He woke, his eyes opening. Rough-hewn beams stretched above him in the darkness: He recognized the ceiling of his house. He’d been dreaming.
At the same moment he heard a crash. Still not completely freed from his nightmare, he leaped to his feet, reaching for the knife he always kept in his boot.
“Cyn!”
Magdalen stood with one hand gripping the side table, the other clenched into the blanket wrapped around her, holding it closed between her breasts. Somehow, she’d knocked the candles off the table. They lay scattered on the floor, along with the pewter holders.
Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on his partly-drawn dagger. He shoved it back into his boot and started toward her. At least she’d had the sense not to put standing weight on her hurt leg. “You should not be out of bed, Magdalen.”
Her chin nudged up. “I could hardly sleep. You were having another nightmare.”
Two in one night. How bloody embarrassing that she’d witnessed both instances. Halting in front of her, he pointed to the cot. “Back—”
Her chin nudged up a bit more. She had a rebellious streak, this lady—a fact he found almost as intriguing as her mouth, near enough for him to kiss. It had been a very long time since he’d kissed a woman, especially a lady.
“—not go back to bed,” she was saying. “Not until I know you are all right.” Compassion shone in her eyes.
“I am fine,” he said brusquely. “Now—”
“Liar. Even Lancelot knows something is still bothering you.”
Hellfire, what bothered him would torment him until the day he died. Cyn glanced down to find the wolfhound at his side. When their gazes met, Lancelot whined and tentatively wagged his tail.
Sighing, Cyn gestured for the dog to return to the hearth. As Lancelot padded away, Cyn dragged a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. “Magdalen, I did not mean to wake you. Please, for God’s sake, get back in that bed, before you ruin my stitches, and I have to do them over again.”
Her throat moved with a swallow, as though she hated to think of him sewing her wound a second time. He offered her his arm, and she caught hold of it, and leaned against him while he helped her back the few steps to the bed. He retrieved the candles, lit them, and then rechecked her injury.
“Do you often have night terrors?” she asked while he worked.
He didn’t answer until he’d confirmed that the stitches had held. He efficiently retied the bandages. From her earnest expression, she was clearly waiting for his answer.
“Aye, I have them often.”
“Are they always the same?”
“Not exactly the same.” He shrugged. “Similar events occur each time, though.”
He hoped she’d leave the matter be, but to his chagrin, she seemed even more intrigued. “What kind of events?”
God’s holy bones, but he did not want to be having this conversation. He’d dealt with his torment on his own for years; he didn’t want her or anyone else’s help now.
“You look angry,” she murmured. “Please, do not be annoyed with me. I am simply—”
“All right,” he cut in, reaching for her blankets. He spread the one she’d wrapped around herself on the top and then tucked the covers in around her. For her sake, mayhap he should retreat to his own room to sleep, in case he had another dream. On Crusade, he’d slept on the ground; he’d be comfortable enough on a blanket on the floor.
Warmth enveloped his hand; she’d put her right hand down upon his.
Heat rippled the length of his arm and into his chest, just as it had done when he’d set his hand upon hers earlier. His heart constricted—ached—in a way he hadn’t experienced in years; ’twas as if her touch awakened something lost, long forgotten, and buried deep in the forsaken reaches of his soul.
A shudder ran through him. How could a mere touch hold such power?
“I do not mean to upset you with my questions,” she said quietly. “I would like to help, if I can.”
“’Tis thoughtful of you, but—”
“When you were dreaming, your anguish seemed unbearable.”
He longed to pull his hand free, and yet, he couldn’t. She seemed to hold him captive with her touch. Moreover, part of him didn’t want to give up that connection between them, the comfort of skin upon skin that he’d denied himself since learning of Francine’s betrayal.
“Can you tell me about your nightmare?” Magdalen asked. “Mayhap ’twould help to talk about it?”
Ah, God. “I do not think so.” Talking wouldn’t ease the guilt and agony gouged into his soul—anguish he deserved. He could never make amends for what he’d done that fateful day while fighting for his King, no matter how much he wished he could.
