Page 16 of One Knight in the Forest

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—