She had dreamed so many things. Strange things, wondrous things, memories which had twisted themselves in her fever-laden mind until they’d become something else entirely.

She’d dreamed that it was her mother who smoothed the hair from her brow, who crooned soft, calming words to her which had somehow cut through the pain and confusion and the certainty that she was dying.

That her father had sworn vengeance on the man who’d hurt her. That he had promised to kill the bastard.

He had looked the same as she remembered him from her youth, young, vibrant, as large as a house, his red hair flaming around his head, looking like nothing so much as it did a burning crown. The scar which ran from his forehead down to his cheekbone had even been there. Every little detail.

And Mother. Her kind, sweet smile. The loving blue eyes which had crinkled up at the corners, the dimples in her cheeks. She’d been so clear, so real. As though the last few years hadn’t passed at all, as though Ysmaine had merely fallen asleep one day and dreamed of losing them both.

As though she were finally waking up to real life once again, and Mother might prepare a bowl of soup for her as had always been the case whenever Ysmaine was ill.

All had been peaceful, calm, leaving Ysmaine joyful beyond words at the unexpected return of the life she’d thought was over forever.

Until Father had returned, nearly tearing the door from the wall in his excitement. He had caught the rabid dog who’d hurt her and would bring him to justice with the blade of his sword. His eyes had blazed furious fire as he’d raged in the old way, bellowing at the top of his powerful lungs and unleashing epithets she had only heard him use in the direst of situations.

And then, he’d dragged in a man with dark hair which hung in his eyes as he lowered his head.

A man wearing a red tunic, torn and splattered with drying blood which Ysmaine had somehow known was his own. At whose side hung a sword with a jeweled hilt.

“This is the man,” Father had snarled, spitting upon Quinn’s bowed head. “He’s the one who dared place his hands upon my daughter and brought her to this state!”

She’d tried to sit up, though Mother’s hands had pressed against her shoulders to hold her down.

“No, no! It wasn’t his fault! He is not the man who wounded me!” she’d protested, nearly wild with fear for what might happen if her father had his way.

“I’ll hear nothing of it!” he had bellowed, taking Quinn by the back of the neck and jerking his head up so that she might see his face—what was left of it, rather, since it appeared as though one entire side had been kicked in. Blood obscured one swollen eye, his nose was a misshapen mess, his lovely mouth was split open and had probably borne the loss of several teeth.

“Why did you do this?” she’d demanded in a choked whisper.

Quinn looked as though he could hardly stand on his feet, as though Connor’s grip on his neck was the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor in a blood-soaked heap.

“He is the man at fault.” Connor threw Quinn to the floor, causing Ysmaine to let out an anguished cry.

“He is not!” she’d screamed as the toe of Connor’s shoe had made contact with Quinn’s rib, making him curl into a protective ball with both arms crossed over his head. “It was not he who harmed me! You cannot do this! Please!”

Mother had merely held her back from throwing herself over Quinn’s broken body. “Your Father knows what is best, dear. We cannot hope to understand these things.”

“But I do understand! You are the ones who do not!” She had watched in horror and heartbreak as her father kicked and punched Quinn before withdrawing his sword.

She had screamed, a shrill, earsplitting scream which masked the sound of metal tearing through flesh. Even so, she’d been able to hear the sword’s progress through Quinn’s back.

The shock of cold water on her head had stirred her to wakefulness, and the sight of Quinn’s whole, uninjured face hovering over her had been enough to pull a broken sob from deep within her chest.

Since she had first woken after the fever broke, the nightmare kept coming back to her. That it was a nightmare at all defied understanding, for the dream had started off so wonderfully. She’d been with her parents again.

The very vivid image of Quinn’s destruction had turned it into something which chilled her to the bone. She could nearly smell his blood, could still hear his grunts of pain when Connor had struck him.

All of it so horrific, so very real.

Especially the pain Quinn’s pain had caused her.

* * *

She did not dare tell him of the dream, yet this did not stop her from remembering it each time she looked at him.

Or from wanting to run her hand over his hair and hold him close.

How unfortunate.

“I believe it’s best we should go. Now.” Quinn helped her to sit up.

“If that is what you feel is best.” She was quick to braid her hair, which had hung loose about her head while she’d slept and healed.

He cast a skeptical glance in her direction. “No argument?”

“What is there to argue? You are much better aware of our situation than I. I have barely been awake for days. How long has it been?”

“Nearly three in all,” he grunted, opening the door which led outside to look in both directions.

