Dreams of Stardust

by Lynn Kurland

  She took a deep breath. "Tomorrow. I will give you my answer tomorrow."

  "As you will," he said, looking less than satisfied, but perhaps he knew better than to press her.

  There was something to be said, she supposed, to living with a person for the greater part of your life.

  "I must go," she said, easing past him carefully and hastening for the door. She slammed the guard tower door behind her and ran for her bedchamber. She slammed that door as well, then threw the bolt home.

  She stood there with her chilly hands pressed against her cheeks, desperately unhappy and terrified by the choice she had been making for the whole of the day. But what else could she do?

  She could not marry her brother.

  She would not wait for a man who wasn't returning.

  She had to run.

  Evening was falling when she slipped down the stairs and through the great hall. Preparations for supper were commencing. None of her family was there, which allowed her to continue quickly on her way to the stables. She wore John's worst clothes under her dress so that she might more easily discard her identity in a stall and leave as just another peasant. Assuming she could get a horse out of the stables without question.

  She made her way inside without incident. The stableboy she had given a sovereign to during her last escape was there, but he quickly turned his back and busied himself with mucking out a stall. She flipped another coin in front of him and continued on her way.

  Her first choice of course was Jasper, but she knew he would not serve her. He would be marked as he left the gates and if he were marked, she would be marked as well. Nay, she would have to choose a lesser mount and hope he would suffice her.

  She shut herself in with one of her father's older, less spectacular bits of horseflesh, stripped off her gown, and donned a patched cloak. It took her even less time to saddle her horse and turn to let him out of the stall.

  She jumped when she saw Montgomery there, looking at her over the wooden door.

  "What are you doing?" he whispered.

  "You know what I'm doing," she said grimly.

  "Mandy, do not," he begged. "I will do anything—"

  "Give me your silence," she said. "Vow it."

  He balked.

  "Montgomery, I am for Seakirk Abbey. I will be safe there. You may come visit me there. But I will not realize my dream," and here she had to take a deep breath to give herself courage to spew out the rest of her line, "of being a sister of prayer if I cannot leave today. Before things worsen here."

  He clutched the top of the door with white fingers. "But, Mandy, nay—"

  "Nicholas has offered for me," she whispered fiercely. "What am I to do? Ruin his life as well? Allow me the pleasure of ruining my own and leaving his be."

  "But Jake—"

  "Is not returning," she said shortly. "Now, your silence, Montgomery. Vow it."

  He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded.

  "Say it."

  He took a very deep, shaky breath. "I vow it," he whispered.

  She opened the stall and pushed past him. But then, suddenly, she turned and threw her arms about him and hugged him so tightly he squeaked.

  "I love you," she whispered, then she turned and pulled her horse along behind her.

  She left the keep as nonchalantly as she could, unwilling to draw attention to herself. Not a soul called out to her. Not a soul sought to stop her.

  She had, at best, the whole of the night to travel.

  Nicholas would think she was praying in her chamber. Anne wouldn't trouble her for the same reason. Robin seemed to avoid her except when he met her in the lists and he wouldn't be expecting her until sunrise, so she was certainly safe there.

  And Montgomery, hopefully, would be as silent as the tomb.

  She rode quickly, without pausing, until sunrise. Even then, she only paused to water her horse, then continue on. She had no choice. They would know now that she was no longer in her chamber. They would never suspect her destination, so perhaps she had more time than she thought.

  But there was no point in taking a chance.

  So she rode as hard as she dared, making better time than she had dared hope. Two days only had passed before she saw it in the distance.

  Seakirk Abbey.

  The first rays of the sun were coming over the hill and alighting upon the bell tower. Surely that was an auspicious sign.

  Surely.

  It was her only hope.

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  Jake dragged his sleeve across his sweaty face and had a moment of déjà vu so intense that he swayed. It was hard to believe he wasn't standing in Artane's lists, facing Artane's heir, and getting the crap kicked out of him. He blinked and looked at his current swordmaster who stood there in biker shorts, an NBA tank-top, and high-tops. Kendrick, not Robin.

