Dreamspell (14 page)

She lowered her feet to the floor. Now what? Wait for someone to come? Considering the days she had just come through, her headaches so severe they had actually aided in keeping her awake, the choice was obvious. Her health once more returned to her, right down to legs that longed to stretch, she stood. Wynland or not, there was a lot to recommend this dream.

Wondering what awaited her in this installment, she crossed to the door and stepped into the passageway. Feeling younger than her twenty-eight years, she hurried down the stairs and into a flurry of activity. A moment later, a hush fell as all eyes found her, excepting Wynland’s whose back was turned to her.

He had come back. As for Lady Jaspar, her eyes looked as if they might pop from their sockets.
What faux pas have I committed this time?

Wynland turned. Surprise reflected in his eyes, then anger.

Kennedy raised her chin, determined he was not going to burst the bubble she had floated in on. “Am I interrupting something?”

“A search,” he snarled.

But his nephews were somewhere out there. “I understood you had left. Forget something?”

The way everyone stared at her, she might have grown two heads.

Wynland strode forward, grasped her arm, and pulled her toward the stairway.

She was too surprised to object until the stairs were before her. She strained backward, but he held tight. “Let me go!”

He hauled her up the stairs and didn’t stop until halfway down the passageway. “Which one?”

Realizing he referred to the room she had been given, she asked, “Why?”

With a curse, he dragged her forward and into a room that bore no resemblance to her hole in the wall. It was large, its appointments lavish—tapestries, a curtained bed, a beautifully carved trunk, chairs and tables, a fireplace, and a bathtub. Lady Jaspar’s room?

Wynland released her and closed the door. “Where have you been?”

She rubbed her arm where he had held her. “Is that a trick question?”

“Two days! Where have you been?”

Two days had passed since she had awakened from this dream? And she had truly been gone—and missed? “Let me get this straight. It’s been two days since you left?”

His eyes hardened further. “Two days.”

He did look scruffy. What a wild dream. She had assumed she would pick up where the dream left off. “This is strange.”

“Where have you been? Lady Jaspar had the entire garrison searching for you.”

Kennedy was intrigued by the dream’s unexpected twist. “I imagine she’s a bit hot under the collar, especially now that I’m back.”

“From where?”

Oh, about six hundred years from here—out of this dream and in the real world with all its real problems.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

He took hold of her shoulders. “I weary of this game. Now tell me!”

Kennedy stared at him.
Calm down. Remember where you are—inside your mind.

“I am waiting.” His fingers pressed into her flesh. “And not for much longer.”

“Alas, I fear I do not remember.” How was that for a bit of medieval lingo?

He wrenched her nearer. “You lie.”

Curiously reckless, she tossed her head back. “You think I’m afraid of you? This is my dream, and I can make you disappear just as quickly as I made you appear.” Not exactly true, as she had discovered the last time she had dreamed the dream, but it sounded good—at least, until she realized what she had revealed. She hadn’t meant to let him in on the dream. However, it did the trick. One moment she was all friendly with Wynland, the next a complete stranger.

Fulke stepped back from the woman and felt his anger drain. King Edward had sent a mad woman to care for his nephews, perhaps even to be his wife. How had he missed it? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the face of madness. His own sister, Marion, wore it well, had thrice been betrothed and thrice returned before vows bound her to some unfortunate whom no amount of riches could convince to take her to wife.

He frowned at another possibility. Lady Lark had pleaded an injury when he asked about the attack. Was this just another lie? He returned his attention to her and saw a spark of triumph in her eyes. She thought she had won, and perhaps she had, for he still didn’t know where she had taken herself to. Mad or not, she couldn’t disappear so completely only to suddenly reappear. “You are not going to tell me where you have been?”

“I believe I already have.”

“A dream?”

Something—uncertainty?—flickered across her face. “That’s right.”

Fortunately for her, he did not believe in witches. “And in this dream, did you tell Lady Jaspar that you and I are to wed by order of the king?”

Her eyes widened, then she turned away, walked to the tub, and smoothed a hand over its rim. “So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

Fulke glowered. Not only had she evaded his question, but tossed back another that made no sense. “Agenda? Of what do you speak?”

She kept her back to him. “Where will your search for John and Harold take you next?”

“How do you know I did not find them?”

“The book said. . .” She glanced around. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

Likely not, but he wished to know more about this book. “Tell me.”

“As I said, this is a dream. It has no bearing on reality.”

Mad. Very well, he would let it pass, but not on the matter of their marriage. “Did you tell Lady Jaspar that you and I are to wed by order of the king?”

She stiffened.

He wished she would face him, for what could be read in one’s face oft bore little resemblance to the spoken word.

“Actually,” she said, “Jaspar broached the subject. I merely confirmed it.”

Not what he wished to hear. “Confirmed?”

“You know how Edward is.” She looked over her shoulder. “You do, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She turned and leaned back against the tub. “He gets these ideas into his head and there’s no convincing him otherwise. Believe me, I’m not thrilled about it either.”

He did believe her. She was no Jaspar, or any number of women willing to look beyond a face scarred by pox and Edward’s war with France as long as his coffers bulged—especially now that he controlled an earldom. As an unwed baron he had become accustomed to the attention of women, but now he found himself looked upon with greater interest. They sought him out, smiled at him, touched him with their eyes, those less coy with their hands. But not Lark, a woman used and discarded by at least one man, likely a dozen more. Why? Was it fear of him? The sins she put on him? Whatever it was, she wanted nothing to do with him. And it vexed him.

