my lord, I can ward off your nightmares, if only for one night.” Her midnight robe wavered and shimmered as she thrust a mug of rather vile-smelling liquid toward him.

“You would drug me?” he demanded, shocked.

“’Twill not harm you.”

He eyed the mug dubiously. “’Tis not the same potion you plied the men of Brimshire with, is it?” It had taken some of the men two or three days to regain consciousness after consuming it.

“Of course not,” she retorted, her voice almost, but not quite rising above a whisper for the first time in years. “’Tis very mild. You will merely rest a little deeper, free of the threat of nightmares, and awaken refreshed on the morrow.”

He looked from the mug to her hooded figure. ’Twas tempting. He could not remember the last time he had slept the whole night through without waking at least once to the sound of screams reverberating through his head. Unfortunately…

“I cannot leave myself so vulnerable, Healer.” Every good soldier knew that sleeping too soundly could endanger a man’s life.

“No harm shall come to you whilst you sleep.”

“But—”

“I will not allow it, my lord,” she added with a conviction that made him wonder once more at the true extent of her gifts.

“What of your troubled spirit?”

“Your sleep will ease it.”

Once again he wished he could espy her features. “Very well, Wisewoman.” He took the mug from her and, trusting her implicitly, drained its contents with a shudder and a grimace ere he handed it back to her. “I thank you.”

“Lie back and close your eyes,” she instructed in a gentle voice. “’Twill soon take effect.”

He did so, willing his mind to stop racing, silencing the questions that wanted to tumble from his lips.

Her potion came swiftly to his aid. In only minutes, he could feel himself tumbling off the precipice of consciousness.

She was wrong, though. He did dream.

Just once.

He dreamed that, as he succumbed to sleep, his bride’s fingers tunneled tenderly through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead before gentle lips pressed a kiss there.

“Rest well, Dillon,” she said in a lilting, melodious voice as delicate fingertips trailed down his temple, past his ear, and followed the line of his jaw to the scar on his chin. “I shall not leave your side.”

Then, drawing the blankets up over his broad chest, she lay down atop them and lovingly cradled him against her when he turned into her reverent embrace.

So soft.

So soothing.

So full of long-awaited love for him.