Dreamspell (9 page)

The horse veered, once more snapping Kennedy’s head back against her escort’s chin. She yelped.

The knight shouted, then spewed words so charged with anger they tripped over one another in their haste to be the first to exit his mouth.

Feeling herself slipping, knowing the horse’s pounding hooves were her next stop in this nightmare, Kennedy grabbed for something to hold onto and came up with a handful of mane.

The horse careened, tossed its head, and reared. Then she was falling.

Now would be a good time to wake up.
Her only lifeline the coarse hair her fingers tangled around, she held on as she twisted and slammed against the horse. Then her feet hit the ground as the animal came back to earth.

Though she risked being trampled, she knew that if she held on she would be dragged. She thrust backward, landed on her rear, rolled to her back, and was spared the beast’s hooves by inches.

With a whinny, the horse galloped away.

Kennedy closed her eyes and let her aching muscles sink into the earth. It was a relief to feel the still ground beneath her. Though this dream had given her back her health, she tired of its gore, wild horse rides, uppity Lady Aveline, and temperamental “lord.”

“Lady Lark!”

In that moment, she would have welcomed a visit from an obnoxious salesman were he to awaken her from this dream.

Armor pealed its familiar chime, feet landed with a thud, and a warm hand felt for the pulse in her neck.

The louse probably had his fingers crossed in hopes she was dead. She opened her eyes. Before a scathing word could pass her lips, his hands felt downward—over her collarbone, around her ribs, then her hips.

Kennedy pushed onto her elbows. “I’m fine.”

He turned his gaze on her.

For an instant, she thought she might have mistaken him, but it was Wynland, a man transformed by moonlight that gentled his features and forgave him nearly every flaw—even the kink in his eyebrow.

“You are uninjured?”

Nothing felt broken, but she was one massive ache. “No thanks to you.”

His eyes caught the bare light and turned chill again. “Then let us delay no more.” He straightened and motioned someone forward.

When she saw who it was, she scrambled to her feet. “If you think I’m getting back on that horse”—she jabbed a finger toward the advancing knight—“think again!”

The knight dismounted and stepped before Wynland.

“Sir Malcolm, what befell you that the lady with whom you were entrusted lost the saddle?”

“Forgive me, my lord. In all my years in your service, never have I taken my duties without due seriousness.” He glanced at Kennedy. “The lady does not move with the horse, but against it such that my mount grew anxious. Thus, when we rounded the road, my horse reared. As the lady was sidesaddle, I was unable to keep hold of her.”

Sidesaddle because he wouldn’t have it any other way. Kennedy had tried to convince Sir Malcolm it would be better if she rode astride. Failing that, she had thrown a leg over the horse, but he had lifted her and plunked her down sideways. Maybe the next time he would listen to her. Not that there would be a next time.

“I shall deal with you later,” Wynland said.

As irked as Kennedy was, she feared for the knight, as her father had said those same words to her. Later, he had pared a willow branch and “tanned her hide,” criss-crossing her rear with welts. With Wynland, punishment was bound to be more harsh than a willow branch.

“Make ready to ride,” he ordered the knight and started for his own horse. “Come, Lady Lark.”

She hurried after him. “Mr. Wynland.”

His stride never broke.

“All right.
Lord
Wynland!” She caught his arm.

He halted, though only because he had reached his horse.

“What happened was my fault, not Sir Malcolm’s.”

“That I do not doubt.”

“Then why—?”

“Because he is a knight, a distinction attained through strength and stamina, courage and honor, blood and war. In giving you into his care, I asked little of him and, no matter the reason, he failed me. Thus, he will answer for his negligence.” He looked to her hand on him. “Now that I have explained myself, which I need not do, ‘tis time we continue our search.”

When he lifted her onto the horse, Kennedy untangled a leg from her skirt and swung it over the opposite side. Wynland didn’t oppose her refusal to ride sidesaddle, but mounted behind and settled his hard thighs alongside hers.

Kennedy looked over her shoulder. “You won’t. . .kill Sir Malcolm, will you?”

Dry laughter rumbled from him. “You are hardly precious to me, Lady Lark.”

It was the wake-up call she needed. Likely, his anger with the knight stemmed from her not having broken her neck.

Gripping her securely around the waist, Wynland spurred his horse into the night.

H
e liked her best in sleep. And what man would not? Unless, of course, the accusations in her eyes was replaced with passion, those on her lips captured by a meeting of mouths.

She drew a deep breath where she had curled against his chest when hours of discomfort and fatigue made her surrender to riding sidesaddle, and opened her eyes. They stared at each other.

Fulke felt it, was sure she felt it too, searched to put a name to the awareness that strained between them. Thirst, he decided, and not the kind eased with drink.

In the murk of dawn, a smile touched her mouth, but she blinked and it was gone. Once more, she looked at him as if he were the basest of men. Though she was but one among several who believed him responsible for his brother’s death, she had gone further in not only accusing him of the attack on her baggage train but of intending to harm John and Harold.

Curse her! He wanted her gone from Sinwell. As soon as Sir Arthur and the boys were found, he would ride to London to speak with Edward on the matter.

Lark straightened. “Where are we?”

“We have stopped to take food and water the horses.”

She looked to the others who remained mounted while their animals drank from the stream. “I’d like to stretch my legs.”

“You need to relieve yourself?”

“No.”

“Then you shall remain astride.”

Her chin came around. “In that case, I do need to
relieve
myself.”

“Then you will have to wait until we stop again.” As she sputtered, he reached behind, retrieved a bundle from one of his packs, and turned back the folded cloth. “Here.”

