Dreamspell (12 page)

Esther smiled. “Better at his side than his back, eh?”

True. “One more thing, Esther, did Wynland ever marry?”

Laughter escaped the old woman. “Nay, though many a match the king has tried to make.”

Was he mooning over Jaspar? If so, what held him back when there seemed no more barriers?

Esther leaned near. “I pray that all I have told you will help you better understand my lady and the reasons for the things she says and does.”

There was more to the maid than met the eye. Perhaps Jaspar hadn’t put her up to this chat. “You must care very much for her.”

“We have been together since her birth when I was given to be her wet nurse.”

Whatever that was.

Esther stood. “I shall come for you ere the nooning meal.”

Only then did Kennedy realize how hungry she was, her last meal having consisted of a biscuit and a piece of meat. Transported back to the stream, she remembered awakening to find herself curled against Wynland, his face above hers, gaze intent. It had been as if seeing him for the first time, and for a moment she had found it hard to believe that he and the villain of Mac’s book were the same.

A creak and groan returned Kennedy to Castle Cirque and the woman slipping out the door.

“Esther!”

She poked her head back inside. “My lady?”

Though the question of whether or not Wynland had returned Lady Jaspar’s love was on Kennedy’s mind, she held up her handiwork. “What do you think?”

Esther grimaced. “’Tis true that where you come from women wear these. . .underwear?”

“It’s all the rage.”

Esther shook her head and closed the door.

Kennedy scrutinized the lopsided cut and uneven stitches. The underwear was a far cry from her seamless briefs that molded like a second skin, but this was as good as it was going to get.

Shortly, she wished it got better. She gave the drawstring a final tug, laid down on the bed, and tried not to squirm. At least she didn’t feel as exposed. Definitely better, even if the fit was worse than boxers and the material as prickly as her borrowed gown.

She tried to take her mind off the discomfort by pondering the questions tapping at the back of her head: Did Jaspar have anything to do with the earl’s death, the attack on Lady Lark, John and Harold’s fiery end? She recalled the woman’s acknowledgement of Baron Cardell when they first arrived. Partners in crime?

It made more sense that Jaspar and Wynland were working together. Kill off the earl, his sons, and Lady Lark, and Fulke would become earl, opening the door for Jaspar to be his wife. Of course, the murders might be unrelated.

It was a thought, and Kennedy’s last before sleep snatched it away.

“W
hat is your name?” a voice rasped.

The woman opened her eyes, searched beyond the grate twelve inches above where she lay. Though there had been no light before, there now shone enough to give shape to the dark one who stood over her. For a moment, she feared it might be death come to call, immured as she was in a cell in which there was only enough room to lie down—not much bigger than a coffin. Nay, she was very much alive, but for how long?

“Who are you?” she croaked, her own voice raw from hours—perhaps days—of calling for help.

“Your name!”

She lifted an arm and shuddered at the sound of scampering. She could hardly rest for keeping the rats from gnawing at her. Swallowing hard, she hooked fingers through the grate and lifted her head from the dirt floor. “Pray, tell me. . .why do you hold me?”

“I ask again, what is your name?”

She had thought the dark one was a man, but there was a quality about the voice that made her wonder if her captor was a woman disguising her voice. “First, tell me the reason I am here. Why you murdered—”

“Are you thirsty?”

She could not remember ever being so dry. “Aye.”

“Hungry?”

Starving. “Aye.”

“Then your name.”

Naught to bargain with, only a name she would have thought he—or she—already knew.

“Do you know what this hole you are in is called?” He bent down. Eyes catching a cinder of light amid a shadowed hood, he stared at her through the grate. “’Tis an oubliette, meaning a place to be forgotten.”

She had known fear before, but nothing compared to that which dragged perspiration from her chilled skin. From the moment she had regained consciousness, a rank odor had pressed upon her that she refused to acknowledge. There was no hiding from it now. She wanted to grovel and plead, but a glimmer of spirit that was her father in her sought assurances. “You will bring me water and food?”

The dark one’s eyes glittering large, he straightened, then turned and walked away.

“Lark!” she cried. “I am Lady Lark!”

His footsteps grew louder with his return. “What proof have you?”

Proof? All who had made the journey with her from London were surely dead, excepting perhaps her maid who had run screaming into the wood. “I tell you, I am Lady Lark, sent to Brynwood Spire by King Edward to care for the orphans John and Harold Wynland.”

“
That
is your proof? Mayhap you are but a maid.”

“I am a lady!”

“I do not hear it in your speech.”

Because it wasn’t. Though she could affect the speech of the nobility as she had at court, fear made her revert to the commoner. “Am I not clothed as a lady?”

“Aye, but ladies do not always make themselves known when they travel. ‘Tis often safer.”

He was saying she and her maid had switched clothes? Desperation gripped her more fiercely. She didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.
Think! You have not come this far to die so young.

She gripped the grate tighter. “The larger of my trunks has a false bottom. In it is a missive written by the king and addressed to Lord Wynland.” Forget that it was intended for none but Wynland. It was all the proof she had, the only thing that might save her from this place of forgotten souls.

“I have read it,” her captor said.

Then he knew?

“Tell me,” he said, “what does it say?”

“That I am to wed Lord Wynland.”

“That is all?”

Far from it since what was contained in the latter part of the missive was more the reason for its concealment. Feeling as if she betrayed, though her captor already knew the contents, she said, “It says that the marriage is by order of my father, King Edward.”

The dark one clapped. “Excellent, Lady Lark.”

“You will release me?”

He sighed. “Alas, ‘twould seem you are exactly where you belong.” He strode opposite.

