Into the Dreaming (6 page)

The kitten buried its pink nose in her hair. After a moment’s pause, Vengeance did, too. Then rested his cheek lightly against it, absorbing the sensation against his skin.

Why do you obey him? Is he so good to you?

Vengeance tried to ponder that thought. His king was … well, his king. What right did Vengeance have to question whether his liege was good to him? It was not his place!

Why not?
For the first time in centuries, unhampered by the constant coercion of the king’s dark spells, an independent thought sprouted and thrust down a thick taproot in his mind. He had no idea whence such a blasphemous thought had come, but it had, and it defied his efforts to cast it out. Pain lanced through his head behind his eyes. Excruciating pressure built at his temples, and he clamped his hands to his ears as if to silence voices only he could hear.

Aedan, come quickly, I have something to show you. Da brought me a baby pine marten!
A lass’s voice, a lass who’d once been terribly important to him. A wee child of eight, about whom he’d fretted and tried to protect.
Mary, she’ll be fine with the wee pet
, a man’s voice said.

But we’re sailin’ out on the morrow
, Mary protested.
’Tis wounded and might harm her without meanin’ to
.

Aedan has a way with the wee creatures, and he’ll watch o’er his sister
.

“Aedan,” he breathed, testing the sound of it on his tongue.

“Vengeance,” he whispered after a moment.

Neither name fit him like skin on bones. Neither place he’d been—neither his land of ice nor this isle—felt like well-worn boots, broken in and suited to the heel.

He suffered a fierce urge to claw his way from his own body, so strange and ill-fashioned did it suddenly seem. In his king’s land he knew who he was and what purpose he served. But here, och, here, he knew nothing.

Nothing but pain in places deep in his head and tingles in places deep in his groin.

Warily, he eyed the pale curves of her legs peeking from the hem of the gown. How smooth they looked … how warm.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, envisioning his beloved home with his king.

Be ye the new laird and lady of Dun Haakon?
the shopkeeper queried brightly in his mind, obliterating his soothing image of ice and shadow.

“Nay,” he whispered. “I am Vengeance.”

T
HE VILLAGERS DESCENDED UPON THE CASTLE AT DAYBREAK.

Jane awakened slowly, feeling disoriented and vulnerable. She’d not dreamed of Aedan, and if she’d suffered any remnants of doubts that she was in the fifteenth century before she’d fallen asleep, they were gone now. She’d never slept through an entire night without at least one dream of her Highland love.

At first she wasn’t certain what had awakened her, then the clamor of voices rose in the hall beyond the open door of the bedchamber. High-pitched and excited, they were punctuated by stilted, grudging replies in Aedan’s deep burr.

Swiftly she performed her morning ritual of positive reinforcement by announcing brightly to the empty bedchamber, “It’s today! What better day could it be?” She’d read somewhere that such small litanies were useful in setting one’s
mood, so she recited it each morning without fail. Yesterday was a memory. Tomorrow was a hope. Today was another day to live and do one’s best to love. In her estimation that was pretty much all a person could ask.

Kissing the drowsy kitten on the head, she slipped from the bed, quickly stripped off her wrinkled dress, then donned the simple yellow gown she’d unearthed yesterday while going through the trunks. She was looking forward to wearing it, because it was undeniably romantic with its low, laced bodice and flowing skirt. Coupled with the complete lack of undergarments in any of the trunks, she felt positively sinful. Ready for her man at any moment. How she hoped it would be today!

Casting a quick glance about the room, she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. She was going to want a few more items from the nearby village, and soon, specifically a large bathtub and whatever medieval people used for toothpaste and soap. Lured by the hum of voices, she hurried from the bedchamber.

Vengeance backed against the hearth like a cornered animal. A dozen yammering villagers thrust baked goods and gifts at him and prattled nonstop about some legend and how delighted they were to have a MacKinnon back to watch over them. How they would serve him faithfully. How they planned to rebuild his castle.

Him—watch over them? He’d as soon sweep his hand and raze the room, leaving naught but bones and silence!

But he kept both his hands, and the fairy gifts of destructive power his king had given him, carefully behind his back,
because he didn’t know what the blethering hell his liege wanted. Rage simmered in his veins—rage at the villagers, rage at his liege—stunning him with its intensity. Then
she
sauntered in and some of the rage dissipated, ousted by discomfort of another sort, slightly more palatable but no less disconcerting.