  Though when it came to the matter of swordplay, Jake really couldn't tell the difference.

  But at least this time he was in sweats and high-tops, not patched tights and boots that almost fit. He wiped more sweat off his face and smiled grimly at Kendrick.

  "When did you first pick up a sword?"

  "I was three," Kendrick said. "I might have been two. For all I know, I was an infant when I first held one. Honestly, I don't remember a time where I wasn't with one to hand." He smiled. "I have a few years practice on you and, as I said before, I am my father's son."

  "No kidding," Jake said, with feeling.

  "You'll make it," Kendrick said. "Sword skill is a good thing to have. It doesn't matter the century; the ability to kill a man with a single thrust is always in fashion."

  Jake snorted, dragged his sleeve across his face a final time, then lifted his sword. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's keep going."

  "With pleasure," Kendrick said. "Now, as I was saying before, you want to keep the sharp end pointed away from you toward your enemy. This is very important."

  "Shut up," Jake said, taking up a fighting stance. And it occurred to him as he sparred with Amanda's to-be-born nephew, that he was becoming used to the work. Admittedly, he'd been sore and quite weak initially, but after several days of good rest and exercise, he was almost completely back to himself.

  That same had given him, along with a chance to recuperate, answers to several important questions.

  Was he dead? Legally, yes.

  Were the accounts his father knew of closed? Yes, quite.

  Was his business in probate? Yes, with his father's lawyers frantically trying to find a way to change Jake's will so Penelope would get nothing and Jackson III everything.

  And Jake's trust fund? In Jackson III's back pocket.

  Had his father been behind his incarceration? Absolutely.

  Were III's goons still looking for him? Furiously.

  Jake knew this personally because they'd been at Seakirk the afternoon before. Kendrick had allowed the men in the gates and gone so far as to meet them at the door and invite them in. Kendrick had also allowed several of his own lads into the great hall for a little display of paranormal action that had left even III's hardened punks shaking. Kendrick had ignored any and all activity going on around him, apparently giving the men the impression that they were out of their minds.

  They had left, unsatisfied and undone.

  Jake knew that his window for action was approaching and wouldn't be open long. He would have to have everything perfectly planned and execute it with like perfection or he was, as one of Kendrick's eldest sons continually said, "Toast, dude."

  Gideon's brother-in-law was set to arrive at Seakirk that afternoon with a briefcase full of legal maneuvers that would make even the most hardened businessman feel the specter of jail-time looming over him. Alexander Smith was apparently not one you wanted to face over any kind of conference table. Jake was very grateful to have the man on his side.

  And speaking of sides, Jake had to jump sideways to avoid having his ribs tickled by Kendrick's blade.

  "Nice," Ke
ndrick said approvingly. "But real knights don't jump; they anticipate."

  "I was distracted."

  " 'Distraction means death,' " Kendrick quoted. He smiled. "My father."

  "That sounds like your father."

  Kendrick rested his sword on his shoulder and looked at Jake thoughtfully. "What was he like? As a young man?"

  "Quite a bit like you, actually," Jake said honestly. "He was very funny, though I don't suppose he meant to be. Impossibly earnest. Very confident."

  "Arrogant," Kendrick corrected.

  Jake shook his head. "Very cognizant of his abilities. And considering his abilities, I think he was actually quite modest. He couldn't help being the best in England."

  Kendrick laughed. "He indoctrinated you well, I see."

  "I suppose," Jake agreed with a smile. He paused and smiled again. "I left him with a lot to think about, but he didn't blink. He was, for the short time I knew him, a good friend. He was very generous with his time, very protective of his younger siblings, and very much in love with your mother." Jake smiled at Kendrick. "If I could have chosen a brother, I would have chosen Robin de Piaget. He was a good man. Still is, depending on your perspective." He shivered. "Time is a strange thing."

