Dillon sighed as he watched shadows cast by the dying flames from the hearth dance upon the ceiling.

Sleep eluded him. He could not seem to quiet his thoughts.

He missed Alyssa. Her smile. Her laugh. Her touch. Even her sharp tongue.

He liked not that they had quarreled ere she had left. Again and again since her departure, he had cursed himself for allowing frustration to get the better of him. She had worried for her father’s health. And Dillon had whined like a pup over not being able to accompany her and had raged over her refusal to relinquish her role of advisor for just one moment and have faith in him. Have faith in his ability to secure a future for them.

Sighing, Dillon rubbed tired eyes.

He must find a way to secure a future for them.

Thunder rumbled outside, heralding more rain.

’Twould help if he could deny her arguments, but Alyssa spoke the truth. Noblemen did not wed peasants. Ever. In all of his life, he had heard nary a rumor of such taking place. Some noblemen took peasants as lemans, but even that was frowned upon if it lasted too long, because the nobility believed those of lower birth beneath them.

He snorted.

Noblemen married noblewomen. To unite families. To end hostilities. To acquire a wealthy dowry. To secure a title. To gain power. Land.

Not for love. Love had naught to do with marriage amongst the nobility.

He recalled hearing once of a young noblewoman—barely more than a girl—who had run away with a peasant she loved. Her parents had put a swift end to it, separating the lovers and forcing the girl to submit to an arranged marriage.

Dillon himself had been destined for a marriage that had been arranged for him at the age of seven. But illness had taken the girl’s life ere she had seen twelve years. Dillon had not known her. Had not spoken with her. Had not loved her or longed for her as he did Alyssa.

He closed his eyes.

There must be a way for them to be together as more than lord and leman.

The crackling of the fire faded, as did the rumbling of thunder and patter of rain.

The bedding rustled.

Opening his eyes, Dillon turned his head and smiled. Pleasure rushed through him as Alyssa settled herself beside him.

He rolled onto his side to face her, spirit lightening. “You are here.”

She wore only her shift. Her lovely midnight hair, unconfined, pooled on the bedding beneath and around her.

She reached for his hand and curled her fingers around it.

“I would have thought you halfway to Westcott by now,” he murmured and frowned as the chill of her flesh seeped into his palm.

“I miss you,” she told him.

“And I you.”

Withdrawing her fingers from his, she curled a small hand around the nape of his neck and drew him to her for a kiss.

Dillon knew not why she had returned or if she would leave again on the morrow and did not care. He was too happy to have her with him.

Breaking the sweet contact, he leaned back to smile down at her.

His smile died ere it could finish forming. His fingers tightened around hers.

A deep gash now sliced open her forehead as though she had been lashed by a whip. “Alyssa?”

As he watched in horror, blood trailed down and striped her forehead. A second cut opened her cheek from the base of her ear to the corner of her eye. A third grazed her neck.

Fear struck. Pulse racing, Dillon lurched up to better see her.

The waves of her glossy hair flattened, the strands dampening and becoming caked with mud.

What was happening? How was this happening?

“Alyssa?”

Her pale skin darkened with purple and brown bruises in too many places to count. Crimson stains formed on her white shift as more wounds opened on her slender body.

He leaned over her. Touched a hand to her face.

She rolled to her back, her dark eyes full of pain. A single tear slipped from the corner of one eye and forged a path down her temple. “I love you, Dillon.”

His heart clenched. How he had longed to hear those words cross her lips.

Smudges of dirt streaked her skin.

“Tell me what is happening,” he implored. “Tell me what to do!”

She opened her mouth, tried to speak once more, but no sound emerged.

Her eyelids fluttered closed.

“Alyssa!”

Dillon jerked awake.

Heart pounding, he bolted upright and turned to find the bed empty, the covers beside him cold and undisturbed. A quick survey of the chamber confirmed he was alone.

Relief rushed through him.

A dream. It had just been a dream.

Not a vision. Those came to him whilst he was awake.

But a dream.

Lying back, he sought to calm his racing pulse.

He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, the sound of her pained voice speaking her love for him ringing in his ears.

Just a dream.

