Dreamspell (28 page)

His gaze stabbed, bitterness deepened. “You think that a comfort?”

True. “I imagine it must have been difficult to learn Lady Jaspar had married another when it was believed you were dead.”

“How know you of that?”

“Jaspar’s maid told me.”

“The woman’s tongue wags as much as that of her mistress.” He shook his head. “’Twas not difficult. It was a blessing—one I did not deserve. With both hands I seized it and vowed to never wed a woman for whom I felt naught.”

Kennedy’s heart tumbled. “Are you saying you feel something for me?”

His reluctance was palpable, but he stepped before her. “I do feel something for you.”

She waited for the rest of it. Nothing.

“After all I have told you, still you profess to love me, Lark?”

As he did not profess to love her. A drop of rain fell to Kennedy’s cheek, like a tear rolled to her jaw. Ignoring the ache in her heart, she cupped his bearded face between her hands. “The man you were—the part of you that cared more for glory than lives—is gone. The man with whom I am in love would not do what he did.”

“How can you be certain?”

She leaned in and brushed her mouth across his. “Because I have fit nearly all the pieces of the puzzle of you, Fulke Wynland.”

“Of what do you speak?”

“There was that little boy—the one who called to you the day you brought me to Brynwood.”

“Jeremy, my brother’s misbegotten son, John and Harold’s half-brother.”

Kennedy almost laughed. No wonder the child had seemed familiar, not because he was part of her world but because he was part of Fulke who, doubtless, had the look of his deceased brother. “Yes, Jeremy. You talked to him and gave him a coin. It was so out of character for the man I thought you were. Then there was Sir Malcolm. I imagined all manner of horrible things you would do to him after I fell from his horse, yet he was allowed to redeem himself.”

Even though it was dark enough to be called night now, his gaze was intense.

“You could have raped me. I thought you would, but you didn’t. Then you started to smile.” She let her own lips curve. “But it was that night in the tent when you spoke of your nephews that I knew you could not harm them. And then you saved my life at the pool. I was wrong about you.” Her lashes lowered. “I’m sorry.”

Fulke longed to believe what she believed of him, to put Limoges from him and go forward with her at his side, but something stood between them. He lowered his face near hers. “And Crosley? How will you feel when he lies dead by my sword?”

She blinked and surprised him with one of her green-eyed smiles. “You won’t kill him.”

She was wrong. Crosley had challenged him at every opportunity, accused him of seeking to harm the boys, then stolen John and Harold. Such affront could not be disregarded. Unlike the people of Limoges, the knight’s death was warranted. He could argue it with Lark, but for what? There was peace between them, and he would take it for however long it lasted. Once Crosley was dead, he would deal with her anger. If she could forgive him the deaths of hundreds, surely the death of one could also be forgiven.

He kissed her until she murmured and bent to him. “Now that I have told you of my past, you will tell me of yours?”

She stiffened.

Then she would not reveal where she had been these past six days. Frustration welled in Fulke, but he forced it down. Eventually, she would trust him enough to tell him all. “Later, then,” he said and released her and retrieved his bow and quiver. “’Tis late. We ought to return to camp.” He held out his hand.

It felt right, her hand in his, made him feel as if he were the youth who had sat the garden wall with his sister and, for a short while, allowed her dreams to become his.

The hunt having taken him distant from camp, it was a long walk. And wet, the clouds finally emptying their chill rain to satisfy the earth’s thirst. In spite of the discomfort, the time with Lark was something he would never forget—their joined hands, the smile in her voice as they talked of little things, her sweet laughter when any other lady would have been whining over her soaked gown, muddied slippers, and dripping hair. She seemed not to notice, though her teeth were chattering by the time the canopied campfire came into view.

Fulke halted and pulled her in front of him. “Promise me something.”

Rain running down her face, she nodded.

“Keep your tongue before my men. They will be unsettled by your return and some will name you a witch. Pray, give them naught else with which to stoke their superstitions.”

She smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

Love her? Aye, in that moment he knew it was so. But the words would not be spoken. “Come,” he said, “let us be done with this.” He pulled her with him over the sodden ground. As expected, a knight cut their path before they reached the clearing.

“Halt! Who goes?”

Fulke pulled Lark against his side. “Your liege.”

The man stepped nearer and lowered his sword. “My lord, when you did not return, we feared—”

“I am well, as is Lady Lark.”

The man’s silence spoke loudly, the night cloaking an expression no doubt born of dismay. “Two parties have gone searching for you, my lord.”

“When?”

“An hour past.”

Fulke gripped Lark’s hand more firmly and resumed his stride. “I must needs see the lady out of the rain.”

“Sir Daniel arrived early eve, my lord.”

“Sir Daniel?” Fulke’s gut tightened. It could mean only one thing.

Beside him, Lark groaned. “I imagine he’ll be testy when he sees me.”

True, for she had brought dishonor on him. But her discomfort would be nothing compared to that which she would soon face. Despite her belief Fulke would not slay Sir Arthur, she would have to accept the truth of it. Blood
would
be let.

“Return to your post,” Fulke said to the knight.

Something was wrong. Kennedy sensed it straight through. Stride fraught with purpose, Fulke’s hand tensed around hers as he hurried her forward. When they entered the clearing, a dozen men came out from beneath the canopies and halted at the sight of her.

“Where is Sir Daniel?” Fulke demanded.

“He awaits you in your tent, my lord,” Sir Leonel said, his gaze on Kennedy.

Was he among those who would see her staked and burned? She offered a smile.

His lips turned slightly. “Lady Lark.”

Fulke urged Kennedy past the knights, flung back the tent flap, and motioned her ahead of him. She ducked into the relative warmth of the tent.