She was a sunbeam flickering about the gloomy interior of the hall. As he watched in tense silence, she smiled and spoke and took the villagers’ hands in hers, welcoming the entire ragamuffin lot of them into what had been, for a blissfully short time,
his
quarters alone. How and when had he so completely lost control of himself and his environ? he wondered. Was control something the Fates leeched away slowly over a period of time, or a thing instantaneously nihilated by the mere appearance of a female? Enter woman—exit order.

And och, how they were smiling at her, beaming and adoring, clearly accepting her as their lady!

“She’s
not
a MacKinnon,” he snapped. Best he swiftly disabuse them of the foolish notion that he was laird and she lady.

All heads swiveled to look at him.

“Milord,” one of them said hesitantly after a pained pause, “ ’tis naught of our concern if ye’ve handfasted her or no. We’re simply pleased to welcome ye both.”

“Nor am
I
a MacKinnon,” he said stiffly.

A dozen people gaped, then burst into uneasy laughter. An elderly man with silver hair, clad in russet trews and a linen shirt, shook his head and smiled gently. “Come,” he beckoned, hastening from the hall into the adjoining wing.

Wholly irritated with himself for doing so, Vengeance
sought the lass’s gaze. He was so accustomed to obeying orders that making simple decisions, like whether or not to follow the elder, paralyzed him. He despised the confusion he felt, despised being left to his own devices. She stepped toward him, looking as if she planned to tuck her hand through his arm. Baring his teeth in a silent snarl, he spun around and followed the old man. Better his own decisions, he decided, than to rely upon
her
.

A few moments later, he stood in the round tower watching the elderly man remove dusty woolens draped over objects stacked behind an assortment of trunks near the wall. The elder seemed to be looking for one item in particular, and upon locating it, devoted much care to wiping it free of dust. Then he swiveled it about and propped it in front of him, where all could see.

Vengeance sucked in a harsh breath. The elder had uncovered a portrait of a dark-haired girl sitting between a man and a woman. The man bore an eerie resemblance to himself. The woman was a beauty with wild blond tresses. But the little girl—ah, merely gazing upon her filled him with pain. He closed his eyes, his breathing suddenly rapid and shallow.

But you canna leave me, Aedan! Ma and Da hae gone sailin’ and I canna bear to be alone! Nay, Aedan, dinna be leavin’ me! I’ve a terrible feelin’ you willna be comin’ back!

But this “Aedan,” whoever he was, had had to leave. He’d had no choice.

Vengeance wondered who the man and child were and how he knew of them. But such thoughts pained his head so he thrust them from his mind. ’Twas none of his concern.

“ ’Tis Findanus and Saucy Mary, with their daughter,
Rose,” the old man informed him. “They promised centuries ago that although the keep might be abandoned, one day a MacKinnon would return, the village would prosper, and the castle would be filled with clan again.”

“I am
not
a MacKinnon,” Vengeance growled.

The elder retrieved yet another portrait of three men riding into battle. Even Vengeance was forced to concede his resemblance to them was startling.

“ ’Tis Duncan, Robert, and Niles MacKinnon. The brothers were killed fighting for Robert the Bruce more than a century ago. The keep has stood vacant since. The remaining MacKinnon resettled easterly, on the mainland.”

“I am no kin of theirs,” Vengeance said stiffly.

The lass who’d invaded his castle snorted. “You look just like them. Anyone can see the resemblance. You’re obviously a MacKinnon.”

“ ’Tis an uncanny coincidence, naught more.”

The villagers were silent for a time, watching their elder for a cue. The old man measured him for several moments, then spoke in a tone one might employ to gentle a wild animal. “We came to offer our services. We brought food, drink, and materials to rebuild. We will arrive each morn at daybreak and remain as yer servants ’til dusk. We pray ye choose to remain with us. ’Tis clear ye are a warrior and a leader. Whatever name ye go by, we would be pleased to call ye laird.”

Vengeance felt a peculiar helplessness steal over him. The man was saying that whether he was MacKinnon or not, they needed a protector and they wanted
him
. He felt a simultaneous disdain, a sense that he was above it all, yet … a tentative tide of pleasure.

