Her body woke her. Or rather, the energy raging through it did. Reminiscent of the power that engulfed her whenever she healed a wound, this was a hundredfold stronger.

Alyssa burned inside, as though roasting above a spit. Her mouth and throat felt as dry as the desert, her tongue swollen and raw. Miniature bolts of lightning pricked her skin. Her ears buzzed with the sounds of insects that were not there. Tension stiffened her limbs, made it difficult to move.

As alarm and confusion swelled, battling for dominance, wave after wave of shudders inundated her. Unclenching her teeth, Alyssa tried to relax and will the pain away as she often had in the past. But, as soon as she began to concentrate her gift, the cacophony magnified. Sound exploded in her head. Fire consumed her insides. Stinging nettles whipped her flesh.

Barely aware of her actions, she gripped her hair and tugged at it, unable to bear it.

Large, gentle hands covered hers, untangling her fingers and pulling them away. A voice intruded upon the chaos, soft yet insistent, shocking her into realizing she was not alone.

The buzz faded, yielding to warm masculine tones. Alyssa opened her eyes and focused blearily on the face that swam above her.

It was a familiar one. A trusted one.

A beloved one.

“Dillon?” Her voice sounded muffled to her own ears. With fear and pain scattering her thoughts, formality did not occur to her.

Nor did whispering.

He smiled, though concern creased his features. “Aye, Wise One.”

“W-What is amiss?” Her gaze made a jerky exploration of the chamber, then returned to his handsome, haggard face. Shadows underscored his eyes. Several rogue hairs stood up on one side of his head where he had speared his fingers through the thick dark locks as he was wont to do whenever he was angry or agitated. “What happened? Why am I here?”

Naught could have surprised her more than what occurred next.

Supreme relief blanketing his features, he drew one of her hands to his lips and kissed her palm. Stubble abraded her fingers.

“Why did you do that?” Had she not been gritting her teeth, her mouth would have fallen open.

“I began to think you would never awaken,” he admitted.

It occurred to her then that he looked her in the eye. Gasping, she jerked her other hand up and fought the prickling stiffness to make it do her bidding. Under Dillon’s watchful gaze, she drew quaking fingers across her face, up, and over her hair.

Her cowl. Her robe. Where was it? And why was she here, in Dillon’s chamber, in Dillon’s bed, utterly naked if she could trust her jumbled senses?

Some sound of distress must have escaped her, for he began to stroke her hair with languid movements.

“Be at ease, Wise One. You are safe.”

“I do not… I cannot remember how I came to be here.”

He leaned away from her to reach for something. “Will it harm you if I lift you enough to drink?”

Since she had no idea what afflicted her, she was unsure. “I know not. But I feel a great thirst.”

He nodded. “Tell me if this causes you pain.”

Leaning forward, he slipped an arm beneath her head and shoulders and eased her up so she could drink. Voices immediately filled her head, all talking at once. All his. Overlapping.

Careful. Ease her up slowly.

Her eyes are clear. I could easily lose myself in them.

Easy. Good. Good.

Will it last this time? Or will she again fall victim to that unnatural slumber?

Those eyes… so warm and dark. What thoughts do they conceal?

Almost finished now.

Why does she look at me in such a way? How many times has she done so in the past unbeknownst to me?

Her flesh is cold. Shivers shake her. Does she not find warmth soon, I shall peel off my clothes, crawl beneath the blankets, and warm her with mine own body.

Her eyes widened at the fragments that filled her mind then. Heat crept up her neck to her cheeks, her ears. Her heart began to pound.

“What is amiss?” he asked, noticing the change in her. “Has the fever returned?”

She shook her head, mute.

“Are you certain? You are flushed of a sudden.”

“’Tis naught,” she lied, unwilling to admit that ’twas his own sensual fantasies that had shaken her.

Never had she read him so well, so easily, so clearly.

Another violent shudder shook her, setting her teeth on edge.

