Into the Dreaming (3 page)

And it was
him
. Her dream man.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, then opened them slowly.

It was still him. Each detail precisely as she’d dreamed him, from his powerful forearms and oh-so-capable hands to his luminous aqua eyes, to his silky dark hair and his sensual mouth.

How she would have loved living in medieval times, with a man like him!

Beneath his likeness, carefully stitched, was his name. “Aedan MacKinnon,” she whispered.

Mortals did not bide captivity in Faery well—they did not age and time stretched into infinity—and Aedan MacKinnon was no exception. It took a mere two hundred years of being
imprisoned in ice, coupled with the king’s imaginative tortures, for the Highlander to forget who he’d once been. The king devoted the next two centuries to brutally training and conditioning him.

He educated the Highlander in every language spoken and instructed him in the skills, customs, and mores of each century so that he might move among mankind in any era without arousing suspicion. He trained him in every conceivable weapon and manner of fighting and endowed him with special gifts.

During the fifth and final century, the king dispatched him frequently to the mortal realm to dole out one punishment or another. Eradicating the mortal’s confounded sense of honor had proven impossible, so the king utilized dark spells to compel his obedience during such missions, and if the conflict caused the mortal immeasurable pain, the king cared not. Only the end result interested the Unseelie king.

After five centuries, the man who’d once been known as Aedan MacKinnon had no recollection of his short span of thirty years in the mortal realm long ago. He no longer knew that he was mortal himself and did not understand why his king was banishing him there now.

But the king knew he owned his Vengeance only once he had fulfilled all the terms of the original agreement—the agreement the Highlander had long ago forgotten. In accordance with that agreement, the king was forbidden to coerce him with magic or instruction of any kind: Vengeance was to have his month at Dun Haakon, free of the king’s meddling.

Still, the king could offer a few suggestions … suggestions he knew his well-trained Vengeance would construe as
direct orders. After informing Vengeance—to whom time had little meaning—that the year was 1428, refreshing his knowledge of the proper customs of the century, and giving him a weighty pouch of gold coin, the Unseelie king “suggested,” choosing his words carefully:

“Your body will have needs in the mortal realm. You must eat, but I would suggest you seek only bland foods.”

“As you will it, my liege,” Vengeance replied.

“The village of Kyleakin is near the castle wherein you’ll reside. It might be best that you go there only to procure supplies and not dally therein.”

“As you will it, my liege.”

“Above all else, it would be unwise to seek the company of female humans or permit them to touch you.”

“As you will it, my liege.” A weighty pause, then, “Must I leave you?”

“It is for but a short time, my Vengeance.”

Vengeance took a final look at the land he found so beautiful. “As you will it, my liege,” he said.

Jane studied the tapestry, running her fingers over it, touching his face, wondering why she’d never thought to try to create a likeness of him before. What a joy it was to gaze upon him in her waking hours! She wondered where it had come from, why it had been delivered to her, if it meant he
really
existed out there somewhere. Perhaps, she decided, he’d lived long ago, and this tapestry had been his portrait, handed down from generation to generation. It looked as if it had been lovingly cared for over the centuries.

Still, that didn’t explain how or why it had been sent to
her
. She’d never told anyone about the strange recurring dreams of her Highlander. There was no logical explanation for the tapestry’s arrival. Baffled, she shook her head, scattering the troubling questions from her mind, and gazed longingly at his likeness.

Funny, she mused, she’d been dreaming about him for forever, but until now she had never known his last name. He’d been only Aedan and she only Jane.

Their dream nights had been void of small talk. Theirs had been a wordless love—the quietly joyous joining of two halves of a whole. No need for questions, only for the dancing and the loving and, one day not too far off, babies. Their love transcended the need for language. The language of the heart was unmistakable.

Aedan MacKinnon
. She rolled the name over and over in her mind.

She wondered and wished and ached for him, until at last, she rested her cheek against his face, curled up, and tenderly kissed his likeness. As she drifted into dreams—in that peculiar moment preceding deep sleep that always felt to Jane like falling—she thought she heard a silvery voice softly singing. The words chimed clearly, echoing in her mind:

And then she thought no more, swept away on a tide of dreams.

W
HEN JANE AWAKENED THERE WAS A KITTEN DRAPED ACROSS
her neck, napping. Paws buried in her curly hair, it kneaded and purred deliriously, its tiny body thrumming with pleasure.

She blinked, trying to wake up.
Had there been a kitten in the box, too?
she wondered, petting its silky belly, feeling terribly guilty for failing to notice it earlier. How had it breathed in the box? Poor thing must be starved! She thought she might have some tuna in the pantry to give the little tyke. Stretching gingerly, she lifted the tiny creature off her neck and rolled over onto her side.

And shrieked.

“L-L-
Lake!
” she sputtered. “There’s a lake in my bedroom!” Three feet away from her. Deep blue and gently lapping at the shore. The shore that she’d been sleeping on.

Stunned, she sat up, performing a frantic mental check.
Bedroom, gone. Apartment, gone. Tapestry, gone. Kitten, here. Nightie—

Gone.

“I am
so
not in the mood for an inadequacy dream,” Jane hissed.

Purple flowery stuff. Here. Castle. Here.

Castle?

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. The kitten mewed and gave her an insistent head-butt, demanding more belly rubbing. She clutched the tiger-striped kitten and gaped at the castle. It looked very much like the castle she visited in her dreams, except this castle was in near ruin; a mere quarter of it stood undamaged.

“I’m still sleeping,” she whispered. “I’m just dreaming that I woke up, right?” She would have been only mildly surprised had the kitten bared pearly teeth and cheekily replied.

