Dreamspell (24 page)

“I shall keep her ever in my sight, my lord.”

With Lark’s accusing eyes full on him, Fulke handed her onto the fore of Sir Daniel’s saddle. “Take care of her.” The absence of her warmth between his thighs gripped Fulke with such longing he glanced one last time at her.

She averted her gaze.

For the best, Fulke told himself and turned toward Glenmar.

K
ennedy put her head back against Sir Daniel’s shoulder and looked up at the darkening sky. Had Fulke reached Glenmar? Did Sir Arthur lie in a pool of blood?

Only a dream
, said the increasingly faint voice. But no matter which version of
The Sins of the Earl of Sinwell
played out—hers or the author’s—it seemed the end would be the same: death to Sir Arthur, sealing the fate of Fulke’s nephews.

If only he would have allowed her to accompany him. Perhaps she could have—

A convulsion rocked Kennedy and, as if from a distance, she heard pounding.

Sir Daniel dragged his horse to a halt. “My lady?”

Someone called her name, but as if from inside her head. She blinked, but the clamor grew more insistent. Louder.

“Are you well, Lady Lark?”

She shook her head. “I need to get down.”

“You are ill?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“Kennedy!” It was the voice again. Familiar.

“My lady?”

“Please let me down.”

Sir Daniel swung out of the saddle and lifted her to the ground.

She stumbled against him.

He said something to the others and led her to a tree. “Sit down, my lady.”

“Let me in!” The familiar voice again.

“Graham?” She looked at Sir Daniel, read his confusion, and saw him waver. She was awakening, meaning she was about to vanish into thin air.

She pulled her arm free. “I need privacy.”

“You must needs relieve yourself?”

“Yes.”

He motioned to a thicket and, to her dismay, followed.

“Do you mind?” she shot over her shoulder.

“You are not to go from my sight, my lady.”

Counting herself lucky to make it behind the thicket without landing on her face, she met the knight’s gaze. He intended to stand there and watch?

He turned his back.

“I know you’re in there!” Graham’s voice was louder.

Kennedy’s feet dropped out from under her, but she wasn’t falling. She looked from Sir Daniel to the knights beyond. They blurred and their colors merged into a single bright light.

“Kennedy!”

She opened her eyes to a white plaster ceiling. She was back—rather, awake. Her throat tightened. Fulke was only a dream, but one she remembered as clearly as the first time she had dreamt him.

Amid the buzzing of the doorbell and the scratch of the EEG, she sat up. In contrast to the well-being that marked her dream, she was struck by weakness and a throb between her eyes. She lifted a hand to her head, but no goose egg. Just the tumor ticking her life away.

“I’m counting to ten, then this door is history!”

History. She managed a smile.

“One. . .two. . .”

As she dropped her legs over the bed, she remembered the electrodes. As quickly as her trembling fingers would allow, she peeled the disks from her head—and stilled. Her awakening hadn’t tripped the EEG’s alarm.

“Seven,” Graham called.

She stumbled from the bedroom.

“Eight.”

Though the living room spun, she made it to the door as number ten exited Graham’s mouth. She flipped the deadbolt, but before she could turn the knob, he did it for her. Just barely, she avoided being struck as the door swung inward.

“What took you so—?” He caught his breath.

She must look pretty bad. Of course, he looked his usual handsome self, one of the most attractive men she had ever met. That last thought conjured a vision of Fulke Wynland. Though she had thought him far from attractive when they had first met, and he definitely lacked the beauty of Graham’s countenance, he had moved up in her estimation. In fact, she had never been more attracted to a man.

“Oh, Kennedy, look at you,” Graham finally spoke.

Her laughter was flat. “Always could turn my head with those sweet nothings of yours.”

“Sorry. I just didn’t realize—”

“I know. It’s been a while.” She smoothed a hand back from her temple to the baldness past her ear.

“Can I come in?”

“It’s not a good time.”

“I need to talk to you.”

She sighed. “All right.”

He stepped inside and pretended an interest in the living room. “Nice place.”

“It’s home.” She pushed the door closed. Could she make it to the sofa without falling all over her feet?

“Can I help?” Graham reached to her.

She sidestepped. “Really, Graham, I’m no damsel in distress.” The words slipped from her without thought, but behind them rolled a memory of Fulke. Though her sickness was rooted in her head, she feared her breaking heart might just beat the tumor to the punch.

“You don’t look well.”

She sank onto the sofa. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather.” Easier to make light of it than be drawn into a discussion of funeral arrangements.

He lowered to the cushion beside her. “You haven’t returned my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“What are these?” He touched two spots on her forehead.

Realizing he referred to the impressions left by the electrodes, she berated herself for not pulling on the knit cap.

“Electrodes?” he asked.

Wonderful. Though they had lived on separate planes for a long time, he hadn’t been totally oblivious to her research. Feigning nonchalance, she said, “They’re from a contraption the doctor gave me to relieve the headaches. So, what can I do for you?”

Regret curved his chiseled mouth. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

She stared at him, waited for the rest of it.

“Wondering. . .” He shook his head. “You know I didn’t want the divorce.”

She knew. But it wasn’t what he wanted that mattered. It was all about what his mother wanted. “You’re a bit young to be a widower, Graham.” The moment her bitterness was voiced, she regretted it.

He stared at her with such sorrow it made her want to cry. “How did it come to this, Kennedy?”

