Dreamspell (7 page)

“Now clothe yourself.” He pivoted. “My mother will expect you at table for supper.”

“How am I supposed to do that when my dress is bloodied?”

When he came back around, his left eyebrow once more formed an M. “The trunk would be a good place to start.”

She looked to the end of the bed. This must be the trunk that had been trapped beneath the wagon. She tossed the cover back, swung her feet to the floor, and padded to it. “Lady Lark’s?”

Silence. Had he gone? She looked around and met his suspicious gaze.

“You speak of yourself as if you are not present,
Lady Lark
.” He leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Why is that?”

Because she is not present, and I am having a hard time keeping her hat on.
But she couldn’t tell him that. Or could she? How would this man of her dreams react? What words would her subconscious put in his mouth? Tempted as she was to find out, she didn’t dare.

Hadn’t Mac’s book said no one knew where Lady Lark came from? And her surname, age, and social standing were as much a mystery. “Hardly a world traveler, are you, Mr. Wynland?” Kennedy said with renewed confidence. “Where I come from, one often uses the formal to refer to one’s self.”

Disbelief. “Where is it you come from, Lady Lark? Not England, I wager.”

“You are right.”

“And certainly not France with an accent such as yours.”

Had he picked up on the drawl that had once mapped her Southern roots? As she had left North Carolina at the age of thirteen following her parents’ divorce, she had thought it long gone.

“Where?” he pressed.

“That is between the king and me.”

His gaze held hers long and hard, then he straightened and strode down the corridor.

Obviously, the king was a good card to play with Wynland. Come to think of it. . .

She ran to the door. “Mr. Wynland, I will expect your nephews at supper.”

He turned, retraced his footsteps, and set his six foot three of bone and muscle over her. “Will you?”

“They
are
the reason King Edward sent me.”

“As I heard tale, you were sent that he might rid himself of a tedious mistress.”

Kennedy raised her chin. “My relationship with
Edward
is none of your business. Suffice it to say that I am here to carry out his orders that I care for your nephews.”

“And how do you intend to do that? By exposing yourself?” He caught the neck of her slip and pulled her forward. “By going about wearing naught but your chemise? Tempting my men?”

Though Kennedy reminded herself this was only a dream, there was nothing dream-like about Wynland—the condemnation in his eyes, the masculine scent of his sweat, the prickling sensation where his rough fingers brushed her throat, the body heat radiating across the space between them.

She swallowed. “I assure you, no harm will come to John and Harold while they are in my care. Can you say as much?” That last slipped out. How a dream could rub her so wrong, she didn’t know, but this one—this man—did.

Wynland reeled her in until they were nose to nose. “I was wrong. You
should
fear me, Lady Lark.”

As much as she tried to convince herself her fear was unfounded, it was all she could do not to put it out there for him to see. “Let me go.”

He released her.

“The king will hear of this, Mr. Wynland.”

“I am
Lord
Wynland. See that you afford me my title in future.” Once again, he strode opposite.

Kennedy glared at his back. He would never be
her
lord. If he didn’t like “Mr.” she had some choice alternatives.

When he entered a room halfway down the corridor, she grimaced at the realization it was likely his bedroom. She closed the door and returned to the trunk. Kneeling, she lifted the heavy lid. Inside were two dresses made from bright cloth, a long slip—or chemise, as Wynland called it—a pair of thin-soled pointed shoes, thick socks, two belts, a veil, a silver circlet, and a comb.

Kennedy chose the emerald green dress over the red. Fortunately, it had laces down both sides, but how on earth would she manage the dozen buttons running the sleeves from elbow to wrist? She eyed the red dress. It didn’t have buttons, just those long sleeves, but it laced in back. No wonder ladies of this age had needed maids.

Kennedy pulled off the slip, reached for the clean one in the trunk, and froze. She had breasts. Though her weight loss had robbed her of their fullness to the point she hadn’t needed to wear a bra in months, there they were. She was whole again. No headaches, no illness, everything the way it had been. She could get used to this.

But that was the trap Mac had fallen into. If she wasn’t careful,
she
would end up marked for the loony bin. Not that her sentence would be lengthy. . .

Kennedy pulled the slip on, followed by the green dress, and discovered the buttons were the least of her worries. The dress didn’t fit. The sleeves were short by an inch, the skirt hit above her ankles in contrast to the trailing length worn by Wynland’s mother and sister, and even if she didn’t lace up the sides, it would be snug.

What to do? By twenty-first century standards, the slip could pass for a light dress, but from Wynland’s reaction, it was inappropriate. She held the red dress against her. Same size. The green would have to do. She snugged up the side laces as much as possible, tied them off, and struggled through the buttons on the sleeves. Since the shoes were too small, she pulled on the ones that had served her so poorly during her flight from Wynland. Lastly, she tackled her hair. And despite the mess, it was a joy.

T
he draft alerted him, its chill pricking his bare feet and legs. Fulke dropped the hose he had been in the process of donning and pulled his misericorde from the belt that lay on the bed. The dagger’s blade reflecting torchlight, he pivoted, swept the tapestry aside, and fell on the intruder.

The man cried out, but not until the misericorde was at his neck did Fulke realize it was Marion.

“God’s patience!” He lowered the dagger. “For what are you skulking about my chamber?”

Though it was dim behind the tapestry, torchlight slipped in and curved around the hand she held to her throat. “Remind me not to steal upon you ever again, brother.”