But it didn’t, so, cradling its tiny body, she rose and started walking toward the castle, wincing as her bare feet padded across stones. She tried to imagine herself some dream clothes and shoes, but it didn’t work.
So much for controlling one’s subconscious
, she thought. As she gazed at the portion of the castle still intact—a square central tower abutted by one wing that sported a smaller round tower—her gaze was caught by a dark flutter atop the walls. As she watched, the flutter became a shirt, the shirt a shoulder, the shoulder a man.

Her
man.

She stood motionless, gazing up.

Vengeance could not fathom what had driven him to climb to the top of the tower. He’d intended to sit in the hall of the
strange castle, eating only enough to survive, gazing at nothing, waiting to return to his king, but moments ago he’d felt an overwhelming compulsion to go outside. Being outside, however, was disconcerting—no cool shadows and ice but riotous color and heat—so he’d climbed instead to the walk atop the tower, where he felt less besieged by the foreign landscape.

And there she stood—the lass.

Bare as she’d been fashioned.

Something low in his gut twisted. Mayhap the cold, hard bread he’d eaten, he decided.

Distantly, he acknowledged her beauty. Flames of curly red hair framed a delicate porcelain face, tumbled down her back, and fell in ringlets over her breasts … breasts full and high and pink-tipped.

Legs of alabaster and rose; slender of ankle, generous of thigh. More shimmering red curls where they met. For a moment, he suffered an inexplicable inability to draw his gaze higher.

But only for a moment.

She clutched a tiny kitten to her breasts, and he had another strange moment, considering the wee beastie’s lush perch, assailed by a vague and distant recollection.

It eluded him.

Unseelie females were icy creatures, with thin limbs and chill bodies.

Yet this woman didn’t look icy. Nor slim. But full and generously rounded and soft and … warm.

It would be unwise to seek out the company of female humans or permit them to touch you
, his king had ordered.

Vengeance turned his back and left the tower walk.

Jane’s mouth opened and shut a dozen times while he stood at the top of the tower gazing down at her. He’d disappeared without a word. As if he didn’t even know her! As if they hadn’t been dream lovers for nearly forever!

As if she wasn’t even standing there in all her glory, which—if one believed the love words he’d whispered in her dreams—was considerable.

Well
, Jane Sillee thought irritably,
if he thinks this is a dream breakup, he’s got another thought coming
.

I
T WAS A LITTLE DIFFICULT TO CONVINCINGLY STOMP
into a castle nude, even in a dream.

One fretted about things like cellulite and what one’s bare foot might stomp upon.

So Jane succeeded only, despite her righteous ire, in slinking into the castle, looking rather uncertain and, if her nipples were a weathervane, noticeably chilled.

He was sitting before the empty hearth, staring into it. She gazed at the fireplace wistfully, longing for a fire. It might be summer outside, but it was cold within the damp stone walls. Ever chivalrous in her dreams, he would surely accommodate her slightest wish and build a fire.

It occurred to her then that she’d never been cold in one of her dreams before. She filed the thought away for future consideration. There was something very odd about this dream.

“Aedan,” she said softly.

He didn’t move a muscle.

“Aedan, my love,” she tried again. Perhaps he was in a bad mood, she thought, perplexed, although he’d never been in a bad mood in any of her dreams before, but she supposed there was a first time for everything. Was he angry at her for something? Had she popped in after committing some dream transgression?

He still didn’t move or respond.

“Excuse me,” she said not so sweetly, circling around in front of him, using the love-starved kitten as a shawl of sorts, feeling suddenly insecure, wondering what to cover, her breasts or her … Well, maybe he wouldn’t look down.

He looked down.

When she lowered the mewing kitten, he looked up.

“That’s not fair,” she said, blushing. “Lend me your shirt.” This was not unfolding like one of her dreams at all. Ordinarily, she didn’t mind being nude with him because they were either making love in bed, or in a pile of freshly mown hay, or in a sweet, clear loch, or on a convenient table, but now he was fully clothed, and something was way off-kilter. “Please.” She extended her hand.

When he shrugged, stood up, and began unlacing his linen shirt, her breath caught in her throat. When he raised one arm over his head, grabbed the nape of his shirt in a fist, and tugged it over his head, she swallowed hard. “Oh,
Aedan
,” she breathed. Gorgeous. He was simply flawless, with supple muscles rippling in his arms, his chest, and his taut abdomen. She’d kissed every smooth ripple in her dreams. The sheer,
visceral beauty of her Highlander hit her like a fist in the stomach, making her knees weak.

“I know not why you persist in addressing me by that appellation. I am Vengeance,” he said, his voice like a blade against rough stone.

Jane’s mouth popped open in an “O” of surprise. “Vengeance?” she echoed blankly, round-eyed. Then, “This
is
a dream, isn’t it, Aedan?” It was quite different from her usual dream. In her dreams everything was soft-focus and fuzzed around the edges, but now things were crystal clear.

A little too clear, she thought, frowning as she glanced around.

The interior of the castle was an absolute mess. Grime and soot stained the few furnishings, and cobwebs swayed from the rafters. There was no glass in the windows, no draperies, no sumptuous tapestries, no luxurious rugs. A lone rickety chair perched before a dilapidated table that tilted lopsidedly before an empty hearth. No candles, no oil globes. It was spartan, gloomy, and downright chilly.

He pondered her question a moment. “I doona know what dreams are.” There was only existing as he had always known it. Shadows and ice and his king. And pain sometimes, pain beyond fathoming. He’d learned to avoid it at all cost. “But I am not who you think.”