Dreamspell Page 12

  Behind, she heard the squelch of the knight’s boots, then muttered curses. Obviously, Sir Malcolm had been too intent on her to notice the mud.

  Kennedy turned to the thirty-something knight. “If you must follow me, can you at least make yourself useful?”

  He scowled, causing his weathered countenance to age.

  “Tell me about this place. What is it?”

  He drew alongside her. “A dovecote, my lady. You do not know?”

  “We don’t have them where I come from.”

  “It is a place for doves—pigeons.”

  She stopped before a slatted window set high in the wall. “In other words, a giant birdhouse.”

  It looked as if he might smile. “Aye, that would be it.”

  She put a hand on the window ledge and peered at row upon row of birds. Numbering perhaps one hundred, they were mottled gray with the exception of a dozen white. “What are they for?”

  “Their dung is of benefit to the crops, but mostly they are for the pot. And for the hawks. The great birds are especially fond of doves.”

  Wishing she hadn’t asked, Kennedy settled back on her heels. She conjured a vision of Lady Jaspar and her hooded bird, imagined the woman serving up a sweet dove to her pet.

  “Have you never eaten pigeon, my lady?”

  Hadn’t and wouldn’t, not even in a dream. “No.”

  “Fair tasty they are. As Lord Wynland has returned, Lady Jaspar’s cooks will likely bring doves to the high table this eve. You must try some.”

  “Tell me about Lady Jaspar’s hawk. Why are its eyes covered?”

  “To keep it calm. Know you naught of hawking, my lady?”

  “Another area of my education sorely neglected.”

  His puzzlement deepened. “’Tis strange you would not have been introduced to hawking at court. The king delights in falconry and keeps the finest mews.”

  “That he does.” She hoped she wasn’t digging herself in too deep. “It’s just that there was always something better to do.”

  The knight’s gaze turned knowing and he grinned.

  Heat flooded Kennedy’s face. Since Lady Lark’s reputation as mistress to the king preceded her, Sir Malcolm had taken her words to mean she had been too busy romping around the bedroom to notice something as inconsequential as a hawk.

  “Would you like to see Lady Jaspar’s mews?” he asked, his tone verging on friendly.

  “All right.” Kennedy followed him to a long wooden shed.

  “The mews,” he said. “If the falconer is around, he will tell you all you wish to know about hawking.”

  It turned out to be interesting. Best of all, it further delayed her next meeting with Wynland.

  Laughter.

  Fulke arrested his progress across the hall and turned to catch the entrance of Lady Lark accompanied by Sir Malcolm. No manner of peasant wear could lessen the brilliance that shone from Lark’s face, just as no manner of finery could make her glow brighter. It was all Lark. No mockery, no contempt, no anger, just laughter. And it returned him to the taste of her mouth.

  How had Sir Malcolm made her laugh? And what of the knight’s aversion for the lady who had squirmed atop his horse? Was it her comeliness that put a smile on lips that rare turned, that made him forget what all others could not—her disappearance for which there seemed no explanation other than that she was a witch?

  Fulke cursed himself for the stink of jealousy that swirled around him. Lark was a harlot, adept at winning men to her. Likely, she hoped to seduce the knight and make him an ally.

  “Sir Malcolm,” Fulke called.

  The man’s smile fell. For a moment looking as if caught with his braies down, he slid his gaze past the others who gathered for supper and inclined his head. “Lord Wynland.”

  “I trust you carried out my instructions.”

  “Aye, my lord. Never did the lady go from my sight. She but walked the outer bailey.”

  Fulke had known she would not like being followed but could not risk losing her again. Catching sight of her over Sir Malcolm’s shoulder, he said, “Take your leave, Sir Malcolm.”

  “If it pleases you, my lord, I can—”

  “Your leave.”

  The knight turned toward the tables.

  Expecting Lark to avoid him, Fulke was surprised when she came toward him.

  “You had a pleasant walk?” he asked.

  Her smile was less brilliant than when laughter had earlier put it on her lips. “I did, though I was peeved to discover you had put a tail on me.”