Closing his eyes, he slid one hand over the bedding beside him. Though it bore no warmth and lacked her scent, Dillon found the image of her lying there, sorely wounded, a difficult one to banish.

* * *

Whilst Simon paced back and forth in the gloomy cell, Michael sat in the corner beside the healer.

Curled up in a ball, she shivered as she slept.

“We must warm her,” he murmured.

“With what?” Simon asked. They had no blankets. Had nothing but their hose, braies, and cold, damp shirts.

“Should I… should I hold her? Warm her with my body?”

“’Twould not be proper,” Simon muttered.

“Think you that matters down here?”

Another shudder racked the healer’s form, drawing a moan from her.

“She is an old woman,” Michael said, his brow furrowed. “Weakened as she has been by healing us, she may not survive the cold and damp. Would Lord Dillon not want us to do aught we can to help her?”

Recalling the conversation he and Michael had witnessed—the one in which the healer and Lord Dillon had seemed so close—he nodded. “Do it.”

Michael carefully eased the wisewoman over onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her.

Though she moaned again, she did not rouse.

It worried Simon. And not just because he feared Lord Dillon’s wrath if they failed to prevent her from perishing. Every man here owed her his life. He did not wish to see her lose her own.

After several minutes of being spared lying on the cold stone floor, the wisewoman’s shivers finally eased.

“I do not understand,” Philip said, confused. “You say this is because she healed us? That, when she heals others, she is harmed herself?”

“Aye,” Simon responded shortly.

The other men had been shocked by the healer’s collapse and were slow to grasp the truth.

“You must be mistaken,” Lambert murmured, his craggy face creased with doubt.

Two others agreed.

“Simon?” Michael questioned in subdued tones so as not to wake the wisewoman.

“Aye?”

“From what wounds did the healer suffer when we were forced down here?”

“A blow to the head.”

“Naught more?”

“Nay.”

Michael shifted his focus to the brawny skeptic. “And where were you injured, Lambert?”

“My right arm, just beneath the shoulder. Damn nigh lost it entirely.”

Michael nodded. “Ere you discount our words, I suggest you pay close attention to this. I shall only demonstrate it once.”

As the others watched him, Michael ran one hand gently down over the healer’s right shoulder. When he reached the top of her arm, she whimpered involuntarily and shrank away from his touch, curling into a tighter knot and burrowing into his chest as though to escape the pain.

His hand came away wet with blood.

Simon swallowed miserably, given this proof, whilst the others all crossed themselves.

Noise sounded outside the cell, followed by the rumble of voices and clank of the bolt sliding back. Light flooded in as the door swung open, alleviating the gloom that had previously been broken only by a small, fizzling wall torch.

A large, stout figure stepped into the doorway, sword in hand. A second joined him, a whip in one hand, a sword in the other.

“We come for the witch,” the first announced.

* * *

Alyssa regained consciousness when someone yanked her up and forced her, stumbling, through the open doorway.

Fighting and bellowed protests erupted behind her, subdued but not silenced by the crack of one gaoler’s whip and the bite of the blade he brandished.

Dazed, she relinquished her hold on dreams of Dillon and listened with dread as the door closed with a loud clank. Rough hands latched onto each of her arms and jerked her forward. Though Alyssa thought the bleeding had stopped, most of the wounds she had incurred still afflicted her, making walking sheer torture.

Either oblivious or uncaring, her jailers propelled her onward, dragging her when she stumbled, until she finally dug in her heels and snarled through clenched teeth, “Do you not remove your hands from me this instant I shall lay a curse upon your heads that will place every member of your families, including yourselves, in the grave ere All Saints’ Day.”

Terrified, the men released her.

Alyssa straightened her shoulders, ignoring the pull of dried, crusted wounds, and tilted her chin up. “Now, take me to your lord. I would share a few words with him.”

They would have taken her there anyway, of course. Their orders had been pounding through each of their not-very-bright minds whilst they held her. Now they led her more slowly down a dark passageway, up two flights of stairs, and into the great hall of Castle Westmoreland.

What happened here? she wondered, her unsettled stomach sinking as she surveyed the damage.

