Once his consciousness returned, Jameson grew gradually aware of a gentle rocking beneath him. He could not discern his location, but he recognized the most important element of his surroundings: he now held Aylee in his arms, and though she looked tattered and worn, she lived.

Somehow, though the memory of the fire blazed in his mind, he could not sense any significant injury to himself. An unpleasant sting pricked at his left forearm, but it seemed fairly minor. Finally growing concerned about his situation, he tried to peer behind him. Had someone rescued him? Kidnapped him? His mind breathed with relief when his eyes encountered the face of Itchy where he walked behind a couple of soldiers. The men had pulled together a conveyance of sorts and laid Aylee and Jameson down to be towed behind.

“Itchy,” Jameson grunted, and the servant barked a command to the soldiers to stop.

“You’re awake…” Itchy noted, crouching beside the little pallet and making a quick inspection of his master.

“I think so, though…” Glancing down at the woman in his arms, Jameson grinned up at his friend. “It is possible I am dreaming.” A slight flexing of Itchy’s face denoted displeasure at Jameson’s statement, but Jameson ignored it. He couldn’t really care if he were upsetting Itchy at the moment, and until he felt secure in Aylee’s safety, he couldn’t make himself hand her off to anyone else. Instead, he squeezed his arms more tightly around her and changed the subject. “I assume you were able to save Miss Joffrey.”

“Well,” Itchy shrugged, all signs of displeasure gone, “she seems to think us engaged after that rush through the town, but other than my bachelorhood, there are mostly minor casualties.”

Though Jameson huffed a laugh, he could not manage full levity. “I seem to be entirely well except this small burn.” He raised his left arm, not looking away from Aylee. The burn had obscured the cut she had given him, but his injury signified nothing. Nothing could tear his eyes from the wound on Aylee’s cheek. “A little salve will heal this in under a week. But you have dragged me directly out the front gates?”

“Well,” Itchy shrugged, “the pillagers had left a corridor free from the fire, probably for their retreat. By the time we contrived to move you with our little transport here, the enemy had given up the town. I venture they didn’t expect an armed resistance.”

“So the town is saved?”

“Battered and broken, several buildings collapsed, but as of yet no deaths. Some fairly major injuries, though none life-threatening. Maybe life-altering.”

Though the news restrained Jameson’s full rejoicing, he met Itchy’s eyes with appreciation. He could not but gain some satisfaction in what his men had accomplished. With the other towns to compare to, even the people of Glowigham would have to recognize the better circumstance that had befallen them when compared to others.

“Send a dozen soldiers and at least two healers back to aid in their relief efforts.” Jameson directed.

“Can we spare the resources?” Itchy wondered.

“We have to spare them. Whatever our personal requirements, we have significantly more resources than the people of Glowigham. Send them.”

With a nod and a smile, Itchy directed one of the attending soldiers to break form and gather the requested aid. Every time Itchy heard evidence of Jameson’s kindness and wisdom, it reinforced his faith in his friend, even if his judgment regarding Aylee Hembry seemed unsound.

“Have you attended to Aylee?” Jameson prompted, sitting up gently and readjusting her so she was fully supported by his arms. “Is she whole?”

Itchy peered at the prone form of the woman, his lips pressed together in displeasure. What motivated that displeasure? Jameson could not discern. “We have only just quitted the walls. If you had slept another five hundred feet, we would have stalled for the purpose.”

With a significant glance, Jameson signaled to Itchy to move the men away. What an ordeal Aylee had endured! Though she had accused him in their confrontation, her eyes when she had seen him in the shed had spoken deep relief and gratitude. The memory brought him hope. Had she realized her error?

Jameson braced his muscles as much as possible and pulled first to sitting, and then, tugging his legs underneath him, to a stand. Aylee groaned as his grip tightened around her when he lifted her in his arms. Gliding to a copse of trees, he laid her onto a bed of moss and seated himself beside her, peering down at her against the remaining obscurity of night. The lambent gray of dawn revealed just enough for him to observe her face, and his heart lurched at the sight of the wound. Tracing the edge of the cut lightly with his fingers, he suppressed the fury that wanted to drive a sword through the heart of Malchus Lorne. Now is not the time…

Softening his manner, he raised Aylee's face to within a few inches of his own. “Aylee!” he urged. “Aylee, can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you,” Aylee remarked, though her intended petulance could not escape the stupor of her clouded mind.

“Oh, Aylee,” Jameson groaned, placing his cheek upon her uninjured one, stroking her hair with his hand. “What were you doing there? Why didn't you leave?”

Aylee hardly heard his words, so overwhelmed did his touch render her. “I don't know,” she murmured, unable to form a fully coherent thought. As she slowly came to her senses, memories flooded back into her vision, the sight of the man before her among the troops of Malchus Lorne. She stiffened in his grasp. “Where is Itchy?” she wondered, aiming for nonchalance with her tone.

