Once upon a Dream

by Nora Roberts

  The cloak was thick and pleasantly warm. He felt himself drifting comfortably into sleep, still pondering what he could do to best everyone else in the field, how he could impress the princess, woo her, and capture her heart.

  Losing to Sedgwick, or Rolf, or any other man simply would not do. He had never lost any competition and he wasn’t about to lose now.

  Think, man, he admonished himself as he yawned beneath the cold swirl of stars. Think how to dazzle and delight a princess…

  The faint plume floated down, down, down…touched him, light as the wings of a moth.

  He was standing before a fortress made of red stone, deep inside the murkiest forest imaginable. The fortress was high, grim, impenetrable. Then he was inside somehow, and he saw a great hall, a winding staircase, a torch-lit chamber. There was a dais, and a chest inlaid with gold and silver, glittering brighter than a hundred suns. The lid of the chest opened slowly, slowly, and the inside of it was lined in white velvet. Resting upon this snowy bed was a necklace that shimmered…crystal…and rubies…

  Entwined by gold.

  He knew that necklace. Everyone knew that necklace. It was the fabled necklace that had belonged to Nyssa, the greatest sorceress of all time. Some said it didn’t exist. Others said a whole league of men had died trying to find it. It was purported to be magical—the stones in it contained a power that drew all things good, beautiful, powerful, and desirable to the wearer.

  Gazing at it in that chest, within that chamber, deep inside that blood-red fortress, Blaine of Kendrick smiled in his sleep.

  He awakened just as dawn broke and turned the horizon to pale amber. He knew precisely where to go and what to do in order to dispatch his rivals, every single one of them—and win.

  Blaine of Kendrick, the Wolf, startled awake and stared grimly about him. His lean, handsome face was full of purpose.

  The bastard son of a murdered duke, he’d been forced to make his own way in the world and survive in any manner he could for as long as he remembered. His mother had died giving birth to his stillborn twin only moments after he himself entered the world—and so he’d never known even a moment of her nurturing. Since his father’s death when Blaine was barely nine, and his own subsequent exile, he’d had to work and scheme and fight and hide just to stay alive. He’d proved tougher than any adversary he’d ever had to fight, and he’d come far from that ragged and starving boy who’d hidden in haylofts and trees, who’d nearly frozen to death one winter and nearly drowned in a stream the next spring while onlookers stood idly by, laughing as they watched.

  He was a man now, who earned his own way, whose skills were in demand, whose future belonged only to himself.

  And he had decided what that future would hold.

  He knew now how to win the princess’s hand, how to attain his goal. Fate had given him a dream and shown him what to do.

  The magical Necklace of Nyssa was going to be his. A gift to his beautiful future wife.

  Nothing and no one on this earth—not man, woman, or beast—had the power, strength, or means to stand in his way.

  2

  AS A CHILL darkness swept down over the darkened countryside, Willow slipped into the bustling inn known as the White Hog in as inconspicuous manner as was possible. Weariness dragged at her after her second long day of solitary travel. She was in need of a decent meal, for tomorrow she would reach the edge of the Perilous Forest where the truly dangerous part of her journey would begin. I’ll sleep in the inn tonight, upon a real bed, she thought, all too aware of her hunger and her aching muscles. That will help me to gather my strength for what lies ahead.

  To her relief, no one in the White Hog paid much attention to her, not the stout, bearded innkeeper in his greasy tunic, nor the villagers, nor the fellow travelers scattered through the dim, smoky room that smelled of boiled ham and burnt lard and spilled ale. She’d disguised herself as a youth: her bright hair had been secured with a thong and tucked beneath a cap, her shapely form hidden beneath a coarse, bulky brown tunic and cloak. She had smeared dirt upon her cheeks, donned scuffed boots, and assumed a hunched posture. In the slight young man who seated himself at a small corner table and ordered ham, potatoes, and ale, no one saw a beautiful, slender woman whose eyes were the deep blue of violets, whose nose was dusted with a few pale, enchanting freckles, and whose soft lips and slender neck had drawn sighs of desire from countless young men.

