And he was Welsh. That was not easily dismissed. Of all things, a Welshman in need. It felt like God’s own hand had put him in her path.

What was owed? Everything, her heart answered. Nothing, said her mind.

Be selfish. The brothers would care for him. Her task was more important. Her dog did not like his hawk. It should be an easy thing to turn her back upon.

But even to think it caused her pain. It would disturb her dreams. Already it disturbed her dreams – why else was she here, surrounded by prayers in the dead of night? For years she had prayed too, every day, giving thanks for her own rescue from a fear that had nearly swallowed her. In spite of her promise to swear fealty to no one, she had loyalties that were bound by love if not by her word: her sister, her lady, her teacher, her friends. She did not need another.

Yet she could not banish the memory of his eyes fixed on the bread in her hands. He looked at it like it was his own heart she offered to him, cupped in her outstretched palms.

He woke to find her leaning over him, her cool hand laid along his cheek. Slowly the dream dissipated, screams fading and fire dwindling to darkness. Her brows were drawn into a frown of concern, and he knew he must have cried out in his sleep. She meant to soothe him, but it was like waking into a different kind of nightmare. Instead of sharp terror, it was the slow press of reality – this new life, this changed body.

He could feel every knob of his spine where it pressed against the pallet, the product of long hunger. Her hand moved to the scarred mess at the side of his head, her fingertips outlining his ruined ear. At least enough of his hair had grown back to hide the worst damage, leaving only the edge of the scar visible. It would always be there, though, a permanent reminder. He could ignore the memories until they faded into nothing, but there would always be evidence of it. It had happened. He lived now in the aftermath, where beautiful women looked on him with pity instead of desire, and visited his bed only to quiet his ravings.

“The pain is gone from it,” he said even though he did not know if she could hear it, because it seemed to him that was the question in her eyes. “I buried my face in the snow to stop the flames.” He was lucky it had not taken half his face and scalp. “In my dreams the snows are not there, and I burn.” He licked his lips. “I burn and burn.”