Dillon sat on the edge of the bed, still supporting her. “You are cold.”

She was a bit chilled, she realized. When had frost replaced the fire that had seared her when first she had awoken? “Aye.”

Alyssa could not fathom Dillon’s intentions at first when he dragged back the blankets.

Why would he uncover her when he knew she needed warmth?

Then she remembered his thoughts and…

Stretching out beside her, he reclined against the pillows and settled her so that her right hip and the length of her thigh were melded to his left. Her back rested against his chest. Thick, tunic-clad muscles pillowed her head.

Reaching around her, he tugged the covers up to her chin and slipped his hands beneath them. Her heart nigh stopped beating when his arms crept under hers and wrapped themselves around her waist.

“Are you warmer now?” The deep rumble of his voice tickled her ear and encouraged the chaos within her.

“Aye,” she responded softly. Dillon was treating her like a… like a woman. Why? What had happened?

Memory gradually began to resurface.

He had been injured. So severely he had barely survived the trip home. Three wounds. One fatal.

“You were injured!” When she would have sat up and spun around to inspect him, the arm around her waist tightened, preventing her from resurrecting the worst of the pain. She had to settle instead for tilting her head back to look up at him.

His budding beard swam into focus first, as dark as the hair on the nape of his neck with a few sprinkles of silver.

“Aye. And you healed me.”

“All three wounds?”

He nodded.

Confused, she looked away. ’Twas not possible. “I should not have survived.”

“You would not have survived had others with your gifts not come forward and offered aid.” He went on to describe the bizarre circumstances surrounding her healing. “Who were they, Wise One?”

Her family. Geoffrey he named. Even had he not, the temper her brother had demonstrated would have betrayed his identity. How she had missed him this past year.

The woman who had doffed her cowl sounded like her mother. Her grandmother had surely been present as well. She was uncertain who the others had been. Meg’s grandfather was surely too old to render aid. And Alyssa had not known there were others out there who possessed similar gifts.

Nor had she known that any save for a healer could help her… and do so without perishing.

“Had you told me how to reach them, I would have sent for them as soon as I became aware of your condition.”

“I did not think ’twas possible.”

“That there were others like you?”

She shook her head. “That they could heal me.”

His fingers moved to her forehead, smoothing away the creases there and making her flesh tingle. “You did not think they could save you?” Though his words remained neutral, she could feel tension building within him. It distressed him to know that she had healed him, believing there would be no hope for herself. “Have you never been healed before?”

“Only with herbs and tonics and poultices. Not with hands.”

“You know not these healers?”

“Some. Mayhap four of them.”

“Why then have they never healed you? Surely there must have been times—”

“I heal more swiftly than others do. Only rarely did I suffer injuries that lingered. And I was told as a child that ’twas too dangerous for them to be healed with aught but herbs. That I would not react the same way you do.”

“Yet you are better than you were.”

“Am I?” How nigh death had she traveled?

“Why did you never explain to me the true nature of your gifts?”

“You always knew I could heal with my hands.”

“But I was not aware that doing so harmed you.” A hint of steel entered his voice, reflecting the anger she could feel rising inside him. At himself for hurting her. At her for not telling him she suffered.

She read him easily. “The pain was fleeting, negligible. I saw no reason—”

“Do not lie to me,” he growled. “I saw the scars.”

Emotion flowed into her like lava, scalding her from the inside out. Not hers. Dillon’s. Images flashed before her eyes, scenes spawned by his vision, so quickly she could not grasp them all. His wounds. Her scars. His body. Her hands. His hands. Her blood.

Pulling away, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Before he could rail at her, however, a knock sounded at the door.

“My lord?” Gideon, called.

Dillon cursed. “Hold!”

As she watched, he reined in his temper, then leaned down and fluffed the pillows beneath her befuddled head. Dragging the covers up, he added a few more blankets until all was arranged to his satisfaction.

