Dreamspell

by Tamara Leigh

  “You are most unusual, Lady Lark.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Sir Leonel.” She bit into the crisp apple.

  “But I do wonder if you are, indeed, King Edward’s Lady Lark.”

  She nearly coughed up the apple. “How is that?”

  “My cousin thinks not.”

  Lady Jaspar, ever the thorn in her side. “And do you believe everything you’re told?”

  His brow creased. “Are you Lady Lark?”

  He asked it with such intensity, such genuine need she considered telling him the truth. But he wouldn’t believe her tale any more than Wynland had. “Of course I am.”

  He smiled a boyishly repentant apology. “I wish that you were not.”

  Kennedy was jolted. Though, as a professor, she had grown accustomed to the occasional crush, she had missed the signs with this man. “Why?”

  He put a hand on his sword hilt and rubbed his palm over it. “Because Lady Lark belongs to another. Do you love him?”

  She gasped. “Ful—Lord Wynland? What makes you think that?”

  “I saw him kiss you, and you did not look to mind.”

  So he had witnessed that. She took a bite of the overly salted meat, swallowed. “I am not in love with him.”

  “But you will wed him.”

  “The way I understand it, I have no choice.”

  “Mayhap you do not, but Lord Wynland does.”

  “That’s what he says, but does he?”

  “Such a man as he will do whatever is needed to achieve his end. Yet, methinks he will wed you, which makes one wonder if you have cast a spell over him.”

  If not for Wynland’s warning, Kennedy would have shrugged off the allusion to her being a witch. “I assure you, I am not a witch, Sir Leonel.”

  “Then how is it you disappear with nary a breath to trace your path? How is it you survived an attack that killed your entire escort?”

  Deciding his first point was best left alone, Kennedy replied to the second. “I don’t know. The attack happened so fast.”

  “It must have been horrible.”

  “It was.” And she had only seen the aftermath.

  “You do not know who attacked you and killed all those men?”

  The scene to which she had awakened flashed in her mind, complete with the dying soldier who had denounced her. “No, but before one of the men died, he told—” No. Though Sir Leonel’s inquiry seemed genuine enough, there was no reason to show her hand.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Concern etched his face. “Forgive me, my lady.” He laid a hand on her arm. “I know you grieve—for the king’s men and your maid. A terrible loss.”

  Her maid, whom she just might be. “Yes, terrible. Fortunately, my maid was not among those killed.”

  Sir Leonel blinked. “None but you survived. If what you say is so, where is the woman?”

  Right in front of you—I think. “She didn’t accompany me.”

  “You had no maid?” Realization. “Then it was a lady-in-waiting you lost.”

  Whatever that was. “No. Other than my escort, I traveled alone.”

  “Surely the king would not allow that.”

  “I can take care of myself, Sir Leonel.”

  He stared. “Of that I have little doubt. Now I must ready myself to ride.” He inclined his head and came up grimacing.

  Kennedy touched his sleeve. “Are you all right?”

  He ground fingers into his temple. “’Twas foolish of me to drink so much last eve.”

  “You have a hangover.”

  “A what?”

  “A headache—burning eyes, nausea, etcetera.” She lifted his hand and pinched the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “This might help.”

  His pained expression turned suspicious. “Pray, what do you?”

  “It’s called acupressure. It’s worked for me from time to time.” Before all hope was lost. “Apply pressure for a minute or so and you should start to feel better.”

  “Do you speak sorcery, my lady?”

  She laughed. “You call a pinch sorcery?”

  He considered his hand in hers. “’Tis most unusual.”

  She smiled. “You’ll see.”

  His uncertainty was soon replaced with wonder. “The pain is passing!”

  She released her hold. “I told you.”

  “You are certain ‘tis not sorcery?”

  “Positive.”

  “You are incredible, Lady Lark. Where come you by such knowledge?”

  “I pick up things here and there.”

  He executed a bow that revealed a glimpse of chain at his neck.

  Kennedy frowned. Did he wear a medallion beneath his shirt as Wynland did? If so, what markings did it bear? A feather? A crown? A wyvern? Was it possible he was involved in the attack? Though it was hard to believe, she was grateful she hadn’t revealed what the dying soldier had said.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He straightened. “You have been most kind.”

  “Too kind,” Fulke’s voice grated on the air.

  She looked around and met his gaze. Was he jealous? “I was introducing Sir Leonel to acupressure. He had a headache and I thought—”

  “To your mount, Sir Leonel. We are leaving.”

  The knight sidestepped, caught Kennedy’s eye, and winked.

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  Wynland halted before her. “For one who professes to feel poorly, you look and behave remarkably well.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Most.” He leaned near. “Until such time as King Edward releases me from marriage to you, you will forego such brazen displays. Do you understand?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “What, exactly, do you consider brazen?”

  His blue eyes looked as if they might boil over. “Do you deny you were holding Sir Leonel’s hand?”

  “I showed him an acupressure point—”

  He grabbed her arm and propelled her toward his horse. “No more lest you find yourself staked and burned, from which not even King Edward will be able to save you.”

