He had never slept so well.

’Twas the first thought that struck Dillon when his eyelids fluttered open as dawn broke. Nor had he ever dreamed such sweet, tranquil dreams.

“No nightmares beleaguered you, my lord?”

Startled, he looked toward the speaker and found the healer sitting beside his bed. Had she been there all night, watching over him to keep him from harm as she had promised?

“None,” he answered, his voice still rough from sleep. “I have never felt so rested.”

“I hoped ’twould be so.” She sounded pleased. She must be exhausted.

Yet another debt he owed her.

“I did dream, though,” he murmured, a face drifting through his memory.

Her hood tilted slightly. “I thought no nightmares visited you.”

“’Twas no nightmare who held me close within her warm embrace, but one who must surely be the fairest maid in all the land.”

“Who…?”

“My bride, Seer.” A languorous smile stretched his lips as he rose onto his elbows. “You were right. She does exist. And she is more beauteous than any woman I have ever beheld, with skin as pale as snow and hair the color of midnight.”

“But… but… ’tis not possible,” she stuttered.

Dillon frowned. Did she think him unworthy of such a maid? Had his disclosures the previous night made her think less of him or convinced her that he was right, that he would never find a woman like the one in his dream, who could love him and would be willing to wed him?

Ere he could press her for an explanation, pounding erupted on the door.

“Enter,” he called irritably.

Sir Simon, his second-in-command, threw open the door and strode into the solar with a grin. His gaze flitted from Dillon to the wisewoman. Stopping short, the big man sketched her a clumsy bow. “Good morrow to you, Wise One.”

“Good morrow, Sir Simon.”

He turned back to Dillon and smiled again. “The Cub approaches the gate.”

Thrilled by his unexpected visitor, Dillon eagerly abandoned his concerns and turned bright eyes on the seer. “Robert.”

Completely forgetting the revelation of her innocence the previous night, he threw back the covers, leapt naked from the bed, and hurriedly began to dress.

Lingering in an umbral corner nigh the entrance of the great hall, Alyssa watched their reunion. A vigorous embrace accompanied by the pounding of backs and hearty kisses on stubbled cheeks. At five and twenty, Robert was an inch or so shorter than Dillon, with shoulders equally broad and hair as black as a raven’s wing. Both men were incredibly handsome, their blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. But only Dillon made her breath catch and her heart pound within her breast.

Memories surfaced of the way he had turned to her in his sleep last night and wrapped his arms around her, his large muscled thigh slipping between hers, his lips resting upon the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. She had remained awake through the dawn, savoring his nearness, the way his arms would tighten every once in a while and he would unconsciously urge her closer. Never had she felt more alive.

Even now her body tingled in new ways and places, a condition that was not helped by visions of him leaping naked from the bed earlier. She had seen parts of him unclothed many times over the years. An arm. A leg. His chest.

Never had she seen everything.

Shaking her head, she forced her attention back to the present.

All that remained of their family, the two Westcott warriors remained as close as siblings could be. Their sister had died in childbirth. One of their elder brothers had met a violent end in the Holy Land. The other had perished whilst defending his king during the revolt of 1174. Their mother had died birthing Robert, almost taking Alyssa’s grandmother with her as she had fought for the lives of mother and babe. And their father, the last earl of Westcott, had breathed his last breath without warning one afternoon when his heart had failed him.

So Dillon tended to be very protective of Robert.

“Where are your men?” Dillon guided his younger brother into the great hall with an affectionate arm across his shoulders. “Have they not accompanied you here to eat their way through my stores? I have never seen such appetites as theirs.”

“I rode ahead. They shall be here shortly.”

“You are limping!”

“Faugh,” Robert blustered. “I am stiff from too damned many hours in the saddle.”

Dillon called for ale as he and Robert sank into two chairs positioned before the largest of the four hearths the great hall boasted. “You were the one who chose to leave and seek adventure. I have told you often that you are more than welcome to live out your days here with me.”

