Dreamspell Read online

  “From the tap is fine.”

  The woman’s confusion deepened. “But. . .”

  “Surely you jest, Lady Lark,” Marion said. “Everyone knows water is an evil drink.”

  Now Kennedy was confused—until she recalled the advice for traveling in third world countries. Water must not be safe in medieval England either. She smiled at the server. “Milk?”

  Still the woman looked disconcerted. “I shall fetch some, m’lady.” She hurried away.

  Lady Aveline harrumphed. “Even John and Harold choose wine over milk.”

  Children drank wine?

  “Where are John and Harold?” Wynland asked.

  “’Tis likely Sir Arthur again,” Lady Aveline grumbled.

  “Squire James!” Wynland called.

  The young man rose from a lower table. “My lord?”

  “Collect my nephews and bring them and Sir Arthur to the hall.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Marion leaned near Kennedy. “They hate each other.”

  “They” being Wynland and Arthur Crosley. Pretending ignorance, Kennedy asked, “Why?”

  Before Marion could answer, a plate was set between her and her mother, on it a large scooped out round of bread filled with what looked like stew. Marion picked up a spoon and took a bite. As did her mother.

  They were not the only ones to share a meal, a practice that was hardly hygienic. But when a plate was set between Kennedy and the heavy man beside her and she realized he was to be her partner, she was too hungry to object.

  “For some reason,” Marion finally said, “Sir Arthur believes my brother plans to out the heir that he might take the earldom for himself. Try though I do to convince him he is wrong, he refuses to believe me.”

  If only she knew. Kennedy looked to her shared meal. Seeing the man was halfway through it, she snagged a spoonful of chunked vegetables. And was surprised. Though she hadn’t held much hope for the offering, it was tasty.

  “Unfortunately,” Marion whispered, “he is not the only one to believe ill of my brother.”

  Kennedy spooned up another bite of her rapidly diminishing meal.

  “Come mirth, come woe, Baron Cardell opposes Fulke.” She inclined her head opposite. “You see him? He sits two past Richard.”

  Kennedy looked beyond Wynland’s brother to an older man who made her startle. The mass of curling black hair that sprouted from his jaw resembled a skunk’s tail—black on either side of a gray streak that ran chin to chest. “The one with the beard?”

  “That is him. Ere our brother’s death, the baron was the earl’s confidante. He does not boast such an esteemed position with Fulke.”

  “Why?”

  “He and Fulke do not like one another—never have, methinks never shall.”

  Tempted as Kennedy was to suggest Baron Cardell might have a good reason, she said, “Why don’t they like one another?”

  From Marion’s eyes rose a depth of wisdom far different from the face she had thus far revealed. “Because Fulke cannot be controlled. Of course”—her voice grew more hushed—“the baron’s true enmity lies in the king’s decision to grant wardship of John and—“

  “Hush, Marion,” Lady Aveline snapped. “Eat your meal.”

  Back into her shell Marion went.

  Kennedy took a spoonful of the stew, but hardly had the vegetables hit the back of her tongue than her partner cleared his throat and turned his flushed face to her.

  “Careful lest ye strain yer seams even more, my lady.”

  He was one to talk! Two—maybe three—of her could fit into him. Kennedy dug deeper. When her milk arrived, she took a gulp and nearly spit it out. It was thick and tasted as if sweetener had been added.

  “About your clothes,” Marion said a while later.

  “Yes?”

  “Your gown is beautiful, but rather lacking.” She smiled apologetically. “Unless it is the new mode at court?”

  Could she get away with that? Perhaps with Marion, but not with her mother who also awaited an explanation. And though Wynland’s attention appeared to be elsewhere, she wouldn’t be surprised if he was tuned in.

  “Nothing like that. It’s just that I’m a bit of a yo-yo with my weight. Size six, eight, sometimes ten.” Actually, with the onset of cancer, the opposite was true—eight to six to four. But that was in the real world, a place to which she didn’t have to return for however long this dream lasted.

