Dreamspell (17 page)

Lady Jaspar’s hand on Leonel’s sleeve brought his head around so fast his brimmed hat slipped down over one eye. She leaned near, straightened his hat, and whispered something.

Though Fulke was not usually one to listen in on others’ conversations, it unsettled him.

“Oh, my,” Lady Lark gasped.

Fulke found her gaze held by an enormous platter that two squires set before them. On it was a hoofed leg of stag.

Lark looked at Fulke, her taunting self-assurance that had turned him from her minutes earlier reduced to apprehension. “Is that—?”

“Venison.”

“Bambi?”

Was that what they called it in Oz?

The carver laid a thick slice of the steaming meat across the silver plate before Fulke. “My lord.”

Fulke cut a piece of venison and offered it to Lark on the point of his meat dagger.

She held up a hand. “I won’t have that on my conscience.”

What was she talking about? If it had something to do with her witches and magic, he would put a swift end to it. “I vow you will like it. ‘Tis fresh—taken this day on our return to Cirque.”

She shook her head. “Fish, chicken, pizza, an occasional hamburger, but never Bambi.”

He frowned. “You speak most peculiar, Lady Lark.”

“And you don’t?”

He carried the venison to his mouth and enjoyed every chew of it. “Delicious. Mayhap the next course will be more to your liking.”

Platters came and went, but most were so foreign to Kennedy they held little appeal: lamprey—whatever it was, peacock—worse than doves, wild boar—gamey. Nearly as bad, Wynland seemed determined to feed her, time and again thrusting his blade at her with some morsel on it. Mostly, she refused, and the gnawing of her stomach increased.

Finally, a pie was placed between her and Wynland. Chicken pot pie? Fortunately, it was every bit as delicious as its scent promised.

“’Tis to your liking?” Wynland asked.

She met his blue gaze.
Nice eyes, especially when they’re not glaring.
“Very much.”

He stabbed a piece of chicken and offered his dagger. “’Tis the last real food you will likely see for some days.”

“Oh?”

“Come the morrow, we ride again, and this time you go with me.”

“You’re no longer worried I might slow you down?”

“You shall ride with me.”

Lovely. Kennedy plucked the chicken from his dagger and popped it in her mouth.

The fare that followed was less appealing, with the exception of apple tarts that were so tasty Kennedy ate three.

When an end to the meal was called, Sir Leonel was the first to his feet, standing so quickly and crookedly it was impossible to miss him. With tell-tale weaving, he crossed the hall and staggered outside into the gathering darkness. Probably to vomit, Kennedy guessed, and tomorrow there would be a hangover to deal with.

As she stepped from the dais, she glanced behind and saw that Wynland’s and Lady Jaspar’s heads were bent toward one another.

“Lady Lark?” Jaspar’s maid, Esther, approached.

“Yes?”

“My lady has bid me to fit you with a gown more suited to your size.”

So Wynland didn’t like her in sackcloth. It was almost enough to make her reject the woman’s offer. She scratched her thigh. “I’d appreciate that, especially if the fabric isn’t as prickly as this.”

“I am to alter one of Lady Jaspar’s gowns.”

And the woman was probably turning cartwheels over that. “Lead the way.”

“In truth,” Esther said as she and Kennedy neared the stairs, “’tis more likely fleas that bother you than my homespun.”

Kennedy halted and stared down the shapeless garment.

“My lady?”

If she had been alone, she would have ripped the gown off. Gritting her teeth, she met Esther’s questioning gaze. “I’m right behind you.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

E
ighteen buckets. From the doorway of her room, Kennedy counted them, starting with the first that arrived amid the giggles of two maids to the last lugged down the corridor amid grunts and a good deal of slopping.

A hot, steaming, up-to-your-neck bath. But it wasn’t for her. It was for the woman behind door number one.

Kennedy groaned. What she wouldn’t do for a quick dip, having once more been reduced to a basin of tepid water and a towel hardly big enough to blow her nose on. She scratched her midriff and gazed longingly at the door behind which Jaspar basked. Might she—?

In your dreams.
In the next instant, she chuckled. It
was
her dream. She looked down at the slip, rather “chemise” that was all she had to wear until alterations to Jaspar’s plum-colored surcoat and dark green undergown were completed. Remembering the fitting that had taken over an hour and seen her stuck twice, Kennedy thanked her stars it was over. Though the garments had to be Jaspar’s least liked, they were a huge improvement over Esther’s tent.

Forgetting her attire, Kennedy padded barefoot down the corridor. As she neared, she heard the sound of lapping water, a crackling fire, and voices—one of them a man’s. It wasn’t possible to identify Wynland from that bit of muffle, but something told her it was him. And the tinkling laughter had to belong to Jaspar.

An emotion Kennedy tried to fob off as disgust stirred, then churned when the woman’s voice sounded through the door. Her words were unintelligible, but there was no mistaking Wynland’s reply: “Aye.”

In spite of everything Kennedy held against him, her green-eyed monster appeared. Engaged to her and playing footsie with
that
woman! She curled her toes in the water puddle courtesy of the bone-weary maids and pushed the door inward. A glimpse of the room, bathed in firelight, was all she was afforded before a hand clamped around her arm and spun her back against a wall of muscle.

Kennedy’s gasp was met by light on steel and a razor-sharp edge at her throat.

“You are fortunate to yet have your pretty head on your shoulders, my lady,” Wynland said.

Slowly, she looked around into his face. “I couldn’t agree more. Now let me go.”

Where there had been anger, amusement crept. “You are certain ‘tis what you wish?”

“Of course I am.”

He lowered his dagger, released her, and stepped back.

