He tossed everything onto the ground beside her and picked her up, wading into the stream until it was deep enough for him to sit down. The moment the burl got wet, it started to hum against his chest. The water began churning, frothing around them and sparking to life with thousands of bubbles that rose to the surface as exploding green light.

He untied the shirt and pulled it from around her waist. Mercedes moaned, arching her back in pain. Morgan clasped her to his chest and lay back, sinking deeply into the stream. His body felt on fire as blinding green light blazed around him. He tightened his arms around his wife’s limp body and held her head just above the surface for a good ten minutes, gritting his teeth against the heat assaulting him.

He sat up finally and looked at her wound. It was still bleeding, frothy red bubbles oozing from it. She’d grown paler, more limp.

Morgan roared. The magic wasn’t working. “Dammit! I command you to work!” he shouted, grabbing the burl and tearing it from his neck.

Supporting her with his knees, Morgan tied the leather cord around Mercedes’ neck and straightened his legs to lower her into the water.

The green bubbles suddenly turned yellow, snapping with angry pops that filled the air with steam. Morgan lifted Mercedes just enough to see her wound. It wasn’t throbbing as the cut on his thigh had, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed.

It still wasn’t enough.

She was still dying.

Faol stepped out of the woods but stopped at the edge of the water. Morgan looked up to see the panting wolf frantically dancing from foot to foot, as if agitated. Faol whined, then barked, then trotted several paces upstream.

Morgan turned his attention back to his dying wife. Faol barked again, louder. He stepped into the water, then retreated, trotting upstream again, his bark turning into a keening howl.

Upstream.

The waterfall.

Nearer thedrùidh’s magic.

Morgan stood up and gently settled Mercedes against his chest. He waded out of the water and followed the wolf, who was now trotting quickly up the edge of the stream.

The desperate journey seemed to take forever before he finally reached the waterfall.

Morgan simply kept walking until he was standing shoulder-high in violently frothing water.

This time the light snapping around them was neither green nor yellow but a pure, blazing white that forced Morgan to close his eyes or be blinded. Heat radiated from Mercedes in waves so intense his arms and chest felt scorched.

The mist rising around them warmed the air with summerlike heat, making sweat break out on his forehead and scalp. Morgan stood solid against the assault, reciting prayers he’d all but forgotten since he had been a lad on his mother’s lap.

And he prayed, willing thedrùidh’s magic to save Mercedes’ life, to heal her wounds and bring her back to him whole and hearty and spitting mad. He stood until his muscles trembled with fatigue, willing Mercedes to live.

“I had a wonderful dream.”

Morgan snapped open his eyes and stared down at the woman in his arms. She was smiling sleepily up at him, her face flushed pink around heavy-lidded blue eyes.

“And what was it you dreamed about?” he whispered, his voice shaking as violently as his legs.

“I visited Daddy and Caroline. We had a picnic high up on a mountain overlooking a beautiful valley.”

Sweat broke out on his forehead again when Morgan realized that Mercedes had actually died for a while. She’d been with her father and sister and very well could have ended up staying.

“Caroline doesn’t blame me,” Mercedes whispered, drawing his attention again. “She told me the fire wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m glad you saw your family,” Morgan whispered. He shook her slightly. “Don’t go to sleep again, Mercedes,” he softly commanded when she closed her eyes.

“I’m so tired, Morgan. My muscles feel like jelly,” she mumbled, turning her face into his chest. She smiled again, snuggling comfortably against him.

Morgan waded to shore and fell to his knees on the sand, still clasping Mercedes tightly, finding himself unable to set her down. He knelt there for several minutes, silent tears rolling down his face. Over and over he repeated his thanks to God that his wife was alive.

Faol suddenly appeared and quietly padded up to them and nuzzled Mercedes’ hair, his tongue washing the entire side of her face. Morgan didn’t send the wolf away but let the animal see for himself that Mercedes was okay.

And still Morgan couldn’t put her down.

Faol started to whine and dance from foot to foot again, turning in circles, trotting to where the pool emptied out of the cliff-surrounded grotto they were in. He barked sharply and sat down, whining as his tail thumped the edge of the stream.

“I don’t care,” Morgan said softly to the wolf. “I will find our sniper and deal with him later. Mercedes needs my attention now.”

Faol yipped again, standing and looking nervously downstream.

“Go, then,” Morgan told the wolf. “Stand guard.”

Without further urging, Faol whirled and shot out of the grotto, his tail disappearing from sight in a blur.

Morgan looked down at Mercedes.

She was still sleeping, her eyes no longer sunken into her head, her cheeks a warm, healthy pink. He looked around for a soft place to set her down, inching forward on his knees just a bit before he gently laid her on a carpet of thick green moss.

He straightened, brushing back the hair from her face, feeling the heat of life on her skin.

He traced the shape of her cheekbone, letting his finger trail over her chin, then down the length of her throat.

He halted and stared at the empty piece of leather tied loosely around her neck.

The cherrywood burl was gone.

Morgan turned to look at the pool. The waterfall dropped from the cliff at the far end, sending a cloud of mist into the air that settled over the entire grotto. The water gently rippled with floating stardust that glittered and winked in the unearthly light that scattered its rainbow through the mist.

The magic was spent, the burl destroyed.

And Mercedes’ life had been saved in the process.

Morgan turned back to his wife, continuing his inspection with a still trembling hand, needing to assure himself that she really was okay. His gaze went immediately to where the gaping wound had once been, but he saw only smooth, milky-white flesh that carried just the hint of a blush from her own inner heat. His hands settled around her waist, and Morgan closed his eyes with relief.

She was perfect. Flawless. Completely healed.

With a sharp intake of breath, Morgan pulled back, staring at Mercedes’ body. He reached out, lifted her right hand, and turned her palm toward him.

No scars. Nothing but pink, healthy skin. He looked back at her left arm, then turned her just enough to see her back. There was no puckered skin. Nothing but flawless flesh.

Mercedes was completely healed.

Completely.

Morgan sat down on the ground and scrubbed at his face, shaking his head and grinding his palms into his eyes.

Now how in hell was he supposed to explain this?

His wife was going to wake up to find herself lying in this magical gorge, completely naked and flawless. It was bad enough he wouldn’t be able to explain why she hadn’t died from her bullet wound. But her old scars?

Morgan twisted to see the scar he had on his shoulder from a battle that had been waged more than eight hundred years ago. And he turned more, to feel for the long ridge of flesh on his waist, where a sword had nearly cut him in half.

They, too, were gone. Disappeared.

He looked out over the still shimmering water and shook his head again. Was he dreaming? Why hadn’t thedrùidh’s magic taken his old scars away the other day in the stream, when it had healed his thigh?