  "It is," Kendrick agreed. He paused. "Thank you for that. 'Tis not necessary to know, but welcome just the same."

  "My pleasure," Jake said, then he jumped as Sir Stephen materialized nearby. Damn it, would he ever get used to it? Probably not, which was why he was better at time-traveling than living with ghosts.

  He shook his head at the improbability of either.

  "What is it, my friend?" Kendrick asked.

  "The lawyer is approaching," Sir Stephen said. "Shall he enter?"

  "Aye," Kendrick said, resheathing his sword. "Come, Jake. We'll await him inside."

  Jake followed Kendrick into the house, laid his sword on the high table, and gratefully had a drink of cold, clear water. He supposed that might be something he would miss at some point. Medieval castle water wasn't bad, but it couldn't have been all that great or they wouldn't have made so much of it into ale or wine. He finished his glass and poured more. Nice, but not necessary.

  Well worth the trade.

  The door opened a short time later and a tall, well-built, dark-haired man walked in, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. The only concession to lawyerishness was the briefcase he carried. Worthington led him to the high table.

  "Alexander, Earl of Falconberg," he intoned.

  Jake blinked. "I thought your name was Alex Smith."

  Alex held out his hand to Jake. "Falconberg's my alter ego," he said. "Call me Alex. You're Jake, I assume."

  "I am."

  Alex turned to Kendrick. "My lord," he said with a deferential nod. "I feel quite privileged to be inside Seakirk's gates."

  "One of the chosen few, my lord Alexander," Kendrick said with a smile. "Come and take your ease with us. Worthington, something strengthening?"

  Jake sat and watched Kendrick and Alex get acquainted. Falconberg wasn't all that far south, he supposed, and he wondered why the two had never met before at some sort of nobility function.

  Kendrick's boys ran over and around their father, finally obtaining enough of his attention that Kendrick excused himself briefly to give them a friendly wrestle. Jake was left with Alex at the high table.

  "Gideon says you have an interesting story," Jake said, helping himself to more water. "And that you're related somehow?"

  "His wife Megan is related to my sister Elizabeth's husband Jamie," Alex said with a smile, "through a rather convoluted family tree. We're a happy bunch in spite of it though." He pushed his briefcase back a little, had a drink, then turned to face Jake. "You seem to have yourself quite a legal tangle here to unravel."

  "Are you good at tangles?"

  "They're my specialty," Alex said. "We'll begin unraveling in a minute. First I want to know where you got such a nice sword." He nodded at Jake's blade, lying on the table.

  "A woman made it for me."

  "Not many women these days have a good eye for blades," Alex said conversationally. "She must be something."

  Jake paused and wondered what he could say that wouldn't sound as if he'd lost his mind. He hadn't actually talked to Alex yet; they had conducted most of their business via fax and Iliad's secure e-mail connections. He had given Alex all the details he could without giving him the most critical one of all, which was why he needed to get himself back into the land of the living so he could travel back in time.

  To that woman who did indeed have a very good eye for a blade.

  Well, there was no time like the present to lay all his cards out on the table.

  Jake took a deep breath. "You know that my father had me declared legally dead, and when I showed up awhile later had me committed against my will."

  "So I gathered from your e-mails. He sounds like a great guy."

  "He's a real prince," Jake agreed. "But I probably should explain where I was during those weeks before he had his goons pick me up and medicate me."

  "That might be useful," Alex agreed.

  "You're not going to believe this," Jake said slowly, "and if I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe it either." He paused, but Alex only continued to look at him with that polite expression of mild interest. Well, there was no time like the present to just plunge right in. "I ran off the road and woke up in 1227."

  Alex's expression didn't change. "I see."

  Jake waited, but Alex said nothing more. "Thirteenth century England," Jake said slowly and distinctly.

  "I heard you."

  "Well?" Jake demanded. "Aren't you going to question my sanity?"

