“Do you see him?”

“Nay!”

“Where the hell is he?” Dillon roared, deflecting a thrust meant to pierce his heart and nigh severing his opponent’s sword arm in return.

The man howled in agony as he fell to his knees. The corpses of his companions littered the ground around him.

Dillon and his men had poured into the castle’s only bailey just as the sun had crested the horizon. The fog had not yet burned away and seemed in some way to enhance the noise of weapons clashing, the scents of blood and death, as the battle continued to rage. The sea and the long sheer drop of a cliff’s face protected the back of the castle. Having tunneled under two of the three remaining walls, shoring them up as they went to prevent unnecessary damage, Dillon’s men had swiftly surrounded Camden’s undisciplined crew and squelched any thoughts of retreat.

They were a ragged band, Camden’s army, lacking the rigid discipline and rigorous training required at Westcott. Dillon and his men would soon defeat them, likely without suffering any grievous wounds themselves.

The peasants raised not a hand to aid Camden, whom Dillon had yet to glimpse amongst the crowd of inadequately armed men. Judging by the gaunt faces that peered out from the shelter of poorly kept buildings, the fool had been starving them all for months.

“He must have taken refuge in the donjon!” Simon shouted above the shouts of rage and cries of pain.

“Then let us seek the coward there!”

With the help of a battering ram and several of his men, Dillon burst through the large, barred doors, his entrance heralded by the crack of splintering wood. An equal number of mailed soldiers awaited them inside.

He did not see Camden amongst them.

When the fighting at last ground to a halt, Dillon’s men performed a thorough search of Pinehurst to no avail.

“He is nowhere to be found,” Simon informed him, his blood-splattered face grim, as he collapsed onto a bench in the great hall. “He must have slithered away ere the fighting began, though I know not how. I saw to it that our men watched the castle every hour of the day.”

Dillon swore foully. “Run home to his father, no doubt, with his tail betwixt his legs.”

“Aye. I pity Westmoreland.”

Nodding, Dillon sank wearily into the ornate lord’s chair. “Lord Everard is a good man. Too good to be saddled with the likes of Camden for an heir. He will be sorely disappointed by his son’s actions this day.”

Simon snorted. “Not just this day, I wager.”

Dillon watched the emaciated servants bustle about the hall, mopping up blood and carrying out soiled rushes. “Have you noticed the condition of the people?”

Simon nodded. “The buildings as well.”

“The storerooms must be nigh empty.”

“There is a goodly supply of ale, but little else.”

“We can send to Westcott for our immediate needs once we have determined what they are. Our larders there are always overflowing. Gideon!” he called over his shoulder.

His squire—dirty, unkempt, and covered in his own fair share of blood—hurried forward. “Aye, my lord?”

“See if you can locate the steward and have him report to me at once. Tell him to bring the books with him.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“The sooner I get started, the sooner I shall finish,” he told Simon dolefully as the boy left the great hall.

“There is much to be done,” his second-in-command agreed. “’Twill take days just to assess the damage. Other than the castle, the only structure that looks reasonably sound is the stables. Everything else is either on the verge of collapse or has already done so.”

Dillon nodded, unhappy. Alyssa had been right. There was much he must do here ere he could return to Westcott. He would not see her again for at least two months.

Two months was too long. One night was too long. Yet, until he discovered to what haven Camden had absconded, he could not safely send for her to join him.

A slew of malcontent epithets exploded from his tight lips as he rose and began to pace, ignoring the servants’ nervous glances.

“What troubles you?” Simon queried in a low voice, conscious of their audience.

“I like not Camden’s disappearance.” Alyssa’s dream floated on the periphery of his thoughts. Was this the trouble of which it had warned? Was Camden bent on breeding more mischief? “I want another search made of Pinehurst. Every corner of this castle. Every croft in the village. Every privy, every stall, every chest, every cask.”

“I shall see to it immediately.”

“And send a party of men out to search the surrounding forest. If Camden escaped—as it appears he has, the cursed whoreson—I want to know how. And I want to know where the bastard has gone.”

Simon nodded. “If he is here, we shall find him. If he is not, we shall hunt him down.”

The steward entered as Simon exited, swiftly stumbling out of the fierce knight’s path. He looked to be roughly Dillon’s age, with closely cropped blond hair, a beakish nose, and a body thinner than William’s. The top of his head barely reached Dillon’s shoulder.

Bowing, radiating fear, the man stuttered a greeting. “You s-summoned me, my lord?”

