Dillon rode hard for Westcott, the chilly afternoon breeze stinging his cheeks. He had awakened in his bed at Pinehurst, drenched in a cold sweat and trembling in reaction to having more dreams of Alyssa. Dreams that had been so real, so vivid, so disturbing that he had been unable to shake the feeling that something dreadful had happened to her. Half an hour later, he had departed with as many knights as could be spared, the gates locked tight behind them, not even certain where to begin his search for her.

Where would she be? At Westcott? At her stepfather’s side? Somewhere between here and there?

What could have happened? Had her stepfather died? Had Alyssa’s grief and distress simply become his own?

Was she safe and he merely overreacting to what could be unpleasant dreams brought on by his longing for her and his regret over their having argued ere she had left?

Or had some new foe arisen, yet another thirsting for Dillon’s wealth and power? One who had intercepted her and defeated her guard ere she could reach her family?

When he rounded a bend in the sodden road and encountered Robert and a substantial number of his men racing toward him, the last glimmer of hope Dillon had been nurturing sputtered and died.

The two brothers pulled up short a few feet apart, horses lathered, and stared at each other.

For several seconds, Dillon could not bring himself to ask the question as he took in Robert’s grim countenance. “Who?”

“Camden.”

Camden! Shock swept through him. Impossible.

“She and your men are being held in Westmoreland’s dungeon.”

He swore. Robert’s voice held not an ounce of doubt.

If Camden lived, then whose body had Dillon sent to Westmoreland? He had been sure that it had been Camden, as had Simon and the others. Yet the bastard had fooled them all and, because of Dillon’s error, now held Alyssa in his clutches.

Apprehension rising, Dillon nodded curtly and tore off in the direction of Westmoreland, everyone else thundering after him.

Should Camden guess that Alyssa was Dillon’s lover, there would be no end to the cruelty he would inflict upon her, with or without his father’s consent. The brutal dreams that had driven Dillon to take to the road this morning would become a reality and Alyssa…

He swallowed hard.

He could not lose her.

“How did you know?” Robert asked, gaining his side.

For one instant, Dillon could not conceal his inner fear as the nightmares that had plagued his sleep hammered through his mind. Images of Alyssa’s broken, bloodied body—of her lovely brown eyes staring up at him, sightless, as she drew her last breath—arose again and tightened his chest before he regained control and wiped all emotion from his face. “Not now.”

“She said Camden has seized Westmoreland, but said naught of Lord Everard. Think you he could be part of this?”

Dillon’s fury deepened. “If he is, he will meet the same violent end as his son.”

Like the others, Michael gazed at the small form curled in a shivering ball on the pallet across the dank cell from them. Father Markham had been right about the other guards. Jordan and Hugh were as agreeable as Walter and Gareth were disagreeable. Both Jordan and Hugh were Westmoreland’s men, unlike the latter two, and seemed such nice fellows that Michael suspected they had been bullied into guarding the dungeon at night so the others could indulge in drinking and wenching. Camden was certainly irresponsible enough to allow it.

If he even knew.

Jordan had proven to be quite useful. Simple-minded he may be, but his heart was as big as a siege tower. Having never lain eyes on them before, Jordan had been shocked to discover there was a woman in the prisoners’ midst. Shocked and appalled when he got a good look at her face.

No fear at all did he exhibit, leaving Michael to wonder if mayhap the man did not understand that she was a sorceress. Instead, furious on her behalf, he had suspected the other prisoners of abusing her and had threatened to pummel them one and all until the priest had managed to convey some moderate understanding of the true source of her injuries.

Which was when Hugh had termed her a saint.

Hugh took the priest’s desire to protect her as a sign that the wisewoman was a messenger from God or some such and all but fell to his knees, praying to her. He seemed willing to do aught she asked of him.

Aught but help them escape, that was.

’Twas Jordan who had provided her with the pallet she slept upon and the blankets that now covered her. And ’twas Jordan who had hauled in clean cloths and bucket after bucket of water, then set about patiently cleansing her wounds.

Michael had been dismayed to see how many and how gruesome they were.

