Dreamspell (42 page)

T
he setting sun painted the walls of the lord’s solar in orange bled with pink and cast a golden glow on the canopied bed alongside which Fulke and Kennedy stood.

Fingers still meshed with hers, he raised his other hand and stroked her cheek. “I feared never to see you again, and now you shall be my wife and bear me sons and daughters.”

She smiled. “Is that your way of asking me to marry you?”

“Does it need to be asked?”

Kennedy’s breath stirred wildly at the love in his eyes he had yet to speak. “No, but still I would like to hear it.”

He caught her hands between his. “Nedy Plain, will thee wed me come the changing of the leaves, the whispering of the breeze?”

Autumn, and so poetically written on the air—as had been written the words he would never carve into the walls of a prison cell. “You do know I’m not noble?”

His gaze never wavered. “You are more noble than any woman who has ever perched a crown upon her brow. Tell me ‘aye,’ and I will take you to wife this eve if you wish.”

Though she swelled with hope, Graham’s mother threw a shadow. “What about your mother? She won’t approve.”

“Think you I must needs have her approval?” He shook his head. “I do not.”

It was the same as Graham had said, though not in so many words.

Fulke drew her nearer. “Does my mother put aside her bitterness of a life she hated, her visits shall be welcome. Does she not, no part of your life will she touch.”

Was it wishful thinking that made her believe him as she had tried to believe Graham? Or was it his eyes that held steady, echoing a vow never to be broken? All that and more. “I believe you. But what of Lady Lark?”

He carried her hands to his lips and kissed her palms. “She has decided to enter the convent, and does she determine otherwise, I shall convince her father to wed her elsewhere.”

“Then it’s true that King Edward is her father.”

Fulke frowned. “How come you by that?”

“The conversation I overheard between Leonel and Jaspar. He taunted her with it.”

“Then ‘tis as Lady Lark told—her captor knew of her relation to Edward.” He nodded. “Aye, Nedy, ‘tis true.”

“But if the king is her—”

“Edward will grant me my desire. And I desire you. You know it already, but I will say it. I love you, Nedy Plain.”

She closed her eyes, sowed the seeds of his words throughout her memory that she could call upon them when she was a very old woman.

His mouth brushed hers. “All I would do for you, no matter the cost.”

Those words, never to be carved into a stone wall, leapt at her. But now he would not die for her.

“Will you marry me?”

She lifted her lids. “With my whole heart.”

He lowered his head and opened his mouth on hers.

Kennedy thrilled to his kiss. No sweeter taste had she tasted, no greater need had she needed.

He cupped her face in his hands, with his fingers gently brushed her swollen eye and the lump at her temple.

“Pinch me,” Kennedy whispered against his mouth.

“Do what?”

“Pinch me. Anywhere.”

Still, he didn’t follow. She supposed he wouldn’t. She pinched her thigh.

“What do you, Nedy?”

His voice rang loud and clear, meaning she was still here, as was he. She looked up. “Pinching myself.”

“For what?”

“To see if I am only dreaming. It’s a silly thing we do where I come from to test whether a person is dreaming or awake.”

He almost smiled. “And?”

“I’m still here. I’m not dreaming. You’re real.”

“I am relieved. You will tell me more of this world from which you come?”

“Now?”

“If I am to wait ‘till our wedding night to have you in my bed, I will need a distraction.”

She laughed. “And a better place to tell my tale than here.”

He led her to a chair before the fireplace. As they would have days. . .months. . .years ahead of them, Kennedy began at the beginning, a regular Scheherazade.

S
he couldn’t sleep, at first because of Fulke’s proximity that stoked her senses even while they lay apart on the bed where they had moved when enough of the tale was told for one night. Later, it was the chill creeping about the room that kept her awake. And now it was fear of the pull. When it came, she must be conscious. And if it didn’t come soon? Dread it though she did—the fear that she might not escape it—she wanted it over with so she could go on with her new life. She had to believe she would.

“Nay,” Fulke muttered.

It was too dark for her to make out his features where he lay on the opposite side of the bed. Was he awake?

“Fulke?”

A sound rumbled from his throat.

A dream, then—rather, a nightmare, or at least something disturbing. Kennedy moved nearer and stroked his bearded jaw. “Wake up.”

He grumbled.

“Fulke.” She shook his shoulder. “You’re dreaming.”

He drew a sharp breath. “Nedy?”

She caught the bare light reflected in his eyes. “It’s me.”

He pulled her so tightly against him it was as if he meant to absorb her through his skin. “You are here.”

“I am. Was it a very bad dream?” she spoke into the crook of his neck.

His tense silence revealed a vulnerability she had not previously seen in this warrior. But then, as she knew well, dreams could be powerful, sometimes enough to change lives—in her case, give life.

“’Twas of fire,” he said. “John and Harold in the midst of it, smoke pouring from beneath the door.”

A chill deeper than that which breathed through the open windows pricked Kennedy’s arms.

“I could not reach them.” He pulled back and she felt his gaze search the dark for her face. “Amid blackened walls, you came to me, held me, then disappeared like summer snow.”

Then it wasn’t a dream, but a memory of that other past which her return would have wiped clean?

“I waited on your word that you would return to me, but you did not. Then death came for me.”

“How did you die, Fulke?”

“A noose, tighter and tighter ‘til dark dragged the light of day from my eyes.” His hair brushed her cheek as he shook his head. “So real a dream I have never had.”

She laid a hand to his cheek. “It wasn’t a dream. John and Harold did die in the fire. In your grief, you sent for me the morning after—tomorrow—and when I left you it was to bring myself back to an earlier time that I might save your nephews.”

