Dreamspell Page 10

  ~ Ono No Komachi

  Fulke stared at Jaspar. “Gone?”

  Her gaze flitted to Leonel. “Aye, my lord. Following your departure two days past, Esther saw Lady Lark settled in her chamber. When she went to fetch her for the nooning meal, the lady was gone.”

  “Impossible.”

  “But true, my lord.”

  “Is it?”

  Disbelief widened Jaspar’s eyes. “Surely you do not believe I—”

  “Nay.” Or did he? He stared at the woman who would have been his wife if King Edward had not called him to arms, she of beauty, a pleasing disposition, and a cunning streak of which he had quickly become aware during their betrothal. But though Jaspar was spoiled and self-centered, he did not believe she had anything to do with Lark’s disappearance.

  He looked past his men to Jaspar’s knights and men-at-arms who had gathered in the hall to receive him. Had one of them succumbed to Lark’s wantonness as he had warned her might happen? “No one saw anything?”

  “The entire household was questioned, my lord,” Jaspar said. “None saw her leave. She just. . .disappeared.”

  A caustic muttering drew Fulke’s gaze to the man who stood before an alcove. Cardell. Fury, spurred by the antagonism that had trebled between them these past days, leapt through Fulke. He did not need to hear Cardell’s words to know he believed Fulke was responsible for Lark’s disappearance—just as he let it be known he believed Fulke was responsible for the death of John and Harold’s father.

  “If you have something to say, Cardell, speak!”

  The baron stood taller. “I was but clearing my throat.”

  Fulke imagined fitting his hands around the man’s neck. He should have sent him from Sinwell at his first utterance of dissension. But he was not finished with his brother’s favored vassal. Not yet.

  Cirque’s senior knight fell next beneath Fulke’s regard. “How could this happen?”

  The man’s brow mapped bewilderment. “It could not have, my lord. All entrances to the castle are guarded. No one comes or goes unchecked.”

  “Lady Lark did—else she is still here.”

  “My lord, a thorough search of the castle was made and naught was found of her.”

  “Then it will be searched again.” Fulke motioned a knight forward. “Sir Andrew, organize the men and begin the search.”

  As the knight turned away, Jaspar touched Fulke’s arm. “’Tis not necessary, I tell you. She is gone.”

  “We shall see.”

  Jaspar dropped her hand from him. “She makes fools of us. Why, she is likely returned to London and warms the king’s bed even now.”

  Why that possibility should rankle him, Fulke did not know, but he disliked Lark all the more for it. Refusing to examine what was behind his rancor, he dragged himself back. Might Lark have fled to London as Jaspar suggested? Believing him responsible for the attack on her, she had tried to escape once before.

  “Unless, of course, she is not the lady she claims to be,” Jaspar submitted on the sly.

  The thought had played through Fulke’s mind these past days, especially when he recalled her flight through the woods. A lady? Unlike any he had ever encountered. Then there was her speech that was foreign, yet familiar. It had taken a while to place it, but when he had, he had castigated himself for not connecting her with Sir Arthur. With the exception of Lark’s barely perceptible drawl, their speech was strikingly similar—flat and without hint of English accent. They must come from the same place. And what of her gown that fit so poorly? If it was hers, it was several years removed from the woman she had become.

  “Fulke?” Jaspar said. “What think you?”

  That the dark-haired witch was more likely a lady’s maid. But as always, he recalled the gown she had worn when first he had come upon her. It had belonged to a lady, not a maid, and unlike that into which she had changed at Brynwood, it had fit every curve.

  He met Jaspar’s gaze. “’Tis Lady Lark.”

  “You are certain?”

  Certainty had nothing to do with it. How could it? Though rumors had abounded over Edward’s newest conquest, Fulke had had better things to do than pay them heed. Now he wished he had, but all would be known once the king received the messenger sent to London to carry news of the attack on Lady Lark. If Fulke knew Edward, and he believed he did, the king would not be long in sending a contingent to investigate the deaths of his men. At that time, Lark’s identity would be confirmed or denied.

