Dreamspell (21 page)

Only one bed, meaning Wynland expected her to share it with him. She would set him straight on that, but not before she took care of her problem.

She knelt before the packs. Her rummaging through the contents of the first revealed all manner of items, most foreign to her and of no use. She chose another pack. As she searched it, the tent flap rustled.

She jumped up and spun around.

“Mayhap I can assist?” Fulke said, his voice near frozen.

“I. . .was looking for something to. . . Do you have an old shirt you wouldn’t mind parting with? Maybe a towel?”

“For what?”

She drew a deep breath. “If you must know, I started my period.”

He looked no more enlightened, but at least his puzzlement warmed the chill with which he regarded her. “Pray, what is a period?”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “
That
time of month.” Nothing. “Menstruation?”

“Ah, your menses. My apologies. Had I known, I would not have pried.”

At least he had the grace to look repentant. “That’s why I was looking through your things. I need. . .”

“I am sure I have something you can use.” He pulled the incriminating pack from this shoulder and strode forward.

Then he was going to go through it. When he discovered the missive gone— “Never mind, I can make do without.”

“How?”

Good question.

He dropped the pack and reached for another she had not yet plundered.

As relief eased her shoulders, he pulled out a white shirt. “This ought to meet your needs.”

She took it and marveled at the silk-like material. “Surely you have something not quite so nice?”

“Naught that is clean.”

She was surprised that he would concern himself. “Thank you.”

“I shall leave you.” He strode from the tent and dropped the flap behind him.

Kennedy rubbed the sleeve’s material between her fingers and pondered the man who had given it to her. It seemed the more time she spent in his company, the farther he strayed from who she had read him to be. He was, but was not. Did, but did not.
You’re falling for a man who may have murdered his nephews.
She hoped he hadn’t, that history had wronged him.

“Oh, Ken,” she whispered, “you’re dreaming. You made Fulke Wynland,
this
Fulke Wynland. He’s only a figment that dies with you.” The admission hurt, the rending of the fabric echoing that of her heart.

D
ry biscuits, dehydrated fish, watered wine. It was almost enough to make her put aside her disdain for Bambi and now Thumper. Determinedly, Kennedy chewed through a hard biscuit as the others enjoyed succulent rabbit.

Gathered around the campfire, Fulke’s men spoke loudly and slapped one another on the back in that tribal dance of men that was beyond women—Kennedy included, though her training had involved a dissection of male behavior.

She shifted on the log that Sir Leonel and another knight had rolled before the fire. Where was Fulke? As with each time he disappeared, she grew nervous. Eventually, he would discover the missive was gone, and when he did she prayed she would pop herself out of this dream.

The campfire having warmed away her chill, Kennedy parted her cape and tossed a flap over each shoulder.

“You say!” exploded a thick man opposite whose lower face was greased with rabbit fat.

“Aye,” another said, “’tis what happened.”

The greasy one guffawed, spraying the fire with chewed meat that popped and sizzled.

“Lady Lark?”

Kennedy looked around at the man whose beard resembled a skunk and whose loyalty Wynland questioned.

“May I sit?” Baron Cardell asked.

“Sure.”

He stepped over the log and lowered himself. “How fare thee, my lady?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

His fire-lit gaze searched hers and brow grew weighted. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’ve heard.”

“Then you know I had the earl’s ear—that I was his confidante.”

“So I was told.”

He looked to the campfire. “’Tis true you are to wed Wynland?”

“If that is what the king orders, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Then you do not wish it yourself?”

“Why do you ask?”

His gaze swung to her. “You were almost killed.”

And he believed Wynland was responsible. “Yes, but it doesn’t seem I have much say in whether or not I marry.”

His mouth edged upward but fell short of a smile. “Unless it could be proven Wynland worked ill upon you, eh, my lady?”

Had he? She was no longer as certain as she had been when first she had walked this mind play. The culprit could be someone else. She lowered her gaze to the tunic the man wore open at the neck. No sign of a chain or medallion.

“What think you, my lady?”

“That it’s getting late, and I’m tired. What do you want, Mr. Cardell?”

His eyes hardened. “Only what belongs to me.”

Kennedy put a hand on his arm. “Maybe you’re wrong about him.” Was that her talking?

He considered her hand on him. “If you wish to live, come to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you are done whoring yourself with Wynland, we shall speak.” He stood and, as she struggled with her outrage, returned to the shadows from which he had appeared.

Danger. The question was, from which side did it come? Cardell or Wynland? Both? Regardless, the answer would not be found in the company of men who eyed her as if she were a toothless witch. Leaving her meal to woodland creatures, she returned to the tent and found it empty. She removed her cape. As there had been no opportunity to address the sleeping arrangements, she would have to take matters into her own hands.

L
eaving the sweat of the day’s ride in the pool, Fulke pulled on his tunic. He frowned as he caught the scent he had cleansed from his body, berated himself for not bringing another tunic. The others also needed laundering, but the odor would not have been as fresh as this. He would have to take Squire James to task for not seeing to the keeping of his clothes. Though a more loyal heart could scarce be found, the young man was remiss in his duties. Of course, if Fulke had not given away the last of his clean tunics the matter would not be as pressing.

He conjured Lark, the surprise on her face when he had handed her the tunic. It was as if he had given her more. But then, his offering did not fit the man of whom she believed ill—just as she scarcely fit the woman he believed her to be. Could it be she was not the only one mistaken?

