Dreamspell (16 page)

Run. Now!

She dropped the stone and, as she skirted the dark one, caught the glint of steel near the stairway. It was the dagger that had flown from her captor’s hand when she struck him. She lurched forward, retrieved the weapon she prayed she would not have to use, and started down the stairs.

Behind, the dark one groaned.

Blood thrummed in Lark’s ears as she plunged down the steps.
Please, God, deliver me and ever I will do thy bidding.
Now if only He was listening. If only he would forgive her the sin she had thought to commit in the name of revenge.

K
ennedy stared at the tower that stood watch over the outer bailey. Nothing. She put a hand to her neck and smoothed the fine hairs that stood on end. She had been sure someone was watching her.

Just my imagination.

She looked back at the man who turned a piece of wood into a table leg. Interesting stuff. She couldn’t begin to guess from where she had culled such knowledge.

Where to now? The huge cylinder that looked like a silo? The stables? The small building from which came the sound of birds? She decided on the latter as a means to delay her return to the keep—anything to avoid Wynland and what had happened between them an hour earlier.

Though she tried to slam the door on the incident, images pushed through. She remembered his hands on her, his muscled chest against hers, the brush of his hair on her cheek, the graze of his bearded face when he kissed her. She had resisted, but more because she feared his promise that she would willingly give herself to him. She didn’t believe it, but never had she felt anything quite like what she did with him—not even with Graham, her first and only love.

Why? Nervous? Out of her element? Needless to say, Wynland had thrown her for a loop when he called her on the marriage thing. She had been so certain her talk with Lady Jaspar wouldn’t come back to haunt her.

“Merely confirmed it,” she muttered the words she had spoken to Wynland.

Then there was her reflection. The dream had restored her health, but still her image was unexpected. It was such a contrast to the last time she had stood before a mirror that it had been like running into a long lost friend. She had missed herself.

Was this behind her reaction to Wynland? Had she simply been off-kilter? There seemed only one answer: she was warped to feel attraction for a man like him. For all of her training in psychology, this self-analysis thing was getting her nowhere. She needed her head examined by an objective—

This is
not
reality.
It was a dream, and though she had been appalled when she put Wynland straight on the matter, it had been liberating. As long as she remembered this for what it was, she had nothing to fear.

She stepped toward the bird building, and the shadow that crossed hers reminded her of the one who had dogged her steps since she had left the keep—Sir Malcolm who had allowed her to fall from his horse. And he looked no worse for whatever punishment Wynland had dealt. In spite of Kennedy’s annoyance at being followed, there was relief in that. Had Wynland given the knight this assignment as a chance for the man to redeem himself?

She sidestepped a mud puddle that evidenced the thunderstorm that had been all the talk in Lady Jaspar’s cavernous kitchen. Of course, Kennedy had the impression that, prior to her entrance, the talk had been of her disappearance from Cirque. And more than once she had heard “witch” whispered about.

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.

L
aughter.

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 stirred 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.