“I’m sorry?” he queried, laying her back on the moss so he could look in her eyes.

“Where are the other soldiers? Did everyone get out okay?” She glanced down at Jess’s hand in search of the wound she had given him, but it was obscured by charred linen, though she knew it was there. Her senses went on full alert, and she had to concentrate to keep her breaths even.

“Um, the soldiers are fine,” he explained, adopting a more indifferent tone and leaning back onto his knees. Besides the irritation at her asking after Itchy, Jameson battled disappointment at her obvious unhappiness at his presence. “Itchy is fine. He has dragged us out, and he retrieved Miss Joffrey. She is tending to her son with Chester.”

Aylee swallowed. Of course. Chester was still in the camp, so even if she had considered running, she could not. Well, Jess, still with his strange fixation on her, did not seem intent on restraining her or causing her difficulty, so she maybe at least had some time before she had to resort to drastic measures. She did not understand him! What had he been doing, entrenched among the troops of Malchus Lorne, wearing the man’s seal? Malchus Lorne, who had very obviously undertaken a campaign of destruction, and Jess along with him apparently. What was he doing now, refusing to cause her any harm?

How could a man who would participate in such infamy refuse to cause her harm?

Because he imagines that he cares for you. She had heard of such things – men who engaged in horrific acts in the name of commerce or politics, then came home to their wives and children and treated them with affection. Aylee shivered, pressing down her disgust so she did not show her reaction.

“I will go get Itchy, if you wish…” Jess offered, and Aylee peered up into her companion’s melancholy disappointment. So considerate, somehow, she wondered; yet, she could not care.

“Thank you,” she agreed coldly.

Finding out about Miss Joffrey had almost undone Aylee’s suspicions, but she knew that it was just her own wishes driving her acceptance. Wishes that Jess had gripped tightly and used to tether her to him.

Well, no more. Until she could convince her brother to leave with her, she would just fix a new tether in her mind. Whenever she encountered Jess, she would look to his hand – to the scar she had given him – and she would remember that she had cut him off from her heart. She would see the blemish and remember that his beautiful façade was just that – a carefully crafted shell that held something completely different underneath. When he rose to his feet, she scooted back against the tree and watched him with leery eyes until he was out of her sight. Once he was gone, she let herself breathe deeply of the frigid air, so different from the swelter of the fires or of Jess’s presence.

Jameson signaled to Itchy once he approached the group of waiting soldiers, and the pair separated so they could talk.

“I, uh,” Jameson began, disappointment clutching his chest. “I believe you may have been right all along, that I have acted in a foolish manner with Miss Hembry.”

“Has something happened?”

Jameson ran his hand through his hair. “I am afraid I have brewed a deep distrust in her, and it will not repair easily until I can reveal my name. Who knows if, by that time, her dislike of me may be so fixed that she will refuse my friendship even then,”

Itchy shook his head. “The friendship of Lord Capigan? Few would refuse.”

“That is not the friendship I desire,” Jameson riveted his friend with a solemn glare. “Not from anyone, but especially not from her. And I doubt she would give it for that reason.”

“You are right, I suppose. But do you need some service from me?”

Through some contortions of effort, Jameson managed to force out the words he did not wish to say. “She has asked for you. I believe she trusts you, of all my men, and so you must go to her. If I cannot comfort her, perhaps you can.”

Jameson would not look at his servant, and Itchy gripped his companion’s shoulder. “My friend,” he offered soberly, “I will offer her what comfort I can, but nothing more. And as I have always done, I will fight for your cause in this as in everything.”

Finally, Jameson peered up at his friend, pained hope apparent in his eyes. “If you mean that, Itchy, then that is my greatest chance. Take her back to camp, if she will go. I must leave her to you for now, and I must focus all my efforts on redeeming my father. If I can manage that, it is my hope that this as well as many other problems will resolve themselves.”

When Jameson turned away, Itchy shook his head at his friend’s back. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t right quite so often,” he lamented to himself. Then, he turned back to find Aylee.

+++++++++++

As soon as Aylee made it back to camp, she took her leave of Itchy and made her way to the brook. Dipping her hands into the water, she splashed the icy liquid up onto her face, feeling the sting of the water against the cut on her cheek. She pulled her sleeves up and dipped her arms in as far as she could manage without dousing her shirt, scrubbing at her skin in hopes of removing the taint of the shed.

Malchus Lorne.

The look in his eye in that shed – Aylee knew that she had been moments from a horrible fate. What had happened? Had she passed out? Had he damaged her somehow? She did not believe so – she felt no different, except for the fury in her chest. Had he just handed her off to Jameson when he was through tormenting her, or had Jameson come and demanded her from his peasant soldier? Certainly not the latter. Would even the command of a noble compel Malchus to give her up? She did not believe so.

