A Sorceress of His Own Page 4

  Alyssa bit her lip, regretting her earlier reaction to his dream. Or rather to what he thankfully believed had been a dream. She had been so sure he had fallen asleep.

  The potion must not have been strong enough. He should not have been conscious, should not have remembered.

  It had seemed as though hours had passed ere she had finally given in to temptation, doffed her robe, and—heart slamming against her ribs—lain down beside him. After seven years of loving him, longing for him, she had craved his touch like a man in the desert craved water and had thought him unaware. Had thought herself safe from discovery. Had thought it harmless to steal a moment with him, undisguised.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering again how wondrous it had felt when he had drawn her into his warm embrace. She had been so surprised. Her heart had pounded so loudly she had feared he might hear it. And such scandalous desire had claimed her.

  Returning her attention to the brothers, she feared her distress this morning at discovering Dillon had not succumbed to the herbs—at least not completely—might have sounded more to his ears like mockery.

  Robert frowned. “Never wed? What nonsense has the sorceress been filling your ears with now?” He winced and shifted, seeking a more comfortable position.

  Watching from the darkness of her hood, Alyssa saw a scowl flit across Dillon’s features. He made a slight motion with his hand, one that would go unnoticed by all save herself. Nodding, she soundlessly moved forward until she stood behind Robert’s chair.

  “You have not said what brings you to Westcott,” Dillon said, changing the subject.

  “Can a man not visit his family when the mood strikes him?” Robert griped.

  At Dillon’s silent instruction, Alyssa rested her fingertips on Robert’s shoulder. “He is injured, my lord.”

  Robert lurched clumsily to his feet and spun around, a slew of epithets spewing from his lips. “Unhand me, Witch!” he shouted last and shoved her arm away.

  At least, that is all he had intended to do. Alyssa saw the spark of fever and flash of pain that lit his eyes as his leg buckled and he lost his balance. He swiftly righted himself. But that shove had been forceful enough to send her crashing to the floor, where she landed so hard on her side that it knocked the breath from her.

  Fear lanced through her until she realized her cowl had not fallen away from her face to reveal her youth. The relief that followed was so great it almost dulled the throbbing that began just above her temple where her head had struck the floor.

  For a moment, all was still as every occupant of the hall stared wide-eyed at her crumpled form lying amidst the rushes, then regarded the earl with fascinated alarm, awaiting his response.

  Fury swept across Dillon’s features. “You will treat her with respect!” he bellowed at Robert, his face mottling, the veins in his neck standing out, ere he faced the knights, men-at-arms, and servants who gaped at them. “Every one of you will treat her with respect!”

  “My lord, please,” Alyssa objected, not wanting him to say or do aught that might foster greater feelings of resentment amongst his people.

  Shoving his brother aside, Dillon closed the distance between them, grasped her elbow in one strong hand, and carefully helped her to her feet.

  “He did not do it apurpose,” she insisted, stepping away from him and breaking contact as she shook out her robes. “’Tis not necessary.”

  Speechless, Robert stared at them both with dazed eyes filled with remorse.

  Alyssa had never seen Dillon strike his brother in anger, but feared for a moment he might do so now, so furious did he appear.

  She jumped when Dillon instead rested a hand upon her shoulder.

  He so rarely touched her.

  More of his people, upon hearing the commotion, crowded inside, generating a substantial gathering as he commanded their attention.

  “This woman,” he said, his voice ringing clearly enough to reach every ear, “is responsible for much of our good health and continued prosperity. Yet you all fear her and treat her with contempt.”

  Alyssa tried to ease back into the shadows, uncomfortable with the attention he drew to her.

  Dillon would have none of it and tightened his grip, keeping her at his side. “Know you now that any offense made against her is an offense made against me and will be duly punished. Any kindness she bestows upon you will be repaid with one of your own. The wisewoman has been blessed with gifts we have too often taken for granted. We will do so no longer.”