Touching her neck where the blade had worked its threat, Kennedy turned to him. “Oh!” She averted her gaze, but not before every muscle and sinew was imprinted on her memory. Clenching her hands, she searched out Jaspar who knelt beside the tub.

How smug she looked, but at least she was clothed. A washcloth in her lap, soap in her hand, face flushed, she regarded Kennedy.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Kennedy spoke before she could get a grip on emotions she had no reason to feel.

“Why are you listening at doors, Lady Lark?” Wynland asked as he stepped around her.

Again, she redirected her gaze and peripherally saw him step into the tub.

“Lady Lark?” he prompted.

Braving the sight of his head and shoulders above the rim, Kennedy said, “I was not listening at the door.”

“Then for what did you come to Lady Jaspar’s chamber in the dark of night?”

Beginning to hum, that woman rose to her knees and soaped his broad shoulders.

Kennedy felt her jaw muscles cramp. “Don’t you think that’s more a question for you than me, Mr. Wynland?”

“I am bathing.”

“And I suppose you need help doing that?”

He looked genuinely puzzled.

Kennedy stepped forward. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

He sank more deeply into the warmth that would have incited her envy if she wasn’t so occupied with this other emotion. Resting his neck on the rim, he closed his eyes. “You think that would be seemly? After all, we are not yet wed.”

He
played house with Jaspar and talked of being seemly! “Alone,” Kennedy said again.

As if he had no intention of sending Jaspar away, he let the silence ride on the melody purring from Jaspar.

Kennedy tried to bring herself back to earth, to pound into her head that none of this was real, but her insides knotted further. If ever there was an ugly emotion, it had to be jealousy, to which she had rarely been moved. She couldn’t possibly be right in the head.

“Leave us, Lady Jaspar,” Wynland said.

Jaspar drew a sharp breath. “’Twould be most improper, Lord Wynland.”

“Leave us.”

“Betrothed or not, if Lady Lark does not guard her reputation—”

“I do not believe she concerns herself with such things, do you?” He looked to Kennedy and swept his gaze down her.

Kennedy refused to cross her arms over her chest. She might be wearing something like a nightgown, but he was the one who paraded around naked.

Jaspar stood. “In that you are right.” She dropped the washcloth to the floor. “I shall return shortly and wash your hair.”

“Nay”—Wynland’s eyes never left Kennedy—“’twill not be necessary. Good eve.”

Anger mottling Jaspar’s lovely face, she brushed past Kennedy and slammed the door behind her.

“We are alone,” Wynland said.

“Yes, I. . .” Kennedy pushed her shoulders back. “What are you doing in Lady Jaspar’s room?”

He sat up, exposing biceps and chest played by firelight. “You behave as if cuckolded.”

“As if what?”

He grinned. “Surely you do not think I was up the lady’s skirts?”

That
she understood. “What else am I to think when you prance around naked as a jay bird?”

“Naked as a what?”

“As in nude. . .bare. . .naked!”

“That I am, but ‘tis how I prefer my baths.”

He was laughing at her. She knew it as surely as if he had thrown back his head and loosed the offensive sound.

“You have been in England how long, Lady Lark?”

“Long enough.”

“Obviously not. Had you been, you would know ‘tis not uncommon for the lady of the castle to tend her guest’s bath.”

“So Lady Jaspar was merely soaping you up, and that’s okay?”

“How do you do it in Oz?”

“As our men are able-bodied, they soap and scrub themselves.”

“Methinks I would not like this Oz.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

He nodded. “Now you.”

“What?”

“I have told you my reason for being here. I would know yours.”

“I heard the maids bringing water for the bath and thought. . .” She sighed. “It’s been a while since I had a bath and—”

“You wished to share mine.”

“No! It wasn’t until I heard your voice that I realized you were in here.”

“You intended to ask Lady Jaspar to allow you to bathe when she finished?”

“Not my idea of a nice bath, but better than a basin.”

Wynland crooked a finger. “Come, finish that from which you took Lady Jaspar.”

Kennedy dropped back a step. “I told you, we don’t do that where I’m from.”

Wynland smiled, the distance and shadows transforming his flawed face into borderline handsome. “You do not bathe your guests, but you do magic and wizards and witches.”

“Only in the movies.”

“The movies?”

She waved a hand. “Just more of my jibber jabber.”

He reached over the tub, retrieved the soap, and held it out to her.

Kennedy shook her head. “It’s time I left.”

“And miss your bath?”

The bait was tempting, but the hook of it was Wynland. “In other words, I soap your back, you soap mine?”

He laughed. “I delight in thy voice, Lady Lark. Your expressions are so. . .true.” He motioned her forward. “If ‘tis what you wish, I shall soap your back, but after you soap mine.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? ‘Twill be as I shall ask of you when we are wed—the first of many baths you shall attend.”

True, but— No, not true. Even if this were real, and it couldn’t be, she was fairly certain she was not Lady Lark. Also, what about Wynland’s change of heart? “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you say you had no intention of marrying me?”

Something leapt in his eyes. Was it possible he, too, was becoming enmeshed in this crazy dream of hers?

“I said it,” he admitted, all humor gone, “and I meant it. Now, if you wish a bath that is passing warm, you will assist me in completing my ablutions.”

As if on cue, a stinger of an itch travelled down Kennedy’s thigh. Imaginary, she told herself, but it required scratching. Blast! What was a little soaping compared to a long soak that would soon turn cold if she continued to hem and haw? “All right.” She stepped to the tub.

His fingers brushed her palm as he passed the soap to her, feeling like a caress when it was nothing of the sort.

She knelt beside the tub. “Ready?”