He raised his eyebrows in silent question.

She smiled gratefully, touched by his fussing over her, and murmured a shy, “Thank you, Dillon.”

He stilled. His eyes dropped to her lips.

Her smile faltered under his regard. For some reason her pulse skipped, picking up and thrumming through her veins. Her mouth went dry as she was struck with the sudden need to lick those lips that held his attention. A need to which she surrendered.

His eyes narrowed, darkening with an emotion she did not recognize.

“My lord?” Gideon repeated.

Dillon hesitated an instant more.

His heart pounded like the hooves of a galloping warhorse. A single timid smile was all it had taken to make time stop. A small pink tongue gliding sensually across soft lips in what he knew was an innocent gesture. Yet his body reacted as if she had just thrown back the blankets and invited him to take her.

Yanking the curtains surrounding the bed closed, he called, “Enter.”

His squire slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Harry is outside asking to see you, my lord. I told him only Robert and the sorceress are allowed to visit you, but he is insisting.”

“Is it a matter of defense?”

The boy shrugged, face creasing with irritation. “He will not say. His mouth is sealed tighter than William’s purse.”

“Where is Robert?”

“Training with the men in the tiltyard.”

“Send Harry to him.”

“I tried to. Harry refuses to budge from yon hallway until he sees you.”

Scowling, Dillon sighed and settled himself in a chair by the hearth. “Send him in.”

Harry strode in on slightly bowed legs, balding pate uncovered, helmet held in his beefy hands. When Gideon slammed the door on his way out, Harry jumped. Eyes darting around the room, lingering momentarily on the bed, he cleared his throat.

Dillon watched him shift from foot to foot and waited, arms folded across his chest. He had known this man all of his life and could not remember ever having seen him look so anxious.

“You seem to be on the mend, milord,” Harry blurted, wincing when the words emerged unnaturally loud and hearty.

“Aye.”

A pained look crossed the older man’s face when Dillon offered no more. “Uh… ’tis pleased I am to hear it. The men will be glad to see you return to your duties. Not that they have any complaints about Sir Robert, mind you,” he added hastily. “A fine leader he is.”

“Harry.”

“Aye?”

“Did you come here to commend my brother’s leadership skills or was there aught else you wished to discuss?”

The gatekeeper’s shoulders slumped. “I do have a concern, milord.” He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward as if he feared Gideon might have his ear pressed to the door.

Intrigued, Dillon leaned toward him. “Go on. You may speak freely here.”

“Well, I come to ask about the wisewoman.”

Instantly alert, Dillon kept his expression neutral. He had asked Ann Marie to don the wisewoman’s robes and venture out a few times so his people would not know the healer was ill. “As far as I know, the wisewoman is down below, either with Robert or in her chamber. If you wish to speak with her, you will have to seek her there.”

Harry shook his head. “Not that wisewoman. Our wisewoman. I come to see how she fares.”

Whilst Harry had been privy to Robert’s search for another healer two nights earlier, he had not known the reason for it. Ann Marie’s impersonation of the sorceress had been questioned by no others. Why would Harry doubt it? “I do not—”

“He knows, my lord.”

Both men spun to face the bed as a portion of the curtains retreated and the seer’s face appeared. She sat up, her face pale as she clutched the blankets to her chest.

Harry’s face broke into a wide smile, several creases forming alongside his mouth and at the corners of his eyes as he hurried toward the bed. “Lass, I was worried about you, I was.”

Scowling, Dillon rose and followed him.

“You have not been to your garden in days. Not since Sir Robert came searching for another healer.”

Her startled gaze met Dillon’s. Mayhap she did not realize she had been lost to unconsciousness for three days.

“I thought at first ’twas for Lord Dillon,” Harry went on, “but when I did not see you, I feared the worst.”

The wisewoman smiled sweetly and reached out to pat one of Harry’s oversized hands. “I am well, Harry. Please do not fret over me.”

