Dillon squeezed his eyes shut against the sight that met them. The simple gown she wore beneath had torn away with the darker robe. Three gaping, gushing wounds marred the healer’s porcelain skin. One in her side. One in her shoulder. One puncturing her left breast. All located precisely where his had been, where the tiny pink scars remained.

This was why she had avoided healing such wounds in the past.

“But… how?” Robert questioned.

“She took my wounds into herself. ’Twas the only way she could save me.”

“What?”

Opening his eyes, he saw that Robert had scarcely even noticed her wounds. He stared instead at her face, or at least the part that was now visible.

Leaning over her, Dillon smoothed the cowl back until all was finally revealed.

“’Tis not possible,” Robert exclaimed and crossed himself.

Dillon shared his astonishment, but for a different reason. He recognized her.

The figure lying beside him suddenly gave new meaning to the dream he had experienced a few nights past of his future bride.

The wisewoman was no aged crone. She was young, little more than a score in age, he guessed. And beautiful, with flawless alabaster skin and raven tresses that would reach her waist when she stood. Delicately winged brows. A small, pert nose. Full, shapely lips that parted to expose straight white teeth stained with the blood that trailed from the corners of her mouth as she drew in short¸ jagged breaths.

“How can this be?” Robert asked.

His eyes never leaving her, Dillon shook his head. “Not now. We must find a way to help her.”

“How?”

Dillon shoved her garments aside. Tearing the sheet into strips, he wadded them up and pressed them to her wounds. He could only reach two at a time—the one in her chest and the one in her side—so he handed the rest to his brother.

Robert wrapped her slender shoulder and tied the cloth tight to keep pressure there.

“There must be someone here who can heal her.”

“Dillon, you are not thinking clearly. No one else here shares her gifts.”

He swore. “I know that. But she cannot be the only one amongst my people with a knowledge of herbs and poultices and such. There must be a midwife. A leech. Someone. Find them and bring them to me. Now!”

Robert promptly vacated the room.

Dillon replaced the already crimson cloths with fresh ones, applying as much pressure as he dared without doing further damage.

His eyes returned to her face, taking in every detail of her features, struggling to come to terms with the fact that this lovely young woman was the same treasured friend and companion who had been by his side for the past seven years. The same one who had seen through his formidable facade to the quiet man beneath. Who had advised him so wisely, never once thinking him weak for seeking her counsel. Who had argued with him, challenged him, comforted him, brought laughter into his life, and been there for him in so many ways.

The wisewoman had possessed every quality he desired in a bride save youth.

Now she possessed that, too.

His heart pounded a frantic rhythm. “Please,” he entreated, “do not leave me, Seer. Not now, when the woman we spoke of, the woman I dreamed of, is finally within my grasp.” How gentle she had been that night, cradling his head to her breast, pressing her lips to his brow. Closing his eyes, he leaned down and rested his forehead against hers. “Wise One, answer me. Please.”

“How… mm… may I… s-serve you…, my lord?”

His eyes flew open and met hazy cinnamon. Rearing back, he abandoned the puncture in her side long enough to cup her face in one unsteady hand. “You may serve me by healing yourself.”

Her lips tilted up ever-so-slightly as she turned her face into his palm. “Y-You have asked… the one thing… I cannot grant you…, Dillon.”

She had such difficulty speaking.

An emotion so strong he almost did not recognize it as fear engulfed him, leaving him shaking like the greatest of cowards.

“Say it again,” he implored, not bothering to explain.

“Dillon,” she sighed, seeming to enjoy voicing it as much as he took pleasure in hearing it. She had always addressed him formally in the past.

With regret, he removed his hand and bore down on the wound in her side.

She sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and was instantly repaid with violent coughs that sent more blood pouring from between her lips.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

A slight movement of her head told him there was naught to forgive. “W-What think you… of your… healer… n-now that… she is… visible?”

Bending, he placed a tender kiss upon her brow. “’Twas you that night, was it not, holding me in your arms?”