  From the confusion on Marion’s face, it was as if Kennedy spoke a foreign language. “It’s a weight thing,” she tried again. “I gain some. I lose some.”

  Marion nodded. “What of the surcoat?”

  “Surcoat?”

  “Your overgown.” She touched her own garment with its trailing sleeves, beneath which tight-fitting sleeves buttoned down to her wrists.

  Now Kennedy understood. The red dress with its back lacing was to be worn over the green. “I. . .don’t care for layering.”

  Marion frowned. “And of the length?” She leaned in. “I could see your ankles.”

  What a shock she would have if she were dreaming in Kennedy’s world. “Terrible, isn’t it? If I’ve told my maid once, I’ve told her a hundred times—cold water.”

  “She caused your gown to shrink?”

  “It would appear so.”

  Lady Aveline looked around her daughter. “Could it be the dress is not yours, Lady Lark?”

  “Of course it’s mine.”

  Lady Aveline’s lids narrowed. “My son tells me you were not traveling with a maid. Can that be?”

  Where was this second degree going? To the lie about the maid shrinking her dress or her assumed identity? In the next instant, Kennedy was struck by the possibility she was playing the part of someone other than Lady Lark. It would certainly explain the dying soldier’s rejection and the contents of the trunk.

  That was probably it, but she couldn’t admit it since it would mean Wynland’s wrath and questions she couldn’t answer. She would have to play along, especially as it seemed far better to be a lady than a maid—or a criminal.

  “That’s correct. My maid was unable to accompany me.”

  The dragon lady’s plucked eyebrows arched.

  Kennedy turned her regard to Marion. “Do you know what a wyvern is?”

  Once more, puzzlement came to roost. “A type of dragon. Surely you know that?”

  Kennedy nearly laughed at her recent assessment of Lady Aveline. “Of course.” She glanced at the enormous tapestry on the wall behind. “Like that one.”

  “Nay, a wyvern has but two legs. A true dragon has four, like the one on Sinwell’s shield of arms.”

  “Oh.” And it wasn’t two-headed as the dying soldier had spoken of. So much for evidence of Wynland’s guilt. “Your brother’s shield of arms is different from Sinwell’s, is that right?”

  “Aye, Fulke bears the gryphon.”

  The half-eagle half-lion Kennedy had glimpsed on his squire’s shirt and several others’ when she had come downstairs.

  “My lord, my lord!” A woman ran across the hall, the veil on her head askew, eyes wide, Squire James following. “He has taken the children!” She stumbled to a halt before Wynland. “Taken them and gone from Brynwood!”

  He stood. “How?” he roared above the buzz caused by the woman’s words.

  She raised a hand to reveal the rope dangling from her wrist, grasped the cloth encircling her neck. “He bound and gagged me, my lord.”

  “The beast!” Lady Aveline hissed.

  Kennedy looked to Wynland’s sister and thought she glimpsed hurt in the woman’s eyes. What was going on? Hardly had the question formed than the pieces fell into place—Squire James, who had returned empty handed. . .the book that said Sir Arthur had stolen the boys from Brynwood following the attack on Lady Lark. How could she have forgotten?

  “When?” Wynland demanded.

  “After you rode from Brynwood this morn, my lord.”

  His nostrils flared
. “I shall wash my hands in his blood!”

  Not an idle threat. Poor Sir Arthur. His only crime was trying to prevent the murder of two innocents. “He won’t hurt them,” Kennedy said.

  Wynland’s eyes pinned her like a fly to fly paper. “How do you know that?”

  Because she knew Mac and—no! Mac had nothing to do with this. It was the account she had read of Crosley. This, in a way, made her something of an authority. “Because I know Sir Arthur.”

  Wynland’s lips curved, but it was hardly a smile. “I am sure you do.”

  Amid snickering, Kennedy said, “He wants only to protect your nephews.”

  “And who, do you think, seeks to harm them?”

  The murmur grew louder.

  Kennedy glanced at the people, saw dislike in some of their eyes, uncertainty in others. They had no idea what their “lord” was capable of. “Whoever has the most to gain, of course.”