  She tried to dig in, but it was futile. “Acupressure has nothing to do with magic. The Chinese have been using—”

  “Silence!”

  Fine, let him remain in the dark ages.

  He lifted her and plunked her down on his horse. “Take the reins.”

  “You’re not really going to make me do this, are you?”

  “Take them.”

  She lifted the leather strap. “Now what?”

  “We ride.” He swung up behind her.

  The intimate press of his body held Kennedy on edge during the six hours of riding instruction that saw them village to village, dead end to dead end.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It couldn’t be. It was, which explained the cramping that had grown steadily during the ride and that she had thought was a nervous stomach caused by Wynland’s riding instruction. She should have known, but it was almost a year since she had experienced the symptoms.

  Kennedy looked down her front, then grasped the back of her skirt and peered over her shoulder. Nothing. Regardless, it seemed the dream was going all the way. What was she to do in an age where she couldn’t beat a retreat to the nearest dispenser of feminine products?

  She looked past the warming fire to the tent Wynland had announced she would share with him. In the twilight of a day never to be again, two men were adjusting the stakes they had driven into the ground. Other than that, the tent looked just about ready. How much longer? If she didn’t take care of her problem soon, it would get much worse.

  Seeking out Wynland, she saw he stood alongside his horse conversing with Squire James. Over his shoulder was the pack that no longer held his missive.

  Feeling as if a black cloud were about to burst over her and rain down angry summons and accusations, she lingered over the two men before returning her attention to the ten
t. If the soft glow that made it look like a paper lantern was anything to go by, it was ready for occupancy. She wove among Wynland’s men and pushed through the tent flap. To the right lay a half dozen packs, at the center a worn rug, at the back a flat rock on which a lantern sat, and to her left a bed of blankets.

  Only one bed, meaning Wynland expected her to share it with him. She would set him straight on that, but not before she took care of her problem.

  She knelt before the packs. Her rummaging through the contents of the first revealed all manner of items, most foreign to her and of no use. She chose another pack. As she searched it, the tent flap rustled.

  She jumped up and spun around.

  “Mayhap I can assist?” Fulke said, his voice near frozen.

  “I. . .was looking for something to. . . Do you have an old shirt you wouldn’t mind parting with? Maybe a towel?”

  “For what?”

  She drew a deep breath. “If you must know, I started my period.”

  He looked no more enlightened, but at least his puzzlement warmed the chill with which he regarded her. “Pray, what is a period?”

  Heat rose to her cheeks. “That time of month.” Nothing. “Menstruation?”

  “Ah, your menses. My apologies. Had I known, I would not have pried.”

  At least he had the grace to look repentant. “That’s why I was looking through your things. I need. . .”

  “I am sure I have something you can use.” He pulled the incriminating pack from this shoulder and strode forward.

  Then he was going to go through it. When he discovered the missive gone— “Never mind, I can make do without.”

  “How?”

  Good question.

  He dropped the pack and reached for another she had not yet plundered.

  As relief eased her shoulders, he pulled out a white shirt. “This ought to meet your needs.”

  She took it and marveled at the silk-like material. “Surely you have something not quite so nice?”

  “Naught that is clean.”

  She was surprised that he would concern himself. “Thank you.”

  “I shall leave you.” He strode from the tent and dropped the flap behind him.

  Kennedy rubbed the sleeve’s material between her fingers and pondered the man who had given it to her. It seemed the more time she spent in his company, the farther he strayed from who she had read him to be. He was, but was not. Did, but did not. You’re falling for a man who may have murdered his nephews. She hoped he hadn’t, that history had wronged him.

  “Oh, Ken,” she whispered, “you’re dreaming. You made Fulke Wynland, this Fulke Wynland. He’s only a figment that dies with you.” The admission hurt, the rending of the fabric echoing that of her heart.

  Dry biscuits, dehydrated fish, watered wine. It was almost enough to make her put aside her disdain for Bambi and now Thumper. Determinedly, Kennedy chewed through a hard biscuit as the others enjoyed succulent rabbit.

  Gathered around the campfire, Fulke’s men spoke loudly and slapped one another on the back in that tribal dance of men that was beyond women—Kennedy included, though her training had involved a dissection of male behavior.

  She shifted on the log that Sir Leonel and another knight had rolled before the fire. Where was Fulke? As with each time he disappeared, she grew nervous. Eventually, he would discover the missive was gone, and when he did she prayed she would pop herself out of this dream.

  The campfire having warmed away her chill, Kennedy parted her cape and tossed a flap over each shoulder.

  “You say!” exploded a thick man opposite whose lower face was greased with rabbit fat.

  “Aye,” another said, “’tis what happened.”

  The greasy one guffawed, spraying the fire with chewed meat that popped and sizzled.

  “Lady Lark?”

  Kennedy looked around at the man whose beard resembled a skunk and whose loyalty Wynland questioned.

  “May I sit?” Baron Cardell asked.

  “Sure.”

  He stepped over the log and lowered himself. “How fare thee, my lady?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  His fire-lit gaze searched hers and brow grew weighted. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Then you know I had the earl’s ear—that I was his confidante.”

