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like brigands.… Pale and sweating, he closed his eyes, laid his head on Arundel’s neck. He felt Meg’s thin arms around his shoulders, trying to steady him, but he knew he would slip away.… He heard a cry from Rafe, then nothing more.
    He awoke hours later to find himself tucked into a monstrous sickbed. At Rafe’s stronghold, he knew, because he saw that same lord seated beside him. “Have you nothing better to do?” he mumbled.
    Rafe smiled. “How do you feel?”
    Burns stung him, seemingly to the bone, even before he moved. He hoisted himself painfully. “Confounded. Not long ago I hated snow. Now I could go out and roll in the stuff. I take it you’ve cauterized the wounds.”
    â€œAy, we’ve had to brand you, lad.” Rafe pulled back the sheet, reached into a bucket at his feet, and piled mounds of snow on Trevyn’s legs and shoulders. “You’ve slept for five hours or so. Could you manage more?”
    â€œHardly!” Trevyn supported himself gingerly on one elbow. “I don’t remember much. Did I make a fool of myself?”
    â€œNay, indeed! You were in a dead faint—lay like a felled tree. By my troth, I don’t think I could have done it otherwise.”
    Startled, Trevyn glanced up to see tears sliding silently down Rafe’s rugged face. He reached out to touch the older man’s hand.
    â€œRafe, you must be spent. Get some rest. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Trev,” said Rafe wretchedly. “But how am I to feel? Meg told us about those wolves, and they must have been mad, rabid. What if—” Rafe gulped to a stop.
    â€œThey were not rabid.”
    â€œIf you die,” Rafe blurted, “it will mean more than the loss of one that I love.”
    â€œThey were not rabid. You are worrying for nothing, Rafe. I am not likely to die from a few bites.” Trevyn felt the touch of a shadow and lay back wearily. Still, he spoke with assurance. Rafe studied him, mindful of the visionary powers of the Lauerocs.
    â€œYou are not just saying that. You are quite certain.”
    â€œOf course.” But Trevyn did not tell Rafe why he knew he would take no harm from his wounds. The big wolf, it seemed, had plans that they should meet again. Unpleasant as the thought was, it afforded some solace. Luck, in the form of Meg, had seen him through the first encounter. And the next time he would somehow be better prepared.

Chapter Four
    A few days later, as soon as he felt well enough, Trevyn rode out to see Meg.
    The cottage stood at the Forest’s fringe. The goodman, Brock Woodsby, Meg’s father, took his name from that fact. Working in the yard, he was the first to see the visitor approach, and he stumped over to the rickety gate to meet him. Watching from within the cottage, Meg put her hands to her mouth in consternation. She could not hear her father’s words, but she recognized the stubborn set of his back.
    â€œWho might it be?” Brock gruffly addressed his visitor.
    Perhaps the man was a trifle dense, Trevyn thought. He introduced himself by name and title, still sitting on his horse, waiting for the gate to open. But Brock Woodsby did not move.
    â€œI thought as much,” he stated. “I thank ye for the sake of the lass, Prince. She says she’d have been lost without ye. But ye’re mistaken to come gallanting hereabouts. Ye’ll be the ruin of the girl. Already folk are saying ye’ve had yer way with her. I think not, if I know my lass, but that’s the talk. And what else might ye want with her indeed?”
    What indeed? But Trevyn was too young to be amused or intrigued by the aptness of Brock’s question. He bristled and fixed the goodman with an icy green glare. “What, are you denying me admittance, then?” he demanded.
    â€œMothers defend us!” Meg whispered. The small cry brought her own mother to her side.