A Sorceress of His Own Page 3

  “There have been other crimes perpetrated against you, have there not? Crimes you never mentioned to me?”

  Her hood swung from side to side. “Only declarations of intent, my lord. The very reputation you despise has been my staunch defender these last seven years. Knowing the trust you place in me, none would dare incur your wrath by following through on their threats.”

  At least it had done someone some good, he thought morosely, wondering at the same time if he should not call his people together and make his displeasure known over their harsh treatment of the woman at his side. The same woman who had healed many of them with her hands, sometimes bringing them or their children back from the brink of death.

  “Why does King Richard’s gift not please you?” she asked, guiding the subject back to their conversation’s origins.

  “Because I must lay siege to the keep in order to claim it. ’Twould seem its previous owner is not ready to relinquish his hold on it.”

  “Yet another battle for you to fight.”

  “Aye.”

  “There is more.”

  He could hide naught from her. “’Tis Pinehurst I’ve been given.”

  “Lord Camden’s holding?” Camden was son to Dillon’s nearest neighbor Lord Everard, Earl of Westmoreland, whom Dillon had admired and respected ever since he was in swaddling clothes. “He has finally done it, then.”

  “What?”

  “Beggared his estate through his own greed. His father worried that he would do as much and should not be surprised by this turn of events.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “No doubt Camden compounded the problem by insulting the king. He has always acted rashly and with little thought.”

  “’Tis the way of it. His support of John during Richard’s imprisonment was only the beginning, ’twould seem.”

  “When do you depart?”

  “On the morrow.”

  “Perchance you could employ the same tactics you used to take Brimshire, thus eliminating the necessity of fighting.”

  He smiled. “Plan to steal in and lace their food and drink with another of your tasty sleeping potions, do you?” he asked, delighted by her inference that it had been his plan all along. In truth, he had not learned until the keep had fallen how exactly she had aided him that night.

  “You need only ask and I shall do as you command.”

  He shook his head. “I dislike your taking such risks. Were anyone to discover you…”

  “They expect treachery to come in the form of brawny soldiers, not”—and he could actually hear her smile—“from a frail, old woman.”

  Dillon paced away from her. It had worked well the last time. She had succeeded in drugging nigh every soldier within the gates. Those who had retained their faculties had surrendered as soon as they had seen him riding inside, his men directly behind him. No violence. No destruction. No unnecessary deaths. Yet, unease trickled down his spine.

  “Nay.” He returned to her side. “I like it not. Mix your potion, if you will, Wise One, but I shall find another to smuggle it inside.”

  She straightened. “A premonition, my lord?”

  “You know I do not share your gifts.” He dragged an impatient hand through his hair. “I merely sense… danger.”

  “To me? Or to yourself?”

  “Naught so clear as that.” He shook his head. “We both know what a knave Camden is. He will not fight honorably. I ask that you remain here, where I may be assured of your safety.”

  “And what assurances will I have of your safety, my lord? I should be by your side should you have need of my services.”

  He could not help but be pleased by her concern. Whilst others thought him invincible, she worried over his safety as his mother might have had she lived. “I shall send for you, Healer, should I need you.”

  She nodded with notable reluctance. “And I shall fly to you on the wings of your swiftest stallion, my lord, the moment your messenger arrives.”

  His lips stretched in a grin others scarcely saw. “So long as you do not truly give the steed wings or my men may flee.”

  She responded with another raspy chuckle.

  * * *

  Dillon pondered their conversation later as he lay sleepless in his bed. It might very well have been the most personal they had shared.

  It had certainly been the most revealing.

  She had always been a solitary figure, the wisewoman, rarely speaking to anyone other than himself unless she was healing a wound. For some reason, he had assumed she wanted it thus. That her powers set her apart. That she preferred her own company to that of others, particularly since others were less than kind to her and seldom thanked her for her efforts when she helped them.

  But now…

  What a lonely existence she had led. Year after year of enforced solitude, surrounded by people who feared and mistrusted her because of the gifts bestowed upon her at birth. Gifts that were a blessing, but more often were viewed as a curse. Gifts that should have exalted her, but instead had transformed her into a mere vessel to be used by his grandfather, then his father, and now Dillon.

  How had they rewarded her? What had they done to make her life easier, to ease her burden when she had eased theirs in so many ways?

  The thought unsettled him. His wisewoman had been sorely misused, yet had never in her years of service uttered a single complaint. Even tonight, when she had spoken of those who had thrown stones at her, she had done so matter-of-factly, as if she had never considered that he might be willing to seek justice on her behalf.

  It pained him to know she thought as much, that she believed he did not value her more, considering the many days and nights she had staved off the worst of his loneliness. For, when she was not healing an illness, rendering aid to any who incurred an injury, or ensuring that his steward kept his castle running smoothly, the wisewoman frequently remained at his side.

  The women he had met at court could barely manage to stutter a greeting when he joined them. The same held true for the men. Rumors of Dillon’s supposed cruelty preceded him into every room, stilling a majority of the tongues present and widening all eyes before he entered. ’Twas why he never stayed any longer than he had to and left feeling like a fire-breathing dragon the villagers prayed would not demand a sacrifice.

