Dreamspell (13 page)

It would have been better to say she had been resting. Affecting an ease that screamed in the face of exhaustion, Kennedy took her mother’s lavender handbag and set it on the sofa table. “Just because my project has been shelved doesn’t mean I can walk away from it, Mom. The data needs to be compiled for the foundation that awarded the grant. More importantly, if someone decides to complete the study, my work will give them a leg up.”

“Look outside, Nedy,” her mother reverted to the nickname she had used when Kennedy was a child. “It’s a beautiful day.” She gestured to the windows. “Well, it was. You should have been taking in the sun. It would have put color in your cheeks.”

Kennedy crossed to her desk and stashed the journal in a drawer. “I know, but this is important.”

“And your health isn’t?”

Her mother knew the diagnosis and that the chemotherapy was unsuccessful but refused to accept it. Though Laurel had never believed in miracles, she professed to believe in them now—was certain her prayers would be answered.

“Nedy?”

Kennedy turned and admonished herself for coming around so quickly. “There are some things I need to do, Mom. I can’t just sit around waiting—”

“You need to get more sleep.” There was fluster in Laurel’s voice.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking good care of myself.”
Liar, liar.
Trying not to weave, she headed for the kitchen where she kept the pain relievers.

“Graham called me. He’s worried about you.”

Kennedy opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water and the vial.

“Oh, what’s this?” Laurel asked.

Kennedy looked over her shoulder at where her mother held Mac’s book.

“This doesn’t look like the usual research tome.” She dropped back the cover and flipped through the pages. “Seems pretty old. What’s it about?”

For some reason, Kennedy felt as if caught with a naughty magazine. “A fourteenth-century British earl. A friend gave it to me.”

Laurel peered at the barely legible title. “The. . .Sins. . .of. . .”

Pained by her mother’s struggle that went deeper than far-sightedness, Kennedy finished for her. “. . .the Earl of Sinwell.”

Laurel’s eyebrows jumped. “Doesn’t sound dry at all. Finished with it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Do you mind if I borrow it?”

Inwardly, Kennedy groaned. She should have known where the question was leading, but her mind was too slippery to stand straight. Still, it wouldn’t hurt anything. “Go ahead.”

“Wonderful. Jack just finished reading one of his thriller-killer books to me. After all that gore, I could use a good biography.” Laurel tucked the book under her arm. “Now back to Graham. He says you aren’t returning his calls.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, dear. Why won’t you talk to Graham?”

Kennedy removed a cup from the dish rack. “He needs to move on, and so do I.” She poured herself water and downed the pills.

“He wants to be here for you.”

Kennedy refilled her glass.

Laurel sighed. “Have you been eating enough?”

“I have.”
Pants on fire
. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

“How about I take you to that pizza kitchen you like so much?”

As hungry as Kennedy was, and as empty as her refrigerator stood, she didn’t want to go anywhere. How was she going to get out of this? “What about Jack?”

The mention of Laurel’s second husband caused a glow to surface her mother’s worry-weary face. “He’ll understand.”

He was a peach, had taken good care of Kennedy’s mother these past five years. Just knowing he would be there for Laurel when this was all over was a relief too great for words.

“Please, Nedy.”

These
were
their last days together. “All right.”

Her mother beamed. “That’s my girl. Now let’s get you changed. You look as if you slept in your clothes.”

She had. She stepped around her mother. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Alone in her bedroom, Kennedy let her shoulders slump and closed her eyes. Sleep pounced on her. Forcing her eyes open, she stumbled to the closet.

Though she longed to stay at the condo, the drive would refresh her and dinner with her mother would be time well spent. Too, the outing should be good for at least a few hours toward her next cycle.

L
aurel Jacobsen clenched her teeth to hold back the emotion in her throat. Her baby was sick. Might even—

No, God wouldn’t take Kennedy. He wouldn’t!

“I’m ready,” Kennedy said.

Laurel drew a deep breath and turned. Her daughter wore a denim jumper that had looked lovely on her last year. Now it hung from her.

Please, God.
Laurel gripped the book tighter and summoned a smile so tight it hurt. “Then we’re off.”

T
he entry was made. With an additional seventy-two hours of deprivation, it was time.

Kennedy confirmed that the electrodes attached to her head were secure, then flipped on the machine.

Would this night’s dream be as vivid as the other? Lucid? She thought again of Wynland who had yet to fade from memory. Supposing she hadn’t awakened, where would the dream have taken her?

She began to slide into herself and out of consciousness.
Think of something else, like snorkeling in the Bahamas, sand between your toes, the political mayhem in Washington, anything but Wynland.
Though it wasn’t likely she would find herself back in that crazy dream, there was no need to set the stage when there were so many other places her dreams could take her. Of course, would she be able to run in them? Would her health be restored? Or was she headed for a nightmare?

Fight it though she did, Kennedy’s thoughts returned to a man whose strong arms had held her securely. Who hadn’t let her fall.

CHAPTER TEN

Did he appear because I fell asleep

thinking of him?

If only I’d known I was dreaming,

I’d never have awakened.

~ Ono No Komachi

F
ulke stared at Jaspar. “Gone?”

Her gaze flitted to Leonel. “Aye, my lord. Following your departure two days past, Esther saw Lady Lark settled in her chamber. When she went to fetch her for the nooning meal, the lady was gone.”

“Impossible.”

“But true, my lord.”

“Is it?”

