He leaned his head in his hands, suddenly quite satisfied at being stranded in a hut in the middle of nowhere. Well, not exactly stranded. Assuming it hadn’t been a dream, there was a woman around here somewhere, to tend him. A woman not shy about stripping him and leaving only a blanket to be his modesty. He smiled to himself as he remembered her mouth, hoping he’d have a chance to taste it, now he was more fit.

“You’re awake.”

Ranulf winced at the voice that woke him from his carnal thoughts – maybe it had not been a female after all, he thought. He gingerly raised his head to search out the source of that gruff voice. It was definitely a man who stood in the doorway, the sunlight from behind hiding the stranger in shadow.

“Aye, awake, and sore in need of ale,” Ranulf said hopefully. “God grant you peace, do you have some to share.”

“No ale,” came the reply.

“Well, then – wine?”

“No wine.”

No drink, and a pounding that would split his skull. “I am arrived in Hell at last.” Ranulf turned his face away from the door. Too much light would kill him faster than the lack of ale.

“Not Hell,” came the reply. “Wales.”

He snorted. “It needs a Welshman to find the difference.” Savages. Of all places to wander off to, he’d managed to find a land without ale. “It’s true what they say. I’m accursed,” he muttered. “Do the Welsh not drink at all?”

The other man grunted. “Haps you can have mead.” There followed a series of outlandish syllables, a garbling of foreign words addressed to some unknown other outside the hut. A pounding headache, a festering wound, a primitive hut and a language near as melodious as cats fighting – at least his luck hadn’t changed when he crossed the English border, a fact that was confirmed when he was denied even the mead.

His visitor left the door and moved toward the open stone hearth. Ranulf watched him lean toward the embers, filled with a sudden uneasiness when his features became distinct. The resemblance was remarkable.  “I would know the name of my host,” he said a bit too sharply.

Cool gray eyes lifted. “I am Madog ap Rhys.”

Madog ap Rhys was nearly a twin to the angel of his fevered dreams. The eyes were not as piercing, but the same black lashes, improbably long, framed gray eyes. The lips were nearly as full, though hidden under a long and drooping mustache, the brows the same straight black. Just as Ranulf thought to speak, to ask if by some misbegotten nightmare this was the angel of whom he’d dreamt, another figure stepped into the doorway. He took great comfort in noting the silhouette was that of a woman.