  Alyssa stared at him from beneath her cowl as onlookers glanced at one another uneasily. When it became apparent that he intended to say no more, all quietly dispersed.

  Dillon sighed and withdrew his touch, allowing her freedom.

  Her thoughts churned as she watched him wrap a supportive arm around his brother’s waist.

  Docile now, Robert looped an arm around Dillon’s shoulders and limped along at his side.

  Alyssa followed, keeping pace as they made their cautious way to the stairs, climbed them slowly, and headed into the chamber Robert called his own. “I would you had not done that, my lord,” she put forth.

  “Why?” Dillon grunted, practically carrying Robert the last few steps to his bed.

  “Those who are unwilling to treat me kindly will no longer seek my aid.” Now that the first shock had worn off, she found his defense of her touching. Gallant. His desire to see her treated with respect heartwarming. But she could not perform her duties if the people of Westcott had even greater reason to avoid her.

  He snorted as he settled his brother none too gently against the pillows. “If they cannot treat you kindly, then they deserve not your help. Where is he wounded?”

  “I am fine,” Robert grumbled.

  “His left leg, just above the knee.”

  Dillon peeled off his brother’s chausses and let them fall to the floor. Retrieving the dagger from his belt, he began to cut away the hose beneath that covered the area she had indicated.

  “A gift withheld is no gift at all,” Alyssa murmured as she leaned forward to get a closer look at the ugly gash he exposed. “It has begun to fester. ’Tis why he is feverish. Had he waited much longer, he would have inevitably lost either his life or his leg.”

  Robert paled, hearing that.

  Dillon, on the other hand, merely looked more furious.

  “It must be cleansed first,” she announced and straightened.

  Dillon stared at her over Robert’s inert body, his brow furrowed. “After his actions below, I should not ask this of you.”

  “You have not,” she pointed out, then departed without another word to fetch her herbs and fresh water.

  * * *

  Dillon watched the wisewoman leave.

  “I am sorry,” Robert said, breaking the quiet that fell in her absence.

  “I am not the one you have abused.”

  “I know. I shall make amends.”

  “See that you do,” Dillon ordered, disappointed in him. “What made you behave so shamefully? She has come to your aid a number of times in the past. Healing your injuries. Banishing your ailments. Lending you her strength during those early months after Father died whilst I quashed rebellions and settled things at Brimshire. She did not deserve that.”

  Robert grimaced. “Her presence and her powers have always made me uneasy. I fear my fever made me overreact.”

  “Do not call her Witch again.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Now, tell me how this came about.”

  It seemed to take Robert a moment to follow the change in subject. Another product of the fever, Dillon assumed. “Thieves.”

  “Nigh Westcott?”

  “Several days march to the south.” He shook his dark, tousled head. “I have never seen such a large band. But we managed to cut them all down.”

  Dillon motioned to the swollen, pus-filled wound. “Not quickly enough apparently.”

  “A lucky thrust, the bastard. Th
ough they dressed as beggars, I would swear they had been formally trained.”

  The wisewoman returned, carrying herbs, bandages, a basin filled with water, and a clean cloth. She set the basin down on the table beside the bed, dipped the cloth in the water and squeezed the excess liquid from it.

  Dillon glared at his brother pointedly.

  Robert turned to the healer. “Forgive me, Wise One. I meant you no harm.”

  Dillon felt her gaze as she bent over the inflamed injury and began to clean it, miraculously managing to do so without exposing her hands. The glimpse he had caught of them last night had been a rarity.

  “Mayhap a bit of sorcery courses through your blood, my lord,” she murmured.

  He smiled at her teasing response to Robert’s about-face. When the man in question flinched at her ministrations, Dillon laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I made things worse, did I not?” he asked after awhile.

  “How so, my lord?”

  “Below. With the people.”

  Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “If you did, I shall hardly notice a difference.”

  He nodded, consumed with regret. “I only wished to make things easier for you.”

  “I know.” She examined the wound one last time to make certain ’twas clean. “And I appreciate your efforts. But you cannot erase generations of superstition with a few sternly spoken commands, my lord.”