  “’Tis Lady Lark who was sent to care for John and Harold,” Fulke said, “and that she will do when she is found.” Unless he was able to convince Edward otherwise.

  “But the boys are—”

  “They will be found.” He pinned his gaze to Jaspar, daring her to say different. Two long days of hard riding, searching, and following every scent had led nowhere, but he wasn’t done. As soon as he and his men were rested and the thunderously wet day that had driven them inside was past, they would continue the search.

  Jaspar put her head to the side. “You do not know, do you?”

  What did she have behind her back? “Speak, Jaspar.”

  “The king sent Lady Lark to care for John and Harold, but more, he sent her to you.” Her eyes flashed. “She is to be your wife, Fulke.”

  Years of self-control held him from revealing his disbelief. He and Lark were to wed? It could not be. After his years of service to the crown, Edward would not do this to him. “She told you this?”

  “Aye, though I had already heard tale.”

  Jaspar and her talebearers. The woman’s ears were everywhere.

  “’Twas obvious she was unhappy about it.”

  Lark was unhappy? If it was true, she was not alone. Though time and again Edward had suggested matches aimed to increase Fulke’s modest land holdings, fill his coffers, and deliver him an heir, never had the king pressed the matter so far as to send him a wife. If that was what he had done, it could prove difficult to convince Edward otherwise. But Fulke would, for his parents had taught him well the folly of an arranged marriage.

  “’Tis surely the reason she left.” Jaspar sighed. “Mayhap she has not even returned to London but fled elsewhere.”

  To escape him. Fulke rubbed the back of his neck, kneaded tight, aching muscles. All of his troubles had begun with Lark—first, the attack on her baggage train, then John and Harold’s abduction, and now she was missing. What had Edward been thinking to send such a scourge upon him?

  “I shall find her,” he said. And when he got his hands on her. . .

  She had done it again. Kennedy sat up. Same room. Same dreadful gown. Same makeshift underwear.

  She scratched her left side, thigh, calf. The least she could have done was dream herself into something more comfortable, like that first dress. But as she had drifted toward sleep on memories of Fulke Wynland, she had tried to fight him off with reminders of the unpleasantness of the fourteenth-century, including this room and these clothes.

  She lowered her feet to the floor. Now what? Wait for someone to come? Considering the days she had just come through, her headaches so severe they had actually aided in keeping her awake, the choice was obvious. Her health once more returned to her, right down to legs that longed to stretch, she stood. Wynland or not, there was a lot to recommend this dream.

  Wondering what awaited her in this installment, she crossed to the door and stepped into the passageway. Feeling younger than her twenty-eight years, she hurried down the stairs and into a flurry of activity. A moment later, a hush fell as all eyes found her, excepting Wynland’s whose back was turned to her.

  He had come back. As for Lady Jaspar, her eyes looked as if they might pop from their sockets. What faux pas have I committed this time?

  Wynland turned. Surprise reflected in his eyes, then anger.

  Kennedy raised her chin, determined he was not going to burst the bubble she had floated in on. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “A search,” he snarle
d.

  But his nephews were somewhere out there. “I understood you had left. Forget something?”

  The way everyone stared at her, she might have grown two heads.

  Wynland strode forward, grasped her arm, and pulled her toward the stairway.

  She was too surprised to object until the stairs were before her. She strained backward, but he held tight. “Let me go!”

  He hauled her up the stairs and didn’t stop until halfway down the passageway. “Which one?”

  Realizing he referred to the room she had been given, she asked, “Why?”

  With a curse, he dragged her forward and into a room that bore no resemblance to her hole in the wall. It was large, its appointments lavish—tapestries, a curtained bed, a beautifully carved trunk, chairs and tables, a fireplace, and a bathtub. Lady Jaspar’s room?

  Wynland released her and closed the door. “Where have you been?”

  She rubbed her arm where he had held her. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Two days! Where have you been?”