  Wynland’s gaze hardened further. There had never been a possibility they would be friends, but still she had blasted the nonexistent bridge to kingdom come.

  He strode from behind the table, causing Kennedy to startle at the sight of him. If ever a man looked good in hose, it was Fulke Wynland.

  “All of you”—he swept a hand around the room—“to your horses!”

  Richard Wynland and thirty or more men stood, several in hose and above-knee shirts, though none cut quite the figure their lord did.

  “Lord Wynland!” a booming voice halted them. Baron Cardell unfolded his stout frame.

  “Cardell?” Wynland said.

  “What of Brynwood?”

  “In my absence, it will not be without. Richard!” Wynland searched out his brother. “Though I know you were to return to Kinsley on the morrow and would prefer to aid in my search, I ask that you remain here in my stead.”

  The younger man’s jaw tightened. “As you wish.”

  Wynland returned his attention to Cardell. “Ready yourself and your men.”

  “I would remain here.”

  “You ride with me.”

  “I—”

  “Else await my return in a prison cell.”

  Time stretched, but finally the baron said, “I am your man, my lord.”

  It didn’t take a genius to fathom the lie just told. And from Wynland’s caustic smile, he was aware of it. He resumed his course.

  A hand closed around Kennedy’s wrist, nails dug into her that she traced to the woman who reached past Marion.

  “How dare you accuse my son of seeking to harm those boys,” Lady Aveline hissed. “You know naught!”

  No mother wanted to believe her child capable of the atrocity hers had committed—would commit. Deciding the best way to defuse the situation was to appeal to the grandmother in her, Kennedy said, “All I know is that your grandsons—”

  “John and Harold are not of my blood, just as their father was not of my body.” The words flew off her tongue with such passion there was no doubt she felt no love for the boys.

  So she had been a second wife—maybe a third or fourth. “My apologies, Lady Aveline. I am simply concerned for the welfare of your son’s nephews.”

  “Then look to the one who has taken them from their beds!” Lady Aveline released her.

  Kennedy glanced at the half moons scoring her flesh.

  “Is it true you know Sir Arthur?” Marion whispered.

  “I. . .yes, I do.”

  “You are friends?”

  Did she detect jealousy? “In a manner of speaking.”

  “In a what?”

  “Well, we—”

  “Make ready, Lady Lark,” Wynland’s voice skinned Kennedy’s.

  He was advancing on her. Unsettled by his return and this stuff about “making ready” she said, “What?”

  “You shall come with me.” He stepped onto the platform and put his palms on the table. “As you profess to know Crosley, methinks you may prove useful in our search.”

  She knew from historical account that Crosley’s flight would take him to the monastery of Farfallow where he would be slain, but she had no intention of aiding this man. “I don’t see how I can be of help.”

  “Still, you will come.”

  Another wild ride? “Are we talking horses?”

  He leaned so near she could smell wine on his breath. “Time is of the utmost, Lady Lark. Thus, there will be no carriage or, in your case, baggage wagon.”

  “I told you, I’m not a horse person. I can’t ride. I—”

  “You cannot ride?” Marion exclaimed. “How can that be?”

  “Pray tell, Lady Lark,” Lady Aveline said.

  Surprisingly, Wynland came to her rescue—in a manner of speaking. “Five minutes. If you are not ready, I will take you as you are.” He stalked away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sidesaddle again. Though Kennedy had thought it was bad before, she realized how good she’d had it with Wynland. He had held her securely, without threat of losing his hold on her, but the man to whom he had entrusted her an hour ago lacked the strength and size of Wynland. Time and again she caught air, slammed to the saddle, slid sideways, bumped her head against the knight’s chin. It was miserable. And Wynland was going to hear about it.

  Teeth clenched to keep them from chattering in the chill night, Kennedy glared at her nemesis where he rode ahead of his men. The full moon shone on his pale hair and caused light to undulate across the cape that flew from his shoulders. A regular Paul Revere.