  Peeved? And what was this about a tail? “A tail?”

  “Yes, a. . .” She made a face. “You had Sir Malcolm follow me.”

  “To ensure you do not disappear again.”

  “Oh, I will. But next time I won’t be coming back.”

  Fulke studied her defiant countenance, wondered if her plans included Sir Malcolm whose loyalty there had never been any reason to question—unlike some of the men who had served his deceased brother. “I thank you for the warning, Lady Lark. I shall plan accordingly.”

  She didn’t look concerned, which concerned him all the more.

  He gripped her elbow. “To supper.”

  Jaspar was seated at the high table, her hooded hawk on its perch at her back, when Fulke handed Lark into the chair beside the one reserved for the lord and lowered himself.

  With scrapes and screeches, grunts and clearings of throats, those at the lesser tables settled in for the meal as best they could with what they feared was a witch among them.

  “My lord,” said one of two varlets who appeared at Fulke’s side.

  Fulke placed his hands over the basin held by the first, turned his palms up as water was poured over them, and held them out to be dried by the second varlet. When they moved on to Lark, Fulke envied the smile she gifted the young men as they washed and dried her hands.

  Lark met Fulke’s gaze, held up her hands, and turned them front to back. “Just when I was beginning to think you were all uncivilized.”

  Uncivilized? She, who knew so little of propriety she more often behaved as if she were a villein, should speak thus? As comely as she was, and no matter her play between the sheets, it was no wonder Edward had set her aside.

  “Tell me of this Oz you come from,” Fulke invited.

  Apprehension flashed across her face and was gone. Eyes sparkling, lips parting to reveal even white teeth, she sat back in her chair. “There’s this girl named Dorothy. She and her little dog, Toto, live in Kansas, which is tornado alley, as you know—” She wrinkled her nose. “No, you don’t know. Anyway, a tornado sweeps up Dorothy’s house and lands her and Toto in Oz, a bizarre place populated with munchkins.”

  Fulke felt as if felled by a quintain. Munchkins, tornados, a dog named Toto, and who was this Dorothy? It was the stuff of too much ale.

  “The house lands on the Wicked Witch of the East,” Lark continued, “and kills the hag.”

  Fulke could not believe she would speak thus, especially since so many believed her to be a witch.

  “East’s sister, West, isn’t too happy with Dorothy.” She swept her hands up. “Fortunately, Glenda the good witch is on the scene—”

  He caught one of Lark’s hands and pulled her near. “Quiet, woman!”

  “What?”

  “Speak no more of this. . .Oz. Do you, you may find yourself staked and burned for being a witch yourself.”

  She tugged at her hand. “What is this? Salem?”

  “This is England where those condemned as witches are burned.”

  She scoffed. “Uncivilized, just as I thought.”

  “Lady Lark!”

  The derision cleared from her face. “Do I detect concern, Mr. Wynland? I would have laid odds you wouldn’t object too loudly to me being burned at the stake.”

  Just as she believed him responsible for the attack on her baggage train. Still, it was curious that he should concern himself over her well-being. Forget that she stirr
ed longing in him. Forget the smiles she so easily bestowed on others. It had everything to do with the king. If anything untoward happened to her, he would answer to Edward.

  He arched his scarred eyebrow. “Methinks you would burn most bright, my lady. But then, ‘twould be upon me to explain to King Edward what became of his. . .” He slid his gaze from her lips to her long neck. “. . .to explain what became of you.”

  “Hmm. Methinks thou protests overly much.”

  It was the first time she sounded remotely English.

  “Remember,” she said, “you kissed me.”

  Music sounded from the gallery, heralding the entrance of servants bearing platters. Fulke shot Lark a look of warning, then released her and affected an interest in the victuals, all of which were so lavish they reminded him of his long and dreary days at court. Lady Jaspar had put forth quite an effort.

  He looked to her and saw she watched him. How much of his conversation with Lark had she overheard? No, she wasn’t watching him. She stared through him, eyes narrowed against the pain of one of her headaches. She had told him that, in her youth, she had suffered them often, sometimes so greatly she could bear only darkness, but he had thought they were resolved. Remorseful at having been curt with her earlier, he said, “’Tis a fine table, my lady.”