Her thick lashes lowered to blanket her cheeks, as though her actions shamed her.

“I thought it all a dream,” he admitted.

“I sh-should not have…” Stiffening, she grimaced in pain.

“You should not have hidden the truth from me.”

“W-What truth?”

“That the woman I have waited and searched so long for has been by my side for years.”

Tears welled in her eyes as they met his, then spilled down her temples. Another series of coughs racked her body, the agony they spawned eliciting a moan and almost driving her back into unconsciousness.

Dillon watched her anxiously. “Tell me what to do,” he beseeched. “Tell me what I must do to heal you.”

She closed her eyes, struggling for breath. “There is… naught.”

“I cannot accept that,” he said fiercely. “I will not accept that.”

“F-Forgive me.” She seemed to weaken more every second.

Dillon swallowed past the lump that rose in his throat. For the first time in his adult life, he felt completely helpless. “Why? Why did you heal me if you knew ’twould mean your life?”

She roused just enough to answer him. “Your life… is… p-precious to me…, Dillon. W-What I did… I did… willingly.”

He swore.

Fumbling blindly, she rested a hand on his thigh and opened her eyes once more.

She was trying to comfort him, he realized.

The backs of his own eyes began to burn.

“M-My choice… was clear.” The fingers on his thigh clenched as another spasm tightened her features. “I chose n-not to live… in a… w-world with… out you in it.”

“Then do not condemn me to a similar fate,” he pleaded. “Do not leave me. I need you. You were right that night, when we talked of the woman I longed to have by my side, to grow old with. She does exist. But if you die, you will take her with you and deny me the happiness I have sought. Stay with me, please, and I shall spend the rest of my days thanking you.”

“It could… n-never be.” The hand on his thigh released him. Her body went slack. Her lids fluttered shut as her head rolled to one side.

“Nay,” he denied, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Nay! Nay!” he repeated, his voice rising to a shout. “Do not leave me, Seer! You cannot! I will not let you! Do not leave me!”

“Dillon!”

The highly agitated voice jarred him.

Blinking hard, he turned to the figure standing beside the bed.

Robert, his face ashen, gazed back with wide eyes. “Dillon, I-I think she still breathes.”

Holding his own breath, Dillon finally heard the rattling of blood in her lungs that his shouting had drowned out. “Where is the healer you sought?”

Robert shook his head. “There is none.”

“None?” Dillon parroted, failing to comprehend.

“None. No midwife. No leech. No one. I asked Harry and he would know.”

“Ask him again.”

Robert hesitated. “As you wish, brother.” Reaching out, he clasped Dillon’s shoulder in a strong, consoling grip, then left.

Dillon sighed. The cloths he held against the healer’s wounds were wet with blood again. Tearing a few more strips from the linen sheet, he placed them atop the others and resumed applying pressure. Her short, ugly breaths, though terrible to hear, were music to his ears. As long as air found its way to her lungs and blood to her heart, she lived.

“My lord?” a timid female voice said in the doorway.

Scowling, Dillon looked up. A plain, fairly familiar young woman stood there, clutching a basket tightly to her waist and looking as if she were poised to bolt.

“What is it?”

She took a tentative step forward and bobbed a curtsy. “Harry told me that Sir Robert sought a healer.”

Hope stirred. “Know you of herbs and medicines?”

“Aye, my lord. A little. I hoped I might one day offer my services to the wisewoman and help her care for the people of Westcott.”

“Come closer. And close the door behind you.”

Obediently, she shut the heavy oaken door and approached the bed. Her wide eyes fastened on the dried blood that coated his chest. “You have been sorely wounded, my lord.”

“Aye, but the wisewoman has already healed my injuries. ’Tis she who requires your aid.”

Her forehead crinkling, she transferred her attention to the healer, then gaped. “This is the wisewoman?” Her astounded gaze took in the pale skin free of wrinkles, the midnight hair tumbling across the pillow and bedclothes, the youthful beauty present despite the pain that twisted the seer’s features.

