Adara sat before the hearth in the solar with a tankard of cider clasped in her hands, her trembling gone, leaving a slight quiver in its wake. She could not get the terrible image of Jaynce out of her head. The intense terror in the woman’s eyes had reminded her of her own fright each time she had been taken to the torture chamber. Terrified, always terrified, how much pain she would suffer or if she would meet death that day. Today Jaynce met death.

The question was why? The answer seemed easy. Jaynce had to have known something, seen something. But what? What could the healer have possibly seen that someone did not want known?

Warrick draped a blanket over his wife’s legs, tucking it in at her waist. She had not stopped shivering since discovering the healer and he was concerned. He had whisked her away and ordered one of his men to get Roark and another to stand guard in front of the healer’s cottage. The thought foremost in his mind, to get her away from the hideous scene.

He raised the tankard of hot cider, that she had yet to drink, to her lips and ordered, “Drink.”

Adara held the tankard to her lips, but did not drink. The brew too hot to drink too fast and her stomach not at all eager to receive it.

Warrick dropped down in front of her. “You need to warm yourself. Drink.”

“It is too hot and my stomach unwilling.” With a slight shake of her head, she voiced her concerns. “What could Jaynce have seen or known that had been worth taking her life?”

There were times his wife appeared as meek as a mouse, then she would do or say something that proved otherwise, like now. Even though upset, she had the wisdom to see the obvious.

“I do not know, but I intend to find out,” he said, standing. “You will stay here until I return and rest, drink the hot brew, and stay warm.”

She nodded, hearing him but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Warrick saw the distraction in her eyes and leaned down, taking hold of her chin. “I mean it, wife. I best find you here in this chair when I return.”

She shivered, a chill grabbing hold of her and before she could respond, he muttered something she could not make out and went to the hearth.

“Do you have a shawl?” he asked, adding a fresh log.

“I do. Uncle Owen gave me his wife’s shawl.” She watched him balanced on his haunches, making sure the flames caught the new log before adding another one and adjusting that one until the flames licked at it sending it ablaze.

“Where is it?” he asked, dusting his hands off when he stood.

She stared at him. He was tending to her, seeing that she kept warm, caring for her. No one had ever cared for her that way. “In my stitching room.”

“I will have a servant fetch it for you,” he said and walked past her to the door. “And remember to stay where you are.”

Adara sighed when she heard the door click closed and reached over to place the tankard of cider on the table beside the chair, then rested her head back. She silently admonished herself for such a silly thought. He cared nothing for her. He simply did his duty as a husband.

It is your old, foolish wishes, dreams, and hopes that have you thinking this way, she silently chided herself. She had often wished that one day she would meet a man who would care for her, perhaps even love her. She had not given such a possibility thought until she had met Maia. The woman had opened possibilities to her, the hope of a better a life, one where she would be loved.

Wishes, dreams, hopes, did they ever come true?

She shook her head. Her musings would get her nowhere.

She let her eyes drift closed and was instantly assaulted by the image of Jaynce, her eyes wide, her throat—she shook the horrible scene away. She could not imagine the horror the woman must have suffered. Her brow wrinkled, thinking about when she had entered the cottage. There had been no signs of Jaynce struggling with anyone. Had someone surprised her or had the person been known to her?

Adara sat up in the chair, her thoughts gathering quickly. There had been no blood anywhere but in the bed. Jaynce had been in bed when this happened.

Adara stood and started pacing. Something was not right about the whole thing. If Jaynce had screamed, someone would have heard her, her cottage not far from other cottages. What could have happened?

She recalled Espy’s caution. Be watchful, Jaynce is a caring person but lacks the skills of a good healer. She has asked me more than once to identify a plant. One sniff is all it takes for a wise healer to know.

Her confusing thoughts brought wrinkles to her smooth brow. What was she missing? There was something there she could not quite grasp, yet poked at her. She stopped pacing and closed her eyes and the scene came rushing back to her, only this time she did not chase the vision away. She looked around.

There had been partially eaten food on the table and two tankards. Adara hurried to the door, swinging it open, and the servant standing there jumped back. Adara did not pause, she rushed right past the startled woman, ignoring the shawl the servant held in her hand.

A swirl of wind ruffled her hair and snapped at her cloak, sending it billowing around her as she ran through the village. Wide eyes and shocked stares followed her, but she paid them no heed. Her only thought was to get to the cottage.

“Two people got past my warriors. I want to know how and why,” Warrick said and continued, silencing Roark before he could speak. “No excuses will be tolerated. I want to know who failed to do their duty.”

“I have never given you an excuse and I will not start now,” Roark said. “I began a search of this area upon our arrival since it was not a stop included in your plan. It was a matter of time before we would have reached that campsite, which was what probably precipitated the attempt on your life. They must have been watching and realized their time was short to see the chore done. They hastened their task and when met with failure hastened their departure. As for the healer’s murder, it would seem reasonable to believe the attempt on your life and the ending of hers is somehow connected.”

Warrick went to agree when he caught sight of his wife running toward him, her cheeks flushed red, her blonde hair swirling madly about her head, and her cloak billowing out behind her, for all to see the bump in her stomach.

Worry rose up to jab at him and he hurried to her, catching her about the waist when he reached her. “What is wrong? Did someone try to hurt you? Is it the bairn?”

Adara kept shaking her head at every question he threw at her while she let her breathing ease.

Finally, she nodded when he said, “You disobey me again.” This time he shook his head. “And you admit it.”

“For a good reason,” she said, her breathing having calmed enough for her to speak.

“There is no good reason for disobeying me.” He got annoyed when she nodded, disagreeing with him.

“It was imperative I speak with you.”

“Something was more important than you obeying my word?”

She nodded again and took his hand. “Come. I will show you.”

