Crystal Dreams

by Astrid Cooper

  He put a finger to her lips. “You are not immune to the stirrings of passion in the real world, Liandra. I see that only too well.”

  Liandra caught the shift in emotions even before his smile became a frown. His thoughts intruded. Did her blood race for him? Or for another? One of the men in the exercise hall? Which of his clansmen? The dark veil of his jealousy and anger swept between them, severing the mental link. Liandra stared up at him, momentarily disoriented.

  Connal glared at her, then turned on his heel and stalked down the passageway.

  In silent fury, amid confusion, Liandra watched him, mortified to the depths of her being that Connal MacArran indeed had the right of it. Again! She did really need to cool off. That sensation within her was one thing, and one thing only. Desire! She cursed it and herself. How she'd fought to dispel it, because every time he was near her resolve was completely undone. Did he do it to her on purpose? Or was it some alien chemistry of his that affected her so? Her meditations had always worked in the past, but not so of late when it came to Connal.

  That was it, she decided. Alien chemistry undermining her. She breathed a sigh of relief. So simple an explanation she'd missed it entirely. Now she understood, she would be able to deal with him; avoid him when and where possible.

  Liandra shook herself from her musings. For a moment she couldn't recall where she had been going before the noise had diverted her. Then she remembered and hurried along the passageway.

  Pausing at the entrance to the solar, she smoothed down her hair, trying to regain her composure.

  As one, the women looked up at her arrival, smiling in welcome as she joined their sewing circle.

  “You are never late, what have you been doing? Your face is flushed,” Fianna remarked, returning her concentration to her embroidery.

  “I forgot the time,” Liandra said. “I was hurrying to get here.” They weren't exactly lies. She flushed anew at Fianna's sidelong gaze.

  Liandra took her customary place in the solar. The group met every second afternoon, ostensibly for sewing, though as they worked, they gossiped and drank tea and ate the tiny cakes which Amilia baked with her own hands. The small gathering had grown ever larger with more and more women and girls coming to the solar.

  Theirs was an easy camaraderie that Liandra enjoyed. Despite her many attempts, she could not master the intricacies of the embroidery, which every Caledonian female learned from a young age. Sewing was beyond her, though she could knit clumsily. Her first efforts ended in disaster, but no one laughed at her. Fianna had written out the knitting instructions in picture form, so she could follow a simple pattern.

  Bronnia sat beside Liandra. “See, look what I did.” She held out a small embroidered patch. Some of the stitches were askew.

  Liandra hugged her small friend. “That's very good, Bronni. Much better than I could ever do."

  “Need to practice more,” Bronnia replied.

  “She has the right of it,” Fianna said, and the sewing circle laughed.

  “Tell us about the women of the League, Liandra,” Anya said.

  “Aye, do!” several voices chorused.

  Liandra smiled at their insatiable curiosity. She was always besieged with questions. “There are many different female species."

  “Well, what about their clothes? Are they like yours?"

  Fianna chuckled, and Liandra cast her a stern gaze.

  “Yes, they mostly prefer a suit, such as I—I used to wear, for it can accommodate many different shapes. It allows for easy movement, unlike your stifling garments.” She flicked her fingers disdainfully over the robes she now wore. She had the dressmaker adapt them for her by raising the hem to ankle height, and had panels of fabric removed to allow greater maneuverability.

  “'Tis only for your own good, Liandra, that Connal insisted you wear our clothes. If you kept to your flimsy suits, you would freeze to death.” Fianna giggled. “Though some of the other men are most disappointed by your new attire."

  The women laughed as Liandra grimaced.

  “And you paint your face as we, only I never see you touch your make-up. How so?"

  “My styling servitor tints my skin with special treatments every three months. It can also change the color of my hair."

  “It was green when I first met you,” Fianna remarked.

  “I alter it according to my mood."

  “And how long does it take?"

  “An outrageous amount of time, because I have older servitors. Five minutes."

  The women roared with laughter.

  “What's so funny?"