  Dillon wanted to say more, but was painfully aware of his brother’s curious gaze sweeping back and forth between them.

  Straightening, the wisewoman set the bowl aside, then placed her hands on the wound. Black material slithered forward to conceal the wonder she performed.

  It did not take long. No more than a minute. When she withdrew her hands, her sleeves trailing after her, the wound had closed. Though not completely healed, the angry red of its jagged edges had drawn together in a smooth, pink line that posed no danger.

  Minor injuries, Dillon had noted, she healed entirely, leaving behind no trace of their existence. Deeper wounds, however, or those that had festered too long before being brought to her attention, she treated as she had Robert’s, first cleaning them, then healing them to the point that they no longer posed a threat or generated too much discomfort. What remained she treated with herbs and poultices.

  Mayhap healing the more serious injuries simply took more energy than her fragile form possessed.

  He frowned. Although, regardless of their severity, she had always healed his wounds entirely.

  “Are you unwell, Healer?”

  His brother’s tentative query made Dillon realize he had been staring fixedly at the pristine white bandage she had wrapped around Robert’s thigh after sprinkling it with herbs. His eyes swerved to the wisewoman, who swayed slightly.

  The long sleepless night had taken its toll.

  As stubborn as she was wise, she shook her head in denial and moved toward the open door, a slight hitch in her step.

  Concerned, Dillon started toward her.

  “Your brother needs you, my lord,” she said without looking at him. “See that he remains abed and does not reopen his wound.”

  Realizing she did not welcome his assistance, he nodded. “Thank you, Wise One. I shall repay this debt.”

  “Any debt owed is mine, my lord.” With those words, she left.

  “What do you suppose she meant by that?” Robert asked, puzzled.

  Dillon stared at the empty doorway. “I know not.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Dillon stepped out into the inner bailey and nodded to Sir Simon. Three years his junior, Simon had joined Dillon’s service just before the siege of Brimshire had begun. Dillon knew not whence he had come, or whose command he had left, but Simon had proven to be one of the strongest warriors with whom Dillon had ever sparred.

  “How is The Cub doing?” Simon asked.

  In his early days at Westcott, Simon had remarked upon how fiercely Robert defended his older brother whenever rumors of his supposed cruelty arose. Simon had likened him to a wolf cub and, much to Robert’s chagrin, the dubious title had stuck.

  Dillon grunted. “Whining to be let out.”

  “I do not whine,” Robert snapped, limping slightly as he joined them. “Nor have I ever. And, considering the number of enemies I have slain and the fact that my ruthless reputation nigh rivals my brother's, do you not think it time you cease calling me Cub?”

  Simon nodded solemnly, sunlight glinting off of his dark blond hair. “Mayhap ’tis time I call you Pup instead.”

  Robert swore and cuffed Simon on the side of his head. Laughing, Simon shoved him back. The next thing Dillon knew, the two were down in the dirt, wrestling.

  Sighing, he bent down, grasped the backs of their tunics and yanked them up and apart. “Children, please.” He gave Robert a little push toward the donjon. “Go seek yourself a place by the fire. Should you reopen your wound, you will answer to the wisewoman.”

  Muttering beneath his breath, Robert left.

  Simon grinned and shook his head. “What news of Camden?”

  “’Tis as we expected.”

  “The weasely bastard. He knows he cannot hold out against your forces. From all we have heard, his stores are already so depleted any siege would be over in little more than a fortnight.”

  “Yet, a siege ’twill be.”

  “Camden still being a pain in the arse?” a gravelly voice interjected. His odor preceding him, the burly Gavin joined them. Tall and dark, he was a spirited fighter with a jovial disposition, but possessed such a strong aversion to baths that Dillon always attempted to remain upwind of him.

  Simon sighed. “Aye.”

  “Asking for a siege, he is. When do we depart?”

  Dillon considered Simon. “You and I are of a size, would you not say?”