“Aye, and your constant coddling would transform me into a maiden in no time.”

Alyssa stifled a laugh.

Dillon grimaced. “Nevertheless. You need not hire out your sword. You take too many risks.”

His brother gave a negligent shrug. “At least I am never bored.”

Silently, Alyssa moved closer, skirting the hall until she stood in a darkened corner, facing the younger man’s back. Robert’s unexpected visit pleased her. If anyone could supply a welcome distraction and lift Dillon’s spirits, ’twas he.

That limp of his concerned her, though. Robert had ever expressed uneasiness in her presence and would rather have a barber pull a tooth than admit he required her healing skills. Did he not seek her out before nightfall, she would have to find some way to corner him.

“If boredom is your complaint,” Dillon broached, “why do you not help me take Pinehurst?”

“Acquired another one, have you?”

“Aye. And Camden’s at that. The damned tenants will not open the gates to me unless ordered to do so by their former master.”

“Not willing to give it up yet?”

“Camden will never surrender it willingly.”

“Sounds like ’twill be a fight. Aye, I will join you.”

“You do not sound overly enthusiastic.”

Nay, he did not. And she assumed it the result of whatever injury had befallen him.

Robert rubbed his eyes. “I am but weary.”

“Then remain here at Westcott, where you belong. Forgo the tournament circuit and fighting other men’s wars.”

The younger man stubbornly shook his head. “I need land of my own, brother, and people of my own who will offer me the same loyalty and respect yours do you.”

“As my heir, all you see around you will one day be yours.”

“I am only your heir until you wed and your wife bears you a son.”

Dillon shrugged, his strong features taking on a somewhat bleak cast. “Since I shall likely never wed, you shall remain my heir.”

Alyssa bit her lip, regretting her earlier reaction to his dream. Or rather to what he thankfully believed had been a dream. She had been so sure he had fallen asleep.

The potion must not have been strong enough. He should not have been conscious, should not have remembered.

It had seemed as though hours had passed ere she had finally given in to temptation, doffed her robe, and—heart slamming against her ribs—lain down beside him. After seven years of loving him, longing for him, she had craved his touch like a man in the desert craved water and had thought him unaware. Had thought herself safe from discovery. Had thought it harmless to steal a moment with him, undisguised.

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering again how wondrous it had felt when he had drawn her into his warm embrace. She had been so surprised. Her heart had pounded so loudly she had feared he might hear it. And such scandalous desire had claimed her.

Returning her attention to the brothers, she feared her distress this morning at discovering Dillon had not succumbed to the herbs—at least not completely—might have sounded more to his ears like mockery.

Robert frowned. “Never wed? What nonsense has the sorceress been filling your ears with now?” He winced and shifted, seeking a more comfortable position.

Watching from the darkness of her hood, Alyssa saw a scowl flit across Dillon’s features. He made a slight motion with his hand, one that would go unnoticed by all save herself. Nodding, she soundlessly moved forward until she stood behind Robert’s chair.

“You have not said what brings you to Westcott,” Dillon said, changing the subject.

“Can a man not visit his family when the mood strikes him?” Robert griped.

At Dillon’s silent instruction, Alyssa rested her fingertips on Robert’s shoulder. “He is injured, my lord.”

Robert lurched clumsily to his feet and spun around, a slew of epithets spewing from his lips. “Unhand me, Witch!” he shouted last and shoved her arm away.

At least, that is all he had intended to do. Alyssa saw the spark of fever and flash of pain that lit his eyes as his leg buckled and he lost his balance. He swiftly righted himself. But that shove had been forceful enough to send her crashing to the floor, where she landed so hard on her side that it knocked the breath from her.

Fear lanced through her until she realized her cowl had not fallen away from her face to reveal her youth. The relief that followed was so great it almost dulled the throbbing that began just above her temple where her head had struck the floor.