  “It takes you five minutes, once every three months. For us, daily, it takes at least twenty."

  “Daily? Seven Stars! What a business! It's so primitive!"

  “Primitive is it? When after three months, here, Liandra, you will also have to...” Fianna gasped. “Oh, I am so sorry, I did not..."

  Liandra smiled sadly and touched Fianna's wrist. “I'll manage."

  For a time they concentrated on their sewing. Liandra became aware of several of the younger women whispering together, prodding each other.

  “Go on, Esme, ask her!"

  Esme's face flamed crimson as the women looked at her.

  “Go on!” An elbow to her ribs made Esme flinch, though she still remained silent.

  “What would you ask of me?” Liandra enquired.

  “Tell us about off-worlder men."

  Liandra smiled. She wondered how long it would take for someone to dare raise that question! “I..."

  “Oh aye, do!” Connal drawled behind her.

  Liandra turned in her seat to see him with his arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. He was dressed in fresh clothes, she was relieved to see. No bare flesh to torment her, though in his hip-hugging kilt and chest-clinging jerkin, he may as well be unclothed. Because his presence had the same tantalizing effect on her whether he was nude, disheveled or immaculate. Blast his alien chemistry!

  “Well, Counselor, do inform us. You are blushing again. Surely you are not shy? You have been asked a question, so best answer it.”

  Though his words and their delivery were done in a light-hearted manner, Liandra had a feeling he was baiting her. She was trapped. Again.

  The women bent to their sewing, eyes firmly on their swiftly moving fingers.

  Liandra cleared her throat. “There are many male life-forms. Though they aren't as barbarous as the men of this world. Here women are treated as slaves..."

  The sewing circle erupted with denials.

  “MacArran clansmen are renown for their tolerance of their women-folk,” Fianna said. “They are mindful of the honor they must accord us. Stubbornly mindful!”

  “Stubborn is right!” Liandra agreed, directing her gaze to Connal.

  “You were telling us about League men. Do continue!” he said.

  “League men are civilized. They allow women to share government, for instance. They regard women as equals in all ways."

  “And I presume such extends to the bed room? Do they prefer a position above or beneath?” Connal laughed to hear the shocked gasps of his women-folk. Needles flew even faster through fabric.

  Liandra felt her face redden. “That depends on the species and personal preference."

  “Further enlighten me, witch. It must be very entertaining to have so many positions at one's fingertips. Or perhaps I should say tentacle? Or claw?"

  Liandra shrugged. “Claw, tentacle, hand. It makes no difference to me."

  “Of that I have no doubt. Come with me. Please.” That last, added hastily, and somewhat mockingly, she thought as she put down her knitting.

  Following him along the corridor, he opened the first door he came to and drawing her inside the room, he closed the door sharply behind her. She stepped back as Connal turned to her.

  “I have asked you before not to tell my clan about the League."

  “I only tell them about the people, not the science."

  “You
make them wonder and perhaps yearn for things like your servitors. We have no need of such. Our world works well without such baubles."

  “So you say! You keep your people in servitude and drudgery."

  “Would you prefer it that we became as you? Enslaved by machines and unable to wash one's own hair without the aid of a mechanical servitor?”

  “I can tend, quite proficiently, to my own needs."

  “Practice makes perfect, does it?” He eyed her warningly. “Keep your world to yourself. My people enjoy honest work, they are not slaves to any creature, or thing."

  “Technology is not evil, it's what a man does with it that makes it so."

  “Exactly!” Connal snapped.

  “Do you have so little faith in your ability to control machines that you spurn them completely?"

  Connal frowned. “We do everything a machine can, and more!"

  “We have had this argument before."

  “And with the same result,” Connal remarked dryly. “Caledonia survives well enough, even if it is primitive by your standards. ’Tis our choice. You always tell me the League offers choices. This is ours."