He longed to put a stop to it—to cast the villagers out, to force the female to leave—but not being privy to his king’s purpose in sending him there, he couldn’t, lest he undermine his liege’s plan. It was possible that his king expected him to submit to a fortnight of mortal doings to prove how stoically he could endure and demonstrate how well he would perform amongst them in the future. There was also the possibility that since he was his king’s emissary in the mortal realm, he might have future need of this castle, and his king
intended
the villagers to rebuild it. He shook his head, unable to fathom why he’d been abandoned without direction.

“Oh, how lovely of you to offer!” the lass exclaimed. “How kind you all are! We’d
love
your help. I’m Jane, by the way,” she told the elder, clasping his hand and smiling. “Jane Sillee.”

Vengeance left the tower without saying another word.
Jane
. He rolled the name over in his mind. She was called Jane. “Jane Sillee,” he whispered. He liked the sound of it on his lips.

His head began to pound again.

“What’s ailing him, milady?” Elias, the village elder, asked after Aedan had departed and introductions had been made all around.

“He suffered a fall and took a severe blow to his head,” she lied smoothly. “It may be some time before he’s himself again. His memory has suffered, and he’s uncertain of many things.”

“Is he a MacKinnon from one o’ their holdings in the east?” Elias asked.

Jane nodded, ruing the lie but deeming it necessary.

“I was fair certain, there’s no mistakin’ the look,” Elias said. “Since the battle at Bannockburn, they’ve left the isle untended, busy with their holdings on the mainland. Long have we prayed they would send one of their kin to stand for us, to reside on the isle again.”

“And so they have, but he was injured on the way here and we must help him remember,” Jane said, seizing the opportunity offered, grateful that she now had coconspirators. “Touch him frequently, although it may appear to unsettle him,” she told them. “I believe it helps. And bring children around,” she said, remembering how in her dreams Aedan had adored children. “The more the better. Perhaps they could play in the yard while we work.”

“We?
Ye
needn’t labor like a serf, milady,” a young woman exclaimed.

“I intend to be part of rebuilding our home,” Jane said firmly.
Our home
—how she liked the sound of that! She was gratified to see a glint of appreciation in the women’s eyes. There were several approving nods.

“Also, I heard somewhere that familiar scents can help stir memories, so if you wouldn’t mind teaching me to bake some things you think he might like, I’d be most appreciative. I’m afraid I’m not the best cook,” she admitted. “But I’m eager to learn.”

More approving nods.

Jane beamed. Her morning litany really did help: Today was turning out to be a fine day after all.

A
ND SO THEY SETTLED INTO A ROUTINE WITH WHICH
Jane was pleased, despite Aedan’s continued insistence that he was not a MacKinnon. Days sped by, too quickly for Jane’s liking, but small progress was being made both with the estate and with the taciturn, brooding man who called himself Vengeance. Each day, Jane felt more at home at Dun Haakon, more at home with being in the fifteenth century.

As promised, each morning at daybreak, the villagers arrived in force. They were hard workers, and although the men departed in the late afternoon to tend their own small plots of land, the women and children remained, laboring cheerfully at Jane’s side. They swept and scrubbed the floors; scraped away cobwebs; polished old earthenware mugs and platters, candlesticks, and oil globes; and aired out tapestries, hanging them with care. They repaired and oiled what furniture
remained, stored beneath cloths saturated with the dust of decades.

Before long, the great hall sported a gleaming honey-blond table and a dozen chairs. The sole bed had been lavishly (and with much giggling by the women) covered with the plumpest pillows and softest fabrics the village had to offer. Sconces were reattached to the stone walls, displaying sparkling globes of oil with fat, waxy wicks. The women stitched pillows for the wooden chairs and strung packets of herbs from the beams.

The kitchen had fallen into complete rubble decades ago, and it would take some time to rebuild. After much thought, Jane decided it wasn’t
too
risky to suggest the piping of water from a freshwater spring behind the castle and direct the construction of a large reservoir over a four-sided hearth, guaranteeing hot water at a moment’s notice. She also sketched plans for counters and cabinets and a massive centrally located butcher’s block.