For a moment, all was still as every occupant of the hall stared wide-eyed at her crumpled form lying amidst the rushes, then regarded the earl with fascinated alarm, awaiting his response.

Fury swept across Dillon’s features. “You will treat her with respect!” he bellowed at Robert, his face mottling, the veins in his neck standing out, ere he faced the knights, men-at-arms, and servants who gaped at them. “Every one of you will treat her with respect!”

“My lord, please,” Alyssa objected, not wanting him to say or do aught that might foster greater feelings of resentment amongst his people.

Shoving his brother aside, Dillon closed the distance between them, grasped her elbow in one strong hand, and carefully helped her to her feet.

“He did not do it apurpose,” she insisted, stepping away from him and breaking contact as she shook out her robes. “’Tis not necessary.”

Speechless, Robert stared at them both with dazed eyes filled with remorse.

Alyssa had never seen Dillon strike his brother in anger, but feared for a moment he might do so now, so furious did he appear.

She jumped when Dillon instead rested a hand upon her shoulder.

He so rarely touched her.

More of his people, upon hearing the commotion, crowded inside, generating a substantial gathering as he commanded their attention.

“This woman,” he said, his voice ringing clearly enough to reach every ear, “is responsible for much of our good health and continued prosperity. Yet you all fear her and treat her with contempt.”

Alyssa tried to ease back into the shadows, uncomfortable with the attention he drew to her.

Dillon would have none of it and tightened his grip, keeping her at his side. “Know you now that any offense made against her is an offense made against me and will be duly punished. Any kindness she bestows upon you will be repaid with one of your own. The wisewoman has been blessed with gifts we have too often taken for granted. We will do so no longer.”

Alyssa stared at him from beneath her cowl as onlookers glanced at one another uneasily. When it became apparent that he intended to say no more, all quietly dispersed.

Dillon sighed and withdrew his touch, allowing her freedom.

Her thoughts churned as she watched him wrap a supportive arm around his brother’s waist.

Docile now, Robert looped an arm around Dillon’s shoulders and limped along at his side.

Alyssa followed, keeping pace as they made their cautious way to the stairs, climbed them slowly, and headed into the chamber Robert called his own. “I would you had not done that, my lord,” she put forth.

“Why?” Dillon grunted, practically carrying Robert the last few steps to his bed.

“Those who are unwilling to treat me kindly will no longer seek my aid.” Now that the first shock had worn off, she found his defense of her touching. Gallant. His desire to see her treated with respect heartwarming. But she could not perform her duties if the people of Westcott had even greater reason to avoid her.

He snorted as he settled his brother none too gently against the pillows. “If they cannot treat you kindly, then they deserve not your help. Where is he wounded?”

“I am fine,” Robert grumbled.

“His left leg, just above the knee.”

Dillon peeled off his brother’s chausses and let them fall to the floor. Retrieving the dagger from his belt, he began to cut away the hose beneath that covered the area she had indicated.

“A gift withheld is no gift at all,” Alyssa murmured as she leaned forward to get a closer look at the ugly gash he exposed. “It has begun to fester. ’Tis why he is feverish. Had he waited much longer, he would have inevitably lost either his life or his leg.”

Robert paled, hearing that.

Dillon, on the other hand, merely looked more furious.

“It must be cleansed first,” she announced and straightened.

Dillon stared at her over Robert’s inert body, his brow furrowed. “After his actions below, I should not ask this of you.”

“You have not,” she pointed out, then departed without another word to fetch her herbs and fresh water.

Dillon watched the wisewoman leave.

“I am sorry,” Robert said, breaking the quiet that fell in her absence.

“I am not the one you have abused.”

“I know. I shall make amends.”

“See that you do,” Dillon ordered, disappointed in him. “What made you behave so shamefully? She has come to your aid a number of times in the past. Healing your injuries. Banishing your ailments. Lending you her strength during those early months after Father died whilst I quashed rebellions and settled things at Brimshire. She did not deserve that.”

