Dreamspell (20 page)

The knight slowly unfolded from the ground. “When one questions a man’s honor and loyalty”—he slapped dust from his shirt—“he ought to be prepared to offer up evidence. This
pup
did so charge me before all.” He retrieved his knife and held it up for all to see the blood on it. “By my blade, I vow he shall do so no more.”

“Sheathe your dagger,” Wynland commanded.

The knight glanced at where Baron Cardell stood back from the others.

“Now!”

Sir Waite drove the dagger into its sheathe.

“Squire James, what say you?”

The young man gained his feet, took a step toward Wynland, and swayed. “One ought not to speak ill of his liege.” There was a quaver in his voice. “As you are my lord, so you are Sir Waite’s through Baron Cardell, and ‘tis time he and the others accept it.”

As Kennedy stared at Wynland whose brow furrowed as he listened to Sir Waite’s denial, she heard the rattle of the missive beneath her fingers. Fortunately, the pack’s ties were loosely knotted. As she released them, angry words were exchanged on the other side of the horse. Heart racing, she lifted the flap.

The horse tossed its head and sidestepped.

Kennedy peeked over the animal’s back. Thankfully, the horse hadn’t called attention to her—yet. She tried again and once more met resistance. Obviously, the horse knew she was up to no good. She patted his haunch. “Good boy.”

The horse whinnied.

Fearing she was about to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she stole a glance at Wynland who remained in the middle of the altercation. Keeping her gaze on him, she pulled the missive from the pack.

“In future, Squire James,” Wynland said, “do not think to defend me. My brother’s men, now mine”—he looked to Sir Waite and Baron Cardell—“answer to me.”

The boy looked contrite. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Kennedy glanced at her ill-gotten gain. Where to hide it? Down her front? In her sock? She shoved it up her sleeve.

Fulke loomed over Cardell’s knight. “Are you my man, Sir Waite?”

A hesitation. “I am, my lord.”

“Then heed me. Forsake your vow of fealty and by
my
blade your life will be forfeit.”

“I am to you as I was to your brother—your faithful servant.’

Kennedy turned her attention to how best to dispose of the missive. The copse would be perfect. However, she had only a half dozen steps under her belt when Wynland called to her.

Knowing she was turning the color of guilt, Kennedy looked around and found him striding toward her. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“No, but it will save until John and Harold are found.”

Which brought her back to the missive. She resumed her course.

“We are not finished, Lady Lark.”

Did he refer to the riding lesson or the kiss? Was one the lesser of two evils? The horse, she decided as she neared the copse. Definitely the horse.

Fulke stepped into her path. “Where are you going?”

“To take care of a little business.” She pretended embarrassment. “You know. . .that privacy thing.”

“Again?”

She put a hand to her abdomen. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Not feeling well or. . .” He lowered his gaze to her mouth. “. . .running away?”

Actually, she had been feeling a bit crampy, not unlike— No, it couldn’t be. Could it? She raised her chin. “What do I have to run away from?”

“You would like me to demonstrate?”

“No, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take care of my business.” She stepped around him.

“Do not make me come after you, Lady Lark.”

He thought she might ditch him? “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She scurried out of sight.

It took longer than expected, but she buried the evidence of her deception. Though she knew that when the missive was discovered missing she would likely be blamed, she would deal with it then.

Upon returning to the stream, she found Wynland deep in conversation with Baron Cardell. She put her hands on her hips and breathed a sigh of relief.

Sir Leonel appeared and regarded her out of bloodshot eyes. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

With a smile that shaved years off a face pained by what was probably a hangover, he presented an apple and a piece of dried meat. “I brought you these—and a skin of wine.”

How she missed bottled water, but no chance of that here. Or was there? She looked to the stream.

“Lady Lark?”

She accepted his offering. “Thank you. I was just wondering whether or not the water is fit to drink.”

“’Tis a distance from the nearest village. Still, I would not chance it.”

She was about to concede it wasn’t worth the risk when that old reminder that this was all in her head set down. “I believe I will.” She knelt beside the stream.

“Methinks Lord Wynland would not approve,” Sir Leonel warned.

She tucked her hair into the neck of her gown. “He can disapprove all he likes. I’m going to have a drink.” The water was refreshing, moistening her lips, tongue, and throat, and washing away where Fulke had been.

A half dozen handfuls later, she stood.

“You are most unusual, Lady Lark.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Sir Leonel.” She bit into the crisp apple.

“But I do wonder if you are, indeed, King Edward’s Lady Lark.”

She nearly coughed up the apple. “How is that?”

“My cousin thinks not.”

Lady Jaspar, ever the thorn in her side. “And do you believe everything you’re told?”

His brow creased. “Are you Lady Lark?”

He asked it with such intensity, such genuine need she considered telling him the truth. But he wouldn’t believe her tale any more than Wynland had. “Of course I am.”

He smiled a boyishly repentant apology. “I wish that you were not.”

Kennedy was jolted. Though, as a professor, she had grown accustomed to the occasional crush, she had missed the signs with this man. “Why?”

He put a hand on his sword hilt and rubbed his palm over it. “Because Lady Lark belongs to another. Do you love him?”

She gasped. “Ful—Lord Wynland? What makes you think that?”

“I saw him kiss you, and you did not look to mind.”

So he had witnessed that. She took a bite of the overly salted meat, swallowed. “I am not in love with him.”

“But you will wed him.”

“The way I understand it, I have no choice.”

“Mayhap you do not, but Lord Wynland does.”

