Cyn leaned his head against the carved chair back, closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the rustle of Magdalen’s blankets while she settled for sleep. With a raspy brrrt, Tristan jumped up into his lap and lay down, purring.
Stroking the feline’s silky fur, Cyn silently recited the names of the knights of King Arthur’s court. He knew them all, had memorized them even before he’d inherited his sire’s cherished leather-bound book of old folk legends, along with the carved chair—the only two things he’d told his brother he wanted from the fortress that had belonged to the Woodrow family for almost seventy years—before he’d ridden away, his heart ripped to shreds.
That hellish day nine years ago, Cyn had returned from the East, filled with hope for a joyous reunion with his parents and brother, to find his sibling the ruling lord—their parents had died from a sickness seven months after Cyn left for Crusade—and Francine the lady of the keep. She’d hardly let the dust settle on the castle road after Cyn had left before she’d married his brother.
“I thought you had likely died in battle,” she said, when he’d asked why she hadn’t waited for him.
Deceitful bitch. She hadn’t loved him, not the way Cyn had loved her. She’d been his reason to live when he’d wanted only to die. Knowing she was waiting for him back in England, and that he’d promised to return and marry her, had kept him focused in battle after gruesome battle. He’d entrusted her with his soul, and coming home to find she’d spurned him had been akin to being run through with his own sword.
Anger burned anew in Cyn’s veins, fueling the bitterness and hurt that lived within him day after day. Anger gave him courage; rage bolstered the iron shield around his heart that maintained his emotional distance from women, especially ones as tantalizing as Magdalen.
Sighing into the darkness, he dragged his free hand over his face, for his efforts to distract his wayward mind hadn’t helped one bit. Still, he saw Magdalen sitting on the cot and wearing his shirt, the fine linen molding to her body and tempting him with the outlines of soft, womanly curves beneath.
And her legs… Long. Shapely. The most enticing legs he’d ever seen on a woman.
He swallowed the groan tickling his throat. Damnation. ’Twas the middle of the night and he wanted to sleep, not be both furious and aroused.
Yawning, he focused on the rumbling sound of Tristan’s purr. ’Twas a happy, soothing sound. Closing his eyes, Cyn prayed that one day, he’d enjoy such contentment…
Wearing chain-mail armor, Cyn stood alone on the parched ground near Acre. He waited, tensed for an attack, his sword glinting in the blistering sunlight.
Saracens lurked nearby. He couldn’t see them, but he felt their presence. They were watching him, waiting for the right moment to attack and slay him. He searched the landscape for somewhere to run, to take cover, before they struck.
Fear was a leaden weight crushing his innards. The sun beat down, causing sweat to drip into his eyes and forcing him to squint.
Nowhere to hide.
Dirt crunched behind him. He spun, his breaths coming in harsh rasps. A fellow Crusader—Andrew—walked toward him, strides purposeful. He seemed unaware of the impending attack.
“Run,” Cyn shouted. “Danger.”
Andrew continued to approach, as though he hadn’t heard.
“Danger!” Cyn bellowed again. Why didn’t Andrew listen?
Suddenly, the sword in Cyn’s hand changed into a crossbow. He yelled, startled by the change. As though his body had a will of its own, he lifted the crossbow and aimed it at Andrew.
“Nay,” Cyn cried. “Nay!”
The crossbow fired. The steel-tipped bolt pierced through Andrew’s left eye. Blood ran down his face, frozen in an expression of shock. He fell to the ground, dead.
“Nay,” Cyn gasped, choking on his horror. “God’s blood, nay—”
He woke, his eyes opening. Rough-hewn beams stretched above him in the darkness: He recognized the ceiling of his house. He’d been dreaming.
At the same moment he heard a crash. Still not completely freed from his nightmare, he leaped to his feet, reaching for the knife he always kept in his boot.
“Cyn!”
Magdalen stood with one hand gripping the side table, the other clenched into the blanket wrapped around her, holding it closed between her breasts. Somehow, she’d knocked the candles off the table. They lay scattered on the floor, along with the pewter holders.
Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on his partly-drawn dagger. He shoved it back into his boot and started toward her. At least she’d had the sense not to put standing weight on her hurt leg. “You should not be out of bed, Magdalen.”
Her chin nudged up. “I could hardly sleep. You were having another nightmare.”
Two in one night. How bloody embarrassing that she’d witnessed both instances. Halting in front of her, he pointed to the cot. “Back—”
Her chin nudged up a bit more. She had a rebellious streak, this lady—a fact he found almost as intriguing as her mouth, near enough for him to kiss. It had been a very long time since he’d kissed a woman, especially a lady.
“—not go back to bed,” she was saying. “Not until I know you are all right.” Compassion shone in her eyes.
“I am fine,” he said brusquely. “Now—”
“Liar. Even Lancelot knows something is still bothering you.”
Hellfire, what bothered him would torment him until the day he died. Cyn glanced down to find the wolfhound at his side. When their gazes met, Lancelot whined and tentatively wagged his tail.
Sighing, Cyn gestured for the dog to return to the hearth. As Lancelot padded away, Cyn dragged a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. “Magdalen, I did not mean to wake you. Please, for God’s sake, get back in that bed, before you ruin my stitches, and I have to do them over again.”
Her throat moved with a swallow, as though she hated to think of him sewing her wound a second time. He offered her his arm, and she caught hold of it, and leaned against him while he helped her back the few steps to the bed. He retrieved the candles, lit them, and then rechecked her injury.
“Do you often have night terrors?” she asked while he worked.
He didn’t answer until he’d confirmed that the stitches had held. He efficiently retied the bandages. From her earnest expression, she was clearly waiting for his answer.
“Aye, I have them often.”
“Are they always the same?”
“Not exactly the same.” He shrugged. “Similar events occur each time, though.”
He hoped she’d leave the matter be, but to his chagrin, she seemed even more intrigued. “What kind of events?”
God’s holy bones, but he did not want to be having this conversation. He’d dealt with his torment on his own for years; he didn’t want her or anyone else’s help now.
“You look angry,” she murmured. “Please, do not be annoyed with me. I am simply—”
“All right,” he cut in, reaching for her blankets. He spread the one she’d wrapped around herself on the top and then tucked the covers in around her. For her sake, mayhap he should retreat to his own room to sleep, in case he had another dream. On Crusade, he’d slept on the ground; he’d be comfortable enough on a blanket on the floor.
Warmth enveloped his hand; she’d put her right hand down upon his.
Heat rippled the length of his arm and into his chest, just as it had done when he’d set his hand upon hers earlier. His heart constricted—ached—in a way he hadn’t experienced in years; ’twas as if her touch awakened something lost, long forgotten, and buried deep in the forsaken reaches of his soul.
A shudder ran through him. How could a mere touch hold such power?
“I do not mean to upset you with my questions,” she said quietly. “I would like to help, if I can.”
“’Tis thoughtful of you, but—”
“When you were dreaming, your anguish seemed unbearable.”
He longed to pull his hand free, and yet, he couldn’t. She seemed to hold him captive with her touch. Moreover, part of him didn’t want to give up that connection between them, the comfort of skin upon skin that he’d denied himself since learning of Francine’s betrayal.
“Can you tell me about your nightmare?” Magdalen asked. “Mayhap ’twould help to talk about it?”
Ah, God. “I do not think so.” Talking wouldn’t ease the guilt and agony gouged into his soul—anguish he deserved. He could never make amends for what he’d done that fateful day while fighting for his King, no matter how much he wished he could.
“When Edwina was with child, she often had vivid dreams. I would sit with her while she told me of them, and she would soon go back to sleep.”
Did Magdalen intend to comfort him in the same way? Annoyance and despair coiled up within him, for he was far beyond such help. “’Twas very kind of you.” Cyn pulled his hand free, missing her touch as soon as he’d drawn away. “My nightmares, however, are not fit for sharing.”