“Aye. Where I was wounded, she now bleeds. Can you help her?”

“I shall do all I can, my lord.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she placed her basket at the healer’s feet. “You will have to release her so that I may attend her,” she instructed gently.

Nodding, he withdrew his hands. The wisewoman’s blood stained them red, coating them so completely that he could only stare.

The woman pressed a moist cloth into them. “Use this, my lord,” she stated, her voice kind.

Dismayed that she should read his vulnerability so keenly, he avoided her gaze and scrubbed at his hands. “You have not given me your name.”

“Ann Marie, my lord.”

He soon transferred all of the blood from his skin to the cloth, but would swear he could still feel it cleaving to him.

Ann Marie began to peel back the cloths, disturbing the wounds as little as possible. “I do not know nigh as much as the healer does, but I have—” She broke off as she removed the last of the material covering the wisewoman’s chest.

A sick, bilious feeling engulfed Dillon when he saw the wound above her heart. The bleeding had slowed, but massive bruises now painted her skin. “Did I do that?” he choked out, his gut churning at the thought that he had applied too much pressure.

“Nay, my lord.” Ann Marie’s face lost all color. “She bleeds inside. I believe ’tis what causes it.”

“Can you stop it?” The last of his hope faltered when she shook her head.

“All I can do is clean the wound, pack it, and bind it tightly. I am only just learning.”

’Twas not enough. He knew ’twould not be, as did Ann Marie, who went about performing the tasks she had named. She proceeded as gently as possible, but her ministrations nevertheless caused her patient pain. When the wisewoman moaned, Dillon took the hand nearest him in one of his and brought it to his lips whilst he stroked her hair back from her forehead with the other.

It felt so natural to touch her thusly. He could have spent the last seven years doing so had she not hidden herself from him.

Why had she hidden herself from him?

“You did not hesitate to help her,” he mentioned at length, needing to break the oppressive silence. “Why?”

“When my husband and I made Westcott our home, I feared her greatly. Though it shames me to admit, I heard dark tales told of her and believed every one of them. For years, I managed to avoid her until she caught me alone one day down by the well. She told me she knew I lamented the fact that I had given my husband no children and said she wished to help me. I feared her sorcery too much to deny her.”

With Dillon’s aid, Ann Marie wrapped tight bandages around the wisewoman, from wounded shoulder to waist. “She advised me and plied me with herbs. My husband as well. Six months ago, I took to my bed, laboring to bring our first child into the world, but the babe was turned in the wrong position. Neither my son nor I would have survived had the wisewoman not used her gift to save us. ’Tis why I began studying herbs and their uses. ’Twas foolish mayhap, but I had hoped I might be of some service to her to repay her for all she has done for us.”

Dillon gazed down at the healer as he stroked her hair. “Your babe is well then?”

“Aye, my lord. Simon is quite proud of him.”

“Sir Simon, my second-in-command, is your husband?”

“Aye, my lord.”

So that is where he had seen her. “You did not react to her youth as I would have expected.” She had not crossed herself or shrieked in fear or babbled nonsense about the devil’s work.

She nodded. “I should have guessed she was not the aged woman all believe her to be.”

He looked at her with some surprise. “How could you have?” He certainly had not.

“After she delivered my son and cleaned herself up a bit, I noticed this.” Her hands went to the arm Dillon did not hold.

He had himself discarded the wisewoman’s clothing earlier, leaving her arm bare to their view from fingertips to bandaged shoulder. The hand Ann Marie now clasped loosely and lifted for his inspection was coated with blood. His, Dillon assumed. The skin on her wrist, however, was not. And he could see that it bore traces of yellow and gray that—at a glance—gave the illusion of age and wrinkles. The paint or stain or whatever it was only reached a few inches above her wrist. The rest of her arm matched the pale skin of her face and chest.

When he examined the hand he held, Dillon discovered the same strange disguise.

Ann Marie dipped a cloth in fresh water and bathed away the blood and paint. “There were traces of this left on the cloth she used. I was never quite certain whence it came until now.”