He looked to the door through which she had entered the solar. Behind it and a dozen more lay the passages that ran the inner walls of the keep. It was years since he had negotiated them himself, and usually it had been with Marion close behind.

“If I must remind you not to steal upon me again, you will deserve what ill befalls you.”

She scowled. “I do so miss the boy.”

The boy he had been and would never be again. Their days of mischief, games, and shared imaginings were long over. He thrust the tapestry back, tossed the misericorde on the bed, and returned to his hose.

“My!” Marion feigned shock. “Had I known you were without dress, I would not have entered your chamber.”

She made it sound as if he was nude when he had but to don hose and boots. He rolled the left hose up his leg.

She lowered to the edge of the bed. “Did you think I was Cardell?”

Cardell who would prefer him dead. “In such circumstances, Marion, one does not think. One acts.” He tied the top of the hose to the braie girdle beneath his tunic. “But had you been him, you would be no more.” As he pulled on the opposite hose, he rued the responsibility bequeathed to him by the death of his half-brother—especially the dissension that had risen from it.

“The people like you,” Marion slipped into his thoughts as she was still able to do, “as do several of the barons.”

But not Cardell and half a dozen others. Fulke jerked his above-knee tunic down over his hose. “What do you want?”

She rose and crossed to the trunk, removed a jeweled belt and shoes, and held them out to him.

Fulke turned away. His sword belt would better serve, as would boots. He slid the misericorde in its sheath, girded the belt, and dropped the lid on the trunk. Seating himself, he reached for his short boots.

Marion lowered beside him. “I am wondering what you think of Lady Lark.”

He shoved his feet into the boots. “She is the reason for your trespass?”

“One of the reasons. What do you think of her?”

“Naught.”

“I think she is lovely.”

“You expected the king’s leman to be otherwise?”

Marion leaned back on her hands and gazed at the ceiling as if it were a canopy of stars. “Do you remember when, as children, we dreamed of the one we would one day wed—all the while mother and father spat at one another?” She turned her gaze to him. “We were going to be different.”

“They were dreams, Marion. Never meant to be.”

“Perhaps.”

He stood. “Supper awaits.”

She eyed him. “You would make a fine husband, Fulke.”

Unfortunately, he could not say she would make a fine wife. “When you are wed, dear Marion, mayhap I shall get me an heir.” In which case, it might never happen.

The sister he knew disappeared from her eyes and was replaced by one he preferred not to know—someone whose mind had twisted long ago.

Casting her emptied gaze down, hands beginning to tremble, she muttered, “Aye, supper awaits.”

An ache in his chest, Fulke slid a hand beneath her elbow and raised her to her feet. “Come.”

CHAPTER FIVE

K
ennedy stepped off the torch-lit stairs and into a room she hardly recognized. Had she taken a wrong turn? She remembered the tapestries, the painted ceiling, and the fireplace. It was the place Wynland had brought her through earlier, but transformed by tables, benches, servants bearing platters of food, a multitude of people who had not been present upon her arrival, and a clamor that was almost deafening—until a hush fell.

Heads turned and eyes widened. Did she look
that
bad? There hadn’t been a mirror.

Although she longed to head back upstairs, she determined she would face these people and their disapproval, and do it with style—hopefully. Sensing Wynland’s gaze, she looked past rows of tables to a table raised above the others. He sat at its center, as if in judgment of her, and beside him was his brother.

She put her shoulders back and walked forward. There were whispers, snickers, snide comments, a lewd grunt, but she didn’t falter.

Nearing Wynland, she noted he had changed into a black shirt embroidered around the neck and his unruly hair was secured at his nape. He cleaned up well, appearing less sinister than he had in armor. Until she looked into his eyes. His silent regard was all the warning she needed that he would extract payment for whatever sin she had committed. Let him try.

She stopped before him. “Where would you like me to sit?”

When he didn’t speak, Marion said, “Beside me, Lady Lark.”

Since the woman was three places removed from her brother, one from her disagreeable mother, Kennedy said, “Thank you.” She stepped onto the raised platform, skirted the table, and lowered to the bench.

Marion turned to her. “Were you able to rest?”

“Yes, I got some sleep.”

“Splendid.” Marion lifted a metal goblet and sipped.

Realizing how thirsty she was, Kennedy looked to the table. No goblet, but the good news was that interest in her was waning.

“How was your bath?” Marion asked.

“It was. . .different.”

“I imagine at court you had the luxury of a tub bath once a sennight. I enjoy them myself, but I am able to indulge only once a fortnight.”

However long that was, it didn’t sound good.

Lady Aveline leaned forward, stirring the air with perfume, the abundance of which probably had something to do with bathing being a luxury. “For all the horrors you endured this day, you appear to have fared well, Lady Lark.”

Kennedy wondered how to respond. Though she didn’t think she would ever forget the terrible images, it could be nothing compared to what the real Lady Lark must have endured. “I was fortunate.” Lame.

“Lady Lark sustained a head injury, Mother.” Wynland netted Kennedy’s gaze. “She is unable to recall the incident.”

“Is that so?” Lady Aveline mused.

“How terrible,” Marion murmured.

Richard Wynland merely shined his dislike on Kennedy.

A server appeared. Cheeks pink from exertion, the woman set a goblet in front of Kennedy and poured a dark liquid into it.

Wine? Though, on occasion, Kennedy enjoyed a glass of wine, water was her poison. “Excuse me, can I get a glass of water?”

Surprise came at her from all sides, though it was most prominent on the servant’s face. “Water, m’lady?”

“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?”