What had formerly been an impressive, neat, and orderly keep now lay in shambles. The soiled rushes beneath her feet reeked of decaying food and animal excrement. A thick layer of dust, soot, and grime covered nigh every surface, including the whitewashed walls, which now appeared gray. Insects and rodents scurried to and fro. The servants all huddled in corners whilst unwashed, uncouth soldiers far beneath the Earl of Westmoreland’s usual stock lolled about the hall, drinking heavily and shouting coarse jests to one another, occasionally latching onto a servant woman and groping her against her will.

“The prisoner, milord,” one of the guards announced.

Her newfound ability to read minds identified him as Gareth. The other guard’s name, she now knew, was Walter. Both relinquished their possession of her with much relief.

Following Gareth’s direction, Alyssa glared in furious disbelief. “You!”

From his position in the large, elaborately carved throne that rested in the center of the raised dais, Camden smiled down at her and offered her a mocking bow of his head. “At your service, Witch.”

“I would not have a fool such as yourself in my service,” she retorted, pleased to see crimson color flood his face when a few of his mercenaries unwisely snickered. How did Camden still live? Dillon and his men had been certain they had slain him, so certain they had sent the body back to Westmoreland. Who had they felled?

“Silence!”

And where was Westmoreland? Were any of his men even present?

A quick glance about showed her a few of them stationed uncomfortably around the hall, well away from Camden’s refuse.

“Fool am I?” Camden inquired, rising. Auburn-haired and of average height, he had garbed himself in his father’s finery. The rumpled fabric hung loosely on his more slender build, lending him the appearance of a child playing dress-up. Though he no doubt thought himself quite dashing. “If I am such a fool, how have I managed to foil Lord Dillon’s plot to confiscate my father’s holdings?”

“Is that what you have told the earl? What you have told his men?” she questioned, keeping her elderly whisper calm. “What other lies have you poured into their ears?”

Westmoreland’s men cast each other edgy glances.

Camden scowled. “No lies. Only the truth. The truth of Westcott’s treachery!”

“’Tis your father and his men who have been betrayed if they believed your falsehoods. Where is your father, boy?”

“’Tis naught of your concern.” Ignoring her slur, Camden descended the steps and approached her with deliberate, arrogant steps. His handsome face lit with evil relish. “At last, I have managed to steal Lord Dillon’s most prized possession,” he purred. “His healer. His seer. His sorceress.”

She stood immobile as he walked in a slow circle around her.

“For years now, I have wondered what horrid features you hide beneath that cowl.” Stopping in front of her, he smirked. “Methinks ’tis time we have a look.”

Alyssa gripped his wrist when he reached toward her, staying his hand. “I would not, were I you,” she warned him. “’Twill only cause you grief. This I vow.”

Shaking off her hand, he swiftly yanked back her cowl.

Gasps filled the hall. In a flurry of movement, men and women hurried to cross themselves and ward off the evil eye. Camden himself did naught. He merely stared, mesmerized.

Gradually, an evil smile blossomed. “Well, well, well. Mayhap when I listed your many titles, I overlooked the most important. His leman, I do not doubt.”

Alyssa’s heart began to pound.

“No response?” he asked glibly.

“Such lunacy deserves no response,” she bit out, no longer camouflaging her voice.

He took a step closer to her, his foul stench nigh making her gag. Leaning in, he said for her ears only, “How think you Dillon will react when I take you as my whore? When I use you until I have had my fill, then give you to my men? When I shackle him and make him watch? Hmm? What think you, Sorceress?”

Tension and fear flowed through her, yet she refused to let it show. “You could not.”

“Are you so certain?”

Still smiling, he rested one hand firmly on her injured shoulder. As soon as they touched, his thoughts inundated her. Every sordid deed he had performed. Every obscene act he schemed to commit. His plans. His desires. His heinous dreams of making Dillon pay in the most monstrous of ways for always being the better man in his father’s eyes. For always being first with the king and the rest of the nobility despite their fear of him.

His loathing for Dillon was a bitter, twisted thing that would not cease governing him even were he to successfully remove Dillon’s head and place it upon a pike for all to see.