Jordan had even brought in some crushed calendula petals to apply to them as he said his mum often did to his cuts and scrapes.

The wisewoman would allow no other nigh her. Not even Michael or Simon. Only Jordan would she permit to change her bandages. And ’twas Jordan who fed her and coaxed her to drink. He even kept a chamber pot in the dungeon’s only other cell and helped her limp in there so she would not have to relieve herself in front of the men.

Michael and the others were always tempted to make their escape then. But they had all been weakened by blood loss before their wounds had been healed and feared they would not get far without weapons. Should they try and fail, they did not doubt the healer would pay the price.

So they waited, speculating upon the numbers they might encounter in the hall and hoping they could convince Jordan to aid them in their escape as his attachment to the healer grew.

What pained Michael the most was that the wisewoman feared them now. In her delirium, she believed he, Simon, and the others meant to harm her and no amount of reasoning would convince her otherwise.

She also thought Jordan was Lord Dillon.

Michael supposed he could see why. Jordan did have a bit of the look of him. He certainly was as tall and broad as Lord Dillon with somewhat similar features and hair about the same dark shade, but lacking the gray at the temples.

A familiar clunk echoed off the slimy walls, warning them of another visitor. Jordan poked his head in, glancing at the others ere he sought out the wisewoman.

Opening her eyes, she looked listlessly toward him, then smiled, her battered face lighting up. “Dillon. What took you so long?”

Confusion wrinkled Jordan’s brow as he stepped into the cell and closed the door, his weapons left outside beyond the prisoners’ grasp. In one large, scarred hand he carried a tankard of steaming, fragrant liquid. “’Tis Jordan, Mistress. And I come as quick as I could,” he said, crouching down beside her and taking the hand she offered him with such affection. “I cannot come during the day on account of Walter and Gareth. They have little liking for you, I fear.”

An understatement if Michael had ever heard one. Had it been up to those two, she would be dead. They all would be.

Her smile turned melancholy. “You know I am accustomed to scorn, Dillon. It matters not to me as long as you are here.”

A quick look at the others confirmed that they felt as remorseful as Michael did over disdaining her in the past. But their expressions also held a certain fascination.

They would have to be blind not to see the love the wisewoman felt for Lord Dillon during these moments when she thought ’twas him leaning over her. It shone through her pain like the brightest of candles, illuminating the goodness within her for all to see and shaming them, every one.

At her urging, Jordan sat down beside her, his back to the wall, and stretched out his long, muscled legs. As soon as he did, she inched over and rested her head in his lap. One slender arm, swathed in white dressing, came up to drape across his thighs. Her badly abraded hand settled on his hip.

“’Tis so cold, Dillon. Make me warm again.”

Face flushing a bright red, Jordan sent Michael and the others an uncomfortable look. He may be simple, but he knew ’twas not proper for her to touch him with such familiarity.

Michael would have protested, but she took such comfort in Jordan’s presence, believing him the one she loved. After she had saved his life, Michael could not bring himself to deny her whatever peace she might find in what he feared would be her last hours.

Simon must have felt the same way, for he, too, issued no protest.

Jordan awkwardly patted the healer’s uninjured shoulder as he searched his overtaxed mind for something to say. “I told my mum I was ailing so she would make some broth.” He held it up for her inspection. “I will have to confess the lie to Father Markham, but ’twas worth it if ’twill make you well.”

“I have no appetite,” she admitted.

“’Tis tasty,” he persuaded. “And ’twill warm you. You must drink it. I always feel right as rain the day after I quaff it.”

“’Twill please you for me to do so?”

“Aye.”

Her gentle smile returned. “All right, Dillon.”

Jordan was right. If naught else, the warmth of the broth stilled her shivers and soon lulled her to sleep. It took some maneuvering for him to ease out from under her and settle her back on the pallet, the blankets drawn up to her bruised chin.

Even in sleep she did not wish to relinquish her hold on him.

Nodding to the others and vowing to bring additional food soon, he knocked lightly on the door and waited for Hugh to open it.

“Do not be sad, Dillon,” the wisewoman murmured suddenly. “I do not regret it.”

The door swung open as Jordan looked over at her with both concern and bewilderment. “Regret what, Mistress?”