Something ugly and seething coiled within Dillon’s gut—loathsome, blisteringly hot jealousy.

Harry knew.

Harry knew her. Not the facade she had shown Dillon and the others over the years, but that which had always been hidden beneath her robes and her whisper.

Harry alone was unsurprised by her youth.

He knew.

“You are so pale,” he declared now in the closest thing to a fatherly tone Dillon had heard him use. “What ails you, child?”

Dillon gritted his teeth. He did not even know the healer’s name and this man spoke to her as if they were old friends!

“I have been ill,” she admitted, “but am better now, Harry. Truly.” When he opened his mouth to object, she hurried to change the subject. “Have my plants begun to wither?”

“Nay.”

Whilst Harry clamored on about watering her garden for her, Dillon stalked over to his trunk and yanked a linen shirt out of it.

Why had she confided in Harry instead of him? Did she not consider Dillon her friend? Was he not worthy of her trust? In the past seven years, they had scarcely left each other’s sight. Yet she had kept him in the dark and shared her secret with Harry.

Returning to the bed, Dillon shoved Harry aside and tugged the soft material down over the wisewoman’s head. He did not like the other man seeing the little bit of shoulder visible above the furs that covered her.

Startled, she blinked several times and blew the hair out of her eyes. Dillon took a moment to brush it back for her, gentle in spite of the irate thoughts that rode him. His hand tingled when he smoothed it around to the back of her neck and carefully released the rest of her long, dark tresses from their prison.

As soon as his callused skin met hers, her eyes widened and flew to his face. He refused to meet them, however, knowing she could feel the turmoil raging within him. Instead, he held the shirt down, modestly covering her whilst her arms found the sleeves.

Harry yammered on as if naught were amiss whilst Dillon swiftly laced up the tunic, piled pillows behind her back, and covered her with the blankets once more.

Though the wisewoman offered comments and answers whenever prompted, her gaze remained fixed on Dillon.

Oddly unsettled, he retreated to stand by the fire and gave them his back.

At last, Harry wished her well and turned to leave.

“You will speak of this to no one,” Dillon informed him curtly.

Harry spun about and puffed up like a rooster. “Of course I will not! I would not betray our wisewoman for aught!”

Dillon strode forward, not stopping until Harry had to crane his neck to look up at him. “Not our wisewoman,” he gritted, “my wisewoman. And anyone who betrays her will find a quick end at the point of my sword.”

Harry’s disgruntled look swiftly altered to one of astonishment. A knowing grin spread across his worn features.

Dillon did not know what he wanted to do more, wipe that smile off with his fist or take back those hasty, dreadfully possessive words.

He settled for grimacing and waving toward the door. “Get you gone, old man.”

He could have sworn he heard the blasted soldier chuckle as the door closed behind him. Beset with restless anger, Dillon prowled the room and wished he were outside, training with his men. He would challenge Robert if he were. Or Simon. Only they could offer him a good fight.

Shoving aside his trunks and the small table and two chairs that rested nigh the hearth, he drew his sword and began to drill himself and measure his returning strength. He had done so each day whilst the wisewoman slept her dreamless sleep, cursing when he quickly tired.

Today differed, though. Consumed with a fury that powered his muscles and infused him with energy, he pushed himself further than he had all week.

“Harry can be trusted, my lord,” the wisewoman assured him.

Dillon’s sword made the air hum as it severed the arm of an invisible opponent. “You do not hesitate to call him Harry, yet until now refused to call me Dillon.” He heaped silent epithets upon his own head. Why had he said that? He had sounded as petulant as a boy denied a sweetmeat.

Another slash of his sword, another invisible limb severed. Several more imaginary foes fell before she spoke.

“I have a garden.”

Dillon missed a stroke, so surprised was he. He stopped and glanced at her, breathing hard from his exertions.

Crimson color rushed to her cheeks as she looked down at her lap. She had almost never spoken of herself to him. Mayhap doing so now left her uneasy.