“Did you bring the books?”

He held up the requested items, which looked as in danger of disintegrating as everything else at Pinehurst.

“Very well. Have you a name?”

“Aye, m-my lord. I am called Edward.”

Dillon loosed a gusty sigh. “Very well, Edward, shall we begin?”

“Sir Robert,” Alyssa whispered.

Jumping, he barked out a curse. And she thought, for an instant, that he would stomp his foot in frustration ere he pivoted to face her with a rueful frown. “How do you do that?” he challenged.

The men he had been training paused in their mock battles and gave them their undivided attention.

“Do what?” she asked, biting back a smile.

“Manage to approach me without making even a breath of sound that would alert me to your presence.”

She shrugged. “I did make a sound.” Nay, she had not. Years of following Dillon into battle and being his eyes and ears at Westcott had taught her how to move silently under almost any conditions. “You were simply distracted, watching these fine soldiers train.”

’Twas well-known that Dillon’s men were amongst the most magnificently trained warriors in the land. So she was quite shocked to see several of the men grin and nudge each other, puffing out their chests with pride.

Within the darkness of her hood, she frowned. Why were they not crossing themselves?

Then they did, disappointing her with their predictability… until she realized that they were looking not at her, but at someone behind her.

Curious, she turned.

Thomas the stable master hurried past, his face red and creased with a vicious scowl.

“Good day, Thomas,” she whispered.

Halting abruptly, he looked up. “Good day to you, Healer,” he responded, giving her a preoccupied smile as he offered a respectful bow.

Astonished by this new behavior, she decided to say more. “Sir Robert tells me that your mending of Berserker’s wound has been quite extraordinary.”

His eyes darted to the men around her, who crossed themselves again. “’Twas naught extraordinary about it,” he insisted, a sort of furious vulnerability sweeping his visage. “All I did was stitch up his wound and slap a poultice on it.”

“He underestimates his skills,” Robert interrupted smoothly. “His way with horses always amazes me. Dillon is fortunate to have him in his stables.”

The soldiers began to lean toward each other in two’s and three’s, speaking in low voices swallowed up by the breeze.

Alyssa pursed her lips and studied them all.

What precisely was amiss here? Thomas looked as if he wanted to either weep or scream. And Robert looked far too innocent.

“Either way you are to be commended, Thomas,” she told him.

“Thank you, Wise One,” he mumbled somewhat pitifully.

“We have rarely discussed your methods of healing the horses’ wounds and ailments,” she ventured, intrigued by the continued lack of fear in his bearing. “But, should you have need of medicinal herbs, I have a goodly supply I would share with you.”

He perked up a bit at that. “Thank you, Healer. ’Twould be most helpful.” He started to smile. But a group of children chose that moment to scurry past him, their little hands fisting in a manner to ward off the evil eye.

For once, they ignored Alyssa’s presence entirely.

As Thomas stomped off in a huff, his face all but purple now, she swung her gaze back to Robert. “Sir Robert.”

“Aye, Wise One?” His lips twitched. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth.

“There is a matter I would discuss with you.”

“As you wish.” Robert issued a few instructions to the men, then accompanied her to the great hall. When he would have ascended the stairs to the solar, she stopped him.

“In my chamber, if you will.” ’Twas a test, really, to see if he had truly conquered his fear of her.

Shrugging, he motioned for her to precede him.

“Healer!”

Alyssa stopped as one of the women who worked in the kitchen hurried toward her.

Upon reaching them, the woman thrust a cloth-covered bundle forward. “I baked you this loaf of nut bread. ’Tis a special recipe passed down by my grandmother.”

Careful to keep her hands from showing, Alyssa took the proffered bundle. “I do not understand.”

“’Tis my way of thanking you for laboring so hard to save Lord Dillon’s life and for healing my son’s leg when he broke it falling out of that tree last summer. He might have been crippled had it not been for you.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman curtsied to them both and hastened away.

Alyssa looked to Robert, whose lips had stretched in a grin so wide it barely fit his face. Refraining from commenting, she led him down into her chamber and closed the door behind them. The bread she set on her worktable, unsure what to think of either the gift or its giver. Then, eyes narrowing, forehead crunching up in a scowl, she faced a smug Robert and lowered her hood.

“What did you do?” she demanded.

When he caught sight of her less than pleased expression, Robert gave an exaggerated grimace, reached forward, and cautiously tried to raise her hood again to hide her frown from his view.