  Two days had passed since she had awakened from this dream? And she had truly been gone—and missed? “Let me get this straight. It’s been two days since you left?”

  His eyes hardened further. “Two days.”

  He did look scruffy. What a wild dream. She had assumed she would pick up where the dream left off. “This is strange.”

  “Where have you been? Lady Jaspar had the entire garrison searching for you.”

  Kennedy was intrigued by the dream’s unexpected twist. “I imagine she’s a bit hot under the collar, especially now that I’m back.”

  “From where?”

  Oh, about six hundred years from here—out of this dream and in the real world with all its real problems. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  He took hold of her shoulders. “I weary of this game. Now tell me!”

  Kennedy stared at him. Calm down. Remember where you are—inside your mind.

  “I am waiting.” His fingers pressed into her flesh. “And not for much longer.”

  “Alas, I fear I do not remember.” How was that for a bit of medieval lingo?

  He wrenched her nearer. “You lie.”

  Curiously reckless, she tossed her head back. “You think I’m afraid of you? This is my dream, and I can make you disappear just as quickly as I made you appear.” Not exactly true, as she had discovered the last time she had dreamed the dream, but it sounded good—at least, until she realized what she had revealed. She hadn’t meant to let him in on the dream. However, it did the trick. One moment she was all friendly with Wynland, the next a complete stranger.

  Fulke stepped back from the woman and felt his anger drain. King Edward had sent a mad woman to care for his nephews, perhaps even to be his wife. How had he missed it? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the face of madness. His own sister, Marion, wore it well, had thrice been betrothed and thrice returned before vows bound her to some unfortunate whom no amount of riches could convince to take her to wife.

  He frowned at another possibility. Lady Lark had pleaded an injury when he asked about the attack. Was this just another lie? He returned his attention to her and saw a spark of triumph in her eyes. She thought she had won, and perhaps she had, for he still didn’t know where she had taken herself to. Mad or not, she couldn’t disappear so completely only to suddenly reappear. “You are not going to tell me where you have been?”

  “I believe I already have.”

  “A dream?”

  Something—uncertainty?—flickered across her face. “That’s right.”

  Fortunately for her, he did not believe in witches. “And in this dream, did you tell Lady Jaspar that you and I are to wed by order of the king?”

  Her eyes widened, then she turned away, walked to the tub, and smoothed a hand over its rim. “So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  Fulke glowered. Not only had she evaded his question, but tossed back another that made no sense. “Agenda? Of what do you speak?”

  She kept her back to him. “Where will your search for John and Harold take you next?”

  “How do you know I did not find them?”

  “The book said. . .” She glanced around. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Likely not, but he wished to know more about this book. “Tell me.”

  “As I said, this is a dream. It has no bearing on reality.”

  Mad. Very well, he would let it pass, but not on the matter of their marriage. “Did you tell Lady Jaspar that you and I are to wed by order of the king?”

  She stiffened.

  He wished she would face him, for what could be read in one’s face oft bore little resemblance to the spoken word.

  “Actually,” she said, “Jaspar broached the subject. I merely confirmed it.”

  Not what he wished to hear. “Confirmed?”

  “You know how Edward is.” She looked over her shoulder. “You do, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She turned and leaned back against the tub. “He gets these ideas into his head and there’s no convincing him otherwise. Believe me, I’m not thrilled about it either.”

  He did believe her. She was no Jaspar, or any number of women willing to look beyond a face scarred by pox and Edward’s war with France as long as his coffers bulged—especially now that he controlled an earldom. As an unwed baron he had become accustomed to the attention of women, but now he found himself looked upon with greater interest. They sought him out, smiled at him, touched him with their eyes, those less coy with their hands. But not Lark, a woman used and discarded by at least one man, likely a dozen more. Why? Was it fear of him? The sins she put on him? Whatever it was, she wanted nothing to do with him. And it vexed him.

  He strode forward. “Why?”

  She looked up with the wariness of a deer caught in the open. Not that she wasn’t quick to hide the vulnerability behind one of those “thou dost not frighten me” faces of hers. “Why what?”

