Dreamspell

by Tamara Leigh

  “Thank you for speaking to Fulke,” Kennedy said.

  Marion halted. “I was pleased to do so, though it proved too late.”

  What did she mean?

  Marion swept past. “And the victuals and drink on the stool,” she directed the servants.

  “You mean—?”

  “Nay, Josie,” Marion reproved the youngest of the women, “spread the pallets against the walls.”

  Why had Fulke done it? Though Marion hadn’t had a chance to approach him on the matter, was it for his sister he had sent the physician?

  “Now come,” Marion summoned the women. “We must all lift together.”

  As the servants bent near Mac’s feet, Marion met Kennedy’s gaze. “You take his left shoulder, I will take his right.”

  Surprisingly, the transition from the cold stone floor to the pallet exacted little effort with all of them lifting. Once Mac was down, Marion sent the servants away. “The physician told me you would not allow Arthur’s leg to be removed,” she said as she draped a light blanket over Mac, “though he believes ‘tis what is needed to save him.”

  “I made the decision, but if you knew Mac—Arthur—you would know it was the only one available to me.”

  “I do know him, as I know you did what he would demand himself.” Marion bit her lower lip. “Has he spoken at all?”

  “Not since before our arrival.”

  Marion poured her gaze into Kennedy’s. “Think you he will live?”

  Kennedy reached to her, hesitated, then closed her cold fingers around Marion’s. “He’s a fighter.” Cliché though it sounded.

  Tears welled in the other woman’s eyes. “I love him.”

  As Kennedy stared at her, she considered what Fulke had told her. Was Marion crazy?

  “He told you I am mad,” Marion said as if she had stepped into Kennedy’s thoughts.

  “He said you were. . .fragile.”

  She shrugged. “’Twas the only way I would not be made to wed a man for whom I felt naught.”

  Why didn’t that come as a surprise? “You pretended to be mad.”

  “Only when necessary. And three times it was.”

  “Couldn’t you have just said ‘no’?”

  “No more than you, as Lady Lark, could have refused my brother—had you wished to.” She lifted her eyebrows. “But, of course, you are not Lady Lark. Rather amusing, is it not, that we both pretend to be who we are not? Poor Fulke is in such a quandary. First he learns the woman he loves is not the woman he ought to love”—

  Had she heard right?

  —“then his sister finally admits to deceiving him all these years. Not that he didn’t know. He simply preferred to ignore the truth.”

  “What was that about the woman he loves?”

  Marion smiled gently. “Hate himself thought he does for it, he loves you.”

  Kennedy looked to her hands. “I have a difficult time believing he told you that.”

  “He did not need to. There he sits brooding in his chair before the hearth thinking only of you.”

  “More likely thinking of how to dispose of me.”

  “Not the man who told me the physician was already sent.” Marion looked pointedly at her. “He did it for you.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “Heed me well, Nedy Plain. When my brother left Brynwood Spire, ‘twas to put an end to Arthur. Yet Arthur returns to me alive. You asked it of Fulke and he did it. For you.”

  “He told you I asked him to spare Arthur’s life?”

  “Nay, ‘twas Sir Malcolm who told me all.”

  Kennedy looked around the room. “Yet I am imprisoned.”

  “He will come.”

  When? No. She wouldn’t get her hopes up. “Do you know what has become of Sir Leonel?” She had worried over the knight since this morning when she saw he was stripped of his sword.

  “He is being held within the keep until Lady Jaspar arrives.”

  “Why is she coming?”

  “’Twas at Castle Cirque that Lady Lark was imprisoned until she escaped to Farfallow. Thus, Fulke believes Lady Jaspar may have ordered the attack on Lady Lark.”

  It followed, as Kennedy had already entertained, but was Jaspar capable of such? “As he also believes Ma—Arthur and I were a part of it.”

  Marion made a sound of disgust. “I know that neither you nor Arthur had anything to do with it, just as Fulke knows it if he will only let himself believe.”