“That’s what he says, but does he?”

“Such a man as he will do whatever is needed to achieve his end. Yet, methinks he will wed you, which makes one wonder if you have cast a spell over him.”

If not for Wynland’s warning, Kennedy would have shrugged off the allusion to her being a witch. “I assure you, I am not a witch, Sir Leonel.”

“Then how is it you disappear with nary a breath to trace your path? How is it you survived an attack that killed your entire escort?”

Deciding his first point was best left alone, Kennedy replied to the second. “I don’t know. The attack happened so fast.”

“It must have been horrible.”

“It was.” And she had only seen the aftermath.

 “You do not know who attacked you and killed all those men?”

The scene to which she had awakened flashed in her mind, complete with the dying soldier who had denounced her. “No, but before one of the men died, he told—” No. Though Sir Leonel’s inquiry seemed genuine enough, there was no reason to show her hand.

“What?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Concern etched his face. “Forgive me, my lady.” He laid a hand on her arm. “I know you grieve—for the king’s men and your maid. A terrible loss.”

Her maid, whom she just might be. “Yes, terrible. Fortunately, my maid was not among those killed.”

Sir Leonel blinked. “None but you survived. If what you say is so, where is the woman?”

Right in front of you—I think.
“She didn’t accompany me.”

“You had no maid?” Realization. “Then it was a lady-in-waiting you lost.”

Whatever that was. “No. Other than my escort, I traveled alone.”

“Surely the king would not allow that.”

“I can take care of myself, Sir Leonel.”

He stared. “Of that I have little doubt. Now I must ready myself to ride.” He inclined his head and came up grimacing.

Kennedy touched his sleeve. “Are you all right?”

He ground fingers into his temple. “’Twas foolish of me to drink so much last eve.”

“You have a hangover.”

“A what?”

“A headache—burning eyes, nausea, etcetera.” She lifted his hand and pinched the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “This might help.”

His pained expression turned suspicious. “Pray, what do you?”

“It’s called acupressure. It’s worked for me from time to time.” Before all hope was lost. “Apply pressure for a minute or so and you should start to feel better.”

“Do you speak sorcery, my lady?”

She laughed. “You call a pinch sorcery?”

He considered his hand in hers. “’Tis most unusual.”

She smiled. “You’ll see.”

His uncertainty was soon replaced with wonder. “The pain is passing!”

She released her hold. “I told you.”

“You are certain ‘tis not sorcery?”

“Positive.”

“You are incredible, Lady Lark. Where come you by such knowledge?”

“I pick up things here and there.”

He executed a bow that revealed a glimpse of chain at his neck.

Kennedy frowned. Did he wear a medallion beneath his shirt as Wynland did? If so, what markings did it bear? A feather? A crown? A wyvern? Was it possible he was involved in the attack? Though it was hard to believe, she was grateful she hadn’t revealed what the dying soldier had said.

“Thank you, my lady.” He straightened. “You have been most kind.”

“Too kind,” Fulke’s voice grated on the air.

She looked around and met his gaze. Was he jealous? “I was introducing Sir Leonel to acupressure. He had a headache and I thought—”

“To your mount, Sir Leonel. We are leaving.”

The knight sidestepped, caught Kennedy’s eye, and winked.

She couldn’t help but smile.

Wynland halted before her. “For one who professes to feel poorly, you look and behave remarkably well.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Most.” He leaned near. “Until such time as King Edward releases me from marriage to you, you will forego such brazen displays. Do you understand?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What, exactly, do you consider brazen?”

His blue eyes looked as if they might boil over. “Do you deny you were holding Sir Leonel’s hand?”

“I showed him an acupressure point—”

He grabbed her arm and propelled her toward his horse. “No more lest you find yourself staked and burned, from which not even King Edward will be able to save you.”

She tried to dig in, but it was futile. “Acupressure has nothing to do with magic. The Chinese have been using—”

“Silence!”

Fine, let him remain in the dark ages.

He lifted her and plunked her down on his horse. “Take the reins.”

“You’re not really going to make me do this, are you?”

“Take them.”

She lifted the leather strap. “Now what?”

“We ride.” He swung up behind her.

The intimate press of his body held Kennedy on edge during the six hours of riding instruction that saw them village to village, dead end to dead end.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
t couldn’t be. It was, which explained the cramping that had grown steadily during the ride and that she had thought was a nervous stomach caused by Wynland’s riding instruction. She should have known, but it was almost a year since she had experienced the symptoms.

Kennedy looked down her front, then grasped the back of her skirt and peered over her shoulder. Nothing. Regardless, it seemed the dream was going all the way. What was she to do in an age where she couldn’t beat a retreat to the nearest dispenser of feminine products?

She looked past the warming fire to the tent Wynland had announced she would share with him. In the twilight of a day never to be again, two men were adjusting the stakes they had driven into the ground. Other than that, the tent looked just about ready. How much longer? If she didn’t take care of her problem soon, it would get much worse.

Seeking out Wynland, she saw he stood alongside his horse conversing with Squire James. Over his shoulder was the pack that no longer held his missive.

Feeling as if a black cloud were about to burst over her and rain down angry summons and accusations, she lingered over the two men before returning her attention to the tent. If the soft glow that made it look like a paper lantern was anything to go by, it was ready for occupancy. She wove among Wynland’s men and pushed through the tent flap. To the right lay a half dozen packs, at the center a worn rug, at the back a flat rock on which a lantern sat, and to her left a bed of blankets.