  Liandra stared up at him, stunned. “Very well, I accept your right to live by your own code. I may not approve of it, but to deny your right to choose, it's one of the worst crimes in the League Worlds Charter. I have lived by that Charter all my life.” She paused. “You've taken from me my right to live as I choose."

  “Aye. I have tried to make allowances."

  “Very small concessions."

  “At least I have tried. And my world is not as barbarous as you once believed."

  “I'm surprised by your level of sophistication. It's contrary to what I know of primitive cultures."

  “We are not what you expected?"

  “No."

  And it was true. The more Liandra came to see the workings of the castle, the more it didn't make sense. They weren't primitive, choosing instead to use natural, non-mechanical alternatives when and where they could. Power was obtained from solar panels. Barbarians pillaged and polluted their world, yet Connal's people respected it and used only what was necessary. Most of their wastes were re-cycled.

  “Do you admit you were wrong about us, then? This is a rare occasion! Perhaps I should sit down before I faint with surprise!"

  Liandra bit her lip to stop from laughing. “Savor the moment, Connal MacArran.”

  Connal chuckled. “Liandra, for you, a concession. I know how difficult it must be for you to keep silent when so many question you about the League, so I will trust you to be selective in what you tell them. Besides, does not the remembering cause you pain?"

  “Sometimes. Though often it is a comfort to share remembrances."

  Connal raised her chin. “Aye. I remember something very pleasant, and would experience it again. Solely to satisfy my curiosity, you understand."

  Before Liandra could stop him, he had taken her into his arms and kissed her. A soft kiss, which electrified her. She struggled against his embrace. That only made his kiss more intense. Though he held her gently, she could not escape. She made a token effort to break free, before she breathed in his scent. That unique exotic mixture of male arousal tore at her resolve to remain detached from his caress. She was vanquished by him. She clung to him and parted her lips, allowing his tongue to enter her mouth.

  Deeper and deeper, she allowed him to drink from her. She felt herself edged back against the door. His thigh between hers half lifted her from the floor. As loin pressed to loin, she felt his tautness. In response, her nipples hardened and throbbed. With a will of its own, her body tightened in anticipation. Sweet tension spiraled from her feminine core to race through her. She ran her hand up his spine, knotting her fingers in his hair, holding his head to hers, so she could explore his mouth leisurely. She wanted more of him. Her body clamored for it. Against her mouth, he drew a deep, ragged breath. It was the worst form of desolation, when moments later, she was lifted gently, but firmly, away.

  “You see what you do to a man?” he asked, his husky voice trembling. “Even now properly attired, you still...” Connal shook his head as if to clear it. “I find the reality of you, now, even sweeter than when we first met, Counselor.” His hand cupped her shoulder, gently kneading.

  Liandra ran a finger over her lips, shocked and surprised at her own reactions. Her body wanted this barbarian, though intellectually she must reject him. Seven Stars! She suppressed every feminine urge within her, in an effort to regain control. She must fight this attraction. For Connal MacArran was a man who could never be the lover she needed. She had to tell him that, even if her body played traitor to her mind.

  “I find it just as disgusting as the first time,” she hissed.

  She saw Connal's amusement and desire flee, leaving in their place anger and ice. Cold fury swept through his body. “Disgust? It was not from disgust that ground your body against mine. Am I mistaken? Dare you tell me you prefer Angas's embrace to mine? Well?”

  The savagery of his voice was terrifying. Shocked, she saw the murderous gleam in his eyes.

  “By your silence, I have my answer! ’Tis a pity you prefer a boy when you could have a man. But you have made your choice. I hope you are happy with your scrawny bed-fellow.” He wrenched the door open and strode down the corridor.

  Liandra watched, relieved, as he all but ran from her. If he had continued to kiss her like that, no telling what she might have done, or what he might have asked of her. And her answer would have been—she knew only too well. At the thought of having him love her, she trembled. From desire? Fear? A mixture of the two? She was too confused to be certain. Safer to let him think her affections were elsewhere, than run the risk of him forcing himself upon her.

