“You are fidgeting again.”

Ignoring Dillon, Alyssa turned to look over her shoulder at the long procession of soldiers on horseback that followed them. “Do you suppose Lord Everard is all right?” She could not locate Westmoreland amongst the other men. “Mayhap ’tis too soon for him to make such a trip. ’Twill tire him.”

“’Tis but a short trip.”

“We should have postponed it another fortnight.”

Dillon sighed. “I have already allowed you to postpone it twice, sweetling. Did you have your way, we would not leave Westmoreland until the snows thawed.”

She frowned at him. “But he has not yet recovered all of his strength.”

“He is strong enough.”

“And ’tis so cold.”

“’Twill only grow colder do we wait,” he responded patiently.

“Spring is not so very far away. We could have waited until then.”

He grinned. “You will be too round to sit a horse by then, love.” Reaching out, he gave her still-flat stomach a gentle pat.

Heat suffusing her cheeks, she batted his hand away.

“Can you not call him Father?” he broached softly.

She bit her lip. “’Twould make me feel disloyal to the one who raised me.”

“Matthew knows he will always be the father of your heart. The one who helped you take your first steps and learn your first words. The one who helped you grow into the wondrous woman I fell in love with. I do not think ’twould trouble him if you called the man who sired you Father, as well.”

Whilst Dillon had liberated Alyssa from the dungeon, Robert had raced to retrieve her family.

As fate would have it, her mother had seen in a vision that Alyssa would need them and had already sent for Geoffrey and Meghan. Together with Matthew and Alyssa’s grandmother, they had set out to aid her not long after she had been captured. So Robert had, thankfully, encountered them all on the road to Westcott and had returned with them posthaste.

Dillon and Matthew had instantly liked each other, much to Alyssa’s relief. And, though she doubted the two men would ever be friends, there seemed to be no animosity on Matthew’s part toward Westmoreland, who Beatrice finally admitted had sired Alyssa. Matthew alone seemed unsurprised by the revelation, leading Alyssa to believe that her mother had confided in him long ago.

It had hurt, learning that her mother had lied to her all these years, vowing she knew not the name of Alyssa’s father. Declaring him lowborn in all of her tales.

Fear had driven Beatrice. Fear that, were the truth known, Westmoreland’s wife might harm Alyssa. Or mayhap harm Beatrice herself. After all, Beatrice had aided Westmoreland in siring a son on his wife when she wished not to conceive. And had demanded he give her a child of her own as payment, though Westmoreland knew naught but that she had wished to share her body with him for a night.

When Camden’s dissolute nature had become obvious, Beatrice had been more determined than ever to keep her secret, fearing that Westmoreland might return and take Alyssa from her if he learned he had sired a daughter. Or that Camden might kill Alyssa to ensure that his inheritance went undivided.

In the weeks that had passed since Dillon slew Camden and Westmoreland learned he had sired a daughter, Westmoreland had expressed a desire to declare Alyssa his heir. So her mother’s fears might not have been in vain.

“Lord Everard cannot truly name me his heir, can he?” she asked, uncomfortable with the notion.

Dillon grunted. “Now that Camden and his cousin are both dead, Westmoreland has no other living relatives.”

Alyssa refused to think about Camden having been her half brother and once more turned her thoughts to Matthew. “It makes me feel as though I am abandoning Father in order to gain wealth and property.”

“You are not abandoning him at all,” Dillon assured her. “Nor does he think you are. Matthew will always be welcome in our home, Alyssa. And you may visit him in the home of your birth anytime you wish… once our son is born.”

“The babe is fine, Dillon,” she promised, noting the concern that darkened his brow. “Healthy and strong.”

Turning his head, he met her gaze. “If he is healthy and strong, why do you have such difficulty keeping food in your belly?”

She grimaced. Everything she put in her stomach seemed to come right back up again. “Such is normal for a woman who is breeding. ’Tis the mark of a healthy babe, my grandmother says, and ’twill soon pass.”

“Well, I like it not,” he grumbled, reaching out to capture her hand in his own.

She laughed. “Nor do I. If you did not insist on remaining by my side at all times, you would not be subjected to such unpleasantness.”

His face softened. “Twice now I have nigh lost you. Can you blame me for wanting to keep you always within my sight?”