  Kennedy sank deeper into the cape she had been given. Where was Wynland headed? Did he have a clue as to where Sir Arthur might have fled? Before leaving the castle, he had divided his men. One group he sent to retrieve those searching for Lady Lark’s attackers to turn their efforts to his nephews. That left two contingents, one he headed up, the other led by a man whom Marion had said was the most trusted of her brother’s knights. Once over the stinking moat, the two contingents had ridden opposite one another.

  The horse veered, once more snapping Kennedy’s head back against her escort’s chin. She yelped.

  The knight shouted, then spewed words so charged with anger they tripped over one another in their haste to be the first to exit his mouth.

  Feeling herself slipping, knowing the horse’s pounding hooves were her next stop in this nightmare, Kennedy grabbed for something to hold onto and came up with a handful of mane.

  The horse careened, tossed its head, and reared. Then she was falling.

  Now would be a good time to wake up. Her only lifeline the coarse hair her fingers tangled around, she held on as she twisted and slammed against the horse. Then her feet hit the ground as the animal came back to earth.

  Though she risked being trampled, she knew that if she held on she would be dragged. She thrust backward, landed on her rear, rolled to her back, and was spared the beast’s hooves by inches.

  With a whinny, the horse galloped away.

  Kennedy closed her eyes and let her aching muscles sink into the earth. It was a relief to feel the still ground beneath her. Though this dream had given her back her health, she tired of its gore, wild horse rides, uppity Lady Aveline, and temperamental “lord.”

  “Lady Lark!”

  In that moment, she would have welcomed a visit from an obnoxious salesman were he to awaken her from this dream.

  Armor pealed its familiar chime, feet landed with a thud, and a warm hand felt for the pulse in her neck.

  The louse probably had his fingers crossed in hopes she was dead. She opened her eyes. Before a scathing word could pass her lips, his hands felt downward—over her collarbone, around her ribs, then her hips.

  Kennedy pushed onto her elbows. “I’m fine.”

  He turned his gaze on her.

  For an instant, she thought she might have mistaken him, but it was Wynland, a man transformed by moonlight that gentled his features and forgave him nearly every flaw—even the kink in his eyebrow.

  “You are uninjured?”

  Nothing felt
broken, but she was one massive ache. “No thanks to you.”

  His eyes caught the bare light and turned chill again. “Then let us delay no more.” He straightened and motioned someone forward.

  When she saw who it was, she scrambled to her feet. “If you think I’m getting back on that horse”—she jabbed a finger toward the advancing knight—“think again!”

  The knight dismounted and stepped before Wynland.

  “Sir Malcolm, what befell you that the lady with whom you were entrusted lost the saddle?”

  “Forgive me, my lord. In all my years in your service, never have I taken my duties without due seriousness.” He glanced at Kennedy. “The lady does not move with the horse, but against it such that my mount grew anxious. Thus, when we rounded the road, my horse reared. As the lady was sidesaddle, I was unable to keep hold of her.”

  Sidesaddle because he wouldn’t have it any other way. Kennedy had tried to convince Sir Malcolm it would be better if she rode astride. Failing that, she had thrown a leg over the horse, but he had lifted her and plunked her down sideways. Maybe the next time he would listen to her. Not that there would be a next time.

  “I shall deal with you later,” Wynland said.

  As irked as Kennedy was, she feared for the knight, as her father had said those same words to her. Later, he had pared a willow branch and “tanned her hide,” criss-crossing her rear with welts. With Wynland, punishment was bound to be more harsh than a willow branch.

  “Make ready to ride,” he ordered the knight and started for his own horse. “Come, Lady Lark.”

  She hurried after him. “Mr. Wynland.”

  His stride never broke.

  “All right. Lord Wynland!” She caught his arm.

  He halted, though only because he had reached his horse.

  “What happened was my fault, not Sir Malcolm’s.”

  “That I do not doubt.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Because he is a knight, a distinction attained through strength and stamina, courage and honor, blood and war. In giving you into his care, I asked little of him and, no matter the reason, he failed me. Thus, he will answer for his negligence.” He looked to her hand on him. “Now that I have explained myself, which I need not do, ‘tis time we continue our search.”