Her heart began to race, sickeningly so. “What has happened? Are we in greater danger?” To think, she had considered herself fortunate to awaken. What had she awoken to?

“Greater than before?” He looked back over his shoulder, snickering. “We were always in danger, in case you’ve forgotten—or, rather, I was.”

By his own doing. Regardless of his motivation for why he’d taken her, he was the reason for the danger. No one else.

Even the growing affection she held toward him did not blind her to this, though she managed to bite back a tart response.

He turned toward her and closed the door. “No. There is no greater danger than there ever has been. It is merely that we ought to make haste. We’ve lost quite a lot of time, and your Marquis will wonder what has delayed your arrival.”

“And your brother is waiting for you to free him,” she added.

“Aye, that, as well,” he admitted before crouching by her side.

The healer woman was out in the garden, gathering fresh herbs to aid in replenishing what she’d used to treat Ysmaine’s wound.

He spoke in a near-whisper. “I would not wish to take further advantage of her generosity. And if there is chance of discovery, I would not wish to endanger her simply because she was of assistance.”

“Yes, of course.” She allowed him to help her to her feet, the leg which had ached and burned so unthinkably only days earlier was tender, yes, and a bit weak, but she could put weight on it without wanting to scream in agony.

An improvement, to be sure.

“The woman has provided poultice and tincture for you,” he explained as he sheathed his sword.

No, not his sword, not truly. The guard’s sword.

She averted her eyes, once again remembering the vivid images of her nightmare. How the red tunic had turned even darker thanks to his blood. How a sword had sunk into his flesh with a wet, sucking sound she would never forget.

How could she so clearly remember something which had not been real?

“Are ye well, lass?” Quinn asked, coming near. He watched her with an appraising eye. It was clear he would not easily believe her.

“Yes, I am. Truly. I feel much more like myself now.”

“Why do ye appear so fretful, then?”

“What is there not to be fretful over?” she countered, determined to evade his questions. What would he think if he knew what she had dreamt? Likely that she was mad, or at least a daft, silly woman.

“Are ye truly well? You are not lying to me, as before?”

She bristled at his accusatory tone. “I did not mean to lie. I merely wanted—”

“It matters not,” he spat, turning back to where he’d begun packing the small vials and bottles the healer had provided.

“It does matter,” she insisted, following him and standing with her face close to his in order to force his attention. “I thought I was helping you. I admit, I did not wish for you to believe me weak. To become cross with me for slowing us.”

He rolled his eyes, scoffing at her excuses. “As though I would behave so.”

“As though you would not!”

“When have I given ye reason to believe so? When have I been cruel to ye?”

She laughed. “Where shall I begin?”

He drew a deep breath, his chest expanding. “I nearly broke my own neck getting ye here in the midst of a roaring rainstorm, exposed us both to the curiosity of the villages when I asked where to find the healer. I told the woman she might have anything she wished, anything I had, if only she would see to it that ye were healed.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Was this true? She had no memory of their arrival at the healer’s home, no memory of the ride through a storm. Only of waking in the small, modest house with its walls covered in herbs and its hearth blazing with a fire which carried an odor she’d never known.

“You did all of that?” she whispered, taken aback.

His jaw clenched and unclenched in turn, but he nodded. “Aye,” was his grunted reply.

“You did that for me?” Could it be? Could his feelings toward her have begun to warm, as hers had toward him? Had she been unaware of that, too, while she slept?

She held her breath, waiting. Hoping. All he need do was tell her she’d come to mean more to him than a means of obtaining ransom. Certainly, they could find a way together to free his brother without resorting to a ransom demand.

Nothing would be too much if it meant repaying him for saving her life.

He tied a length of rope around the pack, securing the contents before slinging the lot onto his back. “Aye,” he grunted with a careless shrug. “After all, I need ye if I plan to collect my ransom.”

Just like that, he threw her from the heights of hope to the bitter depths of disappointment. How foolish she’d been. Naturally, he’d only been concerned as far as her value in freeing his brother.

There was nothing more between them than that.

“I’m certain he’ll be happy to get his bride in one piece,” he added as he went to the door.

“His bride?” she asked with a frown.

Something in her voice caused him to turn back before he opened the door. “Yes. His bride. You, lass.”

She could not help but laugh. That was what he believed? And thanks to the blow he’d delivered her heart, there was more than a touch of bitterness in her laughter. “I am not traveling to France in order to marry the Marquis. What gave you that idea?”

He blinked rapidly. “You aren’t?”

“No!” It was as though he refused to hear her. “I never told you that was the case. Only that I had business to settle with him there. That business is not marriage.”