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frightened. She tried not to be home-sick. She tried not to listen to the silence, but the silence wouldn't go away, though she tried to popu-late it with memories of familiar sounds. It kept her awake for many hours until exhaustion finally forced sleep on her. Even then she had nightmares.
    In her dreams the broad-shouldered form of Sir Daffyd, grown to giant size, stood over her, sword drawn while she worked frantically at a piece of embroidery. She kept trying to form red dragons with her needle, but the design kept turning into a lion. He kept threatening and badgering her to get it right until she got fed up and began shouting back. He grabbed her shoulders. She kicked him, and he laughed, telling her he liked a fiery wench. She told him he sounded damn silly, which was when he kissed her and the dream changed from nightmare to something else.
    First his lips brushed across hers, then the kiss deepened, became demanding, filled her with a glow-ing heat. In the dream he was suddenly holding her as no man of her time ever had: fiercely possessive, wanting her, knowing how to make her want him. His hands cupped her breasts. He pinned her between

    himself and the cool stones of a wall, his hips grind-
    ing against hers. His need was obvious, hard against her thigh. His kiss became more passionately insis-tent.
    Jane wound her arms around his neck, wholly con-sumed by the desire he aroused so demandingly in her. She responded eagerly to his touch. She offered herself to the sure touch of his hands and lips. In the dream she matched his passion with her own, molded her flesh to his, drank in the masculine, erotic scent and hardness and—
    She woke up shivering, very aware of the fur cov-ering rubbing sensuously against her bare skin. "Well,"
    she complained to the ceiling, "I never thought I liked them butch." Her mother would say that it was about time she had a thing for a man in uniform. Which she didn't, of course. She tried to make a joke of the unsettling erotic experience. For-get the dangerous good looks and the narrow-hipped swagger; the dream was probably caused by moldy rye in last night's bread.
    She chuckled, her usual good humor restored as she threw off the blanket and flopped onto her back.
    And yelped as the chill air caught her by surprise. Yep, still in the thirteenth century, she decided as she leapt up and began to pull on layer after layer of clothing. Her tower cubbyhole possessed one tiny slit window, enough to let in light to dress by. She remembered the fire in the hall. It pulled her like a magnet through the storeroom and down to the hall.
    "You're late rising," Bertram told her with the slightest hint of disapproval as she arrived by the blazing hearthfire. With Bertram was the grizzled guard sergeant, Raoul DeCorte, and a bearded man she hadn't seen before. She knew she hadn't seen him because she would have remembered the silly baby-cap of a hat he was wearing. It was made of faded blue wool, tied snugly under his yellow-bearded chin.
    "There's porridge and bread saved for you," Bertram added.
    What she needed was a cup of coffee, she thought, ignoring the food to warm her hands by the hearth.
    The stench of the hall had hit her anew as she came down the stairs. She'd woken up hungry, but her stomach was now informing her she'd better not dare try to put anything in it in this noxious atmosphere.
    She swallowed and shook her head at the servant. Her skin itched, and she wanted to brush her teeth.
    The men made room for her, all of them looking at her worriedly. She threw a sour glance over her shoulder at the pale-lit windows. In an age that lived by fire and rushlight, every second of daylight was important. Only someone who was very ill would spend time sleeping past the break of day. Oops.
    She tucked her warmed fingers into her wide sleeves and told them, "A touch of lingering fever, I think."
    The men looked at each other anxiously, and she recalled what Sir Stephan had told her about a