She stared at the hard biscuits and dried meat. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“As you will.” He bit into a biscuit.

“While you enjoy your meal, surely I can take a little walk?”

“Nay.”

She glared.

He reached for another biscuit. “Do not sulk. I abhor sullen women.”

“All the more reason I should sulk.”

Fulke was surprised to feel a smile at his mouth. “Methinks if you slept more, my lady, I might grow fond of you.”

“Pardon me?”

“Naught.” He offered the bundle again. “’Tis all there will be to eat until we arrive at Castle Cirque.”

“When will that be?”

“When we are done searching the neighboring villages.”

She muttered something beneath her breath.

“Do you not eat it, I shall,” he warned.

She snatched a piece of meat and a biscuit and turned her back to him.

Fulke smiled.

A
sunrise and three villages later, Kennedy lifted her face from the huddle of her hood and peered at the looming castle. It was smaller than Brynwood Spire. As she watched, the drawbridge descended with a creak of timber and a clatter of chains. “Castle Cirque?” she asked.

“Aye.”

The drawbridge touched down, the metal grate over the entrance rose, and a half dozen riders sprang from beneath it. Most conspicuous was the one who rode before the others—a woman, her blue dress and white veil fluttering. And she rode sidesaddle. As she and her escort neared, Kennedy saw she guided her horse with one hand, while the other supported what looked like a bird.

When the woman reined in before Wynland and his men, it was indeed a bird she held, but not of the garden variety. Its head was hidden beneath a hood topped with bright feathers, it wore bells on its legs, and was strapped to the woman’s gloved wrist.

“Welcome to Castle Cirque, Lord Wynland.”

Kennedy eyed the woman. A vision of blonde hair and twinkling brown eyes, full breasts and a teeny waist, she looked like a fairy tale princess—until she smiled, revealing yellowed teeth and receding gums. Did these people know nothing about oral hygiene?

The woman laid a hand on Wynland’s arm. “Pray, why did you not send word of your arrival that I might prepare for you?”

“’Twas not planned, Lady Jaspar.”

Was this woman mentioned in Mac’s book?

“I come with ill fortune upon my house,” Wynland said.

“What has happened, Fulke?”

How quickly she dispensed with formality, and how strange to hear Wynland called by something other than his surname, which in Kennedy’s mind better served his villainous character.

“John and Harold have been taken.”

“Taken?” Shrill disbelief caused the bird to turn its hooded head toward the woman. “By whom?”

“By the man Edward sent to protect them, Sir Arthur Crosley.”

A movement beyond the lady drew Kennedy’s gaze to a young man who sat tall in his saddle. As handsome as Lady Jaspar was beautiful, the marked resemblance was surely no coincidence—golden hair cut to his jaw, bright brown eyes, good cheekbones. A prince to Jaspar’s princess. But he did his sister one better when he smiled at Kennedy, revealing strong white teeth.

At last, a friendly face. She returned the smile.

“Why would Sir Arthur do such a thing?’ Lady Jaspar asked. “What gain for him?”

Kennedy returned her attention to the woman and saw she only had eyes for Wynland. Resisting the urge to pat herself to make sure she hadn’t turned invisible, Kennedy pushed the hood off her head.

“According to Lady Lark,” Wynland said, “he took the boys to protect them from me.”

Lady Jaspar broadened her horizons to include Kennedy. “You are Lady Lark?”

“I am.”

The self-assured woman of moments earlier twitched. “Excuse me if I am. . .surprised. Though I heard you were to be sent to care for John and Harold, I did not know you had arrived.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Pray, tell.”

“My. . .” Once again, Kennedy’s gaze was drawn to the young man. As if he also awaited an explanation, he leaned forward, gaze intent. “My baggage train was attacked.”

Lady Jaspar’s eyes widened. “’Tis true, Lord Wynland?”

“It is. Have you word of a knight traveling with two small boys?”

“I fear not.”

“Then I shall need all the men you can spare.”

“They are yours to command.”

This place was under his rule? It seemed so. Until, of course, Sinwell’s heir came of age. Not that either boy would.

“Come to my hall,” Lady Jaspar said, “While you and your men refresh yourselves, I will send garrison to the village to inquire if any have heard or seen anything unusual.”

“My thanks, Lady Jaspar, but we have already inquired.”

Her lids fluttered. “Still you will come inside, will you not?”

“Aye, though only long enough to rest ourselves and our mounts that we might set out again.”

There was no mistaking her disappointment. “As you will, my lord.” She looked beyond him and inclined her head. “Lord Cardell.”

“My lady.”

Lady Jaspar turned her horse and the young man fell in beside his sister. Together, they led the way to the castle.

When Wynland lifted Kennedy down from his horse, she was tempted to kiss the ground. And might have if not that she was so sore. Slowly, she followed Wynland and Lady Jaspar up a dozen steps and into a room that resembled Brynwood’s great hall, complete with hay on the floor.

Using her study of the room as an opportunity to rest her legs, she stepped to the side. Wynland’s men filed past, eager to accept the drink offered to them. As for the beauteous Lady Jaspar and Wynland, the two stood center, deep in conversation.

“Lady Lark.” The young man, whose looks were testament to the shared blood between him and his sister, halted alongside Kennedy.

“Yes?”

He gave a curt bow. “I am Sir Leonel Aimery, cousin to Lady Jaspar.”

Cousin. . . “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” How old was he? Twenty-five?

“May I?” he offered his arm.

“Certainly.”

“You are surely blessed to have survived the attack,” he said as he led her forward.

“I am. It was. . .” Memories of the carnage flashed before her. “It was horrid.”