Her heart swelled. “Nay.”

A cold breeze rose up around them. The barren branches of trees crackled and clacked as they swayed and collided with one another.

Worried that Westmoreland might take a chill, she looked over her shoulder again.

“He is fine, Alyssa. Cease your fretting.”

She tossed Dillon a petulant frown. “We should have waited.”

“You are only using his supposed frailty as an excuse to postpone the inevitable.”

“Faugh!”

“You will have to face the people of Westcott sooner or later, love. The longer you put it off, the more difficult ’twill be.”

She snorted, attempting to hide the nervousness that plagued her and had made her nausea worse that morn. “I have faced your people many a time.”

“Our people. And not like this, you have not.”

Glancing down, she plucked at the luxurious cloak lined with fur that kept her warm. Beneath it, she wore a long, pale green tunic softer than anything she had ever owned topped by a surcoat carved from yards of beautiful velvet in a lovely emerald green.

The clothing of a true noblewoman.

Dillon had insisted she leave her hair loose this morn, free from any restriction save the jeweled circlet he had placed atop her head himself. Two new daggers reposed at her waist, replacing those she had lost whilst fighting Camden’s soldiers. New boots fashioned from the most supple leather graced her feet. A trunk full of clothing as grand or more grand than that which she now wore lumbered along somewhere behind her. Even her undergarments were of the highest quality. Dillon had seen to it all, choosing it whilst she had remained abed, recovering from both her injuries and her second healing.

Alyssa was unaccustomed to such grandeur. “I feel a complete fraud,” she grumbled.

“You are beautiful. A countess in every way. I am proud to call you wife.”

“I fear your people will not agree,” she countered.

“Our people have been made well aware of who my bride is and will welcome you with open arms.” Glancing away from her, he muttered, “Or risk losing their heads.”

Amusement rose up inside her despite her concern. He was so protective of her. And so very stubborn. Dillon had decided he would make his people love her, and still seemed to think he could actually accomplish such an impossible feat.

Alyssa smiled, letting her gaze trace his handsome profile. She could scarcely believe he was her husband, wed to her at Westmoreland in a ceremony conducted by Father Markham at Dillon’s own insistence. And with the king’s blessing.

Alyssa had been staggered by their good fortune and had feared Dillon had beggared his estates, buying King Richard’s approval. However, when asked how he had accomplished such a miraculous feat, Dillon had simply said he possessed knowledge of their lionhearted ruler that King Richard wished to remain private. He would not tell her what and managed to keep his mind frustratingly blank whenever she tried to riffle through his thoughts in search of the answer. Alyssa could glean only that it had something to do with King Philip of France.

When Dillon had vowed to forever maintain his silence as long as the king voiced no objections to their union, King Richard had accepted the wealth of gold that had accompanied Dillon’s missive and had offered them both hearty congratulations.

Alyssa shook her head in amazement. Dillon had known she feared wedding him without the king’s blessing and had dared to blackmail the fierce monarch in order to procure it. As little time as King Richard spent in England, he needed Dillon’s loyalty and sword arm too much to simply slay Dillon to ensure his silence. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

His lips tilted up in a warm smile that she thought would always make her insides melt. “Aye. A dozen times or more. But ’tis not enough.”

She laughed, then gasped when he suddenly leaned over, grasped her about the waist, and lifted her to sit sideways across his lap. Barely settled, she clung to him helplessly whilst he dipped his head and captured her lips in a long, passionate kiss.

“Dillon, your men,” she protested breathlessly when he finally drew back. She peeked over his shoulder, then groaned at their amused grins, sly glances, and knowing nudges.

Not at all concerned, Dillon hugged her close. “My men are well accustomed by now to seeing me accost my wife. ’Tis no secret that I love you dearly and cannot keep my hands off of you.”

She grinned, wrapping her arms around him and nestling her head to his chest. ’Twas true. The man had no shame, no sense of propriety. If he wanted to kiss her, he kissed her. Wherever they might be. Whomever they might be entertaining. If he wanted to slip his arms around her and cuddle her close, he did that, too. And he had no qualms whatsoever about scooping her up in his arms at the most unexpected moment and carrying her up to their chamber to make wild passionate love to her, leaving his intentions no secret to those who witnessed their retreat.