  Force himself on her? Liandra laughed. Connal would not have to coerce her. One kiss from him and her body thrummed with fire. She was ready to give all to him. But she could not, dare not, for he was incapable of giving her the love she required. Yet if that was so, why did she feel such pain? Such regret?

  Unaccountably, tears came to her eyes and she rested her forehead against the door. If only, Connal. If only...

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Liandra heard a muffled voice, followed by a shrill wail, coming from inside the empty storeroom. Pushing open the door, she froze in horror to see Bronnia crouched in a corner. Her uncle stood over her, holding in his raised hand a thin whip.

  “Stop this at once!"

  Fraser MacLeod glanced over his shoulder. “'Tis nothing you need be concerned with. She is punished for hiding from me."

  “Little wonder she hides from you, if you take a strap to her."

  “Mind your own business, else I will take the thong to you.” He raised his whip.

  Liandra strode up to him, wrenching his arm back. Deflected, the belt flicked across her chest and shoulder. She gasped in pain.

  “'Tis all right, Liandra...” Bronnia whimpered and buried her face in her hands, again curling in a fetal position awaiting the next stroke.

  “It is not all right!” Liandra dragged Bronnia to her and shielding the child with her own body, she stepped backwards to the door.

  “You bitch!” Fraser MacLeod propelled himself across the room. Before he could reach them, Liandra scooped up the child in her arms and ran as fast as she could down the corridor, down a long flight of steps. She rounded a corner and ran headlong into Vanora and a party of women cleaning the hallway.

  “Hold the witch and the brat!” Fraser's cry echoed about the walls.

  Hands reached out, but Liandra wrenched herself free, and putting Bronnia behind her, she confronted her enemies. Two women detached themselves from the main group and ran away.

  “Time, witch, to sample the punishment Connal denies you. And I will be just the one to give it to you!” Vanora hissed.

  Liandra tossed her head. “Have a care. I'm a witch and I'll cast a shriveling spell on the first one to lay a hand on me, or Bronnia."

 
Vanora laughed. “Spare me your cursing. You have no such power."

  “Do I not?” Liandra glared at her. “Try it and see.”

  Indecisively, Vanora and the women clustered together.

  “Give me the brat. She will take her punishment now!” Fraser held out his hand.

  Liandra felt Bronnia cower behind her, her body pressed painfully into the backs of her legs. The terror radiated so strongly from the child that for a moment Liandra felt overwhelmed by it. Finally managing to block it from her senses, she found that in her pre-occupation, Fraser MacLeod was now within arm's reach. Hastily, she retreated a few steps.

  “No matter what a creature does, it cannot justify any act of brutality,” Liandra said.

  “Is that so? I caught her in the stable again. She knows not to be there, and then she defied me and ran away."

  “Not hurting, just reading,” Bronnia snuffled.

  Fraser snorted. “Lies! You be too stupid to read. You cannot make sense of even the simplest word."

  “Neither can I,” Liandra said.

  “There you have it!” Vanora said, triumphantly. “Like attracts like."

  “Come here, brat! If you do not, when I catch you, I will make you thrice sorry."

  “I have to go,” Bronnia whimpered, emerging from behind Liandra's legs.

  She gripped Bronnia's shoulder and shoved her back behind her. “No. Over my dead body.”

  “That can be arranged, witch! There are many in the Castle who want to see an end to your spells.”

  At that, her enemies surged forward. Without conscious thought, Liandra reached out, and grabbed one of the ancient claymores decorating the wall. She stared down in disbelief at what she had done. Desperate times required desperate measures!

  “One step closer and...!” With difficulty, Liandra waved the sword in front of her. If the circumstances had not been so desperate she would have laughed at herself. The sword trembled in the air before its weight tore at her wrist. She lowered it, its tip resting on the floor.

  For a moment her enemies measured her, before they stepped forward en masse. Again, with difficulty she raised the weapon and swept it in a clumsy arc in front of her, retreating backwards. With Bronnia's fingers clutching at her skirt, Liandra could hardly move.