Returning to his swordplay, he offered a casual, “Do you? I have not seen it.” He thought he heard her sigh with relief.

“I keep it in that section of the forest where the villagers fear to tread.”

“The glen to the south they all swear is cursed?”

She smiled. “Precisely the one. I grow many of the herbs I use there. But ’tis as much a source of peace for me as ’tis a source of medicines.”

As Dillon’s muscles grew fatigued, his swings and parries and lunges slowed.

“There I can escape the fear and hatred that are constantly directed at me here,” she confessed. “In my garden, no one crosses himself as I pass or mutters curses in my wake. The birds and animals that visit do not shy away at my approach. They welcome me with warmth and song and playful mischief. I can remove my cowl there and feel the sun kiss my face, push my sleeves back and bury my fingers in the soil without worrying that someone will see them and know that I am not all that I seem.”

Dillon stopped, more interested in hearing the healer speak than in listening to the air complain as his weapon sliced through it. He returned his sword to its scabbard and wearily sank into the chair by the hearth. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and let her low, husky voice wash over him.

“I seek refuge there nigh every day,” she continued. “And each time I encounter Harry as I pass through the gate. He was wary of me for a long time, having heard the nightmarish tales that circulate about me. But, unlike the others, he seemed to grow accustomed to my comings and goings, offering a greeting, asking how I fared, even giving me word of those who might have need of my aid but were too fearful to approach me.”

When she paused, he opened his eyes to find her staring at him.

“I know a greeting here or there may seem trivial to you,” she said, “but, other than you, Robert, and Ann Marie, he is the only person in your domain who has ever spoken kindly to me when not in need or under orders to do so.”

Without the cowl to conceal it, the loneliness she had suffered these last seven years lay bare before him.

Was it true? Had no one save himself and Harry and, in rare moments, Robert addressed her kindly? Even Ann Marie had avoided her until the healer had saved her life and that of her babe.

Dillon had been so preoccupied with defending his lands and his king that he had been unaware of the extent of the wisewoman’s ill treatment. Was that why she had confided in Harry rather than in him?

“Harry learned of my true age and appearance quite by accident,” she said as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Though strong and of good health, his limbs are beginning to ache and stiffen with age. He hoped that, as a healer, I might be able to help him with a tisane or a compress that would bring him ease on the worst days. He did not want the other soldiers to know, so he sought me out in the one place he knew no one would chance to overhear us speak.”

“Your garden.”

She nodded, lips twitching. “I cannot tell you what a fright we gave each other. One minute I was alone, and the next a man stood across the clearing.”

Apprehension suffused Dillon. What if it had not been Harry? If one of the village men had decided to brave the curse and follow her to her sanctuary, no one would have been there to protect her.

“Harry had come searching for an elderly sorceress, not a young woman who grubbed about in the dirt and feigned an ability to sing. I fear it came as a bit of a shock to him.”

Dillon made some sound of agreement, still fretting over her safety.

“He is a good man.” Smiling fondly, she peeled back a couple of furs. “Verily, once he recovered himself, I believe he pitied me. Or mayhap he felt we were allied in some way, each not quite what we appear. Whatever his reasons, he has been kind to me and has kept my secret well. He will not betray us.”

Us.

Not me or you, but us.

Dillon noticed with some concern that she had removed all but one of the blankets he had draped across her. “Your chill,” he murmured. “’Tis gone?”

“Aye.” She hid a yawn behind one dainty hand. “In truth, I find it quite warm. Do you not?”

He frowned as she sank back against the pillows, eyelids drooping. Rising, he approached the bed. “Mayhap your fever returns.” He rested a palm, callused from years of wielding weapons, upon her forehead.

She started slightly, then drew away, forcing a smile.

Dillon’s stomach clenched. Did his touch displease her?

“You worry over neglecting your men,” she commented.

