In Debt To The Enemy Lord. Nicole Locke

the darkness of the room. Then the heat of his gaze touched her and she realised this blackness was alive. A feeling of quietude entered her. The one who’d comforted her in the night had returned.

      ‘You’ve returned,’ she said, trying to smile.

      He did not reply, but his eyes held hers. She couldn’t look away. If she could look long enough, she’d see—

      Pain!

      It slashed across her head and exploded behind her eyes. Moments of agony, subsiding only when she became aware of her gasping breaths, and a warm hand holding hers. She concentrated on the warmth and gentleness of his hand. It was a while more before her breathing eased and she was left with a dull ache weighing her down.

      ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’ His voice was deep, soft and vibrated through her.

      They were such simple words, but she could hear...something...some meaning. The hand holding hers belonged to this voice. If her head didn’t hurt, she’d be able to understand. Maybe it was concern? No, it sounded more like pain, like loneliness, but that was more confusing. She was here and he wasn’t alone.

      It didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand. She felt the need to do something for him, but she couldn’t seem to open her eyes and blackness was seizing her again. He was being so kind. She didn’t want him to feel pain.

      ‘I’m here,’ she whispered, her voice slowing as gentle waves of sleep took her.

      A mad desire to keep her awake plaguing him, Teague watched the woman return to sleep. Looking at her hand still in his, he listened to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. It was almost enough to keep his restlessness at bay.

      It was time to go. There was no logical reason for him to watch over her. The ravages of her fever were far from over and while she could suffer a relapse, she was regaining consciousness. Despite the pain, she was recovering. Soon, he would be forced to decide what to do with her.

      Teague scrutinised the room. Since he’d brought her to his bed four nights ago, the sole change to the room was Ffion’s mortar and pestle and some herbs littered on a table. Yet it felt foreign to him.

      Gently placing her hand on the bed, he walked to the windows and opened the thick shutters to look into the courtyard below. The lit torches dotted across the dark stone walls and the full moon made it easy for him to watch his soldiers on patrol. He tried to put a name to the feeling of longing in him as he watched them.

      Envy. His soldiers understood their tasks. They had a purpose in the night. He felt envy, too, that they had companionship as they went about their tasks. For him, although he was busy during the days, he was alone during the nights. His brother was here now, but Rhain had too many female admirers to be much company. His solitary nature had never bothered him before...but now he felt a longing that couldn’t be fulfilled.

      With the threats on his life, companionship was a luxury he could ill afford. Still it did not stop the conflict between his wanting and denying.

      He turned from the courtyard and leaned against the window frame. There was no reason in any of this madness. It must be tiredness making him ache. Without sparing a glance at the sleeping woman, Teague left the room.

       Chapter Three

      Anwen woke to puffs of air brushing across her cheek. Two cloudy grey eyes, surrounded by folds of papery wrinkles and topped with hair the colour of snow, were mere centimetres from her face.

      The old woman gave a delighted giggle. ‘Ooooh, you’re awake. My name is Edith. Are you feeling a mite better? We knew you would wake today. You tried so hard yesterday though the blackies would get you again and of course you got awful sick. Almost undid all my hard work!’

      Anwen blinked. She tried to make sense of Edith’s words, but it was like listening to wind through trees and she felt, rather than understood, the words.

      ‘Today, I said that little child would live.’ Edith grabbed a wet cloth and gently wiped Anwen’s face with cool water. ‘You still have a mite of fever, I feel. Nothing like you had, though. You nigh had us scared witless when he carried you in five days ago silent as a kitchen rat.’

      Anwen turned her head with some effort. ‘Five days?’ she asked. ‘Where am I?’

      The bright light pouring through the many narrow tall windows hurt her eyes, yet she could still make out the dark, intricately carved bed she lay in and its cream-coloured coverlet bordered with rich red which was repeated in the linens covering two walls to give warmth. The rest of the room was decorated with deerskin rugs, carved tables and chairs, and a chest with locked brass fastenings.

      The room belonged to someone of great wealth and she didn’t recognise a thing.

      ‘Ooh, you can talk. Oh, yes, m’lady. Well, maybe a wee bit more than five days.’ Edith grabbed some pillows and carefully stuffed them behind Anwen’s back. ‘You’re probably starving, you poor thing.’

      With confusion setting in, Anwen shouldn’t be tempted by food, but the small bread loaf and flagon smelling of wine on the table next to her resembled a feast.

      ‘Nothing but broth for days.’ Edith tore off pieces of bread and fed them to Anwen. ‘How does it taste? Good? Too much?’

      She couldn’t answer around the bread in her mouth.

      ‘Now what was I saying? Oh! Though you’ve been asleep, you’ve had the house in an uproar, what with him always asking how you fared, and if the answer wasn’t satisfactory, he’d check on you. Never saw anything like it.’

      Edith kept stuffing bread in her mouth, but Anwen wanted to ask questions. Such as where she was and who Edith kept talking about, and who, for that matter, was Edith?

      ‘Him?’ she finally managed to say.

      ‘Did you say “him”? Don’t you remember anything at all?’ Edith shook her head. ‘That’s one question answered for us. We had a bet, you see—not exactly we and not exactly a bet, because I don’t do those sort of things—but there are some in the kitchens who have been wondering, heavily, whether you went into the sleep because of your head wound or because of him. But you see, since you didn’t know about him, then that answers the question for us.’

      With a flash of a practically toothless grin, Edith turned around and faced the door. ‘I need the towels by the bucket, Greta. She doesn’t know about him.’

      A large woman with big beefy hands carried linens into the room. She didn’t say anything, but her face was open and her brown eyes danced as she gave a wide friendly grin.

      ‘Who is he?’ Anwen could feel a headache beginning because of the kind of commotion no ancient old woman the size of a rinse bucket should make.

      ‘Why, he is the lord, of course, m’lady.’ Edith rolled down the covers. ‘Dear me, that head wound must make you suffer some. I’ll need to cool you with water while you lie still.’

      Edith pushed Anwen’s chemise up to bare her legs. ‘You must be weak as a fawn.’

      Anwen inspected her chemise. The weave was too fine and too white. It was not hers. ‘What happened? Where am I?’

      Edith sighed. ‘Oh, very well. I’ll not be saying much that you couldn’t find out by looking out of a window. Just outside the walls is Dameg Forest. You have heard of Dameg Forest?’

      ‘Yes, I live near Dameg Forest, but where am I now?’

      ‘Well,’ Edith started, ‘we’re by the forest, too.’

      Anwen looked to Greta for a clearer answer, but the other woman simply wrung a cloth in her hands. The worry on their faces turned her confusion to panic.

      Flashes of memory. Brynmor. Gwalchdu. Gully flying into the forest.

      Anwen’s