His silence was thick.

“Do you understand, Fulke? What you believe to be a dream happened. All of it—as it would have had I not been able to return. But it’s over now. Leonel can’t harm John and Harold. They’re safe.”

“What of you?” he asked tightly. “Will you leave me again?”

Would
the pull take her? Could she beat it as Mac had done? She had to. “Not if I can help it.”

“Can you?”

“Mac did it. I can too.”

“Then ‘tis as he told, that you must die there to stay here.”

“It’s true. I have a brain tumor.”

Fulke slid fingers through the hair at her temple. “Here the tumor is gone?”

Was he holding his breath? “I’ve never been healthier.”

His tension eased. “You and Crosley ask much of me. However, as I am unable to find another explanation for all that has happened, I shall no more say ‘nay’ to you.”

She huddled nearer.

He kissed her nose. “You are cold. I shall light a fire and we will sit and talk some more.” He stood, and she heard his feet fall across the chamber. He opened the door, reached around it, and retrieved a torch from the corridor. Though weakened by its long burn into the night, it lit the chamber enough for Kennedy to take better note of it than she had earlier.

She dropped her feet over the mattress as Fulke moved before the hearth. The structure was large, its presence made larger by the thick mantel above the sheltering cavern. In fact, it seemed everything about the room was on a massive scale: armchairs, tables, stools, carved chests, tapestries and, of course, the bed—big enough to hold dad, mom, and a passel of children.

Kennedy touched her stomach, tilted her head back, and considered the canopy. With its sheer white fabric stretched overhead and falling in swells from the frame, it was all that was soft about the room. Something more was needed. Flowers would be nice. She looked to the floor and sighed. “Fulke?”

“Hmm?” He urged a fledgling fire with a poker, straightened, and kicked a scattering of rushes from the hearth.

“Why hay?”

“Hay?” He set the torch in a wall sconce to the left of the mantel, leaned down, and poked some more.

“The rushes on the floor. Except for in stables, I’ve never seen it used for floor covering.”

He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “’Tis truly a different world in which you lived. Tell me, what is it you use there to keep the chill from the floor and scent the rooms?”

“Carpet is the top pick, but rugs over tile and hardwood are a good alternative.”

His split eyebrow rose. “An entire keep carpeted? That I should like to see.”

She laughed. “The average house is nowhere near as large as this. In fact, I’d guess four of them could fit inside your hall.”

He leaned the poker against the wall and moved toward her. “Then they are quite small, though not as small as a peasant’s cottage.”

“It’s all relative.”

“’Tis what?”

She went through the motions of erasing the comment from the air and considered the rushes again. With the exception of the clearing around the hearth, they were strewn throughout the chamber.

Fulke halted before her. “You shall miss your carpet?”

“Not really, though it certainly isn’t as dangerous as—”

Dear God!

CHAPTER THIRTY

K
ennedy could not move for what might prove precious seconds. Like the historians, she had made an assumption. Perhaps a deadly one. Despite the malfeasance that hung over Sinwell, had no one ever considered the fire might have been an accident? It might not have been of Leonel’s doing but of a stray spark.

“What is it, Nedy?”

She jumped up and darted past Fulke. “I may have been wrong.”

“Of what do you speak?”

“Leonel. . .the fire.”

When she reached the door, Fulke caught her shoulders and dragged her around. “Tell me!”

“It may not have been Leonel who set the fire. It may have been an accident.”

Though his face moved from confusion to disbelief, he released her and flung open the door.

At a sprint, Kennedy followed him down the dimly lit corridor and up the stairs to the third floor where she had been brought in that other past. At the landing, they were met by a thready haze.

Fulke started shouting for his men, Kennedy praying as they ran to the first chamber from which the smoke issued. She halted alongside Fulke. He pulled his palm from the door, having assured himself there was no fire on the other side.

“Stay here!” He thrust the door inward.

Smoke puffed out—fed by a red glow in the darkness beyond. As he disappeared inside, somewhere in the room, a child coughed.

She couldn’t just stand here! Vaguely aware of boots on the stairs that announced Fulke’s men, she dropped to all fours.

Where was the bed? A memory of Fulke hunkered down amid the blackened ruins guided her as she crawled in under the smoke. The crisp rushes pricked her palms, but soon ash would be all that remained of the eager fuel. When she and Fulke came out, all this might be ablaze. A firebreak was needed.

She swept the rushes left and right, clearing a path as best she could. Though she kept low, the choking smoke wound her nasal passages and coated her mouth and throat. She wheezed and coughed.

“Go back, Nedy!” Fulke bellowed.

She couldn’t—not only for the boys but for him. If any died, especially the king’s daughter, he might yet carve words into prison walls.

“I have them both!” Fulke shouted as he passed nearby. “Curse it, Nedy!” He coughed. “Come out now!”

He had his nephews, but not Lady Lark. Though he had remembered that other past in the guise of a dream, he hadn’t mentioned anything about the king’s daughter, and neither had Kennedy gotten around to telling him of the woman’s fate. Thus, he wouldn’t know the lady was here until it was too late. But where was she? Had she been in bed with the boys? Pulled a chair alongside and fallen asleep?

Blinded by the dark and smoke and increasingly warmed by the fire that snapped up the rushes to the left of her path, she bumped into the bed. She dropped her face to the floor, sucked the bit of air there, and called, “Lady Lark!”

“She is not within,” Fulke answered her.

He was wrong.

As Kennedy worked her way around the bed, sweeping her arms before her in hopes of landing a hand to a human form, Fulke’s feet thumped the floor.