A Sorceress of His Own Read online

  A twig snapped in the forest.

  Every man present leapt to his feet and drew his sword.

  A small, black-robed figure stepped into the firelight, seeming to manifest directly from the darkness itself.

  Several knights hastened to cross themselves.

  Dillon motioned for all to stand down and waited for them to relax before the fire once more. Sheathing his own weapon, he crossed to the wisewoman’s side.

  “My lord,” she greeted him in her raspy voice.

  Dillon guided her away from his men. “What do you here, Wise One? ’Tis not safe.” How had she traveled such a distance? He saw none of his men with her. Had she come alone?

  “My gifts told me you have need of my services,” she whispered.

  He could remember a time in his youth when her voice had been stronger. But age had gradually weakened it, first cracking it then reducing it to this faint relic of its former self.

  None knew the wisewoman’s true age. The more superstitious of his people, those who crossed themselves whenever she passed them, believed she possessed the powers of immortality and could claim centuries to her past. Others placed her age nigh that of the elders, who all swore she had served the Westcott lords for as long as the oldest amongst them had walked the earth. All Dillon knew with any certainty was that she had seen at least two-score and ten years, for she had advised his father throughout Dillon’s youth.

  He recalled his intense curiosity as a boy. She had stood straighter then, had seemed taller, almost grandiose to a precocious child who would not see his final height of a few inches above six feet for many years. A floor-length black robe with long sleeves that fell beneath her fingertips and a cowl that shielded every feature and defied even the strongest gust of wind had been and still was her constant companion. As Dillon understood it, none had ever looked upon her unmasked. Not even his grandfather, beside whom the elders insisted she had first stood.

  Since acquiring the title, Dillon had had little chance to speak with this mysterious woman who had served his family for so many years. He had spent most of his time quashing a cousin’s rebellion, then attempting to claim Brimshire. And, though he had known her peripherally all of his life, he had not yet decided how he felt about her coming to him as his advisor.

  “All goes well here, Seer,” he told her. ’Twas not a lie. There had been no losses on his side. No sickness. As far as sieges went, this had been an uneventful one. “Tomorrow we will begin constructing siege towers—”

  “Such will not be necessary.”

  He stared at her, shocked that she had interrupted him. Everyone else feared him too much to risk the fury they all believed would erupt if they did so. “I know not—”

  “Rest easy, my lord,” she whispered, interrupting him again. “Brimshire will be yours by sunrise.”

  So saying, she backed away and let the forest swallow her.

  Nonplussed, Dillon heard no sound of movement but knew without grabbing a torch and thrusting it forward that she was gone.

  He turned to face his men.

  Judging by their uneasy expressions, most had overheard.

  “What do you suppose she meant by that?” Simon asked.

  Dillon knew not and, retaking his place before the fire, decided to forgo sleep until she returned.

  Hours later, as the sun rose and painted the land around them with a rosy dawn, a loud clanking sound disrupted the silence.

  Dillon stood and faced the castle.

  The drawbridge began to lower.

  Waking his men with a single command, he mounted his destrier and drew his sword.

  Squires fetched mounts. Knights climbed into saddles and drew weapons that glimmered in the strengthening sunlight.

  The heavy outer portcullis slowly rose as Dillon and his men took up a position some distance from the end of the drawbridge.

  A charged silence followed.

  The inner portcullis rose.

  All waited in tense anticipation for men to pour forth with a battle cry.

  Minutes passed as bird song serenaded them.

  Then a small black-robed figure emerged, face hidden by her cowl. Striding boldly across the drawbridge, she halted when she reached Dillon’s side. “As I said, my lord, siege towers will not be necessary. Brimshire is yours.”

  Dillon stared down at her in astonishment as his men all crossed themselves in a flurry of motion.

  She had accomplished in one night what a six-month siege had not.

  Just how far did her gifts extend?

  Chapter One

  England, 1198

  As still as though he were an extension of the ramparts themselves, Dillon stared out over the slumbering keep. The same fog that partially veiled it stroked his skin with ghostly fingers and lent an eerie echo to the sounds of the guards who walked the walls.

  She was there. Behind him. He had not heard her approach, but he could feel her presence as surely as he could the damp, chilly breeze.

  “What brings you to these battlements on this dreary night, Seer?” he asked without turning around.

  “Your troubled spirit called to me,” she responded, her voice still but a whisper of its former self. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  He did not speak for many moments. His spirit was indeed troubled. He felt so very weary. And old. As old as some believed the crone hidden in darkness behind him was. “Our king has granted me another keep,” he said finally.

  “A fitting reward for one of his most loyal subjects.”

  “Think you he has forgotten I fought in opposition to him at Le Mans?”

  “He would not hold that against you. You were defending your king. I believe he regrets now being a… less-than-dutiful son to Henry.”

  “Spoken most diplomatically, Wise One,” he murmured, amused by her reference to Richard’s hostile rebellions.