  Kennedy prayed he would. “Do you think Lady Jaspar could have done it?”

  “She is a viper, but this? I suppose ‘tis possible.”

  “Meaning Fulke believes Sir Leonel may also be behind it.”

  “Aye, though he seems so mild.” Marion sat back on her heels. “It is more likely Lady Jaspar who did it, but perhaps both.”

  What of the incriminating medallion that didn’t belong to Sir Leonel? “Lady Marion, would you carry a message to your brother for me?”

  “I will, though I cannot promise he will listen.”

  “There is something I didn’t tell him that I should have. When I came upon the massacre of Lady Lark’s escort, there was a knight still alive, though barely. He told me that one of the attackers wore a medallion bearing the device of a two-headed wyvern. It’s not much, but perhaps it will help Fulke discover the truth.”

  “A two-headed wyvern. . . I know of none, but he may.” Marion leveled her gaze on Kennedy. “That is the message you would have me deliver? Naught else?”

  “Naught else.”

  “You are sure?”

  Kennedy stood. “You’re living in a romance novel, Marion.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. Just tell him what I’ve told you.”

  Marion bent over Mac, touched her mouth to his cheek, and whispered something. “Does he awaken,” she said, straightening, “you will tell him I was here and send word to me?”

  “I will.”

  Marion crossed the room and paused at the door. “How is it you know Arthur?”

  “We go way back.” Or was it forward? No need to confuse Marion with specifics she wouldn’t believe.

  “You will tell me one day how way back you go?”

  “I will, but Arthur and I are only friends.”

  The woman’s shoulders eased. “I will come again. Is there anything you require?”

  Only one, but he wasn’t talking to her. Kennedy considered the room and mused at how basic a person’s needs really were. “We have all we need. Thank you for your kindness.”

  Marion smiled. “We are friends, are we not?”

  “Yes, friends.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A two-headed wyvern. A lie, he told himself as he had done when Marion delivered the message. Yet here he was, past middle night, traversing the inner bailey beneath a full platter moon.

  Inside the tower, he waved the guard back to his stool, snatched the keys from their hook, and took the stairs two at a time. Each landing was lit by a single torch, making it a precarious ascent, but his footing was sure. At the uppermost landing, he retrieved the torch from its sconce and strode to the iron-banded door.

  Though he did not know which of the keys fit, the second turned the lock. He pushed the door inward and sent the torch ahead of him, revealing the two against the back wall whose pallets were laid end to end.

  Fulke halted. Pallets, blankets, the remains of food and drink he had not ordered sent. It had to be of Marion’s doing, but though he wanted to be angry, he was twinged with gratitude that she had seen to their needs.

  He raised the torch higher and looked from the still form of Crosley on the left to Nedy Plain on the right. She was on her side, her back to him, a blanket up around her shoulders.

  He fixed on her dark hair and remembered the feel and sweet smell of it. His chest tightened as other memories crept beneath the doors he had closed. Her skin had been like silk, her mouth like the sweetest flower. Lady Lark turned Nedy Plain was a mem
ory without end, and in that moment he knew she would never let go of him.

  “By the saints!” he rasped. If she would not let go of him, he would wrest her hold from him. He thrust the torch into the sconce beside the door and strode forward.

  She stirred when he stood over her, then rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. After a long moment, a tentative smile rose to her lips. “You came.”

  She was pleased to see him, her anger over Crosley’s injury having subsided. Why? Because he had sent the physician as she had pleaded for him to do? Aye, and she believed he had done it for her.

  Fulke hardened himself against the woman whose hopeful eyes threatened his resolve. “What of the wyvern?”

  “The. . .? Oh, that.” She tossed the blanket off and rose from the pallet. “I should have told you, but in the beginning I didn’t know who I could tru—”

  “Tell me,” he interrupted, the nearness of her far too disturbing.

  She clasped her hands at her waist and glanced at Crosley. “He hasn’t awakened.”