“Giving my life to save yours. I have loved you for years, you know.”

Frowning, not understanding, he ducked out of the cell, closed the door behind him, and slid the bolt home.

“I just could not tell you,” she added.

Michael stared at her as sleep claimed her once more, silencing her disturbing words.

“I feel a sudden need to confess to Father Markham myself,” Simon muttered gruffly.

“As do I,” Sir Philip added.

One by one they agreed, acknowledging the wrong they had dealt her, and vowed—should she live—to make amends.

Steeped in darkness, Dillon and Robert heard the man’s approach long before he reached them. He made no effort at all to muffle his footsteps. Verily, he seemed to be stumbling about in the night with no singular destination in mind.

Dillon waited impatiently to see what errand he was about and whether or not he would take pains to avoid them.

He did not. He walked right into Dillon’s chest.

“Oh! I beg your pardon!” After regaining his footing, he glanced up… and paled.

“Release one cry for help and they will find your head two leagues from your body,” Dillon warned him.

His swallow audible, the stranger nodded, too frightened to utter a reply.

Fisting a hand in the man’s tunic, Dillon led him back through the forest to the place where the rest of his party waited and thrust him into a diluted ray of moonlight.

Robert stepped up to Dillon’s side. “A priest!” he spat, his face twisting with disgust.

’Twas true. It had been too dark for Dillon to notice much of the stranger’s appearance. Now, after giving him a swift once-over, he shoved the useless man at his brother. “Get rid of him.”

“W-Wait!” the priest cried with something akin to panic. He must think they meant to kill him.

Dillon had no such intention, of course. He simply did not think a religious man would be the best choice to aid them in their search for a purported sorceress.

Robert grabbed the priest’s arm and began to drag him away.

But the man dug in his heels, craning his neck to see Dillon. “I-I-If you are the Earl of Westcott, I have come to help you,” he stuttered.

Frowning, Dillon gave the man another look. “Robert.”

“Aye?”

“Let us hear what he has to say. And quietly, if you value your life. I would rather not alert the countryside to our presence.”

Sublime relief melted the man’s features. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.” Once free of Robert’s hold, he gathered his tattered composure. “I take it that you are Lord Dillon, Earl of Westcott?”

Dillon saw no reason to deny it, since he planned to allow the man no opportunity to use it against him. “Aye.”

“I have a message for you from the one you seek.”

Robert snorted. “How know we this? You could have come at Camden’s bidding.”

Eyeing Robert nervously, the priest sidled away from him.

Dillon folded his arms across his chest. “My brother asks a valid question. What proof have you that your words are not false?”

“Sh-She knew you would not trust one such as I and did bid me give you her name as proof of my good will.”

Dillon’s heart skipped a beat. Stepping closer to the man, Robert with him, he asked carefully, “What name did she offer?”

The priest swallowed again, his wide eyes flitting between the two large warriors. “Alyssa.”

Air whooshed out of Dillon’s lungs. “She lives then.”

The man nodded several times. “Aye, but not for much longer, I fear.”

“Dillon!”

His growl of fury drowned out his brother’s startled hiss as Dillon lifted the man up in the air and shook him violently. “What did you do to her? Burn her? Attempt to drown her? All because you think she is some vile witch?”

Robert pried at his hands. “Dillon, stop! Release him! I do not think ’twas him!”

The red haze of fury that coated his vision peeling back, he looked over at his brother and set the priest down with a jarring thud. “What know you, brother?” he queried, advancing on him menacingly as Robert held up his hands in a placating gesture and backed away. “What have you kept from me?”

“Now, Dillon, she bade me not to tell you. I could not gainsay her wishes.”

“What has happened to her?” he demanded, stomach knotting.

Robert halted, a ring of Dillon’s inquisitive men blockading him, and answered in a low voice. “Judging by what I saw of her and by the guilt that crossed her face when she did ask me not to tell you, she has been healing your men again.”

“Some or all?”

“All of them would be my guess. She did not look well, Dillon.”

Which was why she had not visited him in any more visions. Dillon had expected her to and had wondered why she had not, why she had visited Robert instead.