He strode forward. “Why?”

She looked up with the wariness of a deer caught in the open. Not that she wasn’t quick to hide the vulnerability behind one of those “thou dost not frighten me” faces of hers. “Why what?”

“If there is to be a marriage, why are you not
thrilled
?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “The answer is as plain as the nose on your face.”

So it was, though no one had ever had the courage to speak such to him. “Am I truly such a beast, Lady Lark?” He drew a hand down his bearded jaw. “I assure you, I was not born one.”

Her eyes traced his scars, lingered over the one that cut his eyebrow. “That is not what I referred to.” She sidestepped and crossed to the table beside Jaspar’s bed. “Everyone knows what you are—what you did. Or will do.”

“Then still you believe I arranged the attack on your baggage train.”

“Didn’t you?” She looked over her shoulder. “And what of your brother? What of his unfortunate
accident
?”

She was not the first, would not be the last. “You are right, his death was not an accident.” He knew what he implied, saw the fear his words begat. “But as for your escort, what foolishness do you think me capable of that I would murder the king’s men?”

“You did not wish Lady Lark at Brynwood.”

She had done it again, spoken of herself as if she were not present. “I did not, but murder? There are ways of ridding one’s self of an unwanted guest other than by the spilling of blood.”

“So how does one rid one’s self of an unwanted
wife
?”

“Not by murdering a dozen worthy soldiers, I vow.”

She seemed to consider his words.

“And what ill do you believe I have yet to commit?” he asked.

She lifted a hand mirror. “You know better than I.”

She believed he intended his nephews harm. Again, she was not the first to suggest it, which was why Edward had yielded to the nobles who objected to the boys being placed under the guardianship of one with so much to gain from their misfortune. Thus, to appease those who had petitioned for guardianship, Edward sent Sir Arthur to serve as personal guard to the boys—a man whose only claim to knighthood seemed his possession of horse and armor. A man now turned abductor. Curse Edward for Crosley! And Lady Lark!

Anger was on Fulke’s tongue as he stepped toward her, but it retreated when he saw the awe with which she regarded her reflection. She touched the outside corner of one eye, a cheekbone, and her bottom lip, then tilted the mirror up and pulled strands of darkest hair through her fingers.

It unsettled Fulke, serving as a sharp reminder of the madness he suspected. “Surely you have seen your reflection before, Lady Lark?”

“Of course,” she murmured. “I just never put much store in my looks. Grades and athletics were always more important. It’s where the scholarships are, you know.” She looked over her shoulder. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

He wished he understood half of what she said.

She looked back at her reflection. “You probably think I’m vain.”

He did not. Were she, she would not have donned that gown. Surely Jaspar could have found something more fitting.

“You see, it’s just that I’ve been. . .ill.”

As in mad? “And now you are well?” He watched her face in the mirror.

“Until I awaken. I almost wish that I wouldn’t.” Lips touched with a smile, she met his gaze in the mirror. “Of course, then I’d be stuck with you—just like Mac.”

“Who is Mac?”

She looked away and lowered the mirror. “Someone I once knew. He’s dead.”

A lover? Feeling a stab of emotion, Fulke reminded himself that the man had been one of many. Still, there was something about the way she said the name that made him wonder if she had felt something for him. Another stab. He didn’t care. She meant nothing to him. If Edward had sent her to be his wife—

Something occurred to him that had not before. “Where is the king’s missive apprising me of this marriage?”

Her eyes slid away. “He didn’t send one. I was to tell you myself. And I would have if not for the attack.”

Another lie? “’Tis unheard that the king would not inscribe a decree of marriage beneath his seal.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed. “He must have forgotten.”

Would Edward have overlooked such an important detail? Years ago he would not have, but he was no longer young, and since the queen’s death, he was not always sensible. Still, Fulke might have dismissed Lark’s claim, but as tale of the marriage had carried to Jaspar, it was likely the truth. Again, he cursed Edward. Fulke had not remained unwed all these years to now have a wife thrust upon him, especially one such as this, no matter how lovely she was.

He stepped in front of her. “Know this, if ‘tis true the king ordered this marriage, still I will not wed thee.”

Her shoulders eased. “You don’t know what a relief that is. Not being a history buff, I was worried he might have the power to force the marriage.”

Edward did. Surely she knew that. What she didn’t know was that the king placed a high value on Fulke’s military stratagem, one that had earned his gratitude and forbearance in matters such as this.

“No need to make this any more of a nightmare than it already is,” Lark added.

It was like being struck in the groin. “A nightmare?”

“You  know—it just wouldn’t work out between us.”

He knew better than to try to salve his man’s pride, but this woman pushed him past all sense. He pulled her against him. “I need not speak vows to have what you so brazenly offer.”

Her mouth opened, closed, opened. “You mean you’ll rape me?”

Fulke frowned. “What has rape to do with this?”

Outrage sprang from her face. “What has. . .?” She exhaled a sound of disgust. “I warn you, if you try to force yourself on—”

“You speak of ravishment.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If it makes you feel better to call it that, fine, but I call it rape.”

How odd. “In England, rape is an act of abduction, my lady. I assure you, this is not that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Regardless, you are threatening to rape me.”

“Again, you put sins on me. Were I to know you, Lady Lark, I vow it would be so only were you willing.”