Disbelief widened Jaspar’s eyes. “Surely you do not believe I—”

“Nay.” Or did he? He stared at the woman who would have been his wife if King Edward had not called him to arms, she of beauty, a pleasing disposition, and a cunning streak of which he had quickly become aware during their betrothal. But though Jaspar was spoiled and self-centered, he did not believe she had anything to do with Lark’s disappearance.

He looked past his men to Jaspar’s knights and men-at-arms who had gathered in the hall to receive him. Had one of them succumbed to Lark’s wantonness as he had warned her might happen? “No one saw anything?”

“The entire household was questioned, my lord,” Jaspar said. “None saw her leave. She just. . .disappeared.”

A caustic muttering drew Fulke’s gaze to the man who stood before an alcove. Cardell. Fury, spurred by the antagonism that had trebled between them these past days, leapt through Fulke. He did not need to hear Cardell’s words to know he believed Fulke was responsible for Lark’s disappearance—just as he let it be known he believed Fulke was responsible for the death of John and Harold’s father.

“If you have something to say, Cardell, speak!”

The baron stood taller. “I was but clearing my throat.”

Fulke imagined fitting his hands around the man’s neck. He should have sent him from Sinwell at his first utterance of dissension. But he was not finished with his brother’s favored vassal. Not yet.

Cirque’s senior knight fell next beneath Fulke’s regard. “How could this happen?”

The man’s brow mapped bewilderment. “It could not have, my lord. All entrances to the castle are guarded. No one comes or goes unchecked.”

“Lady Lark did—else she is still here.”

“My lord, a thorough search of the castle was made and naught was found of her.”

“Then it will be searched again.” Fulke motioned a knight forward. “Sir Andrew, organize the men and begin the search.”

As the knight turned away, Jaspar touched Fulke’s arm. “’Tis not necessary, I tell you. She is gone.”

“We shall see.”

Jaspar dropped her hand from him. “She makes fools of us. Why, she is likely returned to London and warms the king’s bed even now.”

Why that possibility should rankle him, Fulke did not know, but he disliked Lark all the more for it. Refusing to examine what was behind his rancor, he dragged himself back. Might Lark have fled to London as Jaspar suggested? Believing him responsible for the attack on her, she had tried to escape once before.

“Unless, of course, she is not the lady she claims to be,” Jaspar submitted on the sly.

The thought had played through Fulke’s mind these past days, especially when he recalled her flight through the woods. A lady? Unlike any he had ever encountered. Then there was her speech that was foreign, yet familiar. It had taken a while to place it, but when he had, he had castigated himself for not connecting her with Sir Arthur. With the exception of Lark’s barely perceptible drawl, their speech was strikingly similar—flat and without hint of English accent. They must come from the same place. And what of her gown that fit so poorly? If it was hers, it was several years removed from the woman she had become.

“Fulke?” Jaspar said. “What think you?”

That the dark-haired witch was more likely a lady’s maid. But as always, he recalled the gown she had worn when first he had come upon her. It had belonged to a lady, not a maid, and unlike that into which she had changed at Brynwood, it had fit every curve.

He met Jaspar’s gaze. “’Tis Lady Lark.”

“You are certain?”

Certainty had nothing to do with it. How could it? Though rumors had abounded over Edward’s newest conquest, Fulke had had better things to do than pay them heed. Now he wished he had, but all would be known once the king received the messenger sent to London to carry news of the attack on Lady Lark. If Fulke knew Edward, and he believed he did, the king would not be long in sending a contingent to investigate the deaths of his men. At that time, Lark’s identity would be confirmed or denied.

“’Tis Lady Lark who was sent to care for John and Harold,” Fulke said, “and that she will do when she is found.” Unless he was able to convince Edward otherwise.

“But the boys are—”

“They will be found.” He pinned his gaze to Jaspar, daring her to say different. Two long days of hard riding, searching, and following every scent had led nowhere, but he wasn’t done. As soon as he and his men were rested and the thunderously wet day that had driven them inside was past, they would continue the search.

Jaspar put her head to the side. “You do not know, do you?”

What did she have behind her back? “Speak, Jaspar.”

“The king sent Lady Lark to care for John and Harold, but more, he sent her to you.” Her eyes flashed. “She is to be your wife, Fulke.”

Years of self-control held him from revealing his disbelief. He and Lark were to wed? It could not be. After his years of service to the crown, Edward would not do this to him. “She told you this?”

“Aye, though I had already heard tale.”

Jaspar and her talebearers. The woman’s ears were everywhere.

“’Twas obvious she was unhappy about it.”

Lark
was unhappy? If it was true, she was not alone. Though time and again Edward had suggested matches aimed to increase Fulke’s modest land holdings, fill his coffers, and deliver him an heir, never had the king pressed the matter so far as to send him a wife. If that was what he had done, it could prove difficult to convince Edward otherwise. But Fulke would, for his parents had taught him well the folly of an arranged marriage.

“’Tis surely the reason she left.” Jaspar sighed. “Mayhap she has not even returned to London but fled elsewhere.”

To escape him. Fulke rubbed the back of his neck, kneaded tight, aching muscles. All of his troubles had begun with Lark—first, the attack on her baggage train, then John and Harold’s abduction, and now she was missing. What had Edward been thinking to send such a scourge upon him?

“I shall find her,” he said. And when he got his hands on her. . .

S
he had done it again. Kennedy sat up. Same room. Same dreadful gown. Same makeshift underwear.

She scratched her left side, thigh, calf. The least she could have done was dream herself into something more comfortable, like that first dress. But as she had drifted toward sleep on memories of Fulke Wynland, she had tried to fight him off with reminders of the unpleasantness of the fourteenth-century, including this room and these clothes.