  His companions, his knights, even his brother all knew how to praise and flatter and turn a pretty head. Dillon had no inkling where to begin. His resulting reticence and unsmiling countenance, coupled with the ruthless reputation he had earned on the battlefield, had therefore proven far too intimidating for the noblewomen he had met, inspiring the fear he had eventually, resignedly, come to expect.

  But such was not the case with the wisewoman. She alone seemed invariably at ease in his presence. He felt no need to mince words with her. No need to examine every thought before he spoke it for fear of frightening or offending. No need to modulate his tone when vexed nor monitor his bark when angered.

  Mayhap ’twas her age and her own power that made her such a comfortable companion for him. A kindred spirit, as she had implied on the battlements, garnering the same fear in others, unable to function normally in society because of it.

  Or mayhap ’twas because she alone was comfortable enough around him to always speak her mind. He knew only that he could relax with her, be more himself, though he always maintained a respectful distance.

  A scarcely audible scraping sound met his ears, disrupting his musings. Bolting upright, Dillon grabbed the sword he always kept within reach and prepared to defend himself. He listened, motionless, unable to locate the intruder in the dim light of the dying fire.

  “Rest easy, my lord.”

  “Wise One.” His muscles relaxing, he returned his sword to its resting place. “Did my troubled spirit call you to me again?” he queried, wondering what had drawn her to his chamber.

  Had she known he was thinking of her?

  “Nay.” She drew closer, a small silhouette sepa
rating itself from a host of others. “This time ’twas my own troubled spirit.”

  Remembering his desire to repay the debt his family owed her, he waited until she reached his bedside, then asked deferentially, “How may I serve you, Wise One?”

  The question seemed to take her aback. “’Tis I who serve you, my lord,” she responded with some confusion.

  “You said your spirit is troubled. Is there naught I can do to aid you?”

  She shifted. “You misunderstand.”

  “Then, please, explain.”

  “I was pondering the words we shared earlier,” she began haltingly. And he felt his bothersome, unhealthy curiosity mount. “Though I cannot locate your bride for you, my lord, I can ward off your nightmares, if only for one night.” Her midnight robe wavered and shimmered as she thrust a mug of rather vile-smelling liquid toward him.

  “You would drug me?” he demanded, shocked.

  “’Twill not harm you.”

  He eyed the mug dubiously. “’Tis not the same potion you plied the men of Brimshire with, is it?” It had taken some of the men two or three days to regain consciousness after consuming it.

  “Of course not,” she retorted, her voice almost, but not quite rising above a whisper for the first time in years. “’Tis very mild. You will merely rest a little deeper, free of the threat of nightmares, and awaken refreshed on the morrow.”

  He looked from the mug to her hooded figure. ’Twas tempting. He could not remember the last time he had slept the whole night through without waking at least once to the sound of screams reverberating through his head. Unfortunately…

  “I cannot leave myself so vulnerable, Healer.” Every good soldier knew that sleeping too soundly could endanger a man’s life.

  “No harm shall come to you whilst you sleep.”

  “But—”

  “I will not allow it, my lord,” she added with a conviction that made him wonder once more at the true extent of her gifts.

  “What of your troubled spirit?”

  “Your sleep will ease it.”

  Once again he wished he could espy her features. “Very well, Wisewoman.” He took the mug from her and, trusting her implicitly, drained its contents with a shudder and a grimace ere he handed it back to her. “I thank you.”

  “Lie back and close your eyes,” she instructed in a gentle voice. “’Twill soon take effect.”

  He did so, willing his mind to stop racing, silencing the questions that wanted to tumble from his lips.

  Her potion came swiftly to his aid. In only minutes, he could feel himself tumbling off the precipice of consciousness.

  She was wrong, though. He did dream.

  Just once.

  He dreamed that, as he succumbed to sleep, his bride’s fingers tunneled tenderly through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead before gentle lips pressed a kiss there.

  “Rest well, Dillon,” she said in a lilting, melodious voice as delicate fingertips trailed down his temple, past his ear, and followed the line of his jaw to the scar on his chin. “I shall not leave your side.”

  Then, drawing the blankets up over his broad chest, she lay down atop them and lovingly cradled him against her when he turned into her reverent embrace.

  So soft.

  So soothing.

  So full of long-awaited love for him.

  Chapter Two

  He had never slept so well.

  ’Twas the first thought that struck Dillon when his eyelids fluttered open as dawn broke. Nor had he ever dreamed such sweet, tranquil dreams.

  “No nightmares beleaguered you, my lord?”

  Startled, he looked toward the speaker and found the healer sitting beside his bed. Had she been there all night, watching over him to keep him from harm as she had promised?

  “None,” he answered, his voice still rough from sleep. “I have never felt so rested.”

  “I hoped ’twould be so.” She sounded pleased. She must be exhausted.

  Yet another debt he owed her.

  “I did dream, though,” he murmured, a face drifting through his memory.

  Her hood tilted slightly. “I thought no nightmares visited you.”

