dream became one, cushioning him like a lover's arm, easing his aches, drawing him gently toward consciousness.
Still, the two young boys played on in his mind. One was dark, with a crooked smile, the other fair. A golden-haired woman with ethereal eyes and the face of an angel stood nearby. A river flowed over his feet and away into happiness.
Boden drank in the feelings, let them swirl around him, fill him. There was peace here, happiness, a soft cocoon between him and life's harsh realities. A man smiled, and suddenly he realized it was himself. The woman laughed and he reached for her hand. Warmth washed over him.
He opened his eyes slowly, and he saw her. Bernadette. The woman with the heavenly eyes. It seemed right somehow, predictable, fated.
"Can you stay?" he asked, still wrapped in the soft cocoon of his dream.
Her eyes were very wide and shone dark in the light of the fire behind him. He could see a pulse beating in her throat just below her jaw. "I thought ye had left us," she said, not answering his question.
No. He had not, for this place was too filled with beauty and peace. This place so difficult to find—until now. Until he was with her.
He held her gaze as a thousand soft emotions washed over him.
She shifted her eyes away. "You've been wounded. I feared ye might not come to."
Reality bloomed suddenly in his head. There was no peace. Dear Lord! They were under attack! Memories swarmed in. He jerked upright, trying to clear his head, to find his sword.
"Nay. Dunna," she pleaded and pressed him back down.
He tried to push her aside, but there was no strength in his arms. Terror seized him.
Vulnerability threatened. He struggled harder, but she merely tucked away his hands and eased him onto his back.
"Quiet! Lie still! Ye are safe. Shush now."
But the brigands! He must fight. Yet he could not. Panic welled up.
"Ye are safe," she said again.
He forced himself to relax, remembering his dream, the feel of her slim hand in his. "Tell me, lady," he murmured. ""Are you an angel?"
"Hardly that, sir."
"Then are you a witch?"
"Nay," she denied, drawing back. "Why would ye say such a thing?''
He lay still, drawing in perceptions. Her hair was the color of spun gold, her skin like fine ivory, and when she turned her eyes on him, his heart felt somehow too heavy for his chest. "You make me feel things I've not felt before. To dream dreams I've not dreamt."
She glanced momentarily sideways, then hurried her gaze back to his. "Tis the battle. Not me."
The battle. Possibly. Boden tried to concentrate on the events just past. Brigands had swarmed out of the darkness. How many? Five? Six? He had slashed and swung by rote, the familiar terror making him act. A man had fallen, then another and another. Boden had ducked but not quickly enough, and he had been struck.
He shifted his eyes to glance sideways. A half dozen bodies lay strewn on the ground about them. The earth was dark with their blood. So the battle was over. Once again the maniac inside him had been loosed, and once again he had survived. Nausea twisted his stomach, replacing the panic as it always did. He turned his attention back to the woman and saw that her gaze had followed his own.
Her body was stiff, and in her eyes he saw the shock he had missed before.
"There's no need to worry," he said, though his own pulse was just now slowing again.
A shudder racked her fragile form. She turned her gaze to his face. "They are dead," she whispered.
The statement almost made him laugh. Pain and the possibility of death always made his mood unpredictable. "Aye," he said, managing to keep his tone subdued. "They're dead. They'll not hurt you." But even as he said the words, her eyes told him he spoke a lie, for their deaths already haunted her. When had it ever been that a death did not scar the living?
He watched her face, lit only by the firelight's golden glow. A million thoughts were reflected there. A million emotions in her eyes. They
Still, the two young boys played on in his mind. One was dark, with a crooked smile, the other fair. A golden-haired woman with ethereal eyes and the face of an angel stood nearby. A river flowed over his feet and away into happiness.
Boden drank in the feelings, let them swirl around him, fill him. There was peace here, happiness, a soft cocoon between him and life's harsh realities. A man smiled, and suddenly he realized it was himself. The woman laughed and he reached for her hand. Warmth washed over him.
He opened his eyes slowly, and he saw her. Bernadette. The woman with the heavenly eyes. It seemed right somehow, predictable, fated.
"Can you stay?" he asked, still wrapped in the soft cocoon of his dream.
Her eyes were very wide and shone dark in the light of the fire behind him. He could see a pulse beating in her throat just below her jaw. "I thought ye had left us," she said, not answering his question.
No. He had not, for this place was too filled with beauty and peace. This place so difficult to find—until now. Until he was with her.
He held her gaze as a thousand soft emotions washed over him.
She shifted her eyes away. "You've been wounded. I feared ye might not come to."
Reality bloomed suddenly in his head. There was no peace. Dear Lord! They were under attack! Memories swarmed in. He jerked upright, trying to clear his head, to find his sword.
"Nay. Dunna," she pleaded and pressed him back down.
He tried to push her aside, but there was no strength in his arms. Terror seized him.
Vulnerability threatened. He struggled harder, but she merely tucked away his hands and eased him onto his back.
"Quiet! Lie still! Ye are safe. Shush now."
But the brigands! He must fight. Yet he could not. Panic welled up.
"Ye are safe," she said again.
He forced himself to relax, remembering his dream, the feel of her slim hand in his. "Tell me, lady," he murmured. ""Are you an angel?"
"Hardly that, sir."
"Then are you a witch?"
"Nay," she denied, drawing back. "Why would ye say such a thing?''
He lay still, drawing in perceptions. Her hair was the color of spun gold, her skin like fine ivory, and when she turned her eyes on him, his heart felt somehow too heavy for his chest. "You make me feel things I've not felt before. To dream dreams I've not dreamt."
She glanced momentarily sideways, then hurried her gaze back to his. "Tis the battle. Not me."
The battle. Possibly. Boden tried to concentrate on the events just past. Brigands had swarmed out of the darkness. How many? Five? Six? He had slashed and swung by rote, the familiar terror making him act. A man had fallen, then another and another. Boden had ducked but not quickly enough, and he had been struck.
He shifted his eyes to glance sideways. A half dozen bodies lay strewn on the ground about them. The earth was dark with their blood. So the battle was over. Once again the maniac inside him had been loosed, and once again he had survived. Nausea twisted his stomach, replacing the panic as it always did. He turned his attention back to the woman and saw that her gaze had followed his own.
Her body was stiff, and in her eyes he saw the shock he had missed before.
"There's no need to worry," he said, though his own pulse was just now slowing again.
A shudder racked her fragile form. She turned her gaze to his face. "They are dead," she whispered.
The statement almost made him laugh. Pain and the possibility of death always made his mood unpredictable. "Aye," he said, managing to keep his tone subdued. "They're dead. They'll not hurt you." But even as he said the words, her eyes told him he spoke a lie, for their deaths already haunted her. When had it ever been that a death did not scar the living?
He watched her face, lit only by the firelight's golden glow. A million thoughts were reflected there. A million emotions in her eyes. They
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