“When Edwina was with child, she often had vivid dreams. I would sit with her while she told me of them, and she would soon go back to sleep.”
Did Magdalen intend to comfort him in the same way? Annoyance and despair coiled up within him, for he was far beyond such help. “’Twas very kind of you.” Cyn pulled his hand free, missing her touch as soon as he’d drawn away. “My nightmares, however, are not fit for sharing.”
“But, Cyn—”
“Enough.”
He hadn’t intended to sound gruff, but his voice had roughened, become little more than a warning growl. She studied him, her eyes slightly narrowed, her hair a fetching tangle that needed a good brushing. If he gently ran his hands through it, letting the strands glide between his fingers, he could undo some of the worst knots—
Silently cursing his wayward mind, he turned from the bed and blew out the candles. “I will try not to disturb you again. Mayhap ’tis best if I sleep elsewhere.”
“Nay,” she said quickly. “Please. I do not…want to be alone.”
“Very well.” He started for his chair, fatigue making his limbs ache. He stifled a yawn with his hand. No doubt he’d feel a hell of a lot better with solid, uninterrupted sleep, but such rest was unlikely.
“Wait, Cyn,” she called, a curious anticipation in her voice. “I have… I might know a way to stop your nightmares.”
***
Cyn halted halfway to his chair. She’d caught his attention, as she’d wished.
He glanced back at her, not the faintest trace of hope in his expression. He looked exhausted, and Magdalen yearned even more to be able to help him. Surely, whatever had occurred in Cyn’s past wasn’t so terrible or worthy of such self-imposed torment. Cyn was a good man; a proud man, but an honorable one. She knew that without question.
The morning before she’d died, Magdalen’s mother had told her that the exquisite ruby held healing properties, including the power to ease bad dreams. Cyn didn’t seem the kind of man to put his faith in gemstones; however, if there was a chance the ruby could help him, Magdalen must convince him to use it. Aye, ’twas a risk, revealing she had the gem, but he’d done so much for her. She owed him the chance to sleep.
Gesturing to the hearth, she said, “Will you please fetch my bag?”
He faced her, his hands on his hips. “Whatever for?
“Inside is…a ruby—”
“—with white lines that look like a stag’s antlers.”
Shock rippled through her. “You looked inside my bag?”
“I did, while you were asleep.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. Still, he could have asked her first. “With respect, you had no right to go through my belongings.”
“I disagree. You are a guest in my home. You are possibly risking my safety, along with that of Borden and my animals. Moreover, as sheriff, I believe ’tis my duty to know more about why you were in the forest and why William was pursuing you. What I found in your bag, though, did not enlighten me.”
All right. So he did have valid reasons for searching through her things. He hadn’t mentioned the missive, though; mayhap he still hadn’t found it?
“I planned to talk to you about the contents of your bag on the morrow,” Cyn added, “once you had had a chance
to rest. In case you are wondering, I put everything—apart from the soggy bread—back in the bag.”
“Thank you,” she said. Disquiet wove through her, for she hoped she wasn’t being a fool. “For tonight, though, I would like you to have the ruby.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“’Twas my mother’s. She gave it to me…not long before she perished. She said ’tis a special stone that, among other things, can help ward off night terrors.”
Cyn laughed and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
“Try it.”
“Magdalen.”
“What harm can come of it?”
“Most likely no harm at all. Yet, I cannot imagine a mere stone can ward off my nightmares.”
How stubborn he was! Yet, she could be stubborn, too. Refusing to break his gaze, she said softly, “If you will not do it for yourself, then do it for me, so I might be able to sleep.”
His mouth flattened into a line.
“Please,” she coaxed.
Irritation hardened his features. Then, as if he’d decided ’twas easier to relent than continue to disagree, he crossed to the bag, reached in, and withdrew the ruby that gleamed blood red in the firelight.