“Graham. . .” She drew a deep breath. “If you have to ask, it’s all the more reason we never should have married.”

“I love you.”

Though they were words she had once thrived on, they had long ago lost their depth. “The divorce was for the best. It’s what I needed, what you needed, and certainly what your mother needed.”

“Forget about my mother. I don’t care—”

“Yes, you do. Too much.”

He looked away. “I’m all she has. I know she didn’t treat you well, but what matters is us.”

“There is no ‘us.’ She made certain of that.” No need to go into specifics. He knew them, just refused to accept the truth. Of course, there were things Kennedy had kept from him, such as his mother’s investigation of her when she and Graham began dating, then on their wedding day the woman had tried to bribe her to keep her from marrying her son.

“Maybe in time she’ll—” Graham began.

“Time?” The word shot off Kennedy’s tongue. “Do I look like I have time to waste on a relationship with a woman who would rather die than accept my backwoods blood?”

Graham momentarily closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I just. . .” He looked back at her, then slid an arm around her and gently drew her onto his lap.

Though she knew she should scramble away, the arms he wrapped around her were comforting. More, she was worn too thin to waste energy. With a sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder.

“We should have had a child,” he murmured. “It would have been a little girl, I think, with dark hair, green eyes, and her mother’s smile.”

Kennedy clenched her hands. She had wanted children, but there had never been time—after her bachelor’s degree, they had agreed, then her master’s degree, then her doctorate. All at the urging of a woman who hadn’t wanted grandchildren mothered by a “hick.” Celia Huntworth always got her way.

Kennedy squashed her anger. It was in the past. Now if only she could be there as well. Mac had it right. Far better a dream than this.

Graham lifted her chin and pressed his mouth to hers. His seeking was sweet, but there was no passion, no heat, no rasp of beard across her skin. She’d had better in her dreams.

She slipped off his lap. “You should go. I need my rest.”

Hurt reflected on his face. “I thought we could have lunch together.”

“Maybe another time. I’m really tired.”

He sank back into the sofa, stared at her as if to impress her on his memory, then stood and strode toward the door.

Kennedy ached for him, and would have called him back if not that she knew this was for the best.

At the door, he looked over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Kennedy.”

It truly was goodbye. “Goodbye, Graham.”

He lowered his gaze, nodded as if to himself, and walked out.

Kennedy put a hand over her eyes. She hurt for him, for his pain, his loss, his realization come too late that there was more to life than speaking to his mother’s every whim. Hopefully, one day he would break free of the woman and rediscover in someone else what he and Kennedy had shared for so brief a time. As for herself, she had her dreams for however long her heart beat. Providing she could, she would return to them, which meant another round of sleep deprivation.

She squared her heavy shoulders and wondered how to while away the hours. The answering machine with its blinking light caught her eye. Doubtless, her mother was awaiting a half dozen returned phone calls.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“W
here are they?”

In the flickering light of wall torches, Baron Howarth smiled pridefully. “Come, Lord Wynland, I will deliver you to the miscreant myself.” He turned his horse onto the drawbridge.

Though the embers of Fulke’s anger toward Sir Arthur aspired to fire, it was John and Harold he wished to see. “First, my nephews.”

“As you wish.” The baron spurred his horse forward.

Fulke left his men in the bailey and ascended the steps to the great hall.

“Margaret!” the baron called. “Bring forth Lord Wynland’s nephews.”

An elderly woman creaked her bones up from before the hearth and urged the children at her feet to rise. “Come, sweetings, your uncle has arrived. Greet him as is proper.”

Amid snuffling and a hiccupping sob that reminded Fulke of the distance between him and his nephews, the boys gained their feet.

“Hush now.” The old woman turned them toward Fulke.

But it was not John and Harold whose tearful faces halted him. He stared at the boys who no more resembled his nephews than water resembled oil. “What is this?”

Baron Howarth drew up short just past Fulke. “What speak you, my lord? Here are your nephews safe and—”

“They are not my nephews!”

The baron’s lids fluttered. “Surely ‘tis them. They but require a bath and—”

“Fool! You think I do not know my own nephews even beneath so much filth?”

“Pardon, my lord. I was given to believe these were the boys you sought.”

Though Fulke longed to put his hands around the man’s neck, he suffered his sword hilt instead. “Who gave you to believe that?”

“Crosley, my lord. He—”

“Crosley? Or another impostor?”

“I. . .know not.”

“Take me to him.”

Glenmar’s dungeon was dank and foul. There was the smell of urine, feces, rot and mold, the scratching and screeching of rats, the moan and groan of beings that might or might not be human.

At the end of the twisting corridor, the jailer halted and scrambled for the key.

Fulke seethed as he waited alongside Baron Howarth, a man who seemed a good foot shorter than when they had entered the hall.

The key rasped in the lock. “Come forth!” the jailer called, pushing the door inward.

Though Fulke doubted that the man inside was Crosley, still he hoped. That hope died as the prisoner stumbled from the cell. The man’s hair and beard were red, and the embroidered and studded tunic belonged to Crosley, but that was all.

He seized the impostor’s arm. “Who are you?”

The man peered through twin blackened eyes above a blood-crusted nose and cracked and swollen lips.

Hurting but whole,
Baron Howarth’s knight had said of his lord’s capture of Crosley. That the man was, but his pain would be nothing compared to what awaited him if he refused Fulke the answers he sought.

“Who be ye?” the impostor growled.

“Fulke Wynland.”