“I shall soon have to pound some sense of propriety into that handsome head of yours,” she lied. Alyssa adored his spontaneity. ’Twas a playful, boyish side of him she had not seen often enough.

“I admit my actions this time were not purely motivated by pleasure,” he confessed.

She sat up straighter, arching her brows. “Oh?”

He sent her a sheepish grin. “Westcott lies ahead and I feared you might bolt.”

Head snapping forward, she swallowed hard as her stomach turned over. “I am going to be sick.”

“Nay, you are not,” he retorted instantly.

“I am, Dillon. I am going to be sick. You must stop.”

“Alyssa, look at me.”

Worries tumbling through her head, she did so.

“All will be well,” he promised. “Will you not trust me in this?”

She sighed. How could she say nay when he looked at her with such tender concern, as if there were naught he would not do to ensure her happiness. “Aye,” she whispered, feeling no better.

Alyssa did not delude herself into believing that the rest of the nobility would accept her as Dillon’s wife and would not scorn Dillon for marrying beneath him. Only half of the blood that coursed through her veins, after all, was noble. Nay, the noblemen and women may be coldly polite when in the king’s presence, but they would never welcome her, never accept her as one of their own, and would no doubt issue barbs and cutting remarks every chance they could get. Fortunately, Alyssa would have only sporadic contact with them and Dillon did not care what they thought of him. Mayhap because his fearsome reputation would keep them at bay.

Here at Westcott, however…

She would see these people every day, was expected to lead them at her husband’s side, and held little hope that they would welcome her presence in their lives with more eagerness than they had the evil sorceress they had long imagined her to be.

Dillon gave her a reassuring squeeze.

When they cantered across the drawbridge, through the massive gate house and into the outer bailey, they found it deserted. Disheartened, Alyssa wondered if the people had been so upset by their lord’s choice of brides that they had refused to greet them upon their return.

When they passed through the barbican into the inner bailey, however, she gaped at the sight that met her eyes. “Are they all here?” she asked, staring about them in wonder.

“By the looks of it, I would say so.”

The people of Westcott packed the bailey. So many that they left only a narrow path open from the gates to the steps of the keep, where Robert, Father Markham, Ann Marie, and Simon waited with smiles of greeting. Off to the side a bit stood Michael and the rest of her former cellmates, all grinning from ear to ear.

When Alyssa’s eyes alighted upon another figure, she frowned. Hugh, the jailer from Westmoreland who had been so concerned for his soul, bowed and scraped as though they were royalty. Whatever was he about?

Dillon slowed his destrier to a plodding walk, giving the people time to adjust to her appearance. Alyssa could not tell whether they were pleased or displeased. None uttered a single sound. Even the children remained quiet, gazing up at her with silent awe. Then…

“Where is the sorceress?” someone mumbled in a loud aside.

“Right there, you dolt,” another muttered.

Alyssa searched for the speakers, but could not find them in the sea of faces to her right. Nor could she identify either of the voices, pitched low as they were. But both belonged to men.

“Where?”

“He holds her in his arms. Are you blind?”

“Well how was I supposed to know? She does not wear her robes.”

“She is the only woman in the party, you fool!”

Dillon coughed to cover the laughter she felt shake his shoulders and jostle her back.

Alyssa felt her own lips twitch and bit back a nervous giggle.

An older man to her left cursed. This one she could see quite clearly.

“What?” his weathered wife demanded. “Stop crumplin’ yer face up like that or you will have the countess thinkin’ you do not like her.”

“’Tis not that,” he denied. “I was just rememberin’ all of the bawdy jests I told in ’er hearin’, thinkin’ ’er a crusty old wench like you.” He winced when his wife’s hand abruptly made contact with the back of his head. “And now to find out she’s so young and innocent and a saint an’ all…” He shook his head. “I fear I have cleared myself a wide path to Hell, Edith.”

His wife snorted. “You cleared that path long afore we came to Westcott.”

Dillon chuckled again.

Alyssa’s amusement waned. “Dillon,” she broached, “of what does he speak? A saint? Who told him that?”

“I suspect Hugh has been spreading tales.”

A groan escaped her. “I thought Father Markham cleared up that misconception ere they left.”

“Evidently not.”

“Well, I cannot let these people believe I am a saint.”