  “And you have since proven your loyalty to King Richard many times over. You took an arrow for him at Acre. You helped put an end to Prince John’s insurrection. ’Tis proper for him to offer his most fearsome knight a prize or two.”

  The laughter that rumbled forth from him carried a hint of the despair that had weighed him down of late.

  “What amuses you, my lord?” she inquired.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. As usual, she stood in shadows, her robe hiding what little may have been revealed by a rogue ray of moonlight. “Take my hand, Wise One,” he commanded, extending it toward her, “and tell me what you see.”

  She reached out and clasped his hand with one of hers. For one brief instant, he caught a glimpse of age-spotted, yellow-tinged skin stretched across blue veins and slender fingers before the sleeve of her robe glided forward to hide both their hands from his view. It was the most he had seen of her in the seven years she had advised him.

  The warmth of that hand, so old and frail, surprised him, distracting him for a moment.

  “Well?” he prodded. “How fearsome is the man who stands before you? Look closely. What do you see? What do I feel?”

  “A great… lassitude, my lord.”

  “Aye.”

  “You are dissatisfied with your existence. You have grown weary of battle, of killing.”

  He looked down at the obscured inner bailey with a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever be able to erase the cursed stench of blood and death from my nostrils, the images of it from my memory.” The wind picked up, swirling the night mist into mystical shapes and patterns from dreams. “What else do you see?”

  “You know I cannot read your thoughts, my lord.”

  “Nay, but emotions and desires are clear to you, Seer. Interpret mine as you will.”

  “Very well.”

  Focusing intently on that which he wished her to see, he felt his hand heat where she touched it as she delved deeper with her peculiar gift.

  “Your greatest wish is for peace.”

  “Aye.”

  “And…” She seemed to stall, mayha
p mistrusting the information her gift relayed.

  “Continue.”

  “A wife, my lord.”

  He wondered at the surprise manifested in that statement. With her powers, she saw him more clearly than anyone he knew. Even his younger brother, Robert, with whom he shared almost all of his secrets, did not know him as this one did.

  Granted, on those rare instances when she touched him, ’twas usually with the intent to heal. But this desire for a wife had lingered in his heart and mind for some time now, growing stronger alongside his discontent. Surely his soothsayer had become aware of it ere now.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “’Tis true I did not know you wished to wed,” she admitted slowly. “But that in itself does not surprise me. ’Tis your reasons for doing so.”

  He chuckled, a sound rife with self-mockery, and tightened his grip on her fingers. “So, tell me, Seer, why the land’s most formidable warrior, save our illustrious lionhearted ruler, desires a bride.”

  * * *

  Shielded by her dark robe, Alyssa hesitated, uncertain of his mood. She had never seen Dillon quite like this before. “’Tis not for the customary reasons, my lord.”

  His large, rough, battle-scarred hand gripped hers with an almost desperate need for contact. Or mayhap reassurance. One would think that, after seven years of serving him, such a simple touch would no longer speed her pulse or make her breath catch. Yet, as always, she had to struggle to keep her hand from trembling within his grasp, to restrict her voice to the steady whisper she had worked so hard to perfect.

  Dillon turned his face away from her, as if to hide his despondency from her view, though he must know she felt it as strongly as he did when they touched. High forehead. Straight nose, despite the numerous battles he had fought. Strong jaw now clenched in an effort to control his emotions.

  It was a handsome face, marred only by two small scars. One divided his left eyebrow. A second adorned the right side of his chin. He had acquired both before she had come into his service just after Dillon had turned a score and three. She had let naught mar him since.

  Though still a young man, the hair at his temples was almost entirely silver. The rest of his thick locks were only sparsely peppered with gray. Those that teased his collar remained as dark a brown as the day he had come into this world. So dark they were nigh black.

  How often had she wished she could reach up and touch those locks, discover if they were as soft as they appeared?

  “You do not seek a woman to bear you heirs or increase your lands and fortune as most do,” she said.

  “Do I not?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  “What then?”

  Energy strummed through her as she sifted through his emotions. She had come to know him well over the years. Better than most. Mayhap that explained why her gift always seemed to stretch a bit further with him, allowed her to see more.

  “You seek a tender smile and a warm embrace, awaiting you on the steps of the donjon each time you return from venturing forth on the king’s business or on your own.”

  His eyes squinted slightly, deepening the faint lines the sun had placed at their corners. “What else?”

  “You want a loving presence to sit with you by the fire of an evening. To converse with you. Teach you how to laugh again, to find joy in life. Someone in whom you can confide.” She frowned. “Someone who will be as gentle with you as you wish to be with her.”

  The hand in her grasp gradually relaxed, as though he were being lulled by her revelation of his deepest fantasy.

  Regret that she could not fulfill that fantasy left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Alyssa’s grandmother had warned her that she would one day come to loathe these robes and the silence they required. Her mother had, too. But she had been young when she had donned them and accepted the many responsibilities of Westcott’s wisewoman—a mere ten and six—and had not seen beyond the opportunity to be close to the compassionate, courageous (and, aye, comely) Lord Dillon.