She must have been too weak.

The fists at his sides clenched until his knuckles shown white. “Was she as bad as she was after she healed me?”

“Not when I saw her, nay. But enough time has passed that she may be now.”

“She is quite ill, my lord, taken with a high fever,” the priest confirmed, having silently rejoined them. “Two men I trust are watching over her and making her as comfortable as possible, but I fear she may be beyond our help.”

“She is not beyond help,” Dillon snapped.

Why did she keep doing this? Why did she continue to sacrifice herself this way, pushing herself further than she knew she should? How could she forfeit her life so easily? Did she value herself so little? Did she think he valued her so little? Did she not know how desperately he needed her?

Or did she merely trust him to always be there to pull her back from the darkness?

“Priest.”

The man mustered a tentative smile. “F-Father Markham. Aye?”

Dillon endeavored to tear his mind away from thoughts of Alyssa moldering away in the bowels of a dungeon. “How think you you may be of service to us?”

“I have been considering that and believe I have the answer. I happen to possess knowledge of a secret passageway, my lord, that begins in the chapel and ends some distance beyond the postern gate. Hidden by tangles of brush, ’twas meant to be a route to freedom for any who sought sanctuary in the chapel in the event of Westmoreland being taken. I thought you might use it to gain entry and catch Camden unawares.”

Another secret passageway. “Camden knows naught of this?”

“Nay. Westmoreland once confided in me that he had decided against informing Camden when he saw the path his son had chosen. Now that Father Piers is gone, Westmoreland and I are the only two who know.”

“Robert, what think you?”

“I trust him not,” he answered without hesitation.

“Alyssa trusted him enough to give him her name.”

“Mayhap she did not do so willingly. Mayhap he beat it out of her.”

“I did not!” Father Markham huffed indignantly. “I did not even ask it of her. Did not think to. She whispered it in my ear ere I left to obtain food and water for them. And bandages. The poor girl’s face was marked in so many places…”

Gasps sounded all around. He trailed off, clearly puzzled, and studied the shocked faces of Dillon’s men.

An uneasy hush settled upon them.

“You saw her face?” Dillon asked, voice dangerously soft. Mayhap the man before him was responsible for Alyssa’s injuries.

“Aye,” Father Markham confirmed. “Two of the knights with her attempted to stop me, but—”

Dillon’s hand closed around his throat. “You forced her? You touched her?”

“Her cowl,” he choked out, face mottling. “Only her cowl after she gave me leave to do so.”

Scowling, Dillon freed him. Why would Alyssa consent to such after guarding her identity so tenaciously all these years? And why reveal herself to this man, whom she must fear above all others at Westmoreland?

Did Dillon dare trust him? Believe that Alyssa had placed her faith in Father Markham, intending for him to do the same?

What choice had he really? Camden would kill Alyssa at the first signs of a siege. And Dillon lacked the manpower to do so now even if he thought Camden would not. The drawbridge was raised, the portcullis lowered and the walls guarded so vigilantly that he had no hope of sneaking over them.

“You will lead us to this passage,” he commanded.

The priest nodded. “Aye, my lord. As you wish.”

“Robert, a word.” Dillon led his brother away from the others.

“You trust him?” Robert asked, his worry evident.

“I have no choice. I must reach Alyssa as soon as possible and see to her wounds. But you shall not be with me, brother. I have another, more important task for you.”

Alyssa came awake with a start, heart pounding, senses tingling.

Dillon.

Her mind firmly focused on him, she bolted upright.

Pain zigzagged through her, so fierce she cried out and brought a hand to her sundering head.

Across the room, Michael rose to his knees with alarm, but came no closer. “Wise One?”

“He is here,” she gasped, feeling blindly for the wall with her other hand. Upon finding it, she braced herself and shakily tried to rise.

“You should not,” he cautioned.

She was so weak. Her muscles burned. Every limb ached. “He is here,” Alyssa repeated firmly. “Help me, Michael. Please.”

Leaping to his feet, he rushed to her side and helped her stand.

Alyssa was so weak she had to lean against him. Her forehead brushed his neck, so cool against her warm brow, though she was surprised to note that her fever seemed to have abated somewhat.