Thunder crashed outside, the roar of some fantastical beast. Power surged through Alyssa as rage consumed her, burning, crackling, then racing toward Camden’s hand. Even those in the farthest corners saw the spark of energy that leapt from her to him.

Howling in pain, Camden stumbled backward, tripped, and landed hard on his backside amidst the stinking rushes. For long moments he could not speak. He could only sit there, his body twitching, breath whooshing in and out through clenched teeth like the air in a blacksmith’s bellows.

“You w-will p-p-pay for that, W-W-Witch!” he finally managed to growl.

Careful to maintain her calm facade, Alyssa deliberately raised her cowl. “I did warn you.”

“T-T-Take her!”

A terror-stricken Gareth and Walter guided her back down to the dungeon.

Simon and the others were all pacing anxiously when the door opened and she strode into the cell.

“You are well, Wise One?” Michael asked.

“Well enough to raze this keep in an instant should they continue to try my patience,” she hissed for the benefit of their audience. Unfortunately, Dillon’s men appeared to take her at her word, and she despaired that they would never cease crossing themselves in her presence.

As soon as the guards closed and bolted the door behind her, she staggered and grabbed Michael’s arm for support.

“You are not well!” Simon exclaimed. “What did Westmoreland do to you?”

She waved off their concern and painstakingly settled herself in the corner that had so quickly become her own, feeling as old as these men still believed her. “’Tis not Westmoreland behind this, but Camden.”

“Camden!”

“But he is dead!”

“I saw the corpse myself!”

“Nay,” she broke in. “The corpse you saw was Camden’s cousin, slain by his own hand to deceive you all. Camden is above in the great hall, as are all of his remaining band of hired swords and then some.”

“And Westmoreland?” Simon asked.

She sighed, saddened by all that she had seen. “He lies abed in the lord’s chamber, nigh death.”

“What ails him?”

“Poison. A servant loyal to Camden has been feeding it to him since just before the siege of Pinehurst began so his illness would come upon him gradually and his death go unquestioned.”

All lapsed into pensive silence.

“What next, Wise One?” Michael posed, seeking her counsel.

Alyssa leaned her head back against the wall and closed gritty eyes. “You must watch over me for a time. I have a task I must perform.”

Neither Michael nor Simon understood her meaning, but faithfully settled themselves on either side of her to wait.

Westcott was quiet, peaceful. No threat had arisen since Robert had received word that Camden had been slain. Yet he continued to maintain a watchful vigil, posting double the usual number of guards and letting no stranger through the gates.

Most of the keep slumbered now.

Having just returned from walking the walls to ensure that every guard remained at his post, Robert entertained himself in Alyssa’s chamber. His conscience tweaked him a bit for being there in her absence, but largely went ignored. He leaned over the cages in the corner, intending to toy with her serpents.

“Robert.”

“Sorceress!” Startled, he spun around and regarded the wisewoman guiltily. “I mean Alyssa. I knew not you had returned.”

“I have not.”

His brow creased with confusion, then smoothed out in shock when he realized she was no more than a ghostly image. “You—”

“I have been captured, Robert,” she informed him, “and am being held at Westmoreland.”

She doffed her cowl.

And Robert felt rage engulf him.

Bruises and abrasions aplenty painted her delicate features. A long, nasty gash began at the end of her right eyebrow and traveled diagonally across her forehead into the hair above her left temple. The trails of dried blood beneath it resembled the rusted bars of an iron cage. Another began an inch below her left ear and parted her cheek to end a hair’s breadth from the inner corner of her left eye. Yet another peeked out from the neckline of her tattered robes.

“Sir Simon, Sir Michael, and a handful of others are here with me, but we shall not live long if Camden has his way.”

“Camden! I thought Dillon slew Camden!”

She shook her head. “The body Dillon found was that of Camden’s cousin, killed by Camden’s own hand because he bears a resemblance to him and Camden wished to deceive us into believing him dead. He has seized Westmoreland and holds us in its dungeons. You must get word to Dillon. I could not reach him, drained as I am. The distance is too great.”

Robert nodded. “As swiftly as I can.”

“And Robert…”

“Aye?”

“Say naught to Dillon of my wounds. ’Twill infuriate him and make him careless.”