  “If there is to be a marriage, why are you not thrilled?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “The answer is as plain as the nose on your face.”

  So it was, though no one had ever had the courage to speak such to him. “Am I truly such a beast, Lady Lark?” He drew a hand down his bearded jaw. “I assure you, I was not born one.”

  Her eyes traced his scars, lingered over the one that cut his eyebrow. “That is not what I referred to.” She sidestepped and crossed to the table beside Jaspar’s bed. “Everyone knows what you are—what you did. Or will do.”

  “Then still you believe I arranged the attack on your baggage train.”

  “Didn’t you?” She looked over her shoulder. “And what of your brother? What of his unfortunate accident?”

  She was not the first, would not be the last. “You are right, his death was not an accident.” He knew what he implied, saw the fear his words begat. “But as for your escort, what foolishness do you think me capable of that I would murder the king’s men?”

  “You did not wish Lady Lark at Brynwood.”

  She had done it again, spoken of herself as if she were not present. “I did not, but murder? There are ways of ridding one’s self of an unwanted guest other than by the spilling of blood.”

  “So how does one rid one’s self of an unwanted wife?”

  “Not by murdering a dozen worthy soldiers, I vow.”

  She seemed to consider his words.

  “And what ill do you believe I have yet to commit?” he asked.

  She lifted a hand mirror. “You know better than I.”

  She believed he intended his nephews harm. Again, she was not the first to suggest it, which was why Edward had yielded to the nobles who objected to the boys being placed under the guardianship of one with so much to gain from their misfortune. Thus, to appease those who had petitioned for guardianship, Edward sent Sir Arthur to serve as personal guard to the boys—a man whose only claim to knighthood se
emed his possession of horse and armor. A man now turned abductor. Curse Edward for Crosley! And Lady Lark!

  Anger was on Fulke’s tongue as he stepped toward her, but it retreated when he saw the awe with which she regarded her reflection. She touched the outside corner of one eye, a cheekbone, and her bottom lip, then tilted the mirror up and pulled strands of darkest hair through her fingers.

  It unsettled Fulke, serving as a sharp reminder of the madness he suspected. “Surely you have seen your reflection before, Lady Lark?”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “I just never put much store in my looks. Grades and athletics were always more important. It’s where the scholarships are, you know.” She looked over her shoulder. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

  He wished he understood half of what she said.

  She looked back at her reflection. “You probably think I’m vain.”

  He did not. Were she, she would not have donned that gown. Surely Jaspar could have found something more fitting.

  “You see, it’s just that I’ve been. . .ill.”

  As in mad? “And now you are well?” He watched her face in the mirror.

  “Until I awaken. I almost wish that I wouldn’t.” Lips touched with a smile, she met his gaze in the mirror. “Of course, then I’d be stuck with you—just like Mac.”

  “Who is Mac?”

  She looked away and lowered the mirror. “Someone I once knew. He’s dead.”

  A lover? Feeling a stab of emotion, Fulke reminded himself that the man had been one of many. Still, there was something about the way she said the name that made him wonder if she had felt something for him. Another stab. He didn’t care. She meant nothing to him. If Edward had sent her to be his wife—

  Something occurred to him that had not before. “Where is the king’s missive apprising me of this marriage?”

  Her eyes slid away. “He didn’t send one. I was to tell you myself. And I would have if not for the attack.”

  Another lie? “’Tis unheard that the king would not inscribe a decree of marriage beneath his seal.”

  She sank onto the edge of the bed. “He must have forgotten.”

  Would Edward have overlooked such an important detail? Years ago he would not have, but he was no longer young, and since the queen’s death, he was not always sensible. Still, Fulke might have dismissed Lark’s claim, but as tale of the marriage had carried to Jaspar, it was likely the truth. Again, he cursed Edward. Fulke had not remained unwed all these years to now have a wife thrust upon him, especially one such as this, no matter how lovely she was.