  “’Twas no nightmare who held me close within her warm embrace, but one who must surely be the fairest maid in all the land.”

  “Who…?”

  “My bride, Seer.” A languorous smile stretched his lips as he rose onto his elbows. “You were right. She does exist. And she is more beauteous than any woman I have ever beheld, with skin as pale as snow and hair the color of midnight.”

  “But… but… ’tis not possible,” she stuttered.

  Dillon frowned. Did she think him unworthy of such a maid? Had his disclosures the previous night made her think less of him or convinced her that he was right, that he would never find a woman like the one in his dream, who could love him and would be willing to wed him?

  Ere he could press her for an explanation, pounding erupted on the door.

  “Enter,” he called irritably.

  Sir Simon, his second-in-command, threw open the door and strode into the solar with a grin. His gaze flitted from Dillon to the wisewoman. Stopping short, the big man sketched her a clumsy bow. “Good morrow to you, Wise One.”

  “Good morrow, Sir Simon.”

  He turned back to Dillon and smiled again. “The Cub approaches the gate.”

  Thrilled by his unexpected visitor, Dillon eagerly abandoned his concerns and turned bright eyes on the seer. “Robert.”

  Completely forgetting the revelation of her innocence the previous night, he threw back the covers, leapt naked from the bed, and hurriedly began to dress.

  * * *

  Lingering in an umbral corner nigh the entrance of the great hall, Alyssa watched their reunion. A vigorous embrace accompanied by the pounding of backs and hearty kisses on stubbled cheeks. At five and twenty, Robert was an inch or so shorter than Dillon, with shoulders equally broad and hair as black as a raven’s wing. Both men were incredibly handsome, their blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. But only Dillon made her breath catch and her heart pound within her breast.

  Memories surfaced of the way he had turned to her in his sleep last night and wrapped his arms around her, his large muscled thigh slipping between hers, his lips resting upon the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. She had remained awake through the dawn, savoring his nearness, the way his arms would tighten every once in a while and he would unconsciously urge her closer. Never had she felt more alive.

  Even now her body tingled in new ways and places, a condition that was not helped by visions of him leaping naked from the bed earlier. She had seen parts of him unclothed many times over the years. An arm. A leg. His chest.

  Never had she seen everything.

  Shaking her head, she forced her attention back to the present.

  All that remained of their family, the two Westcott warriors remained as close as siblings could be. Their sister had died in childbirth. One of their elder brothers had met a violent end in the Holy Land. The other had perished whilst defending his king during the revolt of 1174. Their mother had died birthing Robert, almost taking Alyssa’s grandmother with her as she had fought for the lives of mother and babe. And their father, the last earl of Westcott, had breathed his last breath without warning one afternoon when his heart had failed him.

  So Dillon tended to be very protective of Robert.

  “Where are your men?” Dillon guided his younger brother into the great hall with an affectionate arm across his shoulders. “Have they not accompanied you here to eat their way through my stores? I have never seen such appetites as theirs.”

  “I rode ahead. They shall be here shortly.”

  “You are limping!”

  “Faugh,” Robert blustered. “I am stiff from too damned many hours in the saddle.”

  Dillon called for ale as he and Robert sank into two chairs positioned before the largest of the four hearths the great hall boasted. “You
were the one who chose to leave and seek adventure. I have told you often that you are more than welcome to live out your days here with me.”

  “Aye, and your constant coddling would transform me into a maiden in no time.”

  Alyssa stifled a laugh.

  Dillon grimaced. “Nevertheless. You need not hire out your sword. You take too many risks.”

  His brother gave a negligent shrug. “At least I am never bored.”

  Silently, Alyssa moved closer, skirting the hall until she stood in a darkened corner, facing the younger man’s back. Robert’s unexpected visit pleased her. If anyone could supply a welcome distraction and lift Dillon’s spirits, ’twas he.

  That limp of his concerned her, though. Robert had ever expressed uneasiness in her presence and would rather have a barber pull a tooth than admit he required her healing skills. Did he not seek her out before nightfall, she would have to find some way to corner him.

  “If boredom is your complaint,” Dillon broached, “why do you not help me take Pinehurst?”

  “Acquired another one, have you?”

  “Aye. And Camden’s at that. The damned tenants will not open the gates to me unless ordered to do so by their former master.”

  “Not willing to give it up yet?”

  “Camden will never surrender it willingly.”

  “Sounds like ’twill be a fight. Aye, I will join you.”

  “You do not sound overly enthusiastic.”

  Nay, he did not. And she assumed it the result of whatever injury had befallen him.

  Robert rubbed his eyes. “I am but weary.”

  “Then remain here at Westcott, where you belong. Forgo the tournament circuit and fighting other men’s wars.”

  The younger man stubbornly shook his head. “I need land of my own, brother, and people of my own who will offer me the same loyalty and respect yours do you.”

  “As my heir, all you see around you will one day be yours.”

  “I am only your heir until you wed and your wife bears you a son.”

  Dillon shrugged, his strong features taking on a somewhat bleak cast. “Since I shall likely never wed, you shall remain my heir.”