“I have the stone,” he said. “What do I do now? Dance around the room while waving it in the air? Or do I curl the bare toes of my right foot around it so it can work its magic? Mayhap I should tuck it inside my mouth while I sleep?”
She giggled. “Now you are being silly.”
Cyn rolled his eyes.
“Hold it in your hand while you slumber,” Magdalen said. “My mother said it should touch skin to have the greatest influence.”
“Fine.” His fingers curled around the stone while he strode back to his chair.
She smiled. “Sleep well.”
He grunted and dropped back down into his chair. “Like hell,” he grumbled.
Chapter Seven
The tall, slender lady in a flowing gown stood before Cyn. The surface of the pond behind her was washed in sunlight so intense, she seemed to be surrounded by light.
He squinted against the brightness, as awe raced through him. He hadn’t heard her approach, but likely because he’d been sobbing. Self-reproach gnawed at him as he rubbed his stinging eyes with his grubby hands. What would the other pages say when they learned he’d run away to cry like a little boy? They’d only tease him all the more.
Who was this lady? He didn’t recognize her. Was she a visitor to the keep? Had she emerged from the water, as told in one of the tales his father had read to him, about a long-ago King named Arthur?
In a lady’s presence, Cyn should stand and bow. He didn’t want to offend her by not doing what was expected. He started to scramble to his feet, but she lifted her hand, halting him, and he sat back down on the dirt.
“Milady—”
“Cry no more. ’Twill be all right,” she murmured. “You will see.”
“H-how can you be certain?” He hated the way his voice broke, but he was only eight years old and he missed his home and his parents, especially his sire. How he wished to sit once again on his father’s lap, in the big, carved chair by the hearth, and listen to him read from the special book bound in embossed leather. His father made each story come alive, made each knight’s tale an enthralling adventure Cyn would never forget.
Fresh tears filled his eyes. He didn’t have enough courage to become a knight.
He wanted to go home.
“There, now,” the lady soothed. Leaning down, she offered him a gleaming object: a stag made from silver, its head, crowned with antlers, partly lowered, as if the stag meant to nibble leaves from a branch. The deer was as large as a man’s palm and was beautifully made.
He shook his head. “I cannot take this, milady.”
“Of course you can. ’Tis a gift. Whenever you feel sad, look upon this stag and know that one day, you will be as strong, fast, and as wise as this magnificent animal that rules the forest.”
“But, milady—”
She smiled. “I promise, ’twill be all right.” With the rustle of silk, she walked away, leaving him staring in wonder at the stag…
Cyn opened his eyes to sunlight. It streamed in through cracks in the wall and washed the room in slants of gold; the brilliant light reminded him of the sunshine that had shimmered behind the lady.
He hadn’t dreamed of her in years. Even more curious, his dream had been more like a memory of that day by the pond.
As he rubbed the back of his neck, cramped from him sleeping upright in the chair, Tristan and Isolde, curled in his lap, opened their eyes, purred, and stretched.
He ran his right hand down the felines’ backs, while a sense of incredulity wove through him. He’d dreamed, not endured another nightmare. He’d woken to sunlight, not darkness.
A miracle.
Opening his left hand, he tilted the ruby in his palm, the white streaks inside more distinct in the sunlight. If he were a far less cynical man, he might be inclined to believe Magdalen’s ruby had quelled his night terrors. Such fanciful notions, though, had no place in his life any more. When he’d realized Francine had betrayed him, and not with just any man, but his own brother, his faith in the intangible—in love—had dissolved like honey in hot water.
Nay, he hadn’t slept well because of the ruby. More likely, he’d been very tired after days of broken sleep. ’Twas why he’d slumbered until daylight.
He glanced at the cot, to find Magdalen was still asleep. Sunshine played over her features, her eyes closed, her lashes feathering against the silken curve of her cheek. So incredibly beautiful—and worthy of a far better man than he was. Still, a warm tingle of admiration trailed through him as he eased the cats from his lap and stood, and then stretched his arms up over his head.
