Dreamspell (6 page)

“Lady Marion.” Had she got that right?

“My daughter will show you to your chamber where you can bathe and rest,” Lady Aveline said.

Happy to put distance between herself and Wynland, Kennedy followed the woman. Although the others in the room resumed their conversations, she remained an object of interest. Not until she was before a winding stair did it occur to her something was missing. She spun around, scattering hay, and saw that Wynland strode opposite with his brother.

“Mr. Wynland, what about. . .” What were their names? “. . .John and Henry?”

He turned. “John and
Harold
.”

Right. “When do I get to meet the boys?”

“Later.” He resumed his course.

“Come, Lady Lark,” Marion beckoned.

Kennedy lifted her skirt and climbed the stairs. Up and around and around they went, to a stone-laid corridor.

“You have been given the east tower room,” Marion said as she led the way forward, a spring in her step that had not been there before. At the end of the corridor, she pushed a door inward and stepped aside to allow Kennedy to precede her.

The furnishings consisted of a bed, a stool, a small table with a bowl and pitcher, a raised iron pot that looked like a small barbecue, and a lit candle. Kennedy chuckled. She had dreamed herself into a place over which any self-respecting twenty-first century inmate would have filed a lawsuit.

“Is there anything you require, Lady Lark?”

A bath? She searched the room again and noticed a narrow door that had to be the bathroom. She opened it. The room measured three by three feet and was bare except for a ledge against the back wall. And in the center of that ledge was a hole. An indoor outhouse. Wrinkling her nose at the odor, she closed the door.

“Something is amiss, my lady?”

Kennedy looked to the woman in the doorway. “I was hoping for a bath.”

Marion frowned. “I directed the servants in the preparation of your chamber. All should be in readiness.” She crossed to the table and dipped a finger in the pitcher. “The water is still warm.” She poured some into the bowl. “And here is your towel.”

A bowl of tepid water and a hand towel was her idea of a bath? Hoping she didn’t sound ungrateful, Kennedy said, “I was thinking of a long soak.”

“In a tub?”

“You have one, don’t you?”

“Two, in fact.” That last was spoken with pride. “Unfortunately, all of the fires in the kitchen are taken with preparations for the nooning meal, so ‘tis not possible to warm water for a bath.”

No plumbing. Kennedy sighed. “Of course.”

“I will leave you to your ablutions.” At the door, Marion turned back. “I hope we shall be friends.”

Her words seemed so genuine Kennedy smiled. “So do I.”

A grin brightened Marion’s face. “Then we shall.”

Obviously, this Marion and the one she had first met were not the same.

“Mayhap you will share with me tales of your life at court.”

Never before out of the twenty-first century Kennedy Plain? Whose only experience with “life at court” was two hours spent in traffic court last summer? “I’d love to.” Chances were she would be long awakened from this dream before she had to make good on that.

“Rest well, my lady.” Marion stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

Kennedy crossed to the left of the bed and opened the single shutter. A shaft of light slanted across the floor, lighting the dust motes and the stain on her skirt. Though she didn’t have clothes to change into, she decided the slip beneath would suffice. As it hit just below the knee, it had escaped the fate of the dress.

To her frustration, she soon discovered there were no buttons or zippers to release her from the dress, only laces at the back. After much contorting and grunting, she captured the trailing end of one lace and pulled. The bodice loosened, and she quickly vacated the dress. Surprisingly, the slip was pleated, embroidered around the neck, had long sleeves, and was made of what felt like silk.

Kennedy slipped out of the shoes and tugged off the socks. As she washed the blood from her calves, she pondered the boys. “Later,” Wynland had said. Could he do that? Or, as the king had appointed Lady Lark to care for them, could she demand to see then immediately? Of course, it wasn’t as if the boys were without a protector. They had Sir Arthur Crosley. For a moment, she wondered if he bore any resemblance to Mac. Ridiculous—unless her subconscious decided to cast Mac in the role he had tried to convince her was his.

Kennedy unknotted her hair and raked fingers through it. It took time to get it to the place where she could braid it, but she enjoyed every moment. Funny, only now that she had it all back did she appreciate what she had too long taken for granted. Day in, day out, she had confined her long hair to a bun or ponytail and silently threatened to whack it off each time it fell into her eyes. Leave it to cancer to take care of the problem. . .

Kennedy let her sectioned hair slip through her fingers. Deciding to enjoy it for the short time she had it, she shook her head and let the waves fall over her shoulders. No wonder Mac had wanted to believe his dreams were real. If she were just a bit mad, she might herself.

She lay down on the bed and, certain she would awaken on her living room floor, mumbled, “Good riddance, Mr. Wynland.”

CHAPTER FOUR

N
o woman he had ever known was worth dying for. Yet thirteen men had given their lives to protect this one—the king’s leman.

A lovely leman, Fulke admitted as candlelight danced through dark hair and skipped across a face rendered innocent in sleep. Though he knew he should not, he pushed the door wider. The movement made the links of his hauberk ring, but Lady Lark did not awaken. Gaining a full view of where she lay on the bed, Fulke slid his gaze to her throat, then over the thin material of her chemise.

He clenched his hands in an attempt to turn back the attraction he had first felt when he had carried her before him on his horse. The effort was in vain, for the sight of her, looking as if she had fallen asleep awaiting a lover, stirred him to discomfort.