  “You wish your bride to come to you innocent,” she forced herself to continue. “Pure, but without fear. You dream of spending many long nights… making love with her.” Her face heated. “And many more falling asleep with her cradling you close to her, chasing off the grisly nightmares that plague your sleep.”

  Silence engulfed them when she finished. He withdrew his hand, seeming almost reluctant to sever the contact.

  “I ask again,” he said softly, his lips turning down at their corners. “How fearsome is the warrior who stands before you?”

  “No less fearsome than he was ere I saw him.”

  He shook his head. “How they all would laugh if they knew the truth.”

  “And what truth might that be, my lord?”

  “That one of England’s most ruthless killers—a man who inspires terror in all, leaves blood and destruction in his wake wherever he travels, and is rumored to devour small children for supper—desires only peace and a wife who will be little more than a nursemaid to him.”

  “A nursemaid to your children mayhap. A companion to you. There is no shame in loving, my lord.”

  He turned to her, his features alight with curiosity. “Know you of love, then?”

  Aye, ever since she was a child and had witnessed—from a distance—his kindness toward her grandmother, his defense of her when others repudiated her. “I have not attained this age without knowing it, my lord.”

  “I confess I know not precisely what age you have attained, Seer.”

  “You are not alone in your ignorance.”

  He grinned at her evasion, as she had known he would. “Fear not. I will not press you.”

  “How very wise of you,” she drawled, eliciting a sharp laugh.

  “Why should I,” he continued in teasing tones, “when your age does not rouse nigh as much curiosity as your appearance?”

  “I have long considered curiosity a bothersome, unhealthy emotion, my lord.”

  “Then why do you take such pleasure in generating it amongst my people?” he countered.

  She allowed her laughter to emerge as a raspy chuckle. “Mayhap you are the true seer here, my lord, for you know me too well.”

  * * *

  Dillon stared at her, wishing that were true. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder. ’Twould be so easy to reach out, drag back the cowl that covered it, and finally discover what he had spent far too much time pondering. But he would not do so. He would never violate her trust in such a way. Not when she treated his own with such care.

  “Why is it that you think you will never find the wife you long for?”

  His stomach clenched. “Because she does not exist.”

  “You do not believe there is a woman in all of England capable of the tenderness and devotion you desire?”

  “I believe there are many such women. But each and every one of them cringes at my approach. When I come to bed at night, I want my wife to tremble with passion, not fear.”

  “All women do not fear you,” she stated plainly. When he raised a brow, her cowl tilted to one side. “Think you I do not know all that transpires in your domain?”

  A warm flush crept up his neck when he realized she referred to the women who occasionally satisfied his needs. “Do not think that because they sought me out and shared my bed those women were not just as frightened as the others.”

  “If they were frightened, they would not have approached you.”

  Frowning, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You cannot have lived so many years and remained that naive.” When she remained damningly silent, his tone mellowed. “Or have you?” ’Twas something he had never considered before, her innocence or lack thereof. As many years as she had lived and as much of the world as she had seen, he had assumed that at some point…

  Well, he had once even found himself wondering if she and his father had not been lovers for a time.

  “Very well,” he said when no rejoinder was
forthcoming. “The women who have offered themselves to me did so because fear excites them. They did not come to me for lovemaking. They came seeking domination.”

  “And who better to dominate than one with your reputation,” she finished for him.

  “Aye.” Dillon tamped down the anger and embarrassment that threatened. He had never divulged that particular secret before, not even to Robert, who often bedeviled him about his long, self-imposed bouts of celibacy. A woman had not sought Dillon out with affection since he had left on his first campaign. Even women who desired the power and wealth Dillon possessed kept their distance, dissuaded by the rumors of violence that cloaked him.

  The wisewoman stepped up beside him, close, but not touching.

  He did not look at her. He could not.

  “’Tis true, I know little of such things,” she murmured.

  And he knew how much that admission cost her. In their years of dealing with each other, she had revealed very little of herself to him, yet did so now as an act of contrition for pushing him to discuss what he obviously did not wish to.

  “In this instance, I fear we share the same complaint, my lord,” she added sadly.

  “What complaint is that?” Dillon found himself holding his breath, unsure how to proceed, since she had never before offered up such personal information to him.

  “Very few bother to look beyond our reputations to the individuals they conceal. If you recall, I inspire as much, if not more, fear in those who encounter me.”

  He realized the truth of her words as soon as she spoke them.

  “I see the people cross themselves whenever I walk past, see mothers tug their children closer to them for protection, hear men hurl accusations of witchcraft and link my name with Lucifer’s. I have even had a stone or two thrown my way.”

  His head snapped around in furious disbelief. “Who dared to—?”

  “Do not exert yourself on my behalf. ’Twas long ago and the culprits have since been repaid for their actions tenfold.”

  He found his anger slow to ebb. “Did you…?”

  She sighed. “Alas, nay, though the blame was placed with me.”