“You should rest, Wise One.”

She shook her head and straightened, clinging to him for support. “He is here. We must act quickly.”

“Who is here?” Simon inserted as he and the others rose.

“Lord Dillon.”

The men shared a look.

“Nay, Healer—”

“He is here!” she insisted urgently. “Above. Fighting Camden and his mercenaries and Westmoreland’s men.” She waved toward the door. “Simon, who stands guard?”

“I believe ’tis still Hugh and Jordan.”

Alyssa frowned. She recalled Hugh, but could not match Jordan’s name with a face. “Can you and the others disarm them?”

“Aye.”

“Then call them in and do so. Take their weapons and join Dillon and his men above. There should be sufficient dead already to arm the rest of you.”

The men glanced at each other uneasily.

“Why do you hesitate? Do as I say!” she shouted. A fit of harsh, guttural coughing racked her.

At last, Simon obeyed. Striding to the door, he pounded on it until it opened. “’Tis the wisewoman! She is failing! Come quickly!”

The door flew wide and two men rushed inside, faces distressed, forgetting the weapons they carried, which Simon and the others swiftly confiscated.

Alyssa froze. Hugh she recognized, but the other… She thought at first ’twas Dillon until she got a closer look at his face. Oh. Aye. The simple man who gave me a blanket.

It took him longer than Hugh to understand the ruse. But, when he did, Jordan exhibited alarm, not anger. “You cannot!” he exclaimed. “They will kill you! And the woman here after you.”

“The wisewoman believes our lord is above. We must join him and fight.”

“Alyssaaaaa!”

Jolted, the men all looked toward the ceiling, where that dragon’s roar seemed to have originated.

Alyssa’s heart leaped. “Dillon,” she whispered thankfully. Her knees buckled as pain ripped through her abdomen.

“Wise One!” Michael caught her and, as gently as possible, lowered her to her pallet.

“Alyssaaaaa!”

Moisture sprang to her brow. Her jaw clenched. “Go!” she ordered, breath coming in gasps as she called upon the last shreds of her gift to try to save her babe. “Go!”

Kneeling beside her, Michael looked up at the men hovering around them in a semicircle. “You heard her. Take the weapons and go. I will stay and watch over her.”

“Alyssaaa!”

All eyes flew to the door. The voice was closer now. Close enough for them to recognize it as Dillon’s.

“Lord Dillon!” Simon called. “In here!”

“Alyssa!”

She peered toward the entrance, barely glimpsing it through the raggedly clad legs that fenced in her pallet.

Seconds later, Dillon filled the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild, his helm gone.

His sword dripped blood. His surcoat and armor were stained crimson with it, his face smeared and spattered with it.

Not one drop of it appeared to be his own.

Sighing with both relief and despair, Alyssa let her eyelids close and hugged his presence to her.

* * *

Breathing hard, Dillon focused on the men clustered in one corner of the squalid, stinking cell. His men. All but two, who were unarmed and posed no threat.

They parted as he watched, exposing a crumpled black figure with long sullied tresses and a bruised and battered face.

His heart stopped. Was he too late?

The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he hurried forward and skidded to his knees beside her.

“Alyssa?” Dillon hastily removed his mailed mitts. His hands shook as he slipped them beneath her and gently lifted her into his arms. “Alyssa?” Cradling her against his chest, he smoothed her hair back in a familiar, tender gesture, careful not to touch the gash that bisected her forehead.

Her eyelids fluttered open. “I knew you would come.”

Crushing her to him, Dillon buried his face in her neck and fought the tears that, despite his wishes, began to fall. He had nigh been driven mad with fear for her as he had followed the priest through the webbed and dusty tunnel. Markham’s belief that she would not live long had torn through his skull.

Would he reach her in time?

Would Camden or one of his cohorts race for the dungeon and dispatch her as soon as the battle began?

Dillon had never fought so hard or so savagely in his life as when they had breached the great hall. And for the first time ever, he had left his men to finish the battle whilst he searched for Alyssa, praying he would find her alive.