Mayhap some random soldier had happened upon the shed and pulled her out. Maybe Malchus is dead, her mind provided, and she tried not to revel in the possibility. Perhaps she was justified, but she did not want to be the kind of person who could revel in the death of anyone – no matter how well deserved.

Sitting back on her feet, she buried her face in her hands, allowing the air to jag in and out of her lungs as violently as it wished. Did she run? Did she hide? She would run, but she didn’t want to be a fool. Before she threw herself into the unknown, she really needed to plan. As of yet, Jess did not know that she knew about his ties with Malchus, and before Glowigham, he had tried so hard to make her believe him a benevolent for in her life. More than benevolent. Maybe if she just pretended that things were the same as before, Jess would treat her the same as before. If she saw signs of his suspicion, then maybe she would throw caution to the wind and just escape when she could. Otherwise, she would plan.

Finally, the chill caught her, and by will, she forced herself to coherence so she could press to her feet and make her way back to her tent without drawing attention to herself. Fortunately, the trousers and hair tie made her a little more invisible to the men, and so no one seemed even to notice her. Once inside her dwelling, she pulled off her boots, uncinched her tunic, and threw herself down on her palette. Within a few minutes, she slept and knew no more until the morning.

From across the clearing, Itchy watched with some shock as Aylee made her way from the brook, past the soldiers tending to their weapons and wounds, and into her tent. She was a ruin, a ghost of her usual self – and understandably. He had not managed the boldness to ask Jameson what he had seen in the shed, but Aylee had suffered.

Almost as disturbing, some misunderstanding seemed to have erupted between Aylee and Jameson. When she had first come to camp, she had spent the first week at least trying to convince Itchy to go away with her, to take her on as his own charge and leave “Jess.” He was not honorable, she had insisted, and Itchy didn’t know him.

Once he had stumbled upon their tryst in the garden, however, Aylee had ceased her pleas to Itchy, had completely abandoned them – too far, in Itchy’s opinion. The couple had thrown themselves too far into confidences before their time, and Itchy had foreseen the potential for great damage to them both if they remained careless.

Whatever had happened, Aylee had returned to her earlier pleas as soon as Itchy had approached her outside Glowigham’s walls.

“I have erred, Itchy,” she had lamented. “I have allowed myself to be careless, and I find myself in need of your aid once again.”

Itchy leaned down to take in her face. “You are not injured?”

Shaking her head, Aylee pressed forward. “Obviously, there is this.” She gestured to the wound on her face. “But I believe nothing of significance, though I have lost some time from inside the walls. I was helping Chester with an injured man, and then…”

When she grew silent, Itchy moved the conversation, certain she did not wish to continue. “I could discern no significant injury other than your cheek – I believe your brother can mend that soon enough. So, how can I aid you?”

“I…uh. I know that you will not leave with me – you have made that clear – but perhaps you can offer me advice on how I can find a path away from the camp.”

“With Malchus Lorne roaming freely in the woods, at the head of a troop of soldiers?”

So, as far as Itchy knew, Malchus still lived. Aylee stifled her disappointment. “Is there any difference from where I am now?” she scoffed. “I guess Jess, at least, as a noble must abide by certain rules. Malchus would have slung me across his horse and paraded me through camp. And that would not be the worst of it.” She paused again, but Itchy did not break the silence, despite what her words implied. “As it is, though, I will not sit here, hovering in uncertainty, until the camp breaks up and I face some unpredictable fate.”

“Aylee, you have nothing to fear here.”

She peered up at him, subtle wistful anger tinging her features. “Not from you, I guess. You made that clear at the beginning, and you are nothing if not consistent. I wonder at you, though – knowing what you know of him, how you remain so loyal.”

“Once again, Aylee. You accuse him in your thoughts but do not speak your doubts aloud. How am I to answer you?”

She laughed, rubbing her eyes. “I have given up trying to convince you, but at least I do not believe you are manipulating me or playing me for him. So, I cannot ask you to take me somewhere safe, but maybe you can point me in a good direction.”

“You have endured a great tribulation tonight, Miss Aylee. Let us not make any firm determinations until your brother can see to your wound and you can recover with a good night’s sleep. We will return to the camp and speak on this again on the morrow. I promise no harm will befall you before morning. Can you allow that for me?”

Smiling, Aylee placed her hand on his. “For you, Itchy. I trust you will follow through on your word tomorrow, and you are right – I need to sleep.”

And so now she slept. At least she had washed her wound in the brook, but he would send Chester to her early in the morning. She still promised trouble, and part of Itchy believed that the best thing he could do for Jameson would be to send her on her way. Pondering the thought, Itchy crossed the clearing and entered his tent. Jameson had headed straight to sleep, as had most of the men, and Itchy would follow their lead. Everyone could do with a few hours of respite after such a night.