“Better a saint than a sinner—oomph! Watch the elbow, wife.”

“Sister!” Robert’s boisterous welcome distracted Alyssa from the sharp retort that had formed on her lips. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

Smiling, she let him help her down from Dillon’s horse. “Aye, Robert. Quite pleasant.”

“You are well?”

“Aye.”

“Nay,” Dillon negated, dismounting beside her. “Every morsel I coax her to eat comes back up and finds a home in whatever container or bush is nearest at hand.” He hastily caught Alyssa’s elbow ere she could drive it back into his ribs again.

“Husband, ’tis not appropriate to discuss such things in front of others.” Flushing hotly, she assured Robert, “’Tis naught. I am well, truly.”

He looked confused for a moment until understanding dawned. “Ahhh. ’Tis my future nephew who disturbs you so.”

Gasps sounded around them.

Father Markham beamed at her over Robert’s shoulder, already a party to their secret, whilst Ann Marie blurted ecstatic congratulations.

Amidst the ensuing chatter, Dillon took her hand in his much larger one and led her to the top of the steps. Alyssa’s stomach fluttered nervously as he turned them both to face his people. And she worried for a moment that she might be sick right there in front of all.

A hush fell over the crowd that had been alive with discourse as news of her pregnancy passed from person to person like a breeze through trees.

Her heart pounded with both dread and anticipation, thudding against her ribs.

Would they mock her? Would they loathe her? Would they accept her, grudgingly or nay?

Commanding her attention, Dillon raised her hand to his lips and winked at her to ease her fears. “People of Westcott,” he called, his deep voice loud and majestic. “I present to you my wife, my advisor, my heart. Mother of my heir. Wisewoman and healer of all. Lady Alyssa, Countess of Westcott!”

Cheers exploded through the bailey.

Alyssa started violently.

Laughing, Dillon yanked her into his arms and captured her lips in a lengthy kiss, goading the cheers to a deafening roar.

Dizzy with surprise and relief, Alyssa stared up at him in amazement. “Did you truly threaten to behead them if they did not accept me?”

“Nay.”

“Then how did you accomplish it?”

Dillon assumed a smug expression. “Think you I lied when I said ’twas not impossible?”

Grinning, she raised her arms and linked them around his neck. “Nay. But I believe I have been right all along.”

“About them?”

“About you,” she corrected as she tunneled her fingers through his soft, thick hair. “I knew there was a hint of sorcery coursing through your blood.”

Much to the delight of those present, he leaned down to nibble her ear. “How else could I claim a sorceress of my own?”

Another melding of lips followed, poignant and sweet. For long moments, they gazed at each other, oblivious to all save themselves, looking forward to the future they would share at Westcott, a future both had once thought impossible. The children they would raise. The utter, marvelous chaos that would embrace them were any born with her special gifts.

“I love you, Dillon.”

“I love you, Alyssa,” he responded warmly.

Smiling shyly, her arm around his waist and his looped around her shoulders to keep her firmly anchored to his side, Alyssa turned to face his people.

Nay, their people.

The cheers rose to a roar, stealing her breath, bringing tears to her eyes.

At last, she thought, glancing up at the man at her side.

He glanced down, his hand tightening on her shoulder. At last.

 

 

Thank you for reading A Sorceress of His Own. I hope you enjoyed Dillon and Alyssa’s story. If you’re new to my work and would like to see more of Seth, Marcus, and Roland—you can find them in all of my Immortal Guardians novels. If you have already read my Immortal Guardians books, I hope you enjoyed seeing Marcus as a mortal teenaged squire! Be sure to look for the second book in The Gifted Ones series, Rendezvous With Yesterday, in Spring 2016. A time travel romance, it will tell Robert and Bethany’s story.

 

If you liked this book, please consider rating or reviewing it at an online retailer of your choice. I appreciate your support so much and am always thrilled when I see that one of my books has made a reader happy. And ratings and reviews are an excellent way to recommend an author’s books, create word of mouth, and help other readers find new favorites.

 

Thank you again!

 

 

For the latest news on upcoming releases, contests, and more, please visit . You can also find me on

 

My Blog —

Facebook —

Twitter —

Tsū —

YouTube —

Pinterest —

Goodreads —

Google Plus —