And she was. But she was so frail and weak and feverish. Had he cut his way through Camden and his men only to watch her die in his arms?

Do not leave me, Alyssa. Please, do not leave me, he begged silently, terrified of losing her.

“I will not,” she promised, her arms finding their way around him and squeezing him as tightly as her sapped strength would allow.

He nodded, unable to force a response past his tight throat.

“But, Dillon…”

When she said naught more, he drew back, fearing she had lost consciousness.

She had not. Alyssa stared up at him with such anguish in her tear-filled eyes that he felt dread sour his stomach.

“What is it?” he prompted.

“You will be so angry,” she whispered. “You will scorn me.”

“I shall never scorn you, love. Why would you think such a foolish thing?”

Her chest hitched as a sob tumbled forth from between her cracked lips. “Because I fear our babe will not survive.”

Everything within him froze. “Our babe?”

“Please forgive me, Dillon.” Crying in earnest now, she clutched his surcoat and hauberk with desperate hands that were covered with scrapes and scabs. “I have tried so hard to keep him strong. But I am so weary… and weakened from the fever… I do not think I can continue.”

A son. Alyssa carried his son.

Stunned, he rested a large hand on her sunken stomach.

And she believed that only the tattered remnants of her gifts kept the babe alive.

“I had to heal them,” she sobbed. “I know you are angry, but I had to. I c-could not let them die. They f-fought so hard to p-protect me, Dillon. I had to help them.”

“I know love,” he soothed, shifting his hand from her stomach to beneath her knees. “I am not angry.”

“B-But the babe…”

Rising with her in his arms, Dillon left the cell, his dumbfounded men following after him. “’Twill be all right,” he promised.

Michael and Simon slipped past them and, wielding Jordan and Hugh’s swords, hurried forward to guard their front. Dillon lost sight of them as they raced up the stairs at the end of the passageway. The sound of steel meeting steel ensued, and a body tumbled down to land at Dillon’s feet.

Alyssa moaned, one hand going to her belly.

Dillon stepped over the body and swiftly scaled the stairs, jarring her as little as possible. “’Twill be all right,” he said again, and knew not if he meant to convince her or himself. “I have already sent Robert for your family. They will be here anon, to restore both your health and that of our babe.” Our babe, he thought with equal amounts of awe and fear.

She nodded and tried to slow her hiccupping breath. “I love you, Dillon.”

Joy and pain surged through him. How he had longed to hear those words cross her lips.

“Forgive me for n-not saying it ere now. I have been so foolish. I have loved you for so long. And, w-when we were taken, I feared I would not have the chance to tell you.”

He clutched her tighter. “Shhh. Worry not, sweetling. We are together now. ’Tis all that matters.”

The great hall was a mass of carnage when they entered, littered with bodies and body parts, the air filled with groans and tainted with the odors of death.

If possible, Alyssa paled even more as she took in her surroundings. “Where is Camden?”

He nodded toward the dais. “Over there.”

Following his gaze, she shuddered. “Where is the rest of him?”

He nodded in the opposite direction. “Over there.”

“You are certain this time ’tis him?” she asked, but no condemnation accompanied the words. Only a deep desire to see the threat ended.

He ground his teeth. “I am certain.” And almost wished the knave were still alive so he could run him through and take his head again.

Sprinting up another set of stairs, Dillon burst into the lord’s chamber. Sickness hovered heavily in the room. The only occupant, hardly recognizable to them both, rested in the huge bed, barely forming a wrinkle in its surface.

Emaciated and gasping for breath, Westmoreland neither moved nor opened his eyes.

Dillon turned to leave, swallowing his sorrow at seeing his friend on the cusp of death.

Alyssa threw out one hand and clutched the door. “Wait.”

He paused, looking down at her.

She stared at the bed as though seeing a specter. “Dillon… the dream…”

Dream? “What dream?”

“The dream that drew me from Pinehurst.”

It seemed as though years had passed since then. But, after a moment, Dillon recalled she had dreamed that her father was ill and… dying. His gaze flew to Westmoreland, then returned to Alyssa, who looked flabbergasted.

“Dillon, I… I think Westmoreland is my father.”