Alyssa fought back a laugh and swatted his hands away. “What did you do, Robert?” she repeated, less severe this time. “The world outside that door is not the same world it was when Dillon left three days ago.”

“I know not of what you speak,” he stalled, quickly backing out of arm’s reach so she could not touch him and see his lie.

She rolled her eyes. “At least half a dozen others have come forward to thank me for saving Dillon’s life.”

“That was his doing,” he protested, pointing in the direction of Pinehurst. “Not mine. Whatever he said to them that night must have finally penetrated their thick skulls.”

Crossing her arms, Alyssa raised her eyebrows. “And the rest of Westcott?”

He dropped his arm. “They have all thanked you?”

“Nay, not that,” she said, exasperated. “They are so busy cultivating suspicions of each other that they seem to have forgotten to fear me.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

She groaned. “Not when anyone who possesses even a modicum of talent—the stable master, the weaver, the falconer, the blacksmith, the armorer, the cook to name a few—is now suspected of having evil ties!”

He shrugged and began a slow circle of her workroom, his handsome face alight with curiosity regarding the chamber that had spawned so much speculation. “I am merely making a point. They shall comprehend it eventually.”

“Before or after they wage internal war here at Westcott?”

“Ann Marie told Dillon she did not realize how badly you were treated until she donned your robe and trod in your path. I thought ’twas time the rest of the people did the same.”

“And?”

“And what?” He leaned forward to cautiously sniff a packet of herbs.

“The rumors of the priests. Care to explain how those came about?”

At last, Robert began to look uncomfortable. “Do you mean the priests Dillon told me about?”

She raised one eyebrow, waiting.

“Aye,” he mumbled, straightening. “Well, I might have put it about that the priests only turned against you because you, ah, refused to fall in with their plans to heal only in exchange for contributions. That ’twas their greed, not any wickedness on your part, that guided their actions so many years ago. Of course, ’twas not you. ’Twas the other healer.”

“My grandmother.”

“Your grandmother was the last healer?”

“Aye.” She shook her head, confused. “I have not even told Dillon of the priests’ motives. How did you know?”

“Aha! So I was right!” he crowed.

Her eyes widened. “You guessed? You bandied it about amongst the people without even confirming that ’twas true?”

He nodded, unrepentant. “I knew there had to have been some less than pious reason for their intense condemnation of you, or rather your grandmother. Besides, it worked. Those whose ears I filled with the tale were displeased to learn that the priests in whom they had placed their trust would have denied them access to your healing skills unless they could spare the proper coin.”

“Oh, Robert. I do not think ’twas very wise of you.”

“I do.” The cages caught his attention then.

“But you may have shaken the people’s faith.”

“Considering in whom they chose to place their faith, I do not consider that a crime.”

Alyssa shook her head, thoroughly vexed. “Even if they come to view all priests in such a way?”

He shrugged. “Are these snakes poisonous?”

“Mildly.”

“What does that mean?”

Sighing, she seated herself on the stool by her workbench and began to unwrap the bread. “Their bites are painful and will make you ill if they inject enough venom, but are not fatal. You would have to be bitten many times over ere death would find you.”

“Hmm.”

“Robert, I worry that you are becoming as ill-disposed as Dillon is with regards to religion.”

“Dillon believes in God,” he offered absently, leaning down to peer at the reptiles. “He just does not believe in priests.”

“But all priests are not like the two banished from Westcott,” she persisted. Leaning forward, she drank in the delicious aroma that rose from the bread.

“After seeing quite a few corpulent priests, garbed in raiment as luxurious as that of the king, beg alms from the poor and seduce their innocent womenfolk, I am inclined to disagree.”

She clutched the loaf in both hands and broke off a generous chunk. “But I have heard that some take vows of poverty and truly do practice the chastity they preach.”

“Well, I have yet to meet any of those.” Glancing at her over his shoulder, he frowned. “Do not eat that until I have tasted it.”

“Why? Have you reason to believe ’tis poisoned?” It hurt to think that the first gift she had received—other than Robert’s flowers, that was—might have been given with wicked intent.

Robert abandoned his study of her animals for the moment and turned to approach her. “Dillon bade me watch for trouble from even the most unlikely sources. Therefore I shall do so.”

As she watched, he broke another piece off and started to bring it to his mouth. “Wait. Feed it to the rodents. If they sicken or die, I shall not eat it. But I will not risk your poisoning yourself on my behalf.”