Sir Daniel was the first to rise, eyes widening at the sight of her. The three other men—unrecognizable and outfitted in elaborate wear—also stood.

“Sir Daniel,” Fulke said, then turned his regard on the others. “You may deliver word to King Edward that Lady Lark is returned and has suffered no ill.”

From the men’s expressions, they didn’t have a clue as to what he referred.

But Kennedy did. Realization caused her stomach to inch up her throat. The dream had become a nightmare.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“W
here is Lady Lark?” asked the eldest knight, a man whose face was fleshy and lined.

Kennedy swallowed. These were the king’s men who, according to her mother, had caught up with Fulke following the disappearance of Lady Lark’s pretender. What a web her mind had woven! If there had been any doubt before, here was proof she was off her rocker.

Feeling Fulke’s disquiet, she looked at him. Questioning was in his eyes, doubt and distrust. And they cut through her. He returned his attention to the others. “Is this not Lady Lark, Sir Conan?”

The knight’s eyes widened. “Lord Wynland, I know the lady myself and this woman is not she.” He stepped forward and peered closer at Kennedy. “Even did you wring her out, she would be too tall, too broad, and her hair too dark.” He smirked. “You have been deceived, my lord.”

As his companions nodded in agreement, Kennedy felt a wall go up between her and Fulke.

Sir Daniel stepped forward. “’Tis true what he speaks, my lord. I bring you tidings that Lady Lark has taken sanctuary at the monastery of Farfallow.”

Kennedy’s breath caught. Lady Lark lived?

“As has Sir Crosley and your nephews,” the knight put the icing on the cake.

Kennedy glanced at Fulke, a man changed from the one to whom she had declared her love. A muscle beating in his jaw, he stared at Sir Daniel. It was over.

Deceived. The vulgar word rolled through Fulke, overturning emotions only just discovered. The woman before him was a charlatan, everything she had made him feel forged of lies. “If she is not Lady Lark, who is she?”

Sir Conan shook his head. “Never have I seen her, my lord.”

“One of Lady Lark’s ladies?”

“Nay, my lord, Lady Lark had but a maid with her when she left London, and I fear I know not what the woman looks like.”

Was it possible the one who had arrived at Brynwood was not the maid she claimed to be? Fool! Though it pained Fulke to accept the truth,
this
woman was the deceiver. “I thank you, Sir Conan.” He looked to the others. “We depart in half an hour.”

“The rain comes harder,” Sir Conan said. ‘Twould do no harm to wait ‘til the morrow.”

“Half an hour!”

The man motioned to the others and stepped into the night.

As the flap fell behind them, Fulke turned to the woman at his side. “Who are you?”

The struggle on her face evidenced her search for a believable lie. She lifted her palms up. “This is only a dream, Fulke. I—”

“Enough! Speak no more of dreams or I shall bind you and set you aflame myself.”

She should have been frightened, but she raised her chin. “Not in this weather, you won’t.”

How did she do it? Where had she learned to speak such that a man’s thoughts should scatter so far afield, requiring him to painstakingly gather them back together? “What is your name?”

“Nedy Plain.”

As there was too much ache in standing near her, making it hard to think, Fulke stepped away. It followed that Nedy Plain, if that was her name, possessed no virtue whatsoever. “As Crosley hired the man and his sons to pretend themselves to be who they were not, he paid you to be Lady Lark.”

Beneath the deepening beat of rain on canvas, in the flickering light thrown by the lantern, she said, “You’re wrong.”

“Is it not true that your friend, Sir Arthur, is responsible for the attack on Lady Lark’s baggage train?”

That knocked the streak of stubborn out of her, lowering her chin a notch. “That’s not it at all.”

“What I do not understand is what Lady Lark has to do with it. Was she part of Crosley’s plan to show me to be a murderer that he might gain wardship of my nephews?”

“No! She had nothing to do with it. She’s supposed to be dead. No trace was ever found—”

“She is at Farfallow with Crosley!”

“Neither Crosley nor Lady Lark were behind the attack. You have to believe me.”

Never again. “You lied about my brother’s missive to keep me from Farfallow because you knew ‘twas Crosley’s destination. Do you deny it?”

She groaned. “I did know, but—”

“I wonder if ‘twas Lady Lark whom Moriel sought to kill at the pond or Nedy Plain. More likely, Crosley was done with you.”

“He doesn’t know me. We’ve never met.”

Not a breath of truth to anything she said. He returned to her and gripped her chin. “You told me you knew him.” He could still smell the wood on her, the grass and leaves. “Now you have never met?”

Tears washed her eyes, dampening his anger before he realized it was happening. Nay, the tears were for herself and the retribution he would visit on her.

She laid a hand on his jaw. “If you have any feelings for me, Fulke—”

He threw off her touch. “I have none.”

She stared at him as if she were the one wronged.

“And, henceforth, you will address me as
Lord
Wynland.”

Her eyes flashed with an anger so bright it blinded the hurt she had allowed him to glimpse. “Dream on.”

As tempted as Fulke was to set her right, he had told the king’s men a half hour. He stepped past her and, at the tent flap, looked over his shoulder. “Do you think to escape me, I vow I will find you—no matter where you go, no matter how far you run.”

Her retort was lost in the slap of the flap. Drawing on fury to stifle other emotions vying for recognition, Fulke crossed to where Squire James held his horse.

Tomorrow, Farfallow.

I
t’s only a dream
, Kennedy told herself for the hundredth time since the miserable ride began.

Night having turned to dawn, dawn having turned to noon, noon speeding toward evening, she stared ahead. The last time the scenery had passed so swiftly was when Fulke had been at her back. Now it was Sir Leonel, the only one willing to accept the task of transporting a witch.