Though such concerns had flitted through his mind at least a dozen times since waking, he denied it. “Nay. Robert oversees them.”

“You would rather do so yourself.”

He shook his head. “I wanted no one else to tend you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Do they all know…?”

“Nay. I could not forget that someone had cast stones at you in the past. If they knew you could be hurt, you would lose the protection your robes and the rumors of immortality lend you. And I feared that someone might try to harm you in my absence. So Ann Marie has donned your robe and worn it these three days past.”

She stared at him. “Three days? I have slept that long?”

He nodded.

“And Ann Marie is pretending to be me?”

“Aye. ’Twas she who treated and bandaged your wounds, enabling you to live long enough for the other healers to reach you.”

“Then all of Westcott believes…”

“That I lay abed, recovering from my injuries whilst you tend me.”

She seemed to need a moment to digest it.

Dillon strolled over to the narrow window and peered down through the precious glass he had added at great expense a few years ago. “The men do not suffer from my absence. Robert is more than capable of leading them.”

“Robert has inherited your sire’s fierce pride and stubborn temperament,” she said after a moment. “He will not be satisfied until he has acquired lands and wealth of his own.”

“Aye. He has told me as much. It seems he is bent on following in my footsteps.” Dillon wished he could spare his brother that. Hiring out his sword, constantly having to prove himself in tournaments and one bloody battle after another, fighting other men’s wars, hardening his heart against the taunts and cries of those he killed in combat, those who sought to kill him. As a third son, Dillon had done it all himself and, after gaining Henry II’s notice at a very early age, had acquired his own wealth and property long before he had inherited the title.

“Gavin attempted to lay the blame for your betrayal at Robert’s feet,” she told him.

Shocked, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Did you believe him?”

“I never doubted he spoke falsely.” She tilted her head. “The same may not be true of your men, however. The seed of doubt Gavin planted has taken root and spawned suspicion. I can feel it.” Closing her eyes, she seemed to listen to voices he could not hear. “Your men may not be content for much longer. They question Robert’s word that you are recovering. His refusal to allow anyone but your squire to see you only encourages more speculation.” She paused and opened her eyes. “’Tis time to make an appearance, my lord.”

’Twas the truth. Yet he was reluctant to leave her. She had only just begun to improve. She was alert, if a little drowsy. She spoke to him, confiding in him and looking at him with less shyness and self-consciousness, as she grew accustomed to being with him unconcealed.

There were so many things he wanted to ask her. So many things he wished to know. Could Westcott not wait one more day?

“Surely they do not think you would allow my brother to usurp my position,” he murmured.

She shook her head, her lips forming a sad smile. “Your people trust me less than they do your enemies, my lord. Have you not guessed that yet?”

Lucifer’s toes. “All right,” he snapped, irritated by his people’s persistent blindness, resenting it for luring him from her side. “You are to rest until I return. You are still weak.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Dillon,” he corrected in a growl.

“Aye, Dillon,” she corrected dutifully. Her lips twitched.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

A laugh escaped her, hastily cut off as she clamped her lips more firmly together, eyes widening. It was such a youthful, joyous sound—so unlike his somber sorceress—that his irritation fled.

Smiling sheepishly, he crossed to the bed. “I am a poor substitute for a healer, am I not? Churlish and overbearing.”

The tender smile she gave him muddled his insides. “You have done very well, Dillon. I would not have healed so quickly had someone else tended me. I thank you for your kindness.”

Needing to touch her, even fleetingly, he again pretended to check for the return of her fever. Her forehead was cool beneath his hand, her hair like silk where he smoothed it back.

Her eyes softened.

“Rest,” he repeated quietly.

She nodded.

He had to force himself to walk away, unwilling to leave her presence.

“Dillon.” Her voice stopped him as he reached the door.

He looked back. “Aye?”

Deep brown eyes rose to meet sapphire. “’Tis Alyssa.”

He tilted his head. “What is?”

“My name.”