Robert grimaced. “Her presence and her powers have always made me uneasy. I fear my fever made me overreact.”

“Do not call her Witch again.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now, tell me how this came about.”

It seemed to take Robert a moment to follow the change in subject. Another product of the fever, Dillon assumed. “Thieves.”

“Nigh Westcott?”

“Several days march to the south.” He shook his dark, tousled head. “I have never seen such a large band. But we managed to cut them all down.”

Dillon motioned to the swollen, pus-filled wound. “Not quickly enough apparently.”

“A lucky thrust, the bastard. Though they dressed as beggars, I would swear they had been formally trained.”

The wisewoman returned, carrying herbs, bandages, a basin filled with water, and a clean cloth. She set the basin down on the table beside the bed, dipped the cloth in the water and squeezed the excess liquid from it.

Dillon glared at his brother pointedly.

Robert turned to the healer. “Forgive me, Wise One. I meant you no harm.”

Dillon felt her gaze as she bent over the inflamed injury and began to clean it, miraculously managing to do so without exposing her hands. The glimpse he had caught of them last night had been a rarity.

“Mayhap a bit of sorcery courses through your blood, my lord,” she murmured.

He smiled at her teasing response to Robert’s about-face. When the man in question flinched at her ministrations, Dillon laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I made things worse, did I not?” he asked after awhile.

“How so, my lord?”

“Below. With the people.”

Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “If you did, I shall hardly notice a difference.”

He nodded, consumed with regret. “I only wished to make things easier for you.”

“I know.” She examined the wound one last time to make certain ’twas clean. “And I appreciate your efforts. But you cannot erase generations of superstition with a few sternly spoken commands, my lord.”

Dillon wanted to say more, but was painfully aware of his brother’s curious gaze sweeping back and forth between them.

Straightening, the wisewoman set the bowl aside, then placed her hands on the wound. Black material slithered forward to conceal the wonder she performed.

It did not take long. No more than a minute. When she withdrew her hands, her sleeves trailing after her, the wound had closed. Though not completely healed, the angry red of its jagged edges had drawn together in a smooth, pink line that posed no danger.

Minor injuries, Dillon had noted, she healed entirely, leaving behind no trace of their existence. Deeper wounds, however, or those that had festered too long before being brought to her attention, she treated as she had Robert’s, first cleaning them, then healing them to the point that they no longer posed a threat or generated too much discomfort. What remained she treated with herbs and poultices.

Mayhap healing the more serious injuries simply took more energy than her fragile form possessed.

He frowned. Although, regardless of their severity, she had always healed his wounds entirely.

“Are you unwell, Healer?”

His brother’s tentative query made Dillon realize he had been staring fixedly at the pristine white bandage she had wrapped around Robert’s thigh after sprinkling it with herbs. His eyes swerved to the wisewoman, who swayed slightly.

The long sleepless night had taken its toll.

As stubborn as she was wise, she shook her head in denial and moved toward the open door, a slight hitch in her step.

Concerned, Dillon started toward her.

“Your brother needs you, my lord,” she said without looking at him. “See that he remains abed and does not reopen his wound.”

Realizing she did not welcome his assistance, he nodded. “Thank you, Wise One. I shall repay this debt.”

“Any debt owed is mine, my lord.” With those words, she left.

“What do you suppose she meant by that?” Robert asked, puzzled.

Dillon stared at the empty doorway. “I know not.”

The next morning, Dillon stepped out into the inner bailey and nodded to Sir Simon. Three years his junior, Simon had joined Dillon’s service just before the siege of Brimshire had begun. Dillon knew not whence he had come, or whose command he had left, but Simon had proven to be one of the strongest warriors with whom Dillon had ever sparred.

“How is The Cub doing?” Simon asked.