  Simon looked at Dillon, then down at himself. “Aye. Close enough.”

  Dillon glanced at Gavin. “Think you he could pass for me did he don my armor?”

  Gavin rubbed the black stubble on his chin, tilting his head first one way, then the other. “As long as he kept the helm on to hide that golden boy hair of his, methinks ’twould work. Why? Not willing to leave The Cub?”

  “Nay. Not yet.” Dillon looked at Simon and raised his eyebrows. “What say you, Simon? Would you be willing to emulate me for the sake of our Cub?”

  “Though your armor will no doubt drag me down with its weight and chafe me endlessly, I would,” he quipped with a smile.

  “Excellent. Gideon will bring you my armor whilst you and the men make ready to leave. Gavin, you may wait and accompany me and a handful of others by week’s end. With any luck, we will join them ere they reach Pinehurst.”

  Simon nodded. “No doubt you will. Without the supply wagons to slow you down, you will travel much more swiftly.”

  Gavin grunted his agreement.

  “Do not engage Camden in battle if you reach Pinehurst first,” Dillon cautioned. “Merely show yourselves and begin assembling the trebuchets.” He had no reason to believe Camden would surrender Pinehurst until violence and force drove him to do it.

  “We will begin work as soon as we make camp.”

  Gavin chuckled as Simon walked away.

  “What?”

  “Just thinking of that fool, Camden. No doubt he will stand atop the walls, cackling and casting insults down upon poor Simon’s head, never guessing that he is not you.”

  Dillon smiled. “Aye. The jest will be on him, will it not?”

  * * *

  Dillon did not take his leave for three more days, during which he drove Robert mad with mothering. At least, he mothered him when no others save Alyssa were present. The rest of the time he gruffly complained about the inconvenience of having to postpone his departure.

  Alyssa found both brothers’ behavior amusing and envied them the bond they shared.

  Because she disliked straying too far from Dillon’s side or shirking her many duties at Westcott, she rare
ly had the opportunity to visit her own family. She could not safely send them missives for they wished none to know where they resided. Nor would she ask them to seek her here. Westcott and its people had caused both her mother and grandmother great grief over the years. She would not compel them to return.

  She could not see Meg simply because ’twas not safe for Meg to travel alone.

  And her brother Geoffrey was busy attempting to discover his place in this world.

  “He treats me like a child,” Robert muttered as he watched Dillon and his men canter across the drawbridge.

  “You are all he has,” she whispered, walking up behind him.

  Jumping, he spun around and squinted against the sunlight as she drew nigh.

  Unlike Dillon, who always seemed to sense her approach, Robert rarely seemed to be aware of Alyssa’s presence until she spoke.

  Another reason, she supposed, for his uneasiness around her.

  “After all of the losses the two of you have suffered,” she continued, “is it not natural that he might wish to protect you?”

  “I suppose,” he conceded. “But that does not make his insistence that I remain at Westcott easier to bear. My leg no longer pains me. Rarely pains me,” he corrected, no doubt fearing she would see the truth. “I have proven my skill in battle many times over. There is no reason I should not accompany him beyond his own stubbornness.”

  Alyssa studied him a moment. “Is it merely boredom that agitates you?”

  He paced away, then back. If she were to doff her cowl, she knew he would avoid her gaze. Such was how troubled he appeared. “Aye. I am sure ’tis all.”

  She did not speak again for several minutes. She had always felt turmoil in Robert when she had touched him. He had housed it since the first time she had healed him after coming into Dillon’s service. Alyssa had assumed, in the beginning, that it resulted from his unease around her, but had gradually come to discern that it stemmed from something else. She knew not the cause, nor how deep it went. Unless his guard was lowered, as it had been when she had healed this latest wound, he sought to hide it from her. Yet, Alyssa was a keen observer of those around her. Being shunned and having little opportunity to converse with others tended to leave one plenty of time in which to study them. And she had noticed that Robert’s turmoil always increased during moments of inactivity.