She passed the cloth to Dillon, who cleansed the other hand and arm.

“You should rest, my lord,” Ann Marie advised timorously when he handed it back to her.

Nodding, he lay back beside the healer, turned onto his side so he could keep an eye on her, and tucked her hand against his chest.

Ann Marie flushed. “I did not mean… Mayhap you would rest easier—”

“I shall not leave her,” he whispered, the words lacking volume, not force.

“Aye, my lord.” She stood awkwardly beside the bed.

“You have done all you can for her,” Dillon told her patiently. “Go now. But stay within the donjon. I shall send for you when her bandages need changing or should she worsen.”

“Aye, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. With your permission, I shall have Cook prepare you some hearty stew. ’Twill help you regain your strength and rebuild the blood you have lost. I shall bring it up myself and see that no one else disturbs you.”

“Very well. And tell no one what you have seen this night.”

“As you wish, my lord.” She curtsied again and started for the door.

“Ann Marie.”

“Aye?”

“I shall not forget what you have done here. You and your family will want for naught as long as you remain at Westcott.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she breathed, her face flushing with pleasure, and left him alone with the wisewoman.

At last Dillon was free to examine the healer without curious eyes perusing him. Taking a deep breath, he sat up—a simple task that nigh sapped the remainder of his strength—and turned toward her.

His cobalt gaze fastened on the top of her head and began a slow foray down a high forehead just beginning to bead with moisture. Slipped over thin, sloping eyebrows that drew together in pain. Past eyelids garnished with thick lashes. Along a thin, straight nose that turned up the tiniest bit at the tip. Pallid cheeks smudged with blood. Full lips similarly painted. A chin that he imagined had been thrust forward in stubbornness often during their many discussions.

She was stunning.

He could understand, somewhat, Robert’s assumption that her appearance stemmed from sorcery. They had believed her an old woman. The shoulders they had thought stooped with age were in fact smooth and gently rounded, one left bare by the bandages.

His gaze dipped lower. He had used so much of the bed linens for bandages that what remained barely covered her to her waist. She was of slender build. Her injuries, combined with her diminutive height, lent her a fragile air. He knew from experience, however, that she possessed great strength.

Who was this wise young woman who had been so loyal to him? This woman who, for years, had been his closest friend?

Ann Marie returned sometime later with his meal, fresh water, and clean linens. Though he was reluctant to move the wisewoman, Dillon agreed she would rest more comfortably were the blood-encrusted sheets beneath them replaced.

The many years of combat he had endured enabled Dillon to conquer the weakness that plagued him enough to rise and lift the wisewoman into his arms. Ann Marie suggested he enlist Robert’s aid, but Dillon simply could not stomach the notion of someone else cradling her in his arms. Even his own brother, who had done so briefly earlier.

Her face flushing a florid red, Ann Marie suggested they garb the seer in one of his tunics, but Dillon refused, not wanting anything to restrict access to her wounds or interfere in her care.

Naked save the bandages, the wisewoman felt right, curled up against him, her head resting on his bare shoulder. Her skin was so soft. Softer than down. Her long hair fell over his arm and brushed his hip, distracting him from her narrow waist, full hips, long supple legs, and the dark thatch of curls between them.

“’Tis done, my lord.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and carefully settled the wisewoman against the pillows.

Propping himself against a bedpost, he watched Ann Marie cover the healer and finish arranging the linens to her satisfaction.

She stepped back. “Do you wish aught else, my lord?”

“Only that you do not stray far, Ann Marie, and may be easily located should she worsen.”

“Aye, my lord. Gideon is just outside your door. I shall keep him apprised of my whereabouts.”

As soon as she left, Dillon availed himself of some of the water Ann Marie had fetched and washed the dried blood from his body. The tiny portion of strength he had managed to muster soon abandoned him. Unable to remain standing any longer, he climbed into bed and reached for the steaming bowl of venison stew Cook had prepared for him.