  “For a fine lord.” Her smile was hopeful. “Will you share a plate with me?”

  He would have to disappoint her further. “If not for my betrothed, I would. But I thank you for the offer.”

  “Of course.” She turned to her cousin.

  As if unaware of Jaspar’s attention, Sir Leonel lifted his tankard, quaffed it, set it down with a thud, and slumped on an upturned palm. He was likely full up in his cups, the ale he had downed only a small portion of what he must have partaken.

  Lady Jaspar’s hand on Leonel’s sleeve brought his head around so fast his brimmed hat slipped down over one eye. She leaned near, straightened his hat, and whispered something.

  Though Fulke was not usually one to listen in on others’ conversations, it unsettled him.

  “Oh, my,” Lady Lark gasped.

  Fulke found her gaze held by an enormous platter that two squires set before them. On it was a hoofed leg of stag.

  Lark looked at Fulke, her taunting self-assurance that had turned him from her minutes earlier reduced to apprehension. “Is that—?”

  “Venison.”

  “Bambi?”

  Was that what they called it in Oz?

  The carver laid a thick slice of the steaming meat across the silver plate before Fulke. “My lord.”

  Fulke cut a piece of venison and offered it to Lark on the point of his meat dagger.

  She held up a hand. “I won’t have that on my conscience.”

  What was she talking about? If it had something to do with her witches and magic, he would put a swift end to it. “I vow you will like it. ‘Tis fresh—taken this day on our return to Cirque.”

  She shook her head. “Fish, chicken, pizza, an occasional hamburger, but never Bambi.”

  He frowned. “You speak most peculiar, Lady Lark.”

  “And you don’t?”

  He carried the venison to his mouth and enjoyed every chew of it. “Delicious. Mayhap the next course will be more to your liking.”

  Platters came and went, but most were so foreign to Kennedy they held little appeal: lamprey—whatever it was, peacock—worse than doves, wild boar—gamey. Nearly as bad, Wynland seemed determined to feed her, time and again thrusting his blade at her with some morsel on it. Mostly, she refused, and the gnawing of her stomach increased.

  Finally, a pie was placed between her and Wynland. Chicken pot pie? Fortunately, it was every bit as delicious as its scent promised.

  “’Tis to your liking?” Wynland asked.

  She met his blue gaze. Nice eyes, especially when they’re not glaring. “Very much.”

  He stabbed a piece of chicken and offered his dagger. “’Tis the last real food you will likely see for some days.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come the morrow, we ride again, and this time you go with me.”

  “You’re no longer worried I might slow you down?”

  “You shall ride with me.”

  Lovely. Kennedy plucked the chicken from his dagger and popped it in her mouth.

  The fare that followed was less appealing, with the exception of apple tarts that were so tasty Kennedy ate three.

  When an end to the meal was called, Sir Leonel was the first to his feet, standing so quickly and crookedly it was impossible to miss him. With tell-tale weaving, he crossed the hall and staggered outside into the gathering darkness. Probably to vomit, Kennedy guessed, and tomorrow there would be a hangover to deal with.

  As she stepped from the dais, she glanced behind and saw that Wynland’s and Lady Jaspar’s heads were bent toward one another.

  “Lady Lark?” Jaspar’s maid, Esther, approached.

  “Yes?”

  “My lady has bid me to fit you with a gown more suited to your size.”

  So Wynland didn’t like her in sackcloth. It was almost enough to make her reject the woman’s offer. She scratched her thigh. “I’d appreciate that, especially if the fabric isn’t as prickly as this.”

  “I am to alter one of Lady Jaspar’s gowns.”

  And the woman was probably turning cartwheels over that. “Lead the way.”

  “In truth,” Esther said as she and Kennedy neared the stairs, “’tis more likely fleas that bother you than my homespun.”

  Kennedy halted and stared down the shapeless garment.

  “My lady?”