  “Mayhap he will not. Now tell me of the wyvern that I might return to my rest.”

  She swept her wide-eyed gaze back to him, and he saw her hope was gone. “Just who do you think you are?”

  Vexation, kindled by puzzlement, shot though him. “I am Baron Wynland, keeper of Sinwell, and you are Nedy Plain, a pretender who has taken me from my bed with yet more of your lies. I am done with you.”

  As he turned away, she caught his arm. When he looked around, there was fire in her eyes.

  “I refuse to believe you are so cruel, Fulke Wynland, not when I have known you otherwise. Play the devil if it makes you feel better, but it won’t make me hate you, nor will it make you forget what we shared.”

  He knew he ought to leave, but he also knew she was right. He could not forget her. The wyvern had been little more than an excuse to see her again.

  “Please, Fulke, let me tell you what I know of the attack. It won’t take long and it’s the truth.”

  He lifted her hand from him and folded his arms over his chest. “Speak.”

  “There was a soldier, the one who had my veil and circlet. He was alive when I. . .” It was no use trying to convince him it was a dream, especially when she was no longer certain herself. “. . .when I happened on the scene. He told me he had seen a medallion worn by one of the attackers.”

  “Continue.”

  “He said it bore a two-headed wyvern above a shield and something. . .” What was it? “. . .something evil. . .sinister.”

  “Bend sinister?”

  “That’s it.”

  “’Tis of royalty.”

  “Then the attacker could be related to the king?”

  He turned and stalked opposite. “Mayhap, though more likely it is one who attends royalty and was awarded the medallion for service.” He pivoted. “If what you speak is true.”

  “It is.”

  He returned to her. “’Tis for this you looked so closely at my medallion.” New anger edged his voice. “You thought to see a wyvern.”

  “I did, though I didn’t want to. As for Sir Leonel, neither does his medallion depict a wyvern.”

  His gaze turned accusing. “I did not know he wore one. How know you?”

  Jealousy? She hoped so. “He showed it to me last night. It depicted a hand holding wheat, or something like that.”

  “Then you do not believe he is responsible for the attack on Lady Lark?”

  “Perhaps he is, but I don’t see it.”

  “What do you see?”

  “That neither Sir Arthur nor I had anything to do with it. You must believe me. My only crime is in accepting Lady Lark’s identity when you called me by her name, as Sir Arthur’s only crime is in wrongly believing you meant to harm John and Harold.”

  He actually seemed to consider her defense, but then turned away. “Good eve.”

  “That’s it?” Kennedy hurried after him. “What about Mac?”

  He looked around. “You speak of Sir Arthur?” Fulke looked to where he lay. “’Tis strange that you call him Mac and, on the night past, he called you Ken.”

  Ignoring his taunt, Kennedy said, “He needs more. This place is cold and unsanitary.”

  “I sent the physician. Be content.”

  She knew she shouldn’t say it, but out it flew. “You unfeeling jerk! How can you just walk away?”

  His mouth tightened, but it wasn’t anger that next passed his lips. “’Tis difficult,” he said, so solemn his heart showed, “more difficult than I can say. But does a man not learn from his mistakes, he is a fool without hope of redemption.” He reached forward, stopped his hand near her jaw, and lowered his arm. “You made me a fool. I will be a fool no more.”

  Kennedy felt the burn of tears. “But you are a fool if you go from here and pretend you can forget what you leave.”

  His crooked eyebrow rose. “Mayhap, but better one of my own making.’ He strode to the door and retrieved the torch.

  “You won’t forget me,” Kennedy called. Wishful thinking?

  “Do I not, ‘tis Lady Lark I shall remember.” He nodded. “I liked you better when you were she.”

  “And I liked you better when you had a heart!”

  A moment later, the door supplanted him and the lock turned. And Kennedy could only stand there in the dark, her heart crashing to the bottom of her.