  A serving maid set her plate down with a clatter and departed without a second glance. Pleased with how smoothly things were going, Willow dug into the greasy food with abandon, paying scant attention to those around her—until the inn’s door swung open with a sharp thunk and a very tall man with wide shoulders and cropped black hair appeared on the threshold and took a long, hard look around.

  He looked to be a soldier, by his stance and bearing and dress. But it was not that which kept her attention riveted upon his rugged, handsome face. It was his eyes. He had the coolest, keenest, blackest eyes she’d ever seen—black as night they were, and just as impenetrable. They glittered with intelligence, within a swarthy masculine face that was too youthful to be so harsh. The man could not have been much older than she herself, perhaps less than four or five years her senior, but he looked anything but boyish. This was a warrior—a man accustomed to fighting and winning, she guessed, a man with a warrior’s mind and heart. In that one swift moment, his glance seemed to weigh and appraise every occupant of the room, and when those eyes of his touched her, she felt a hot, honeyed flutter deep in the pit of her stomach.

  For only a moment their gazes met, and she went breathless, certain that he saw through her disguise. Not knowing what he might do, she was already sliding her hand toward the sheathed dagger hidden beneath her tunic, but his glance moved past her and continued its swift, precise scan of the taproom.

  He didn’t notice anything. All is well. There’s no reason for your heart to pound so, she scolded herself, but as luck would have it, the only empty table in the room was one alongside hers, very near the roaring log fire.

  She forced her fork to her lips as the man strode right past her and seated himself at the trestle table less than five steps away. Yet she didn’t taste anything, for she found herself watching as every serving maid in the room clamored to serve him.

  “Bring the soup and a roast duckling and brown bread,” he ordered. His voice was deep, curt, and decisive. “And I think I’ll have you, too, fair Rowena,” he added with a laugh. “Come here, my sweet.”

  The serving wench to whom he spoke gave a squealing laugh and tossed her stringy yellow hair behind her. “My name’s not Rowena, sir, it’s Mattie,” she gushed, then gave a screech as the man pulled her down upon his lap. But despite her cry, she looked far from unwilling. She giggled and opened her eyes very wide as her arms snaked eagerly around his neck.

  “Why, sir, whatever are you doing?” she chortled.

  “Getting to know you better. What a pretty thing you are,” he remarked with a grin that could have melted snow. “You remind me of a Rowena I once knew. Succulent wench. I wonder if you taste as delicious as she did, fair Mattie.”

  “Try me and see, sir,” the girl challenged with another giggle.

  Willow gritted her teeth and forced her attention back to her plate of food. The poor girl would no doubt fall prey to his silver-tongued prattle and false compliments. With his handsome, hawklike features, lean and muscular physique, and the hardened air of command that he wore as easily as his cloak, it was easy to see how women would be drawn to him. Some women.

  Not I, Willow thought gratefully, spearing a forkful of ham. Such as he cannot compare to Adrian.

  At the thought of the beautiful, pale-haired young knight whom she’d loved all her life, a knot tightened in her chest. She and her father had lived for as long as she could remember in a comfortable stone cottage on the property of Adrian’s father, Sir Edmund, who, courtesy of King Felix, was lord of the big manor house at Brinhaven and all the sur
rounding land, clear down to the river. She’d grown up watching Sir Edmund’s man-at-arms training young Adrian in everything he needed to learn in order to become a knight like his father. And that he did, excelling even when brought to tutelage under King Felix’s own man-at-arms. Adrian, with his keen mind and noble nature, had easily won the respect and admiration of all who knew him. A full ten years older than Willow, he was the kindest, gentlest young man she’d ever known, and handsome beyond compare with his tall, straight figure, his thick, fair hair that shone in the sun, and his crinkly eyes the color of warm honey. He had always treated her like a little sister, which both gratified and depressed her. For she’d loved him since she was nine years old, and even when she blossomed into womanhood she’d never had the courage to confess the truth to him. When he was twenty-six and she sixteen, he had ridden off to war, and she’d vowed to herself that she would tell him what was in her heart the day that he returned.