In his early days at Westcott, Simon had remarked upon how fiercely Robert defended his older brother whenever rumors of his supposed cruelty arose. Simon had likened him to a wolf cub and, much to Robert’s chagrin, the dubious title had stuck.

Dillon grunted. “Whining to be let out.”

“I do not whine,” Robert snapped, limping slightly as he joined them. “Nor have I ever. And, considering the number of enemies I have slain and the fact that my ruthless reputation nigh rivals my brother's, do you not think it time you cease calling me Cub?”

Simon nodded solemnly, sunlight glinting off of his dark blond hair. “Mayhap ’tis time I call you Pup instead.”

Robert swore and cuffed Simon on the side of his head. Laughing, Simon shoved him back. The next thing Dillon knew, the two were down in the dirt, wrestling.

Sighing, he bent down, grasped the backs of their tunics and yanked them up and apart. “Children, please.” He gave Robert a little push toward the donjon. “Go seek yourself a place by the fire. Should you reopen your wound, you will answer to the wisewoman.”

Muttering beneath his breath, Robert left.

Simon grinned and shook his head. “What news of Camden?”

“’Tis as we expected.”

“The weasely bastard. He knows he cannot hold out against your forces. From all we have heard, his stores are already so depleted any siege would be over in little more than a fortnight.”

“Yet, a siege ’twill be.”

“Camden still being a pain in the arse?” a gravelly voice interjected. His odor preceding him, the burly Gavin joined them. Tall and dark, he was a spirited fighter with a jovial disposition, but possessed such a strong aversion to baths that Dillon always attempted to remain upwind of him.

Simon sighed. “Aye.”

“Asking for a siege, he is. When do we depart?”

Dillon considered Simon. “You and I are of a size, would you not say?”

Simon looked at Dillon, then down at himself. “Aye. Close enough.”

Dillon glanced at Gavin. “Think you he could pass for me did he don my armor?”

Gavin rubbed the black stubble on his chin, tilting his head first one way, then the other. “As long as he kept the helm on to hide that golden boy hair of his, methinks ’twould work. Why? Not willing to leave The Cub?”

“Nay. Not yet.” Dillon looked at Simon and raised his eyebrows. “What say you, Simon? Would you be willing to emulate me for the sake of our Cub?”

“Though your armor will no doubt drag me down with its weight and chafe me endlessly, I would,” he quipped with a smile.

“Excellent. Gideon will bring you my armor whilst you and the men make ready to leave. Gavin, you may wait and accompany me and a handful of others by week’s end. With any luck, we will join them ere they reach Pinehurst.”

Simon nodded. “No doubt you will. Without the supply wagons to slow you down, you will travel much more swiftly.”

Gavin grunted his agreement.

“Do not engage Camden in battle if you reach Pinehurst first,” Dillon cautioned. “Merely show yourselves and begin assembling the trebuchets.” He had no reason to believe Camden would surrender Pinehurst until violence and force drove him to do it.

“We will begin work as soon as we make camp.”

Gavin chuckled as Simon walked away.

“What?”

“Just thinking of that fool, Camden. No doubt he will stand atop the walls, cackling and casting insults down upon poor Simon’s head, never guessing that he is not you.”

Dillon smiled. “Aye. The jest will be on him, will it not?”

* * *

Dillon did not take his leave for three more days, during which he drove Robert mad with mothering. At least, he mothered him when no others save Alyssa were present. The rest of the time he gruffly complained about the inconvenience of having to postpone his departure.

Alyssa found both brothers’ behavior amusing and envied them the bond they shared.

Because she disliked straying too far from Dillon’s side or shirking her many duties at Westcott, she rarely had the opportunity to visit her own family. She could not safely send them missives for they wished none to know where they resided. Nor would she ask them to seek her here. Westcott and its people had caused both her mother and grandmother great grief over the years. She would not compel them to return.

She could not see Meg simply because ’twas not safe for Meg to travel alone.

And her brother Geoffrey was busy attempting to discover his place in this world.