He smiled down at her with a twist of his lips that seemed somehow sad. “I am sorry. I wish ’twere not necessary.”

She took the bread from him and went to drop it in one of the cages. “Well, let us see what your outrageous rumors will accomplish. Mayhap by the time Dillon returns, ’twill not be.”

Exhaustion pulled at him as Dillon climbed the tower stairs to the solar. He had ridden almost nonstop for three and a half days. After only a brief rest, he had then attacked Pinehurst at dawn, eager to confront the man who had ordered the ambush that had nigh claimed his life (and Alyssa’s as well when she had healed him afterward), not to mention the one that had brought Robert to his doorstep with a limp.

’Twould seem, however, that Camden was not in residence.

Both searches the men had conducted had come up empty. The party Dillon had sent into the surrounding forest had found a trail far from the walls that seemed to begin in the middle of nowhere and lead toward Westmoreland, but naught more.

It had to have been Camden. But how he had escaped Pinehurst remained a mystery. One that left Dillon uneasy. None of the servants would admit to knowing the answer. And none of Dillon’s men would confess to falling asleep whilst on watch.

How did he manage it? Dillon wondered for the hundredth time, closing the door behind him. He needed Alyssa by his side, to help him discern truth from falsehood whilst he conducted his interrogations.

And to dispel the loneliness he could feel closing in on him like winter.

He missed her.

Wearier by the moment, he sank down on the edge of the bed and sighed. He would sleep in his mailed chausses and hauberk, his thickly padded gambeson easing much of the discomfort. Until the knights he had sent to Westmoreland returned to confirm that Camden was indeed there, Dillon would not rest well. Nor would his men, guarding the walls, relax their vigil.

Dillon would have liked to leave on the morrow, hunt the bastard down, and finish the matter once and for all. Unfortunately, with winter fast approaching, he could not delay the repairs needed at Pinehurst for even a few days. The people needed shelter before the first snowfall. They needed food—great quantities of it—to replace what nigh-starvation had taken from them and to increase their stores. ’Twould take many hunts to bring down enough meat to satisfy both present and future needs.

They must have clothing as well. The rags they had been reduced to wearing would neither keep them warm nor stave off illness. Trees needed to be felled, to be used both for repairs and to keep the hearth fires going. There seemed an endless list of tasks that must be taken care of as swiftly as possible.

Lying back on the bed in the recently cleaned, nigh-spotless chamber, he let his mind drift away from his responsibilities and toward Alyssa.

Alyssa…

His lips stretched in a slow smile.

Aye. He would deal with Camden later.

“Robert, would you please stop tormenting my animals,” Alyssa reprimanded for the fourth time.

“I am not tormenting them,” he protested around a mouthful of the delicious bread she had shared with him.

Hours had passed and the rats that had consumed the bread had shown no signs of illness, easing their fears that the gift had been given with foul intent.

The castle had wound down for the night. Servants had cleared the hall, then wearily found their pallets. Dillon’s men either patrolled the walls, slept, or sought a willing wench to warm their beds. Alyssa would have thought Robert would choose the last. But he had instead made his way back down to her chamber.

It surprised her, how comfortable he was in her presence now. He actually appeared to enjoy her company, as she enjoyed his. She missed Dillon terribly, and managing Robert’s many questions helped distract her a bit from the emptiness. And her concern.

“One would think you had never seen a snake before,” she commented, placing a stopper in the jar of ointment she had just prepared for Harry.

“I have not. Not like these. ’Tis the first time I have had the opportunity to study a snake whilst it still lives.”

“You would have more such opportunities were you not so quick to slay them whenever you see them.”

He shrugged. “I know not which ones are poisonous.” Backing away from the cages, he dusted the crumbs from his fingers and disappeared between her bookshelves. “I must admit that I am in awe of your usage of those creatures. I would not have believed one could use them to extract information from a man.”

She had told him the purpose her pets had recently served. “Why?”

“A woman recoiling from rats and snakes would not surprise me, but a man?”

Irritation struck. “Are you telling me that—were two or more of those serpents to slither up your hose and tunnel their way through your braies—you would not be at all concerned?”

Robert’s face reappeared, his expression horrified. “You did not tell me you trained them to bite him there! That is—”

“I cannot train a snake to bite a person, Robert, nor would I.”

“Then he was not bitten?”

“Nay, he was not bitten.”

“What did you train them to do?”

“The snakes? Naught.”