  “So I was told.”

  He looked to the campfire. “’Tis true you are to wed Wynland?”

  “If that is what the king orders, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Then you do not wish it yourself?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  His gaze swung to her. “You were almost killed.”

  And he believed Wynland was responsible. “Yes, but it doesn’t seem I have much say in whether or not I marry.”

  His mouth edged upward but fell short of a smile. “Unless it could be proven Wynland worked ill upon you, eh, my lady?”

  Had he? She was no longer as certain as she had been when first she had walked this mind play. The culprit could be someone else. She lowered her gaze to the tunic the man wore open at the neck. No sign of a chain or medallion.

  “What think you, my lady?”

  “That it’s getting late, and I’m tired. What do you want, Mr. Cardell?”

  His eyes hardened. “Only what belongs to me.”

  Kennedy put a hand on his arm. “Maybe you’re wrong about him.” Was that her talking?

  He considered her hand on him. “If you wish to live, come to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you are done whoring yourself with Wynland, we shall speak.” He stood and, as she struggled with her outrage, returned to the shadows from which he had appeared.

  Danger. The question was, from which side did it come? Cardell or Wynland? Both? Regardless, the answer would not be found in the company of men who eyed her as if she were a toothless witch. Leaving her meal to woodland creatures, she returned to the tent and found it empty. She removed her cape. As there had been no opportunity to address the sleeping arrangements, she would have to take matters into her own hands.

  Leaving the sweat of the day’s ride in the pool, Fulke pulled on his tunic. He frowned as he caught the scent he had cleansed from his body, berated himself for not bringing another tunic. The others also needed laundering, but the odor would not have been as fresh as this. He would have to take Squire James to task for not seeing to the keeping of his clothes. Though a more loyal heart could scarce be found, the young man was remiss in his duties. Of course, if Fulke had not given away the last of his clean tunics the matter would not be as pressing.

  He conjured Lark, the surprise on her face when he had handed her the tunic. It was as if he had given her more. But then, his offering did not fit the man of whom she believed ill—just as she scarcely fit the woman he believed her to be. Could it be she was not the only one mistaken?

  He thrust his legs into his braies, next his hose. The latter fought him, dragging over damp calves and thighs and straining the seams. He shoved his feet into his boots and girded his sword. As he turned to leave, moonlight on glass returned his gaze to the pool. Though the water had been chill, he had lingered to ponder the woman who might fell him as surely as if by sword. An enchantress.

  “Accursed woman!” He tramped through the trees and emerged on the clearing to find his men ringing the fire, arms laid over one another’s shoulders as they sang of a tavern wench with many loves. When he came to their notice, they quieted.

  Though he knew he ought to order them to their rest, he said, “Continue,” and strode to the tent.

  Wrapped in one of two blankets that was to have served as their bed, Lark was on her side near the lantern-topped rock.

  Fulke stared at her back that rose and fell with sleep. In spite of her earlier response to him, he had known she would object to sharing his bed. But for some reason, he had looked forward to the argument—and winning, for the chill night would turn mo
re chill before morn.

  He caught the movement of her long legs. “Lark?”

  Her breathing stilled, started up again.

  He strode forward and dropped to his haunches. “The day is not done, my lady.” Her eyes remained closed, dark lashes throwing long shadows across her cheeks. He leaned near and brushed the hair from her face. “Ought I to kiss you again?”

  Her eyes sprang open. “What do you want?”

  “Only what is owed me.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Lessons.” At her tense silence, he laughed. “Reading lessons for riding.”

  “Now?”

  “’Tis late, but as neither of us is ready for sleep, it seems a good time.”

  “You may not be tired, but I am.” She made a show of yawning, but the pretense ended when her gaze fell to his brow. “You had a bath?”

  He pushed fingers through his damp hair. “I did.”

  “How?”

  “There is a pool not far from here.”

  Her face fell. “You mean a hole in the ground.”

  “Aye, that.” Obviously, she was unaccustomed to the toil of travel, spoiled soft by regular tub baths.

  “And it was probably cold,” she ventured.

  “Very, but if you wish to bathe, I shall take you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He straightened. “Then it is time for a lesson.”

  She pushed the blanket off, revealing she had not removed her surcoat. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Suddenly modest Lark, Fulke mused. Of course, when she had bathed in Jaspar’s solar she had been careful to hide her nudity—so different from the night he had come to her chamber at Brynwood and been allowed to look upon her bared legs.

  “What?” she asked.

  He was staring. “Your gown would fare better if you did not sleep in it.”

  She whipped the blanket from her legs and, in spite of a multitude of wrinkles, emerged from it as a butterfly. “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, you know.”

  He frowned. “I did not know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you have something to read?”

  He turned to his packs, but as he stepped toward them, her hand fell to his arm.

  “Scratch that,” she said, too quickly and too flustered. “We’ll start at the beginning. All we need is a stick to write out the lesson.” She hurried to where one lay and motioned him forward. “You probably haven’t heard of phonics, but it’s a great method for learning to read.”