Robert returned, having found no other healer, and paced whilst Dillon ate. His attention vacillated between the healer and the three new scars that adorned Dillon’s torso. When he finally ceased his restless prowling, Robert seated himself and stared at Dillon for so long it made him downright self-conscious.

“The scars are not that bad, are they?” Dillon posed gruffly.

“Nay. We have both seen worse.”

“Then why do you stare at me in such a way?”

A long moment passed.

“I thought you were lost to me.” Emotion roughened Robert’s voice. “I thought the healer would be able to serve you better here, but…” He shook his head. “The ride home never seemed so long.”

Dillon set his empty bowl aside.

“In my imagination, your breath stopped at least a dozen times,” his brother continued raggedly. “Each time, I panicked and frantically searched for your pulse, cursing myself for not having had Marcus tell the healer to meet us halfway. Even when the gates were in sight, I was sure you would expire ere the cart rolled to a halt in the bailey.”

“You did the right thing, Robert. You kept a clear head and did what you thought necessary.”

Robert’s lips turned up in a weak smile. “My head was not clear when I saw you collapse to the ground with so many quarrels sticking out of you. I thought you dead and went into a berserker’s rage, killing every man within reach of me. I damn nigh skewered Sir Aubrey ere my mind cleared. The men had to restrain me to keep me from slaughtering the last attacker.” He paused. “Mayhap ’twould have been better for him if I had.”

“Why? To spare him my wrath?”

“Nay. They are saying the wisewoman tortured him to obtain your betrayer’s name.”

Dillon thought he must not have heard correctly. “What? Who is saying it?”

“All of Westcott. I was not here, so I know not what methods she employed. But whatever they were, I suspect it has driven him mad. At least, ’tis how it appeared when I went down to the dungeon to see if he lived. Everyone else was afraid to, having witnessed the seer slit Gavin’s throat.”

“Gavin!”

“Aye. Gavin betrayed you. He was in league with Camden, who engineered the attack. She forced his confession in the great hall, then slew him when he would have buried a blade in her back.”

Fury and shock inundated Dillon, leaving him speechless.

The brothers stared down at the healer, listening to her continued fight for breath.

“She is very loyal to you,” Robert said softly. “I knew not asking her to save your life would cost her her own.”

“She will not die,” Dillon informed him.

“Dillon.”

“She will not die,” he repeated, refusing to consider the alternative. He had just found her. He could not lose her.

Robert studied him for several long moments, then turned his gaze back to the healer. “Did you know?”

“That she is so young?”

“Is she?” he queried uneasily. “Or does her sorcery merely make her appear so?”

“Do not be a fool,” Dillon snapped. “You are letting the people’s fear sway you. And nay, I did not know. I should have guessed the truth long ago, but believed my eyes and ears over my heart. I thought her the same aged wisewoman who served our father.”

Robert frowned. “’Tis a mystery, is it not?”

Dillon nodded, knowing his brother believed ’twould remain one.

Robert’s jaw cracked open in a wide yawn.

“Go seek your bed,” Dillon enjoined. “You need not stay with me.”

Loosing a weary sigh, his brother stood and drew his thickly muscled arms above his head in a mighty stretch. “Gideon guards your door. Send him to me should you need aught during the night.”

Or should the healer perish. The words went unspoken.

“I will.” Dillon reached out and grabbed his arm in a rough-tender grip. “Thank you, brother, for following me and saving my life.”

Robert smiled and, leaning down, gave him as hardy a hug as he could without disturbing the young woman by his side. “Thank you, brother, for living. I know not what I would have done if I had lost you.” Pulling back, he grinned mischievously. “After all, I’ve yet to best you in combat.”

Dillon cuffed him playfully and bid him good night.

Exhaustion pulled at him, leaving him light-headed. A great sigh escaped him as he lay back and let his eyes roam the healer.

The blankets had slipped to her waist. Dillon started to draw them back up, but stopped when something caught his eye. Frowning, he leaned in closer and confirmed it. She had a nasty scar the length of his middle finger on her left upper arm, halfway between her shoulder and her elbow. He had failed to notice it earlier because of his preoccupation with her injuries.

