Dreamspell (40 page)

“Enough!” Fulke didn’t wish it spoken, though he knew he ought not to care. He strode from behind the table. “We are not done, Lady Jaspar, Sir Leonel. When I return, I shall have my answers. Every one of them.”

Minutes later, Fulke strode into the tower room and halted before Crosley who sat on his pallet with his back against the wall, hand splayed over his bandaged thigh.

“Surely you are not surprised?” the man said.

He shouldn’t be, nor should her absence pain him so. “Where is she?”

“Is it revenge that makes you care? Or is it possible you are. . .not in love, for that is unheard of for a man like you.” He made a show of pondering. “In lust?”

“Where, Crosley?”

“Not in this world, Wynland. No matter how far or long you search, you will only find Kennedy Plain if she decides to return.”

Fulke didn’t want to believe it, longed to accept Crosley’s taunts as merely that, but what the miscreant spoke made truth of what Nedy had tried to convince him. How else to explain all that she was? Fulke pivoted.

“Wynland.”

He turned in the doorway.

Crosley sat forward and grimaced at the pain caused by the movement. “I believe she will be back. And soon.”

The flickering light that Fulke had tried to extinguish these past days sprang anew, tentatively lighting the dark within him and without. “Why would she want to return to. . .” He looked around the room. “. . .this?”

“Because there is still a chance she can change the outcome—that she can save my boys.”

Determining he would not dwell on Crosley’s possessive attitude toward John and Harold, Fulke reentered the room.

“Too,” the man mused, “it seems she loves you.”

Fulke remembered the sweet words she had spoken, words he had not spoken in return though he had felt them. “Tell me all of it.”

Crosley regarded him with assessing eyes. “As much as I hate to admit it, perhaps Ken is right about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“She believes in you, is adamant you didn’t do it.”

“What?” The boys again? Their fiery deaths?

“Sit down, Wynland. It is a long tale.”

Fulke resisted but, in the end, lowered to the pallet.

“You already know what is going to happen,” Crosley began, “for you have lived it before. You just do not remember it.”

It was almost enough to set Fulke back on his feet, but he knew that if he did not hear it, he would risk losing Nedy forever. “Speak.”

And Crosley did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“L
eonel!”

He halted before his chamber. As the past half hour of waiting had proven Wynland was wholly occupied with Nedy Plain’s disappearance, there was time. He turned. “Cousin.”

Color in her cheeks, eyes dripping reproach, Jaspar traversed the corridor at such speed he could almost believe she did it on four legs. Chest rising and falling rapidly, she stopped before him. “What have you done?” she demanded as if of a child.

Leonel longed to retaliate, but he reminded himself of all she had suffered since Wynland’s summons. First, the merciless pace that had borne her to Brynwood and the uncertainty that must have taunted her throughout. Then, no sooner arrived than she was ushered to the hall to face endless questions that stank of accusation. She had stood throughout, taken in the revelations of Lady Lark and her impostor, Nedy Plain, without a moment to breathe her way past the shock. Thus, her reaction to learning who was responsible for the attack on Lady Lark could be forgiven—for the moment. He pushed the door inward. “Let us speak inside.”

She punched her hands to her hips. “We shall speak here.”

Fool woman! Though it was not the hour servants were usually about the chambers, due care must be taken with something of such import that it bound his life. Leonel snatched her arm and thrust her into the chamber.

She spun around. “What do you?”

He seated the door and glanced at the garderobe where Nedy Plain surely listened—providing she had regained consciousness. It mattered not. Conscious or otherwise, her tongue would carry no tale of this conversation. Of course, what was he to do with her body? He supposed he could leave it. Or send it down the garderobe shaft. He smiled. If the medallion she sought, the medallion she would find. In death.

Leonel strode past Jaspar, stretched on the bed, and clasped his hands behind his head.

“For what did you do it, Leonel?”

He considered his clipped nails. “For you.”

“Me?” Disbelief, but hardly disgust.

He glowered at her. “You could not wed Wynland were he wed to another.”

“Of course I could not. But murder?”

“’Twas the only way.” The reason he had hired Moriel and his rogue knights—to assure none lived. As Leonel had done a hundred times since the attack, he cursed the vanity that had prompted him to bear witness to what his coin had bought. Had he not, the king’s man who had engaged him over swords would not have seen the medallion and told of it. But even that might have been overcome if not for Moriel’s lusting after Nedy Plain.

Jaspar stomped a foot. “Fulke will learn ‘tis your former liege, Baron Brom, who bears the two-headed wyvern, and to whom the medallion was given.”

Not that she was revolted by what he had done. She was merely concerned that, were it discovered who had done the deed, she might be accused of having aided him.

She took a step toward him. “What fool are you, Leonel?”

He sprang to sitting. “I am not a fool!”

“You have accomplished naught but the killing of the king’s men. The king’s men!”

“Lady Lark was also to have died,” he muttered. And would have had her maid not escaped, casting doubt on the identity of the woman Moriel had delivered to him.

“But she did not die,” Jaspar snarled, “and now she sits in the hall staring accusation at me!”

He needed none to cast light on the mistakes of that day. “Unfortunate,” he growled.

Jaspar stalked to the door, stalked back. “For naught.” She jabbed a finger at him. “And now I am dragged to Brynwood to stand accused of your crimes!”

The fire in Leonel’s belly rolled to a boil. “Not even a crumb of gratitude, cousin?” He stood from the bed. “I sacrificed all to give you your desire.”

Laughter bubbled from her. “’Twas for you that you did it. For Cirque.”

She remembered the promise she had made him. But then, their blood
was
near one with the other. “Aye, ‘twas not without appeal that you would see me set over Castle Cirque once you and Wynland wed.”