He silently agreed. “Will you be all right until we reach you?” Even as the words passed his lips, she faded from his sight.

Shaken, Robert dashed from her chamber, through the great hall, and out into the bailey. He must gather men, shore up the castle’s defenses, and fly like the wind to his brother’s side.

All was black when Alyssa awoke. The puny wall torch the dungeon boasted must have extinguished itself whilst she slept.

Throat aching, she swallowed hard. Fever flayed her from the inside out. Just as she had feared for the brave men who shared this cell, infection had found a home in all but the most minor of her wounds. Though her belly had ceased cramping, she worried for the health of her babe. Feared the toll this would take. Though her grandmother had continued to heal others whilst she had carried Alyssa’s mother, Alyssa doubted she had taxed herself to this extent.

Shifting position, Alyssa noticed for the first time that Michael had at some point transferred her to his lap. His determination to do all that he could to make her more comfortable warmed her, but she was unaccustomed to having any man save Dillon—and Robert the time he had comforted her as she had wept—hold her.

When she gathered her flagging strength and prepared to pull away, Michael’s arms tightened.

“Remain where you are, Wise One,” he ordered gently. “You will benefit from my warmth.”

“I am burning,” she protested hoarsely.

“What?” Simon’s voice, full of worry, sounded close beside them. “Has fever taken hold?”

Michael freed one hand and slipped it beneath her cowl to feel her forehead. She gasped and jerked back, bumping his chin, when his rough palm met the tender flesh there. Startled by the feel of the ugly, blood-encrusted gash, he swore beneath his breath and softly begged her forgiveness.

“Michael?” Simon questioned louder. “What is amiss?”

“Naught,” Alyssa blurted, tears threatening as throbbing pain assaulted her. Rising, she staggered away a step or two. “Naught. Just leave me be.”

“She burns with fever,” Michael told him.

“I know not what we can do for that,” Simon admitted.

“There is more,” Michael added bleakly. “Her forehead is—”

“Do not speak of me as though I were not here,” she snapped irritably. “I shall be fine until Dillon comes to our rescue.”

Silence.

“Was… was that the sorceress speaking?” Sir Philip asked in a low voice.

She had forgotten to use her elderly rasp.

“Lord Dillon knows not we are here, Healer,” Simon reminded her after a moment.

She shook her head, swaying when it inspired a momentary dizziness. “Robert races to inform Dillon of our capture even as we speak.”

“How can that be?” Michael posed. “Robert knows not what has happened.”

Mutters on the other side of the door spared her from having to concoct an answer.

The bolt slid back with a clank. Seconds later, the door creaked open to admit a slender, solitary figure. Alyssa could see naught of the man but his silhouette, blinded as she was by the sudden light of the torches Gareth and Walter held.

Turning away, the man said, “’Tis too dark in here. Give me those torches.”

Simon and Michael moved to stand on either side of Alyssa.

Scowling, Gareth grudgingly thrust two torches into the man’s waiting hands.

“My thanks, Gareth. ’Twill be all for now.”

The gaoler closed the door with a grunt.

Holding the torches high, the mystery man turned to face his hostile audience.

A priest.

Even in her growing delirium, Alyssa felt fear grab her by the arms and shake her. Of all the men at Westmoreland, this one posed the greatest threat to her. One word from him and she would suffer the same fate her mother had nigh met as a child. Burned at the stake. A torturous death if ever there was one.

“I am Father Markham. Mayhap you gentlemen would be good enough to see to these for me,” he suggested with a tentative smile.

Simon made a motion with one hand.

Sir Lambert stepped forward and retrieved the torches, placing them in the rusted wall sconces.

That taken care of, the priest turned all of his attention upon Alyssa.

He was young. About Robert’s age, she guessed. Thin. Half a head taller than herself, with light brown tonsured hair and… kind hazel eyes? Nay. That she could not believe.

When Michael and Simon tried to move in front of her, Alyssa stayed them by gripping their arms. She would have to brazen this out on her own as she had so often in the past.

“Come to administer the last rites, Father, ere you burn this witch at the stake?” she asked caustically.