Slowly, he traced it with one finger.

It was an old scar. Seven years old if he guessed correctly. He had been wounded in the same place shortly after they had taken Brimshire. He did not carry the scar from it, however. She did.

Had all of his wounds left their mark on her?

Dreading the answer, he drew the covers back.

There—on her left side, partially obscured by her bandage—was a scar from the wound he had received when the former lord of Northaven had sought to regain by force what King Richard had given Dillon four years past. The battle had been brief, violent, and bloody. Despite Dillon’s protests, the wisewoman had never been far from his side and had healed the wound for him only minutes after he had run through the one who had given it to him.

A smaller scar marred the pale flesh just beneath her right collarbone. She had acquired that one healing him after Robert had inadvertently dealt him an injury whilst they were training together one day. One pale thigh bore a scar where he had been wounded at Shepford. The knee beneath it bore another. And there were more. On her forearm. Her wrist.

He had no such scars on his own body. It sickened him to think that all of those wounds had opened on her flesh as they had closed on his. He would never have asked her to heal them had he known doing so would cause her pain, that ’twould scar her. The fact that the lesser wounds he had suffered had left no marks upon her did not ease his conscience in the least.

She shivered.

Swearing, Dillon pulled the blankets up to her chin, not wanting her to catch a chill on top of everything else, and lay back beside her.

Searching beneath the sheet, he found her hand and brought it to his lips. “How did you know me so well?” Without the paints she used to disguise it, her hand was a smooth, milky white with graceful fingers capped by glossy, rounded nails. He gently uncurled it and sized it against his own.

The whole of her hand fit within his palm.

“So small.” He traced the light blue veins on the back of it.

And cold. She was as cold as winter snow. Dillon inched closer to her until only an inch or two separated them from chest to toes, offering her his warmth. Whilst he would love to roll her to her side, spoon his body around hers, and hold her close, he could not risk reopening her wounds.

Instead, he tucked her hand to his chest and, leaning forward, nuzzled his face between her chin and shoulder. “Do not leave me. Please. Give me the chance to know you.”

“Dillon.”

Heart skipping, he retreated just enough to glimpse her face.

Glazed brown eyes stared back at him.

“Wise One?” He retrieved one of the cloths Ann Marie had left beside the bed and gently wiped the blood from her lips.

“Dillon.” Her voice was weak, thready, bracketed by gasping breaths.

“I am here.”

“I… I did not think… ’twould take so long.”

“What, Seer?”

She closed her eyes. “Dying.”

His throat thickened. “You will not die. You cannot die.”

She stiffened suddenly and moaned in pain.

“Tell me how to help you,” he begged.

Her eyes opened, met his. “Please,” she whispered. The hand he held tightened around his. “Do not leave me. I am… s-so afraid.”

As he watched, a tear spilled over her lashes and trailed down one temple.

His own eyes burned as he brushed her hair back with his free hand and cupped her soft cheek in his palm. “I shall not leave you,” he vowed thickly.

“Y-You will stay with me?”

He nodded. “I shall stay with you, Seer. I shall stay with you forever if it be your will.”

The corners of her lips tilted up in a faint smile. Her grip on his hand loosened. “You will stay,” she repeated softly, eyes closing, her body relaxing as unconsciousness claimed her once more.

Dillon lay beside her in silent despair and pressed a fervent kiss to her unbound shoulder.

He was losing her.

He clenched his eyes shut and, bringing her hand to his cheek, held it there.

She withered before his eyes as an autumn flower did when touched by winter’s first frosty fingers and there was naught he could do to stop it.

She began to tremble.

Moving closer, he draped one leg across both of hers, wishing he could wrap an arm around her waist without disturbing her injuries.

He buried his face in the fragrant hair that blanketed the pillow they shared, inhaling deeply as he confronted the truth at last.

His breath hitched as he damned himself for living when she would not.

Hope fading, Dillon gave the tears that had been building within him free rein.