“He treats me like a child,” Robert muttered as he watched Dillon and his men canter across the drawbridge.

“You are all he has,” she whispered, walking up behind him.

Jumping, he spun around and squinted against the sunlight as she drew nigh.

Unlike Dillon, who always seemed to sense her approach, Robert rarely seemed to be aware of Alyssa’s presence until she spoke.

Another reason, she supposed, for his uneasiness around her.

“After all of the losses the two of you have suffered,” she continued, “is it not natural that he might wish to protect you?”

“I suppose,” he conceded. “But that does not make his insistence that I remain at Westcott easier to bear. My leg no longer pains me. Rarely pains me,” he corrected, no doubt fearing she would see the truth. “I have proven my skill in battle many times over. There is no reason I should not accompany him beyond his own stubbornness.”

Alyssa studied him a moment. “Is it merely boredom that agitates you?”

He paced away, then back. If she were to doff her cowl, she knew he would avoid her gaze. Such was how troubled he appeared. “Aye. I am sure ’tis all.”

She did not speak again for several minutes. She had always felt turmoil in Robert when she had touched him. He had housed it since the first time she had healed him after coming into Dillon’s service. Alyssa had assumed, in the beginning, that it resulted from his unease around her, but had gradually come to discern that it stemmed from something else. She knew not the cause, nor how deep it went. Unless his guard was lowered, as it had been when she had healed this latest wound, he sought to hide it from her. Yet, Alyssa was a keen observer of those around her. Being shunned and having little opportunity to converse with others tended to leave one plenty of time in which to study them. And she had noticed that Robert’s turmoil always increased during moments of inactivity.

As if inactivity left him too much time to think or remember.

But remember what?

Whilst Robert continued to pace, limping a bit, Alyssa wondered if his desire to accompany Dillon stemmed from his need to stay busy or if he worried that Camden might harm Dillon though treachery.

“Ere your arrival,” she ventured at last, “your brother expressed an uneasiness about besieging Pinehurst.”

Halting, Robert frowned. “Did he?”

“Aye. ’Twas why he would not hear of my accompanying him, though I have done so often in the past. I begin to wonder if that is not the true reason you have been left behind as well.”

“Camden can be a crafty little bastard when he is sober,” Robert muttered and returned to tower over her. “Have you seen the future, Wise One? Know you the outcome of this campaign?”

“That is beyond my capabilities,” she replied, conveying apology with her aged whisper. “My knowledge of future events is limited to occasional premonitory dreams, which I am afraid my sleep of late has lacked.” Nay, her most recent dreams had been consumed with wicked images of Dillon taking her in his arms and tumbling her to his bed. Of him lowering his lips to hers, his hands caressing her.

Robert raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture of frustration he had acquired from his brother. “I will not let Dillon’s misguided attempts to protect me keep me from guarding his back as he approaches Pinehurst.” He turned sharp eyes on her, as if daring her to disagree with him. “I shall follow him and stay to the trees.”

Alyssa nodded, relieved. “I pray such precaution will prove unnecessary.”

He seemed surprised. “You will not prevent me from leaving?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “I possess neither the power nor the authority to do so.”

He grunted. “My brother places such faith in your counsel that I sometimes forget…”

That she was a servant? A peasant?

Would that Alyssa could forget as well. “I shall gather the herbs you will need, should your leg trouble you further or should anyone incur an injury,” she told him as she turned and walked away, wishing she could be there to heal Dillon if he were wounded.

“But I know not how to administer them,” Robert protested, following her.

“I shall give you instructions for their uses.”

“Why do you not simply accompany me?”

Robert’s concern for his brother must be immense if he were willing to endure her company—just the two of them and his squire—for such a trip.

“I cannot go against your brother’s wishes, Robert.”

“I am,” he reminded her.

“You are his brother. You are family. I am but a healer. Lord Dillon wishes me to remain here at Westcott, so I shall remain here at Westcott.”