“I mean you no harm, Wisewoman.” His smile died as he listened to her ragged breathing and saw her sway where she stood. “Do you require the last rites?” he queried.

“Nay. Not yet.” She jolted her two protectors with that, alarming them, though she had not intended to. In all honesty, she began to fear she might not survive this ordeal. It may take Dillon too long to reach her.

Simon nodded toward the priest and demanded belligerently, “If you mean her no harm, why have you come?”

Father Markham seemed to ponder that. “In part, to escape the wagging tongues of my flock.”

Alyssa’s lips turned up in a cynical smile. She could well imagine the frantic chattering to which he had been subjected since their arrival.

“And, too, I seek the truth. If I may…?” He reached toward Alyssa’s cowl and immediately found his wrists manacled by strong, muscled fists.

“Nay,” Alyssa told them, staying their angry protests. “Let him see the sorceress whose blood his pious congregation wishes to spill.”

Her willingness to let this man look upon her unveiled when no other had ever done so—as far as they knew—stunned them into immobility.

“Wise One?” Michael asked uncertainly.

Abandoning her hold on them, she stood as tall as her compact height would allow her, her hands fisting at her sides when her wounds tightened painfully. “Do as I say. Release him.”

They obeyed with clear reluctance, but continued to crowd her on either side, ready to attack should the need arise.

Alyssa sighed. “Michael, Simon, please join the others behind me.” Neither moved. “Should he attempt to harm me, he shall experience the same punishment Camden did.”

“Then Camden did harm you!” Simon blurted, his face darkening.

The priest’s lips twitched. “I was not there, mind you, but from what I have heard, he had not the chance.” His eyes remained fixed on Alyssa’s dark hood. “Know you that he took to his bed after you left the hall and has not risen since? Nor can he speak without stuttering.”

“’Tis less than he deserves for his wickedness. Michael. Simon.”

The moment stretched.

Just as Alyssa opened her mouth to issue a sterner order, they slowly backed away, giving her the feigned privacy she desired.

“Proceed, Father.”

The man peeled back the dark material of her cowl and stared, stunned.

No doubt the men behind her did the same. Although they could not see her face, her hair—a glossy black instead of the anticipated white or silver—was unmistakable.

“Then all was not a lie,” Markham murmured. Taking her chin in his hand, he tilted her face up to better view it and the cuts, bruises, and swollen flesh that marred it. “Who did this to you, child?” he asked with such concern that her eyes began to burn.

“’Twas my own doing.”

He looked from her to the men behind her, then back again. “Is it true that you healed these men with your hands?”

“Aye.” Determined to show no weakness, she jerked her chin out of his grasp.

“How?” He dropped his hand to his side.

“The same way I have always done.”

“You will not share your methods with me?”

“I see no reason to.”

He nodded, as if he understood her reluctance to trust. “Have you ever looked upon the face of evil, child?”

“I have felt its influence many times in the men and women around me. As for its face… I would not care to see a face more evil than Camden’s.”

“Nor would I,” he concurred with a grimace, surprising her. “You have made no unholy pacts, then, in exchange for your gifts?”

“I have not.”

“They say your appearance is a result of sorcery.”

“You have already guessed ’tis not.”

His narrow shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I felt compelled to ask on behalf of the people. Westmoreland has been home to me but two years now, Wisewoman. As you know, you are the subject of a great deal of speculation. But, unlike those who spread the rumors, I kept both my ears and my mind open as I listened.” He paused. “You are not the same healer who resided at Westmoreland ere she transferred her loyalty to Westcott, are you?”

“Nay, that woman was my grandmother.” Muttering sounded behind her. “I succeeded her the day Lord Dillon took Brimshire.” Still dizzy with fever, she gave Father Markham a moment to assimilate her words. “This is not the only truth you seek.”

“Is it not?”

“You wish to know of Westmoreland, how he fares.”

He stared at her with wonder. “How did you know that?”

“The moment you touched me your thoughts became mine, as did all that resides in your heart.”

“You are a seer as well?”

She inclined her head slightly.

“Then you know I speak not falsely when I say I mean you no harm.”

