Dreamspell (44 page)

The doorbell rang. Jack and Graham? The latter having kept his promise to help clear out Nedy’s condominium, he had left with Jack a short while ago to bring back the final load. Guessing Jack had misplaced his key again, she crossed the foyer and broke her rule of never opening the door without first looking through the peephole.

It wasn’t Jack or Graham, but a tall blonde man with bright green eyes, a questioning smile, and a halfway attractive face that placed him mid-thirties.

She gripped the door. “May I help you?”

“You are Laurel Jacobsen?”

A British accent. “Who’s asking?

“My name is Hunt Wynland.”

Wynland? A shiver shot through her. “I—I’m Mrs. Jacobsen. What can I do for you?”

“I have something for you.” His gaze slid past her to the room beyond. “It is of some import.”

He wanted to be invited inside, but as well dressed and clean cut as he was, there was no guarantee he was harmless. Forget that his last name was the same as the Earl of Sinwell. He was a stranger.

Laurel put a hand out. “Do I need to sign for it?”

He reached into his jacket, withdrew a leather-covered tube, and extended it.

“What is it?”

“A message that has been waiting a very long time to be delivered.”

. . .a sign will be forthcoming.
Could it be? Or was she off her rocker?

“Mrs. Jacobsen?” Concern on his wavering face, the man reached to her.

She gripped the door tighter and tried to get her knees back under her, but she was slipping.

He came through the door and put an arm around her waist.

“I’m all right,” she said, but it wasn’t true.

Bearing a good portion of her weight, he navigated her past the boxes, into the living room, and eased her into Jack’s recliner.

“I believe you’re supposed to put your head between your knees and take deep breaths,” he suggested where he knelt beside her.

She bent forward. When she finally came up, he asked, “Better?”

“Yes.”

He smiled in a rather lopsided way. “I apologize if my visit has distressed you. I assure you, it was not meant to.”

She nodded. “May I see it?”

He placed the tube in her hand. “It is very old.”

She brushed a thumb over the dried, cracked leather. “Fourteenth century?” The words she spoke as if in casual conversation shook her.

The man’s eyes widened. “Actually, the container is from the fifteenth century, but close enough. How did you know?”

“Wishful thinking. Who sent it?”

His eyebrows rose with apology. “It is said to have been written by an ancestor of mine, a woman by the name of Nedy—a many times removed great grandmother.”

Laurel’s heart fluttered. “Go on, please.”

He gestured to the opposite recliner. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He lowered into the chair. “It’s a curiosity. For six hundred years that has been passed through the family under strict instructions that it remain sealed until this year and month.” He leaned forward. “As the oldest son, it fell to me to open it two weeks ago. Though it was long thought to be a treasure map, as you will see, it is a collection of letters—addressed to you, Mrs. Jacobsen, at this place of residence.” He grimaced. “Inconceivable, wouldn’t you say?”

If she had been winning the battle against the reeling in her head, she had just taken a giant leap backward.

“Mrs. Jacobsen?”

She waved him down as he started to rise. “I’ll be fine. Continue.”

“There is not much else, at least, until you have read it. Then, I hope, you will explain some things to me.”

Though part of her wanted to rip into the tube to discover its six hundred year old secret, she was afraid to believe. Hands quivering, she unwound the delicate thread that looped between tube and lid. Four figure eights and she set the lid back on its stiff leather hinge.

She stared at the irregular edges of the rolled sheets within, gently ran her fingers over them. She could have sworn she felt Nedy’s hand upon them.

She turned the tube and tapped out the contents, then looked to Hunt Wynland. “I assume you’ve read these.”

“I have. As I said, it’s inconceivable.” His gaze intensified. “But they
were
written six hundred years ago. Of that there is no doubt.”

Laurel unrolled the sheets and stilled at the words that leapt off the parchment. “It’s her handwriting!” She smoothed the curled sheets on her lap, for the first time in her life tackled the printed word with passion.

Dear Mom,

It is the year 1373. As I write this, Christmas nears and a child grows in my womb. By early summer, I will be a mother.

Laurel teared, felt joy bloom in her breast. A baby. Nedy a mother. Answered prayers.

As you will have guessed from my journal, the father is Fulke Wynland, a man I love down to the deepest breath of my soul. A month after the fire at Brynwood Spire, we were wed. You will be pleased to know that John and Harold were in attendance, as well as Sir Arthur Crosley who wed Fulke’s sister, Lady Marion, last week. Fulke and Arthur—or Mac, as I still think of him—are feeling their way toward friendship. Fortunately, the injury to Mac’s leg has healed, leaving him with only a slight limp. I am well and happier than I ever believed possible, but I miss you and worry about how you are coping. For this reason, I am sending this sign across the years that you will find peace in knowing I did go on. I will continue writing letters so you will fully know the daughter to whom you gave life. I love you. Your daughter for all time, Nedy Wynland.

Laurel dropped her chin to her chest. “I believe.”

“Then it’s true,” Hunt Wynland murmured, though his voice remained tinged with disbelief.

She looked up and was struck by the realization her daughter’s blood ran through him—thus, hers. “Providing I’m not dreaming, it’s true.”

He settled back in the recliner and gestured for her to continue.

There were a dozen letters detailing the major events of Nedy’s life with Fulke and their children—two girls, two boys, and John and Harold. In 1392, John assumed the title of the Earl of Sinwell and Nedy and Fulke left Brynwood Spire to live at the barony of Trune. The final letter was penned in the year 1427 when Nedy would have been eighty-two. Fulke was still at her side, as were three of their four children, a multitude of grandchildren, and her first great-grandchild. Though her life was touched with sorrow as all lives are, it had been beautiful and fulfilling. That was all there was, meaning Nedy had not made it much beyond her eighty-second year. Still, she had far outlived twenty-eight.