“Aye, Wise One,” he murmured with a hint of contrition. “Forgive me for pressing you.”

She smiled. “You become more like your brother every day.”

* * *

Bird song flirted with Dillon and his party, bouncing from one side of the road to the other and back. Faint rustling sounds filled the gaps in between as small creatures foraged in the detritus that littered the forest floor.

A cool breeze wound its way through the men, preventing the bright sun above from roasting them in their mail and thickly padded gambesons. Riffling the manes of the horses, it continued on to pluck golden leaves from the trees.

Dillon listened with only half an ear to the conversations of his men. His thoughts kept returning to recent events. Particularly to those that had involved the wisewoman.

Did she truly believe he would never wed? When he had told her of his dream—a dream he had been so sure was a sign, though he shared not her gifts—she had deemed it impossible.

Had she seen the future? Dreamed of it even as he had?

Or, knowing the truth now of his sexual conquests (if one could call them that), did she believe no gentlewoman would have him? That none could love him?

He scowled at the rutted and pitted dirt road that stretched before them.

He supposed she would be the best judge. She knew him better than anyone did.

How many nights had the two of them spent hunched over a game of chess or Nine Men’s Morris, exchanging quips or sharing a comfortable silence or even engaging in heated debate?

Why could he not find a bride who would be willing to do such? he wondered, frustration mounting. A bride like the lovely woman in his dream who had, at last, given him a taste of true tenderness?

Another kind of heated debate arose behind him.

Sir Guy and Sir Aubrey had both taken a liking to the cobbler’s daughter. Dillon should have left the pair at Westcott and instead brought more seasoned warriors with him. Older, uglier, more seasoned warriors who could not attract a maid’s notice if they tried. Then Dillon would not have to hear about it.

Gavin began to sing a bawdy tavern song to drown out the young knights’ bickering.

Lucifer’s arse! They had been traveling for less than a day and Dillon already tired of their company.

His mood darkening, he opened his mouth to bark out a command to silence them.

Something slammed into his right shoulder.

Grunting, Dillon clamped his teeth shut as fiery pain erupted in his shoulder and traveled down his arm, burning him as though someone had touched a torch to his flesh.

Looking down, he glared at the quarrel that had pierced his armor.

“To arms!” Sir Laurence cried.

Swords left sheaths.

Dillon forced the fingers of his right hand to curl around the hilt of his own sword. Growling in agony, he drew it from its sheath and laid it across his lap as he searched for the archer who wielded the crossbow.

Another bolt embedded itself in his right thigh.

Guy and Aubrey, the men he had only moments earlier regretted bringing, closed in on both sides of him, trying to place themselves between Dillon and the one intent on killing him.

But Dillon had already located the archer.

Bellowing in fury, he urged his mount forward.

The powerful destrier charged off the road and into the forest.

Halting just inside the trees, Dillon dropped the reins, drew a dagger with his left hand, and launched it at the fellow trying to duck behind the trunk of the tree whose branches supported him.

Dillon watched with satisfaction as his blade buried itself deep in the man’s chest.

Guy pointed his sword. “There! And there!”

As the archer tumbled to the ground, Dillon followed Guy’s aim and saw mayhap a score of men slipping from shadow to shadow.

Low tree limbs made it too difficult to follow on horseback.

Guy leapt to the ground and raced forward. Aubrey followed on his heels, their squabble forgotten.

Dillon slid from the saddle, cursing when it jostled the wound in his thigh, and nigh dropped his sword. His right arm useless, he transferred the sword to his left.

Laurence, Edric, and John headed after the other villains, shouting battle cries.

Squires scrambled forward to grab horses’ reins.

“My lord!” Gideon cried, skidding to a halt in front of him.

Dillon motioned for his squire to take control of the destrier beside him, then started forward.

Sir Gavin grabbed him by his uninjured arm and halted him. “Let the others rout them out whilst I tend to your wounds.”