He thrust his legs into his braies, next his hose. The latter fought him, dragging over damp calves and thighs and straining the seams. He shoved his feet into his boots and girded his sword. As he turned to leave, moonlight on glass returned his gaze to the pool. Though the water had been chill, he had lingered to ponder the woman who might fell him as surely as if by sword. An enchantress.

“Accursed woman!” He tramped through the trees and emerged on the clearing to find his men ringing the fire, arms laid over one another’s shoulders as they sang of a tavern wench with many loves. When he came to their notice, they quieted.

Though he knew he ought to order them to their rest, he said, “Continue,” and strode to the tent.

Wrapped in one of two blankets that was to have served as their bed, Lark was on her side near the lantern-topped rock.

Fulke stared at her back that rose and fell with sleep. In spite of her earlier response to him, he had known she would object to sharing his bed. But for some reason, he had looked forward to the argument—and winning, for the chill night would turn more chill before morn.

He caught the movement of her long legs. “Lark?”

Her breathing stilled, started up again.

He strode forward and dropped to his haunches. “The day is not done, my lady.” Her eyes remained closed, dark lashes throwing long shadows across her cheeks. He leaned near and brushed the hair from her face. “Ought I to kiss you again?”

Her eyes sprang open. “What do you want?”

“Only what is owed me.”

“What would that be?”

“Lessons.” At her tense silence, he laughed. “Reading lessons for riding.”

“Now?”

“’Tis late, but as neither of us is ready for sleep, it seems a good time.”

“You may not be tired, but I am.” She made a show of yawning, but the pretense ended when her gaze fell to his brow. “You had a bath?”

He pushed fingers through his damp hair. “I did.”

“How?”

“There is a pool not far from here.”

Her face fell. “You mean a hole in the ground.”

“Aye, that.” Obviously, she was unaccustomed to the toil of travel, spoiled soft by regular tub baths.

“And it was probably cold,” she ventured.

“Very, but if you wish to bathe, I shall take you.”

“No, thanks.”

He straightened. “Then it is time for a lesson.”

She pushed the blanket off, revealing she had not removed her surcoat. “Let’s get this over with.”

Suddenly modest Lark, Fulke mused. Of course, when she had bathed in Jaspar’s solar she had been careful to hide her nudity—so different from the night he had come to her chamber at Brynwood and been allowed to look upon her bared legs.

“What?” she asked.

He was staring. “Your gown would fare better if you did not sleep in it.”

She whipped the blanket from her legs and, in spite of a multitude of wrinkles, emerged from it as a butterfly. “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, you know.”

He frowned. “I did not know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you have something to read?”

He turned to his packs, but as he stepped toward them, her hand fell to his arm.

“Scratch that,” she said, too quickly and too flustered. “We’ll start at the beginning. All we need is a stick to write out the lesson.” She hurried to where one lay and motioned him forward. “You probably haven’t heard of phonics, but it’s a great method for learning to read.”

Fulke knew he should pursue what had put her in a tither, but she smiled. He strode to where she knelt on the edge of the rug. “Do show, Lady Lark.”

She swept a hand over the dirt, clearing a place to scrape out her lesson. “This is little ‘a’.”

Did she think him a fool? “That I know.”

“Good. What sound does ‘a’ make?”

“Ah.”

“Yes, and that’s not all. Listen.” She sounded the variant forms, of which he was not unfamiliar. Though he was tempted to advise her of the extent of his knowledge, he was stopped by the tilt of her head, the curve of her jaw, and her full lower lip forming the sounds. Forget the redundancy of the lesson, that for all her ability to read she spelled as one who did not know the English language—not that he spelled much better. He liked being near her, so he suffered an hour of “sounding out” and, surprisingly, learned a few things.

When the revelry outside the tent abated, she looked up. “Had enough for one night?”

He considered her mouth. It would be easy to lose himself in her, so much it might be difficult to find himself again. When he returned to her eyes and saw flight there, he reached to her. “Nay, not enough.”

She sprang to her feet and danced away. “Tell me about John and Harold.”

What held her from him? Though it was true he was not attractive, she
had
responded to his kiss. He stood. “What is there to tell?”

“They’re your nephews. Surely you know something about them.”

He advanced on her, and she retreated, only to come up against the tent wall. “Do you care for them at all?”

He halted. Did she truly fear him, or was this a game such as she had played with Edward? “Do you like to be chased, little bird?”

Her eyes widened. “Not one bit.”

Not even a blind man could question her sincerity. As much as he longed to know her beyond kisses, this night he would not. He sighed. “What do you want from me, Lark?”

As if surprised to find she was no longer prey, she searched his face. “To understand you.”

“Why?”

“Because. . .” She looked down. “I want to be wrong about you.”

What made her doubt what she had accused him of? Desire? “Of John and Harold, I fear I know little, though for that I am more to blame than they.” He silently cursed his brother’s death that had made him master of all he no longer wished to be. Though King Edward wanted more for him than he wanted for himself, Fulke had been content to exchange the bloody war with France for the modest barony his father had left him. And, for a while, it had seemed he might find peace, but that had been nothing more than a dream. Now he must be father to two little boys who regarded him with trembling and command men who believed him responsible for his brother’s death.

What sins the world put on him! Still, some were deserved. Memories of the massacre at Limoges rising, he doused them with a reminder of the sins Lark spoke of that had yet to pass. Not that they would. Never would he harm the boys. Though inept at fathering, he felt for his nephews and might even come to care for them if ever they came out from behind Sir Arthur.