She frowned. “’Tis true your thoughts indicate as much. Yet I find it difficult to believe, knowing the actions of your predecessors toward my mother and grandmother. Will you not seek to use my gifts to line your pockets?”

“Nay, child.” He gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “Such gifts as yours are given for a reason, and I am quite certain ’tis not to beget profit.”

Alyssa did not return his smile. Verily, his attitude baffled her. “Westmoreland lies nigh death,” she informed him. “His son has been slowly poisoning him and using his delirium to usurp control of this keep. Dillon never swayed from his loyalty to the earl. ’Tis all a lie Camden formulated after enraging the king and losing his own estates.”

Father Markham’s lips tightened. “I feared as much.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. ’Twas she who touched his face then with one small, filthy hand, startling him. “You are loyal to Westmoreland.”

“Aye.”

“Loyal enough to deceive his son?”

He considered the question carefully. “Camden long ago surrendered himself to wickedness. Aye. If I must, to save the lives of the good people here at Westmoreland as well as your own, I will deceive him.”

He spoke the truth.

Withdrawing her hand, she clasped it with the other in front of her. “Lord Dillon and his men will arrive two or three days’ hence.”

“Wise One!” Simon protested.

“I assume that you are allowed to come and go as you please, Father,” she continued.

“Aye. Camden and his men pay me little attention.”

“Then seek you Lord Dillon outside the gates. I know not his designs, but ask that you aid him in any way you can.”

“Know you where outside the gates?”

“Nay.”

“Fear not. I shall find him, one way or another.”

“I have good reason not to trust men of the cloth, Father. I pray the fever plaguing me has not clouded my judgment.”

“It has not,” he vowed. “Is there aught I can do for you, child, to ease your suffering?”

His sympathy, unfamiliar as it was, made her uncomfortable. “We have none of us had aught to eat or drink since we were captured. Some water and mayhap some bread would be much appreciated. Think you the guards would allow it?”

He tapped his lips thoughtfully with one forefinger. “Gareth and Walter will not. But ’tis almost time for Jordan and Hugh to relieve them so the former can drink themselves into their nightly stupor. Hugh is very concerned about his soul and would likely go along with my wishes. And Jordan, being a simple-minded fellow, follows his heart more often than his orders. I should have no difficulties there.”

“Would they free us if you asked?”

“That I cannot do,” he said regretfully. “Camden would slay them and their families as soon as he learned they were responsible.”

“What of you? Will you not be made to suffer?”

Again he sent her a smile. “The church is my protection.”

“I have one last request, Father.”

“Aye?”

Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear.

He studied her a moment. “As you wish.”

A few thumps on the door roused Walter and Gareth and allowed him his freedom. They would have insisted on retrieving the torches, but—upon glimpsing Alyssa’s face and narrowing eyes—they opted not to enter and let them be.

Silence settled around her, stiflingly thick, once the door closed. Abandoning her show of strength, she let her shoulders slump and wondered what reaction she should expect from the men behind her.

“So,” she commented hoarsely, “all is finally revealed.” Turning to face them, she let them have a good long look.

Every eye went wide. Every mouth dropped open. And, aye, a few hastily crossed themselves, though they had all just heard the priest accept that her youth was not a result of sorcery.

“I suppose you will all fear and revile me more than ever now,” she grumbled, weary of the pain, in truth feeling a little bit sorry for herself. Shuffling over to her corner, she leaned back into it and slid down to the floor, unable to suppress a grimace as the gash in her thigh protested. “I would remind you of your oaths to Lord Dillon. Should I come to harm at any of your hands, he will slay you the instant he arrives.”

“Then we are as good as dead!” Sir John, the youngest amongst the knights, declared.

Frowning, she affixed her blurry gaze on him. “You would slay me, then?”

“Nay, but ’tis my wound that adorns your forehead!”

Sure enough, a pink mark divided his forehead in the same pattern that the blood encrusted fissure divided hers.

“The mark on your cheek is mine,” declared Sir Vincent.

“And that on your neck is mine,” Sir Philip added.

All leapt in then, claiming responsibility for her pitiful condition, all apparently believing ’twould mean their deaths.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “There is only one Dillon will blame for my wounds. And it may not even matter then.”