He frowned. “If you did not train the snakes, how did you get them to slither up his hose?”

She shrugged. “I trained the rats.” She had thought her grandmother’s orders to do so most peculiar when she had donned these robes, never guessing that such would someday serve a purpose. “’Twas a surprisingly easy task, if you can believe it.”

“Actually, I can,” he said with a wry smile. “I once knew a boy who trained a field mouse to scurry up ladies’ skirts so he could glimpse their legs when they frantically shook their gowns to dislodge it.”

Alyssa laughed. “Well, once the rats clambered up the man’s hose, all I had to do was release the snakes, which—fortunately—were in need of a meal that night.”

“So they followed the rats.” He pursed his lips. “I still do not understand why that would frighten the man so badly if none bit him. The prisoner still shook and searched his cell with wide eyes when I looked in on him hours later.”

She winced. “’Twould seem his fear of serpents far surpassed that of most men. He was quite terrified of them. I told him I would remove them as soon as the betrayer’s name crossed his lips. But… I admit that after hearing of Dillon’s death—you do recall I thought him dead—I wanted to see him suffer a little as payment.” She bit her lip. “That sounds hideous, does it not?”

“Nay. I would have gutted him myself.”

Alyssa shuddered. “You are very like your brother.”

He grinned. “I hope so.”

Ducking back between the bookshelves, Robert left her to her work. Occasionally she heard a slight scraping sound as he pulled one of her precious tomes down to examine it, then returned it to its home. There were many he would not be able to read. Books from faraway lands—from Asia, Africa, and the Holy Land—that contained irreplaceable healing knowledge.

He came around the corner and set a large, heavy volume on her workbench. Leaning forward, he bracketed the ancient leather-bound book with his elbows. “I envy him, you know,” he admitted softly.

“Dillon?”

“Aye. I envy him what he has found in you.”

She sent him a skeptical frown. “A quarrelsome sorceress who can heal with her hands?”

He shook his head. “A woman in whom he can confide. One with whom he can share both his triumphs and his troubles. One who makes him happy, makes him laugh.” His gaze dropped. “A woman who would not love him less even were he to fail her in some way.”

Something told her he spoke from experience. An experience that had not ended happily for him.

“I had that once myself,” he confirmed, with so much melancholy that she did not need to touch him to recognize his grief. “For a time.”

Alyssa knew not what to say. The way Robert went from woman to woman… She had not realized he had formed an attachment to any one in particular. Not at Westcott. She would have heard.

“Dillon never told me,” she murmured, wondering what had happened.

“He knew not. ’Twas whilst he was crusading with King Richard. Father sent me to train with Lord Edmund ere I earned my spurs and…” He could not have been more than ten and eight at the time. “It only lasted a year. I do not talk about it. But I see how Dillon looks at you and remember how it was with her.” His eyes met hers. “I am happy for him.”

Regret gripped her. “Robert, even were your bizarre rumors to succeed in softening the people’s attitude toward me, ’twould not change the fact that I am the bastard daughter of a peasant. ’Twould be unseemly for a man of his station to pursue a legitimate union with me. Think you the king would approve?”

“We shall see,” he countered with a healthy dose of Dillon’s stubbornness, then briskly changed the subject. “What is that you are concocting?”

“’Tis for Sir Michael’s lung ailment.”

Only a year older than Robert and—other than Dillon—his closest friend, Michael often experienced difficulty breathing. He would wheeze audibly, sometimes gasping for breath. On rare occasions, he would suffer dreadful attacks and once had nigh perished before she could reach him. It frustrated Alyssa that, though her gift could ease his breathing and bring a quick end to such attacks, she had been unable to prevent a recurrence of them.

Some illnesses were like that. Simply beyond her ability to mend completely.

Opening the book he had chosen, Robert turned to the first page.

Alyssa let her thoughts wander again to the fierce warrior who owned her heart. Worrying. Wondering.

Had he reached Pinehurst yet?

Would he take the keep on the morrow? Confront Camden?

She asked Robert what he thought.

“I doubt not Pinehurst is his by now. As for Camden’s fate, we shall have to wait for Dillon’s messenger to bring us news.”

“How soon might that be?”

“’Twill take three or four days of nigh constant riding to reach us. We can begin looking for him then.”

Four days. ’Twas too long, Alyssa fretted. She needed to know Dillon was safe now. Needed to know he had heeded the warning they had been given.

“You are thinking of your dream?” Robert asked, contemplating her.

“Aye.”