  But Adrian had been killed in battle. His father had mourned, the entire village had wept, and Willow had been unable to stop sobbing for a week.

  When at last she dried her eyes and rose from her bed, under the worried care of her father, she had known that she would never love another man, that none would ever touch her heart in the way that the noble and gentle Adrian had.

  So now, in the White Hog Inn, she munched on bread and nibbled at ham, and thanked her lucky stars that she would never be in danger of falling prey to the lying, roguish charms of a man like the one seated near her—a man every bit as arrogant as he was handsome, a man who would bed any willing wench who crossed his path, who made a public spectacle of himself in a tavern with serving maids who ought to know better than to be drawn in by his charms and flattery,

  But why was she so concerned with him? she wondered in irritation. Perhaps because he was so handsome. That was undeniable. There was something dark and sleek and dangerous in him, Willow sensed, beneath the ready charm. She’d glimpsed chain mail beneath his plain black cloak, and there was coiled power in the way he walked and in the swift, commanding way he had assessed all those in the room.

  She brought herself out of her musings with a start and reminded herself sharply that she had a mission to accomplish—and she couldn’t afford to be distracted by some hard-eyed stranger who mattered no more than a gnat.

  Don’t worry, Father. By dawn tomorrow I’ll be setting off into the Perilous Forest. Before you know it, I’ll hold the Necklace of Nyssa in my hands.

  She sipped at the ale in her tankard and pondered again the dream Artemus had sent, the dream that told her where within the Troll’s Lair she would find the prize. Even when the dark-haired stranger hailed a friend entering the tavern and the short, red-haired man broke into a huge grin and joined him at the trestle table, she refused to do more than glance over her shoulder.

  For she had plans to make, preparations to consider, and so engrossed was she in her own thoughts that it was with a start that she suddenly heard a snatch of the conversation going on alongside her.

  “You’re not serious, man! You’re not truly venturing into the Perilous Forest!”

  “Quiet, Gurth.” It was the stranger’s deep voice, lowered, and rough with annoyance. “The whole village needn’t know my business,” he growled.

  Willow tensed. The Perilous Forest. Now the two men had her full attention.

  “What business could you possibly have in that place? Don’t you know you’ll never make it out of there alive?”

  “Care to make a wager on that, my friend?” The stranger sounded amused. “Not only will I come out alive, but I’ll come out with a tidy bit of treasure as well. You see, you’re looking at the man who’s going to win the hand of the Princess Maighdin.”

  Uproarious laughter from his companion greeted this statement, but Willow wasn’t smiling. Her fingers clenched around her tankard.

  “That’s a good one, that it is.” Gurth raised his tankard to his lips and drank greedily. “Every man old enough to walk and young enough to remember what to do with a maiden is scrambling to be the one she picks. I’d say it’d have to be some mighty fancy treasure to—” He broke off, then continued in a dazed tone. “Not the Necklace of Nyssa?”

  “You’re not as much of an idiot as I imagined, Gurth.” The stranger gave a chuckle. He sounded well pleased with himself, cocky, and not at all afraid. “Stealing that necklace out of the Troll’s Lair and getting out of the Perilous Forest alive will beat every other quest and prize brought before her all to hell.”

  “Well, that it might, Blaine, if you could do it.”

  Blaine. His name was Blaine. Curse him, this was all she needed. Some arrogant whelp trying to impress a stupid princess and getting in her way.

  Willow’s mind began to race. She had to slow him down somehow, leave him behind, so she could reach the forest and the Troll’s Lair first.

  She’d planned to start at first light tomorrow, but now she realized she would have to forgo her night’s rest at the inn and get a head start by entering the forest tonight.

  She would also have to make sure that he didn’t follow any too quickly.

  Fortunately she knew exactly how she could accomplish that.

  As she tossed several coins on the table to pay for her meal, she reached for the plain woolen pouch stitched in silver threads that was tucked deep in her cloak pocket. From it she tugged a small blue vial no bigger than her thumb, which contained a gray powder resembling dust.

  “I can do it all right,” the stranger called Blaine assured his companion. “Trust me—it will be child’s play.”