The thunder of tiny paws sounded, and Perceval galloped into the room.
If Perceval was awake, Borden must be too. Cyn glanced at the hearth and saw that all three dogs were gone; as usual, they’d accompanied Borden into the forest for his morning jaunt, when he gathered fresh mushrooms, roots, and plants.
Cyn moved to intercept the kitten, but Perceval raced past and leapt onto the cot’s blanket hanging toward the floor. Using his little claws, he hauled himself up onto the bed.
Magdalen’s eyes fluttered open. When she saw the kitten walking alongside her arm to reach her face, she smiled and scratched his furry head. “Good morning, Perceval.” Her gaze shifted to Cyn, approaching the bedside. “Good day to you, too.”
“Good day. You slept well?”
“I did. And you?”
“Astonishingly well.” He held up the ruby. “I am not convinced that I have this stone to thank—”
She tsked. “And why not?”
“Because ’tis just a stone. Aye, ’tis an unusual gem, but it cannot have magical or healing properties.” He handed it to her, and she tucked it under the blankets, out of Perceval’s sight.
“My mother used to say…” Magdalen’s voice caught. “Never mind.”
“Please. Go on.”
Sadness swept over Magdalen’s features as she stroked the kitten, who’d sat down beside her and was purring loudly. “Mayhap another time.”
Disappointment sifted through Cyn. He shouldn’t care that she didn’t want to discuss her mother with him, but he did. As he adjusted her pillows and helped her sit up, he asked, “When you grow to trust me a little more, will you tell me about her?”
She shrugged, revealing much in the stiffness of the movement.
Cyn stifled a pang of regret, for he wanted her to trust him. Indeed, if he was to learn more about the silver doe in her bag, if he was to find out what William wanted with her, Cyn needed Magdalen to trust him completely.
“I know you think me foolish to withhold my trust,” she said softly. “You have been very kind to me. I really am grateful.”
He touched her arm, savoring the feel of her. “I also know that trust must be earned.”
>
A blush spread across her face. “Now I sound even more ungrateful.”
“I assure you, I appreciate the trust I have earned from you thus far.” He grinned. “I shall make it my quest to earn more from you each day.”
She drew in a sharp breath, as though astonished to see him smile. Then amusement glinted in her eyes. “You seek the Holy Grail of Trust, Sir Knight?”
He laughed. “Indeed, I do, Fair Maiden.”
“What do the old tales say about such quests? Are there grand stories about such matters?” Even as she spoke, unease touched her eyes, as if she wondered if she shouldn’t have mentioned the old tales.
“Did Borden tell you how I used to listen to the stories read by my sire?”
“He did. He said your father had a special book…”
As her voice trailed off, Cyn nodded. He hesitated, for only Borden had seen the treasured tome, but Cyn did want to win her trust. Mayhap showing her the book would help?
He strode to a shelf by the hearth, picked up the heavy tome, blew off the faint layer of dust, and brought it to the bedside. He set Perceval on the floor and then put the book in her lap.
Her gaze skimmed over the beautiful leather cover. With careful hands she opened the tome, revealing neat pages of black ink illuminated by drawings done in vibrant red, green, blue, and gold.
“Cyn!” she breathed. “’Tis magnificent.”
“Many years ago, my father found it in a shop in a small northern town. Apparently—so the shop owner told him—’twas scribed by a former monk who had spent his days illuminating manuscripts. He fell in love with a widow whose ill son was treated at the monastery. He left his fellow monks to marry her, and, after hearing the old tales, believed they needed to be written down, so others would remember them.”
Parchment rustled as Magdalen turned another page. “The drawings are exquisite. Look at that dragon! His wings are beautifully rendered. Oh, and what a lovely broadsword.”
That admiring warmth touched Cyn’s heart again.
“One day, you will be able to read these stories to your son,” she murmured. “Your father was a very clever man, to have bought and cherished this book.”
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