  Fulke halted when he reached the bailey. Though aware he was watched by the night guards on the walls, he remained unmoving, feeling his way through the words and emotions that had pressed on him as he stood before Nedy. She had infuriated him, but still he had longed to hold and kiss her.

  “Nay,” he growled. He put a foot forward only to pivot and look up the tower. Why this feeling he had just erred greater than before, that his mistakes were rushing toward one another with heads lowered, that all the ills upon his house would only get worse?

  He shook his head. Why this feeling? Because Nedy was right. He could not forget her.

  Mac was back. And full tilt going by the contentious light in his eyes.

  Kennedy scooted nearer and was warmed by the shaft of afternoon light that fell through one of the narrow windows.

  “You’re still here.” His voice was as coarse as sandpaper.

  “As are you.” She mothered the blanket higher up his chest. “How are you feeling?”

  “How do you think a one-legged man feels?”

  “No, Mac, look.” She laid the lower edge of the blanket back. “The physician attended your leg and—”

  “He wanted to take it, didn’t he?”

  “He suggested it as a way to deal with the injury, but—”

  “The only way. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Hope was a powerful healer, so she lied. “You’re wrong, and so was the physician. When he came again this morning he said it looked better.” The tight-lipped man had said nothing of the sort, but when she had asked for an updated prognosis, he had shrugged. In her opinion, that laid it wide open for interpretation.

  Mac pushed onto his elbows, considered his bandaged thigh, and met her gaze. “Did no one ever instruct you in the art of lying?”

  He knew her well. “Of course not, but I’m working on it.”

  “Not hard enough.” He laid back heavily. “Do you think you’re dead yet?”

  “No, I’m still dreaming.”

  “Are you?”

  She stared into his weathered eyes. Was she dreaming? Or, by some miracle, was she truly here? As always, logic railed against the reality of this time and place but, increasingly, her heart rallied opposite. Maybe this was a second chance. Maybe her love for Fulke was real. “It seems real—everything about it—but it can’t be. Time travel isn’t possible.”

  He laid a hand over hers. “It is possible. Now tell me, have you felt the pull?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The feeling of being pulled back to the present.”

  “Yes, though only the second tim
e. The first time I must have slept through it.”

  “Then you haven’t felt it since your last journey here?”

  “No.”

  “Each time I also felt it, most strongly the last time—three days after I returned—but I fought it and, finally, a peace came over me as if I were ascending.” His eyebrows bumped. “I did die, didn’t I? I’m not in another coma?”

  “You died—in an old warehouse.”

  He sighed. “Perhaps I could have done it again and corrected the mistakes that put me here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t have to pick up where you left off, Ken. The dream places you wherever you think yourself, just as it did when you first dreamt it. You see, had I always been disappearing, it would have been impossible for me to serve as protector to John and Harold.”

  Suspending disbelief, Kennedy bent near him. “You can start over?”

  “Of course, though I didn’t attempt it until I fell asleep the last time. I brought myself back a week prior to the end of my previous journey, which allowed me to use the time to make certain everything went off without a hitch.” The next few seconds seemed to age him ten years. “But it didn’t. John and Harold will still die.”

  Kennedy’s thoughts were spinning. “What if I repeat the cycle one last time? Perhaps I could—” What was she saying? She sat back. “I’ve lost it big time.”

  Mac’s eyes pierced hers. “No, you have to believe me.”

  Therein lay the dilemma. She did believe. She lowered her head. Dear God, my end must be near.

  Fulke had not felt so awkward since he was a boy. Breath trapped in his throat, he waited as John lifted the lid.

  Silence, then a peal of delight echoed by Harold.

  “Soldiers!” John picked one from the box.

  Harold scooped up one of two dozen carved figures. “A hundred of ‘em!”

  Fulke let out his breath. Though he felt Marion’s gaze where she stood beside the boys’ bed, he ignored her as he had done since entering the room. He didn’t like what he saw in her eyes each time they fell on him. He almost preferred her supposed madness to this knowing of hers that conjured visions of the woman who had denied him sleep on the long night past.