“He will be fine. I am certain of it.”

“If only I could read the dream more clearly…” She ran the details over in her mind like a checklist, marking off everything she was certain she had deciphered accurately, focusing on the more ambiguous.

“The man must represent Camden,” she muttered. “Camden inviting trouble. Taking pleasure in orchestrating it. Laying a trap. In the bed chamber. Bed chambers are private. Secret. Camden doing something secret. Camden some place secret?” Her voice lowered further. “Camden somewhere secret… plotting trouble…”

But what? And where?

Pain struck her with the quickness and ferocity of a lightning bolt, nigh splitting her head in two. Crying out, she dropped the herbs she had been measuring and pressed white-knuckled fists to her temples.

“Wise One?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth. That terrible hum that had plagued her when she had awoken after being healed returned to vengefully assault her senses.

“Wise One?”

’Twas as if a thousand bees swarmed around her, filling her ears with their buzzing, pricking her flesh with their wicked stingers.

“Wise One!” Robert called anxiously as he grasped her arms. “What ails you?”

She could not speak, could not move. She could barely draw a breath as the pain magnified a hundredfold. Groaning, she felt her knees buckle (she had not even realized she had risen) and was dimly aware of Robert catching her as she fell.

Darkness. The pain abruptly receded. Alyssa no longer stood in her chamber. Was no longer at Westcott. She could see naught of her surroundings, yet was certain nonetheless.

Raising her chin, she drew in a deep breath. The air was thick, stale. It smelled of many unwashed bodies and—she sniffed again—stagnant sea water.

Where was she?

Thrusting her hands out in front of her, she moved them in wide arcs. Behind her they scraped across a rough wall of stone, which she decided to use as her guide. Swiveling to her right, she took a hesitant step forward, then stopped.

Nay. She must go the other way. Why this was so Alyssa knew not. She simply obeyed the impulse.

Reversing direction, she made her way forward, trailing her left hand along the wall. Occasional scuttling noises alerted her to the presence of rodents or other small creatures. She herself made no sound, moving as silently as the wind with no leaves to rustle.

Soon she heard whispering and saw faint light up ahead.

There. Men. Clothed in ragged armor, with dented shields and weapons in hand or within reach. A ragtag band that would seem pathetic should they stand beside Dillon’s disciplined army.

They lounged against the walls of the cave, which she now saw was a long, narrow tunnel of natural origins. ’Twas mayhap wide enough for a dozen men to stand shoulder to shoulder across it, though most of those present either sat or lay propped against the walls with their legs sprawled in front of them. A few meager torches attempted to battle the blackness, their smoke hanging like storm clouds nigh the ceiling.

Reaching up to ensure her cowl was raised, Alyssa stepped into the light and boldly strode into their midst. Straight down the middle of the tunnel she walked, stepping over a foot here, a leg there, virtually unnoticed by all. There were dozens of them. Some rested. Others were wounded.

At the end of the tunnel lay a door before which three men stood, their backs to her, discussing their imminent victory over…

Dillon.

She gasped. A man to her right, sitting at her feet, glanced up sharply, seeming to look directly at her.

“You do not see me,” she whispered, heart pounding.

He looked around, confused, then rubbed his eyes wearily and went back to sharpening his sword.

As baffled as he must feel, Alyssa continued forward until only a few paces separated her from those she assumed were the leaders of this motley band. One in particular she recognized.

Camden.

“I want to see his face when he realizes I slaughtered his entire army whilst he slept,” he said with relish.

“’Twill kill him,” one of the others uttered gleefully.

“Nay. I will kill him,” Camden growled. “’Tis what he deserves for attempting to take what is mine.”

Panic flooded her.

They intended to murder Dillon? How? Where? Was there time enough to warn him?

“I will be glad when ’tis finished,” the third grumbled and nodded toward the door. “I thought all of our planning would be for naught when I heard his men searching just on the other side.”

Camden waved off his concerns. “Nay. I knew the ale and the sad state of the stores would distract them. The door is too well hidden, blending easily with the rest of the wall.”

The complainer shifted. “How much longer must we wait?”

“Only a few servants will be awake at this hour. Soon they, too, will seek their pallets. Then we shall strike, swiftly and silently, killing them all as they sleep.”

Alyssa shook her head violently, backing away.

No.

Dillon.

Dillon!

Blinding white light engulfed her, erasing everything, then faded to darkness broken only by the struggling flames of a dying hearth fire.