He couldn’t move fast enough to avoid her palm to his cheek. It landed hard.

“Ill-begotten fool!” she cried.

Rage plowed through him. Never had she called him such, fully aware of the circumstances of his birth though she was.

Too simple to know she ought to flee, she said, “Think you I need any to rid me of the king’s leman? I could have—”

Granting himself his wish, Leonel measured her neck with a hand that shut her mouth. Feeling her throat muscles strain, watching shock transform her lovely face, he backed her across the chamber and pushed her against the wall alongside the door.

Desperate for air, she pried at his hand.

He retrieved the key from the hook beside the door, fit it in the lock, and turned it. “You who knows all of the prattle at court know not that Lady Lark is Edward’s illegitimate daughter?”

She stilled, eyes bulged.

Not that Leonel had known himself until he found the king’s missive to Wynland. It was then he had realized the enormity of his error, known fear as he had never known. But he’d had no choice but to finish what he had begun.

He pushed the key into the pouch on his belt. “As for Nedy Plain who pretended her, Wynland pants for the witch.”

He glanced at the garderobe. Not a sound from within, but soon—not that any would hear Nedy’s descent to the bottom of the shaft. “Now, Jaspar, do you flee Brynwood with me or remain and bear the blame? Hmm, I must think on it some.”

She wheezed a short breath, reached for him with hooked nails, and fell short by inches.

Why did he bother with her? It would be easier if she shared Nedy’s fate. Ah, but the blood they had in kind tugged at him. They
were
cousins, though that was not all.

She sagged against the wall.

Was it defeat that dulled her eyes or a lack of air? He sighed. “You will be silent?”

When she jerked her chin, he released her.

With a terrible sucking sound, Jaspar slid down the wall. She filled her lungs, coughed, sucked again.

Leonel spread his legs. “What do you think? You will leave with me or stay?”

Trembling, she touched her throat. She feared him, but did she fear him enough?

“Of course, you realize,” he said, “we cannot return to Cirque.”

“I. . .could tell Fulke what you have done.”

She didn’t fear him enough, but as much as he longed to make her quake, perhaps reasoning would convince her better. “You have lost Fulke—not that you ever had him. Thus, what gain in telling him?”

Her tears evidenced she knew it herself. “I would still have Cirque.”

“You dream, Jaspar. He will take it from you.”

“Not if I give him you.”

He clucked his tongue. “I am disappointed to learn you could be so witless. Even if you were able to give me to him, you think I would not say that all I did was upon your orders?” There was the last bit of fear she had denied him. The fear of knowing all was lost, that her fate—her very life—was not her own.

“How can you do this to me?” she choked.

“Quite easily. Not that I do not feel some remorse. For all the silly, vain woman you are, I do care something for you. But you still have only two choices: leave with me or die with Nedy Plain.”

She blinked. “’Twas you who freed her from the tower?”

“The witch freed herself, but I have her now.”

“Where?”

He nodded at the garderobe. “Methinks I shall break her neck and drop her down the shaft. A fitting end for an impostor.” He pursed his lips. “But fitting for you? That you must decide. Now.”

A sob fell from her. “I shall go with you.”

The sight of Jaspar in defeat made him smile. No more would she order him to do her bidding. “I thought ‘twas as you would choose, but I warn you: reveal me and you shall hang by my side.”

“I understand.”

He stepped back. “Now let us have done with Nedy.”

“I will not help you, Leonel.”

“Then you may watch and know your fate if you betray me.” He crossed to the garderobe, pulled open the door, and stumbled back.

F
rom her hiding place, Kennedy stared at Leonel’s boots.

“She is gone!” he exploded. “Again!”

“What?” Jaspar squeaked, all but her head and shoulders visible from where Kennedy lay beneath the bed.

 “The witch is gone—likely to Wynland.”

If only she had made it that far. Kennedy glanced at the frayed rope that trailed her right wrist. It had been a nearly insurmountable feat to cut through it, but in spite of a swollen eye and the pain that split her head upon regaining consciousness, she had made it to her knees and backed herself against the toilet’s rough, stone edge. Back and forth she had rocked for what seemed hours. Finally, fingers, hands, and wrists scraped and bleeding, the rope had given way. Freeing the gag and her ankles had been relatively easy, but the time required to do so had closed her window of opportunity.

As she had exited the garderobe, Jaspar’s voice alerted her to Leonel’s presence in the corridor. Scattering rushes, she had nosedived beneath the bed and nearly passed out from the effort required to slow her breathing. Then Leonel’s weight had sagged the mattress atop her, and her heart had nearly stopped. But it was almost over. If this played out as she prayed it would, Leonel would be beating a hasty retreat.

“What are you going to do?” Jaspar asked.

“We leave now!” While he moved about the chamber collecting his possessions, Jaspar remained unmoving against the wall.

As much as Kennedy disliked the woman, she felt sympathy for her. Although Jaspar clearly wouldn’t have lost much sleep had Lady Lark died with the king’s men, she was a wasp caught in Leonel’s web.

Leonel halted before her. “Get up!”

She was slow to respond, as if her mind was elsewhere.

“Now!” He grabbed her forearm and wrenched her up.

She tried to get her feet under her, and might have if not for her cousin’s disgust. He released her, sending her facedown on the floor. “Stay, then!”

Kennedy felt her stomach fall through her. If Jaspar looked much beyond her nose, she would see what was under the bed.

“I’m sorry.” She lifted her head. “I’m so”—she sobbed—“frightened.”

Don’t look this way. Anywhere but here.

“Then you are of no use to me!”