All for naught. As surely as she breathed, not a crumb of food or a drip of water would be forthcoming. “My father will have your head for this!”

A door creaked open. “First he must find his bastard daughter. I think not.”

Lark wailed and shook the grate until blood fell from her fingers and ran with her tears.

CHAPTER NINE

T
he grim reaper at her back. Heaving breath, racing heart, pounding fear. The scythe sluicing the air, its death whisper shearing the hair from her nape. A strangled cry. Louder and louder until it wrenched her from the darkness into a day on which the sun was setting.

Kennedy opened her eyes and traced the long shadows that fell across the carpet she sprawled on, in the next instant thanked God her appointment with death had been only a dream. Not that it wouldn’t happen soon enough.

As much as she wanted to put the dream behind her, she had to write it down before it faded. She lifted her head and groaned at the pain behind her eyes and the aches sleep had done little to alleviate. What time was it?

She looked at her watch. 4:57 p.m. She had slept close to twenty hours. She needed more sleep, but not until she made a journal entry. As she struggled up from the floor, her gaze fell on Mac’s book.

“Wynland.” Only a dream, but so vivid it was as if she had truly traveled back in time. It was different from any dream she had ever had, and she recalled every moment though the nightmare from which she had awakened was fast slipping away. Why wasn’t she struggling to hold onto the rapidly fading memories of a distant time, a far away place, an imagined man?

It must be sleep deprivation. Time and again her subjects reported that their dreams seemed true to life, and their recall had been incredibly detailed. Too, the dreams were lucid in that the subjects were aware they were dreaming and consciously acknowledged it as Kennedy had. But this. . .

She made it to her desk and dropped into the chair, but as she opened the journal, nausea sent her lurching to the bathroom. Afterward, she pressed her brow to the cool tile floor and struggled to hold sleep at bay. When it beckoned more forcefully, she dragged herself upright, leaned against the sink, and splashed cold water on her face. It helped, though still she longed to curl up and go to sleep. Lifting her head, she came face to face with her reflection.

One look gave a whole new meaning to “death warmed over.” She drew a trembling hand down her gaunt face. How much longer? A month? A week? Days? Fighting tears, she touched her baldness. And she had wanted to come back to this, had been desperate to escape a dream called Wynland so she could return to this real world with all of its ugly truths.

She closed her eyes and remembered how it had felt to run, to breathe deeply, to be free of headaches, to drag fingers through her hair. To feel that way again, she would gladly suffer Fulke Wynland.

“Now I understand, Mac,” she whispered. But if she was able to return to the dream, would she begin to believe as he had done? Would she drive herself mad with the certainty that the people and places were real?

She couldn’t let that happen. She was an authority on sleep disorders and dreams and knew the difference between reality and fantasy. No matter how appealing the dream was, she would be a fool to believe in it. She trudged back to her desk.

September 13th, 5:15 p.m.: Following eighty-six hours of deprivation, succumbed to sleep on September 12th at approximately 10:30 p.m. No EEG (too tired to hook up). Awoke September 13th at approximately 5:00 p.m. following 18-1/2 hours of continuous sleep. Recall two dreams: the one I awakened from in which I was chased by the grim reaper (subconscious). I remember the other dream in its entirety, as if I truly lived it. I read Mac’s book “The Earl of Sinwell” prior to sleep and dreamed myself into the story. Very detailed, right down to hay on the floor. No clue as to where I came up with the specifics. They weren’t in the book, and I know little about medieval life. Another oddity is that I didn’t recognize anyone, though one little boy seemed familiar. The dream was lucid, and many times I acknowledged I was dreaming. Though on several occasions I attempted to escape the dream, I was unable to. Events were as follows:

Over the next hour, Kennedy outlined her experience, beginning with her awakening in the forest and ending with her laying down in her room at Castle Cirque.

She lowered the pen, sat back, and dropped her lids over her burning eyes. Now sleep. Once she was rested, she could begin another cycle. She dreaded it, but if she was to conclude her research—

She opened her eyes. As much as she ached to sleep, it would be a waste of precious time. How much she had remaining, she didn’t know, but the mirror didn’t lie. She was dying. Four or more days building toward deprivation might be her last. She had to start now while she was still under a sleep deficit. So sick-tired that a sob caught in her throat, she picked up her pen.

6:30 p.m.: Begin second sleep deprivation cycle. Though all of me hurts, I have to use the balance of my sleep deficit if I’m going to—

The doorbell rang. Mother? She glanced at the answering machine. Five messages. Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to turn off the ringer and volume to prevent the machine from interfering with her dreams.

The bell rang again. “Kennedy?” Though the Southern lilt was muffled, it was her mother. “Are you home, dear?”

Kennedy jumped up, retrieved the knit cap from the couch, and dragged it on. “Coming!” Though her legs dragged, she made it to the door and opened it to a lovely lavender ball of fluff.

Laurel Jacobsen’s smile wavered at the sight of her daughter, but she was too experienced with false gaiety from fourteen years of marriage to Kennedy’s father to reveal her true depth of shock. She opened her arms.

Kennedy went into them. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

Laurel wasn’t ready to let go, but when she did, her smile was brighter than ever. “Checking on my girl.” Her eyes flicked to the knit cap.

Kennedy stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve phoned?”

Kennedy straightened the cap so the false hair fell evenly across her brow. “Five times?” Feeling the throb of a headache, she closed the door.

“Four. Have you been out?”

“No, I muted my answering machine and haven’t checked for messages all day.”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to get some work done.”

“But you’re on leave.”