One could hardly fault Edward for taking her to mistress, for she was beyond lovely, and without aid of rouge or powder. And her scent. . . No perfume had assailed him when he breathed her during the ride to Brynwood. She had smelled of light and air—

He berated himself for such fanciful thoughts. Fulke Wynland, Baron of Trune, protector of Sinwell, was not fanciful—though once he had been. He lifted a hand to knock as he had earlier done, but Lark murmured and turned fully toward him, causing her chemise to rise.

What Fulke’s hand had known his eyes quickly learned—muscled calves and firm thighs. It was as if her days were not spent at needlework, but on the training field. Not possible, but he
had
seen her run. Never had he known a woman to move as she did, and while wearing a gown lifted high. Such strength and stamina were not acquired running around a king’s bedchamber.

He considered the dwindling candle and reflected deeper on this woman thrust into his life by an aging king determined to upset his vassal’s ordered life—first with the appointment of Sir Arthur Crosley, now this woman. Why had Edward done it? It was something Fulke had questioned a dozen times since receiving word of Lady Lark’s impending arrival. How many nursemaids did two children require?

Of course, if he was honest, the boys had been adrift until the coming of Sir Arthur. Following the death of Fulke’s half-brother, the earl, it had been necessary to discharge the woman who had cared for John and Harold since birth. For two months, Fulke had disregarded the woman’s impertinence and reports of her speculation over his role in his brother’s death, but when he had come upon her warning the boys against him, his forbearance had shattered.

Determining his mother should care for the boys, he had sent to Trune for Aveline, but they were not her grandchildren and she had been unable to hide her disdain. As for Marion, in her uncertain state she was unfit for such responsibility, though she did spend much of her day in their company. However, he had but to advance the possibility of wedding his sister away and she deteriorated more rapidly than a rose in frost. He oft wondered about that.

With none to properly mother the boys, the king had twice taken it upon himself to ensure Sinwell’s heir was cared for. But why
this
woman? Though surely apt at putting a man to bed, it was far different from tucking children in at night and soothing away their worries and fears. It must be as it was said: Edward had simply used the opportunity to rid himself of her. But what had wearied him? Her peculiar behavior? Her forward disposition? Her sharp tongue? Surely not those legs.

Stirred again, Fulke forced himself to recognize another reason Edward might have sent her. No, the king would not presume so far. Lady Lark was stained, and not even Edward could make her clean again. Still, if she came to him, and she might now that her bed was cold, could he send her away?

He cursed. If she was as free with other men as she had been with Edward, she was likely diseased. If not, there was the matter of her refusal to tell him what had befallen her escort, her claim to a head injury of which he saw no evidence, and her allusion to him being responsible for the attack.

Regardless, this was not the place to question a woman like her. Fulke turned away.

“Graham?”

He looked around and saw she spoke out of her sleep. Was Graham another lover?

“Too late. . .” she breathed.

For what?

W
as it light? A scent? A sound? The chill in the air? Whatever it was, it woke Kennedy. She lifted her lids and caught her breath at the sight of the man who filled the shadowed doorway head to toe, shoulder to shoulder.

She was still in the fourteenth century of a dream that had turned night, and no amount of shadow could disguise her visitor. It was Wynland, and she doubted he was here to ask whether the accommodations were to her liking.

In the flickering light of the candle, she sat up. In spite of the chill from the open window, she resisted the temptation to drag the slip over her bare legs. After all, as the king’s mistress she had a reputation to live up to. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t show more skin in a bikini.

She tucked her feet under her. “What do you want?”

He stepped into the light. Still wearing armor, the small room magnified his size, making him appear even more a behemoth. “’Tis time we spoke.” Metal on metal, he strode to the window and closed the shutter.

“About?”

His gaze lingered on her legs. “Has no one ever told you, Lady Lark, that which is kept hidden from a man is more intriguing?”

If she understood him to mean it was better to leave something to the imagination, it would be her mother who had told her that. Kennedy curled her fingers into her palms. “What do you want to speak to me about?”

Though clearly displeased by her disregard for his suggestion that she cover herself, he said, “Your attackers have gone from Brynwood as if they never were. If I am to run them to ground, I need to know what befell your escort.”

She supposed he did have to expend some effort to throw suspicion off himself. “You think that whatever I saw may be of use in apprehending the. . .murderers?”

“Perhaps.”

She touched her left temple. “I’m afraid I still don’t recall—my head injury, you know.”

His lids narrowed. “It has spread to that side, my lady?”

Caught. Not that he had believed her the first go around. “Hmm. It seems so.”

His hands clenched. Would he keep them to himself?

A scuffling arose in the corridor.

Wynland snatched up the cover and whipped it over her legs and chest. “Due modesty, my lady, lest my men take your wantonness for an invitation.”

Wantonness? She, who had been a virgin until the age of twenty when she met Graham, the man she later married?

Two soldiers appeared in the doorway, a trunk between them. “My lord,” they spoke in unison.

Wynland motioned them inside. “There.”

Eyes averted, they set the trunk at the foot of the bed. As suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared, leaving Kennedy alone with a man she would have feared if he were real.

“When you
do
recall what happened,” he said, “I trust you will come to me.”

“
If
I recall.” She sighed. “I suppose this means the end of your search?”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Half my men are still out there. At first light, I will lead a second contingent to the eastern border.”

She frowned. “Why did you come back?”

“I answer to no one, Lady Lark, but for you I shall make an exception. As I told you, Sinwell is vital to England. Thus, until John comes of age,
I
am lord and responsible for the demesne and its people. What happened today is serious, but I will not leave Brynwood Spire too long to avenge men whose lives are already forfeit.”

End of story, and so convincingly told that if she didn’t know better, she might believe him.