Laurel dabbed her eyes, sighed, and rolled the parchments together. When she looked to Hunt, she saw his gaze was fixed on the knotty-wood picture frame on the table between the recliners. Since the reading of the first letter, he hadn’t spoken. How long had he been staring at the mother and daughter picture taken seven years ago?

“That’s Kennedy,” Laurel said, “though I always called her Nedy.”

His eyes swung to her, and though doubt lingered, he said, “I know. A portrait of her hangs at the Wynland estate.”

And one day Laurel would see it. She knew it as surely as she breathed.

It seemed the most natural thing to reach to the man she had mistaken for a complete stranger. “Would you like me to tell you about her?”

He waged a palpable battle between belief and disbelief but, at last, clasped her fingers. “Tell me about our Nedy.”

EXCERPT

THE UNVEILING

Book One in the Age of Faith series

Available August 2012

T
here was but one way to enter Wulfen Castle. She must make herself into a man.

Annyn looked down her figure where she stood among the leaves of the wood. And scowled. Rather, she must make herself into a boy, for it was boys in which the Baron Wulfrith dealt—pages who aspired to squires, squires who aspired to knights. As she was too slight to disguise herself as a squire, a page would be her lot, but only long enough to assure Jonas was well.

Still haunted by foreboding, though it was now four days since it had burrowed a dark place within her, she dropped her head back against the tree beneath which she had taken cover and squinted at the sunlight that found little resistance in autumn's last leaves. If only her mother were alive to offer comfort, but it was eight years since Lady Elena had passed on. Eight years since Annyn had known her touch.

A thumping sound evidencing the wily hare had come out of the thicket, Annyn gripped her bow tighter and edged slowly around the tree as her brother had taught her.

Though the scruffy little fellow had not fully emerged, he would soon. She tossed her head to clear the hair from her brow, raised her bow, and drew the nocked arrow to her cheek.

The hare lifted its twitchy nose.

Patience.
Annyn heard Jonas from two summers past. Would she hear his voice again?

Aye, she would see him when she journeyed to Wulfen Castle where he completed his squire's training with the mighty Baron Wulfrith, a man said to exercise considerable sway over the earl from whom he held his lands.

Annyn frowned as she pondered the Wulfrith name that brought to mind a snarling wolf, her imagining made more vivid by the terrible anger the man was said to possess. Since before William of Normandy had conquered England, the Wulfrith family had been known England to France for training boys into men, especially those considered seriously lacking. Though Jonas's missives spoke little of that training, all knew it was merciless.

The hare crept forward.

Hold!
Jonas’s voice, almost real enough to fan her cheek, made her smile, cracking the mud she had smeared on her face as her brother had also taught her to do.

She squeezed her eyes closed. Thirteen months since he had departed for Wulfen. Thirteen months in training with the feared Wulfrith who allowed no women within his walls. Thirteen months to make Jonas into a man worthy to lord the barony of Aillil that would be his as Uncle Artur's heir.

The hare thumped.

Annyn jerked, startling the creature into bounding from the thicket.

Follow, follow, follow!

She swung the arrow tip ahead of the hare and released.

With a shriek that made her wince as she did each time she felled one of God's creatures, the hare collapsed on a bed of muddy leaves.

Meat on the table
, Annyn told herself as she tramped to where her prey lay. Not caring that she dirtied her hose and tunic, she knelt beside it.

“Godspeed,” she said, hoping to hurry it to heaven though Father Cornelius said no such place existed for animals. But what did a man who did not know how to smile know of God's abode? She lifted the hare and tugged her arrow free. Satisfied to find tip and feathers intact, she wiped the shaft on her tunic and thrust the arrow into her quiver.

She stood. A catch of good size. Not that Uncle Artur would approve of her fetching meat to the table. He would make a show of disapproval, as he did each time she ventured to the wood, then happily settle down to a meal of hare pie. Of course, Annyn must first convince Cook to prepare the dish. But he would, and if she hurried, it could be served at the nooning meal. She slung the bow over her shoulder and ran.

If only Jonas were here, making me strain to match his longer stride. If only he were calling taunts over his shoulder. If only he would go from sight only to pounce upon me. Lord, I do not know what I will do if—

She thrust aside her worry with the reminder that, soon enough, she would have the assurance she sought. This very eve she would cut her mess of black hair, don garments Jonas had worn as a page, and leave under cover of dark. In less than a sennight, she could steal into Wulfen Castle, seek out her brother, and return to Aillil. As for Uncle Artur. . .

She paused at the edge of the wood and eyed Castle Lillia across the open meadow. Her disappearance would send dread through her uncle, but if she told him what she intended, he would not allow it.

She toed the damp ground. If he would but send a missive to Wulfen to learn how Jonas fared, this venture of hers need not be undertaken. However, each time she asked it of her uncle, he teased that she worried too much.

Movement on the drawbridge captured Annyn’s regard. A visitor? A messenger from Wulfen? Mayhap Jonas once more returned for willful behavior? She squinted at the standard flown by the rider who passed beneath the raised portcullis and gasped. It belonged to the Wulfriths!

Though the men on the walls usually called to Annyn and bantered over her frightful appearance, her name did not unfurl any tongues when she approached the drawbridge.

Ignoring her misgivings, she paused to seek out the bearded Rowan who, as captain of the guard, was sure to be upon the gatehouse. He was not, but William was.

She thrust the hare high. “Next time, boar!”

He did not smile. “My lady, hasten to the donjon. The Baron Wul—”

“I know! My brother is returned?”