He followed along with her, letting her have her way… for now.

“You should see this too,” Adara said when they got near Roark and he followed behind Warrick.

As she crossed the threshold into the cottage, she said a silent prayer for the healer that she would rest in peace and her killer would be caught and punished. She stopped at the table and pointed to the two tankards. “Someone was here with her.”

“We saw that as well and assume it was the person who killed her,” Roark said.

“But there are no signs of a struggle. Why did Jaynce not struggle? Why did she not scream for help?”

“We wondered the same,” Warrick said. “You are not telling us anything we have not already surmised ourselves.”

Adara stepped away from her husband, their hands parting. She pointed to the bed where Jaynce still lay. “She is in bed. Why is she in bed if someone was here? And her bed is soaked with her blood. She was killed while in bed, the bedding showing no signs of a struggle.”

“You noticed all this?” Warrick asked, her astuteness continuing to surprise him. Never would he have suspected such cleverness from a servant lass.

She turned her head away from the bed. “The horrid image would not leave my head either would the endless questions.”

“Several questions still remain,” Roark said. “Why did she not scream or fight?”

Adara turned and pointed at the tankard and the half-eaten oat-cake on the table. “I believe she ate or drank something that made her take to her bed and left her defenseless.”

Warrick picked up the oat-cake and sniffed it and did the same with the wine. “If there is something in either of them, I cannot detect it.”

“Espy could,” Adara said. “She told me that skilled healers could recognize a plant from its scent. Jaynce could not.”

“Have Benet take both to Espy and explain the situation and see what she can tell us,” Warrick directed Roark.

He nodded.

“Anything else of such great importance that could not wait and had you disobeying me, wife?” Warrick asked, folding his arms across his chest.

A reminder that she had yet to answer for her disobedience. Adara offered a quick apology. “I am sorry, Warrick, but I thought it imperative you know and besides, I feared if Jaynce had been given something then someone might accidently taste or drink of what was left.”

How did he chastise her for being unselfish?

“We will discuss this later,” he said.

“As you say.”

“Aye, wife, you would do well to remember it is always… as I say.”

Adara remained silent, thinking it was best she said no more.

“Wait outside for me,” Warrick ordered.

Adara nodded and stepped outside, grateful for the chilled breeze that brushed her heated cheeks. It was the second time that day she had disobeyed her husband and the thought amazed her. How had she done that? She had always obeyed, but then if she had not she would have suffered a slap to her face or feel the whip of a stick against her arm or back.

Warrick’s hands had never harmed her since meeting him, possessive at times, but tender at other times, and other times… the memory of what his hands were capable of sent a slow caressing tingle through her.

She did not know what to make of her husband, more so, she did not know what to make of how she felt toward him. Did she trust him? She had trusted others, only to be disappointed until finally she had trusted no one. She learned to keep to herself, be ever watchful, and say little.

Of late, though, while her uncle was alive, she had been saying more than she ever had. Her uncle had had much to do with that. Unlike others, he had engaged her in conversation, asked her thoughts on things, encouraged her opinion. There had been a growing sense of safety with him, though a lingering doubt that it would last had nagged at her. Nothing in her life ever lasted, except for the fear that had been her constant companion. When her uncle died, that nagging doubt had been proven right again.

Would the same happen with Warrick? Would she grow to feel safe with him only to have him disappoint her as so many others had?

“We will discuss your disobedience, wife.”

Adara turned at the sternness in his voice, worried at what he would do. When he stretched out his hand, instinct had her stepping away from him.

Warrick bristled at the fear he saw flare like a flame to dry kindling in her eyes. How often had she felt the strike of a hand that instinct had her backing away from nothing more than an outstretched hand? And how often did he have to remind her that he would not harm her?

As often as necessary.

The unexpected thought had him slowly stretching his hand out to her once again. “I will not harm you, Adara.”

Gone was the sternness in his voice replaced with a firmness that promised truth and had Adara stepping forward and taking his hand. His fingers closed around hers with a strength that actually comforted her.

“I am sorry for disobeying you,” she apologized again.

“How often have you said that through the years?” His question met silence and he asked, “I will have the truth, Adara.”

She sighed. “More than I care to remember.”

“Then sorry can hold little meaning to you by now. It is nothing more than an instinctive response that is meant to placate. Therefore, it serves no purpose to me. I will not hear it spill from your lips again.”

“But I truly meant—”

Warrick stopped her before she could say anymore. “No, you did not. You spoke to appease as you have done through the years. It meant nothing to you, and I will not tolerate that from my wife.”

Adara bit her lip to restrain the sorry that hurried to rush out. He was right, sorry meant nothing to her, yet… “I did not mean to disobey you.”

“I realize that, but I still will not tolerate disobedience. It is one rule of mine I expect everyone to obey… without exception.”

Adara nodded, worrying for the first time in her life that, obedience, something that had been instinctive to her, might now be too difficult for her to tolerate and having no idea why. The thought was at once alarming and also welcoming.

As they walked back to the keep, she asked, “What punishment do you inflict on those who disobey you?”

“For you it would be days confined to your room, but for someone who enjoys solitude that is no punishment. Punishment is meant to be uncomfortable, something you never wish to experience again.”

Adara could not stop the shiver that ran through her, recalling her screams when the hot irons had been used on her body.

Warrick silently cursed himself, knowing his words had brought back memories to her that were better left undisturbed. He rushed his arm around his wife and hurried her inside the keep and into the shadows of a small alcove. He slipped his hand under her chin to take gentle hold of it. “Listen to me well, wife. I may punish you, but never ever will I have you tortured.”

“Then what will my punishment be?”

“You already serve it,” he said.

“How so?”

“You spend eternity with the Demon Lord.”