  If she had been alone, she would have ripped the gown off. Gritting her teeth, she met Esther’s questioning gaze. “I’m right behind you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eighteen buckets. From the doorway of her room, Kennedy counted them, starting with the first that arrived amid the giggles of two maids to the last lugged down the corridor amid grunts and a good deal of slopping.

  A hot, steaming, up-to-your-neck bath. But it wasn’t for her. It was for the woman behind door number one.

  Kennedy groaned. What she wouldn’t do for a quick dip, having once more been reduced to a basin of tepid water and a towel hardly big enough to blow her nose on. She scratched her midriff and gazed longingly at the door behind which Jaspar basked. Might she—?

  In your dreams. In the next instant, she chuckled. It was her dream. She looked down at the slip, rather “chemise” that was all she had to wear until alterations to Jaspar’s plum-colored surcoat and dark green undergown were completed. Remembering the fitting that had taken over an hour and seen her stuck twice, Kennedy thanked her stars it was over. Though the garments had to be Jaspar’s least liked, they were a huge improvement over Esther’s tent.

  Forgetting her attire, Kennedy padded barefoot down the corridor. As she neared, she heard the sound of lapping water, a crackling fire, and voices—one of them a man’s. It wasn’t possible to identify Wynland from that bit of muffle, but something told her it was him. And the tinkling laughter had to belong to Jaspar.

  An emotion Kennedy tried to fob off as disgust stirred, then churned when the woman’s voice sounded through the door. Her words were unintelligible, but there was no mistaking Wynland’s reply: “Aye.”

  In spite of everything Kennedy held against him, her green-eyed monster appeared. Engaged to her and playing footsie with that woman! She curled her toes in the water puddle courtesy of the bone-weary maids and pushed the door inward. A glimpse of the room, bathed in firelight, was all she was afforded before a hand clamped around her arm and spun her back against a wall of muscle.

  Kennedy’s gasp was met by light on steel and a razor-sharp edge at her throat.

  “You are fortunate to yet have your pretty head on your shoulders, my lady,” Wynland said.

  Slowly, she looked around into his face. “I couldn’t agree more. Now let me go.”

  Where there had bee
n anger, amusement crept. “You are certain ‘tis what you wish?”

  “Of course I am.”

  He lowered his dagger, released her, and stepped back.

  Touching her neck where the blade had worked its threat, Kennedy turned to him. “Oh!” She averted her gaze, but not before every muscle and sinew was imprinted on her memory. Clenching her hands, she searched out Jaspar who knelt beside the tub.

  How smug she looked, but at least she was clothed. A washcloth in her lap, soap in her hand, face flushed, she regarded Kennedy.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy?” Kennedy spoke before she could get a grip on emotions she had no reason to feel.

  “Why are you listening at doors, Lady Lark?” Wynland asked as he stepped around her.

  Again, she redirected her gaze and peripherally saw him step into the tub.

  “Lady Lark?” he prompted.

  Braving the sight of his head and shoulders above the rim, Kennedy said, “I was not listening at the door.”

  “Then for what did you come to Lady Jaspar’s chamber in the dark of night?”

  Beginning to hum, that woman rose to her knees and soaped his broad shoulders.

  Kennedy felt her jaw muscles cramp. “Don’t you think that’s more a question for you than me, Mr. Wynland?”

  “I am bathing.”

  “And I suppose you need help doing that?”

  He looked genuinely puzzled.

  Kennedy stepped forward. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

  He sank more deeply into the warmth that would have incited her envy if she wasn’t so occupied with this other emotion. Resting his neck on the rim, he closed his eyes. “You think that would be seemly? After all, we are not yet wed.”

  He played house with Jaspar and talked of being seemly! “Alone,” Kennedy said again.

  As if he had no intention of sending Jaspar away, he let the silence ride on the melody purring from Jaspar.

  Kennedy tried to bring herself back to earth, to pound into her head that none of this was real, but her insides knotted further. If ever there was an ugly emotion, it had to be jealousy, to which she had rarely been moved. She couldn’t possibly be right in the head.