  The other man snorted. “Remember Duke Knut of Paragour? He went in after the necklace a year back—took a troop of ten or so of his best fighting men with him, vowed to return with the prize. None of ’em, not one, ever came back out.”

  “I will.” Blaine sounded coolly, sublimely confident. “Never has there been a thing I set out to do that I didn’t do. And I’ve set out to marry this princess.”

  “Why do you want to marry her so badly? Never thought you were the marrying type.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  Willow could hear the man drinking heartily. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the tiny vial clenched between her fingers.

  “But a man has got to settle down sometime, and it strikes me that it might as well be with a princess. Hers is a rich kingdom. The palace floors are laid with gold and precious jewels. Not to mention that Maighdin is a beauty—the most beautiful girl in five kingdoms, or so they say. Seems to me I met her once, years ago, when she was a child. She was a sweet-looking little thing then. So now—”

  “I know you, Blaine. You don’t fool me. The only reason you want her is because you’re itching to prove to everyone else that you can get her. You like to win, and this is the biggest contest ever to come your way.”

  “Could be.” The black-haired man shrugged cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to seeing the expression on the face of every other man when I walk off with the precious prize. And then there’s the fact that I wonder what it’s like to bed a princess.” He laughed, and Willow’s gaze narrowed at the glint of amusement and lustful anticipation in his eyes.

  The other man burst out laughing again, then stroked his beard. “Interesting notion, I’ve got to admit. A man like you, a duke’s bastard, fighting and clawing your way up through the ranks—a warrior and a survivor if ever I saw one. But…sorry, Blaine, it’s hard to imagine you married to some delicate little princess used to having her path strewn with rose petals. I mean, what’s she going to do with the likes of you?”

  “It’s the thought of what I’m going to do with the likes of her that’s going to get me through that forest alive,” Blaine retorted with a grin.

  Do whatever you want, you idiotic man, Willow thought, but you’ll just have to win your stupid princess without the Necklace of Nyssa.

  She pushed back her stool, made a show of glancing around for the serving maid. In the process,
she inched her way a few feet sideways until she was standing alongside Blaine’s table.

  Suddenly the red-haired man stood up to leave, and she had her chance. As he bid farewell to his friend, Blaine’s glance was fixed briefly on Gurth’s ruddy face, and it was all the opening she needed. Quick as a blink she upended the vial and gave it a shake into Blaine’s ale tankard.

  An instant later, she felt a strong hand close over her wrist and jerk her forward.

  “What’d you put in my drink, boy?”

  Willow’s heart lurched in her chest. She tried to wrench her wrist away, only to find it manacled by Blaine’s steely grip, which tightened with every attempt she made to tug free.

  “You’re mad, sir. Let go of me, or you’ll be sorry,” she growled, deepening her voice as much as she could and praying he couldn’t see her fear.

  But if the man called Blaine was the least bit frightened by this threat from the slight youth with the dirty face and thin arms, he gave not the faintest sign of it. His cold soldier’s gaze was riveted on the vial in her fingers, and with his free hand he pried it from her.

  “It’s no use denying it. You tried to poison me.” He spoke in a low, deadly tone. Still holding on to her, he rolled the vial slowly between his fingers. “And I’m going to know why.”

  Gurth had paused to watch, and now his shrewd glance skimmed over the youth in the ragged clothing. “Hired by one of your enemies, no doubt, my friend.” His lips slashed upward in a grin. “Or else the boy’s merely jealous of the attentions of that serving maid. Hey, boy, you wanted her for yourself, eh? Was that it?”

  He stepped toward Willow and grabbed her by the front of her tunic. “Don’t you know that no maid can resist the Wolf of Kendrick?”

  He shook her, laughing uproariously.

  “Shut up, Gurth.” Blaine was staring hard into Willow’s face. She fought back a rising terror. Never had she seen eyes so cold, so flat and frightening. Blaine knocked his friend’s arm aside and came to his feet, towering over Willow. Still holding her wrist in a viselike grip, he swung her around so that she was pinned against the trestle table.