Dillon shook his head. “They outnumber us. My wounds can wait. Just break the shafts.”

The burly warrior hesitated a moment, then grabbed the shaft of the bolt protruding from his shoulder and snapped off the bulk of it.

Dillon growled as his pain doubled.

Gavin did the same with the quarrel in Dillon’s thigh, allowing him to move more freely without the shafts catching on branches.

Sucking air in through his clenched teeth, Dillon tightened his grip on his sword. “Go with Guy and Aubrey.”

Nodding, Gavin headed after the duo, who had already caught up with the bandits and engaged them in battle.

Dillon turned to see how Laurence and the others fared.

A third crossbow bolt struck him in the chest with such force he stumbled back a step.

More fiery agony.

Stunned, he looked to the archer he had felled.

The man lay in a motionless, broken heap on the forest floor, no weapon in his hand.

Two archers.

There were two archers.

He opened his mouth to warn his men, but found he could not draw enough breath to do so. His chest, where it did not hurt from the arrow, felt tight. His heart began to race. His legs weakened.

Someone shouted his name. Gideon mayhap?

A roar, like that of an enraged bear, filled the forest.

Staggering backward, Dillon bumped into his destrier, then leaned against it. His eyes searched the trees above and around them until he found the second archer.

“There!” he cried as loudly as he could and pointed his sword at the man.

A dagger embedded itself in the man’s throat.

Dillon sank to his knees. His breath grew short and choppy, crackling in his lungs like dried leaves. His head began to swim. Blood wet his gambeson, tunic, and hose.

Unable to remain upright, he collapsed onto his back.

A large form barreled forward and grabbed the archer before he could hit the ground.

Dillon blinked as the newcomer impaled the dying archer with his sword then found another victim. And another. Tearing through them like a hungry wolf.

Robert?

Satan’s blood. What was Robert doing there?

Fighting like a Berserker, ’twould seem, killing anyone within reach with ruthless precision.

Gideon knelt beside Dillon and put pressure on the wound in his chest, attempting to staunch the flow of blood.

Dillon groaned, darkness beginning to cloud his vision.

He knew not how long the battle raged as he lay there, struggling for breath and cursing his inability to fight alongside his men.

Robert dropped to his knees and leaned over him, his blue eyes wild, his face and tunic glistening with the blood of those he had slain. “Dillon!”

Releasing his sword hilt, Dillon raised his left hand.

Robert clasped it. “All but one are dead. And he will only live long enough for us to question him.” He looked at someone beyond Dillon. “Guy! My sack! Quickly!”

His brother’s blue eyes held such fear when they returned to Dillon’s.

“W-Wise One,” Dillon uttered.

Robert nodded. “I shall get you to her. Aubrey!”

Aubrey joined them down on the ground as the others crowded around. “Aye?”

“Put pressure on his wounds.” Robert gave Dillon’s hand a squeeze. “I shall be but a moment, brother.” Rising, he grabbed Gideon and guided him over to the young squire’s horse.

Through the legs of his men, Dillon saw the two engage in heated discourse before Robert bellowed, “Marcus!”

Did they argue over how to get him back to Westcott?

If so, it did not matter. Dillon had seen wounds such as this in past battles.

As Gideon and Marcus conferred, Robert returned to Dillon’s side and began removing Dillon’s mail.

Every jerk, every jostle, sent new waves of pain careening through him.

Robert took a blade to Dillon’s gambeson around the base of each arrow shaft. From his sack, he drew packets of herbs he sprinkled on the wounds with hands that shook.

Dillon’s thoughts went to the woman who had no doubt supplied those herbs.

When he had told the healer about the bride in his dream, she had as much as said he would never wed.

“Sorceress,” he whispered.

“I will get you to her brother,” Robert vowed again.

Dillon paid him no heed.

The seer had been right. He would never wed the woman in his dream.

He would not live long enough to find her.