“But, Cyn—”
“Enough.”
He hadn’t intended to sound gruff, but his voice had roughened, become little more than a warning growl. She studied him, her eyes slightly narrowed, her hair a fetching tangle that needed a good brushing. If he gently ran his hands through it, letting the strands glide between his fingers, he could undo some of the worst knots—
Silently cursing his wayward mind, he turned from the bed and blew out the candles. “I will try not to disturb you again. Mayhap ’tis best if I sleep elsewhere.”
“Nay,” she said quickly. “Please. I do not…want to be alone.”
“Very well.” He started for his chair, fatigue making his limbs ache. He stifled a yawn with his hand. No doubt he’d feel a hell of a lot better with solid, uninterrupted sleep, but such rest was unlikely.
“Wait, Cyn,” she called, a curious anticipation in her voice. “I have… I might know a way to stop your nightmares.”
***
Cyn halted halfway to his chair. She’d caught his attention, as she’d wished.
He glanced back at her, not the faintest trace of hope in his expression. He looked exhausted, and Magdalen yearned even more to be able to help him. Surely, whatever had occurred in Cyn’s past wasn’t so terrible or worthy of such self-imposed torment. Cyn was a good man; a proud man, but an honorable one. She knew that without question.
The morning before she’d died, Magdalen’s mother had told her that the exquisite ruby held healing properties, including the power to ease bad dreams. Cyn didn’t seem the kind of man to put his faith in gemstones; however, if there was a chance the ruby could help him, Magdalen must convince him to use it. Aye, ’twas a risk, revealing she had the gem, but he’d done so much for her. She owed him the chance to sleep.
Gesturing to the hearth, she said, “Will you please fetch my bag?”
He faced her, his hands on his hips. “Whatever for?
“Inside is…a ruby—”
“—with white lines that look like a stag’s antlers.”
Shock rippled through her. “You looked inside my bag?”
“I did, while you were asleep.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. Still, he could have asked her first. “With respect, you had no right to go through my belongings.”
“I disagree. You are a guest in my home. You are possibly risking my safety, along with that of Borden and my animals. Moreover, as sheriff, I believe ’tis my duty to know more about why you were in the forest and why William was pursuing you. What I found in your bag, though, did not enlighten me.”
All right. So he did have valid reasons for searching through her things. He hadn’t mentioned the missive, though; mayhap he still hadn’t found it?
“I planned to talk to you about the contents of your bag on the morrow,” Cyn added, “once you had had a chance to rest. In case you are wondering, I put everything—apart from the soggy bread—back in the bag.”
“Thank you,” she said. Disquiet wove through her, for she hoped she wasn’t being a fool. “For tonight, though, I would like you to have the ruby.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“’Twas my mother’s. She gave it to me…not long before she perished. She said ’tis a special stone that, among other things, can help ward off night terrors.”
Cyn laughed and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
“Try it.”
“Magdalen.”
“What harm can come of it?”
“Most likely no harm at all. Yet, I cannot imagine a mere stone can ward off my nightmares.”
How stubborn he was! Yet, she could be stubborn, too. Refusing to break his gaze, she said softly, “If you will not do it for yourself, then do it for me, so I might be able to sleep.”
His mouth flattened into a line.
“Please,” she coaxed.
Irritation hardened his features. Then, as if he’d decided ’twas easier to relent than continue to disagree, he crossed to the bag, reached in, and withdrew the ruby that gleamed blood red in the firelight.
“I have the stone,” he said. “What do I do now? Dance around the room while waving it in the air? Or do I curl the bare toes of my right foot around it so it can work its magic? Mayhap I should tuck it inside my mouth while I sleep?”
She giggled. “Now you are being silly.”
Cyn rolled his eyes.
“Hold it in your hand while you slumber,” Magdalen said. “My mother said it should touch skin to have the greatest influence.”
“Fine.” His fingers curled around the stone while he strode back to his chair.
She smiled. “Sleep well.”
He grunted and dropped back down into his chair. “Like hell,” he grumbled.