  "Well," Alex said slowly, with a smile, "that is an awfully medieval looking sword over there."

  "I went back in time," Jake said, trying again. "To medieval England."

  "I understood the first time," Alex said.

  "And you don't think I'm nuts?"

  Alex smiled. "Where do you think I got my title?"

  It took a moment or two to take in the full import of those words. Jake felt his jaw sliding south. He supposed he should have been used to the impossible by now, but apparently there was still room for surprise. "You're kidding," he managed.

  "My sister is married to a medieval Scottish laird who no longer resides in medieval Scotland," Alex said with a deep smile. "I was wandering around on his land, foolishly ignoring his warnings that I might find myself in another century if I weren't careful. I took a wrong step and wound up back in the late twelfth century."

  "You're kidding."

  "I never kid about time travel," Alex said seriously.

  "And your title?" Jake asked. No sense in not getting to the really pertinent part of the story as quickly as possible.

  "It was a tournament prize of sorts," Alex said. "Along with my wife, as well."

  "You fought in a tournament and won," Jake said, torn between amazement and dreadful hope.

  "It's not as miraculous as it sounds," Alex said with a shrug. "I'd trained with my brother-in-law and could hold my own fairly well, even by medieval Scottish standards. I had to learn to joust, of course, and wearing mail was a royal pain in the butt. But it was doable." He looked at Jake. "I can't imagine you're just putting time in out in the lists for the fun of it."

  Jake shook his head. "Not that it isn't fun, but I have a more serious purpose. There is a woman—"

  "There always is," Alex said with a laugh. "The one who made you the sword?"

  "The very same. And believe me, she's worth some agony in the lists." Jake paused. "I have a little problem, though."

  "Let me guess," Alex said. "You fell in love with a titled woman and there's no way you can have her unless you have a title yourself."

  "Well—"

  "And to get a title you either need to impress the powers that be with your knightly prowess, or with a big bucket of gold sovereigns."

  Jake pursed his lips. "That about sums it up."
>
  "Been there, got lucky and didn't have to pony up any cash—which was a good thing because I didn't have any with me. Which is also a good thing because my wife's ancestral home is a money pit and I need it all now to make the repairs."

  "Sounds expensive."

  "It is." Alex sat back in his chair, holding onto his mug of tea. "Your father must have been greatly surprised to have you show back up."

  "I'm sure he was. But he obviously had made preparations for the potential fly in the ointment."

  "He has good lawyers."

  Jake looked at him seriously. "How good?"

  "Very good," Alex said. "Lucky for you, I'm better."

  "Are you?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Good, because my father is the most unscrupulous, greedy man you'd ever want to meet."

  "I know the type," Alex assured him, "and I've crushed more than my share of them."

  Jake didn't doubt it, and he didn't doubt it because he knew. He'd done his homework as well. Once he'd gotten Alex's name from Gideon, he'd made a few phone calls and found that Alex had been, in his glory days before becoming a US ex-pat, a ferocious corporate attorney with a reputation for raiding that had earned him either unwavering loyalty or intense hatred.

  Jake's kind of guy.

  "Well, what do we do?" Jake asked. "Short of kidnapping him and holding him against his will—no, wait, that's what he did to me. Let's find something more original for him."

  Alex grinned. "Oh, I have something in mind. There's a stockholder's meeting for his UK holdings here in our very own little London in two weeks. I say you make an unannounced visit. It's difficult to deny your existence in front of five hundred witnesses. I have a guy who can hack into his slide show and show off some pertinent documents. I always find visual aids to be so helpful in these sorts of situations."

  "Some press coverage might be useful as well. Can you help with that?" Jake asked.

  "Of course. I'm a full service attorney." Alex smiled modestly. "I can find a hungry investigative reporter or two. Of course, they'll still be hungry after the meeting and wonder why in the world you're liquidating all your assets to buy medieval coins, but maybe you can come up with a reason for that."