Once upon a Dream (12 page)

But she's also troublesome
, he reminded himself darkly.

“Never mind.” Abruptly Blaine released her arms. “I don't care whom you've loved. I don't care anything about you—except that you keep out of my way.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Willow retorted, “so long as you keep out of mine.”

Blaine scowled down at her. “You're a fool if you set one foot into that forest. You'd best not expect me to waste my valuable time helping you when you run into trouble.”

“By the time you enter the Perilous Forest, I expect to be on my way out—with the necklace already in my possession!” she flashed.

He shook his head, unable to suppress a grin. His eyes traveled over her with increasing interest, trying to discern if she did in fact have any curves beneath that damned cloak and tunic. “You're either the stupidest or the most determined woman I've ever met. But I'd give ten pieces of gold to see what you really look like beneath all this soot and wool,” he muttered.

I'd sooner eat a toad than show you
, Willow thought, but aloud she said, “There is a clean gown in my traveling pack, tied to my pony. Shall I get it and change? We could have some wine, and you…you could tell me more about your desire to marry the princess.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Do you really think I'm such a fool? I don't intend to let you out of my sight 'til morning.”

“That's absurd.” Willow spoke sharply. “Surely you don't expect me to stay here all night?”

“Why not? It need not be unpleasant—for either of us. I'll send you packing at first light, when I'm ready to head for the forest.”

“I'll simply follow you in.”

“I'll lose you before the first fork in the trail.”

“We'll see, won't we?”

But Willow knew she had to get out of here this evening—she must get a head start on this infuriating man. Turning, she paced away from him, toward the window, and suddenly lifted a hand to her brow.

“I really…would like some…wine,” she murmured weakly.

“Going to try to drug me again? It didn't work the first—” He broke off as she swayed on her feet. “What's the matter?” he demanded, reaching her in one quick stride and grasping her arm. “Is this a trick?”

Willow closed her eyes and shook her head. “No trick,” she whispered. “Please…some air. The window. I feel…faint.”

With a muttered oath, Blaine caught her as her knees buckled and she sagged into his arms. He lifted her and carried her to the bed, setting her down gently. Suspiciously he studied her drawn, still face. Damn, she was lovely. She looked so small and fragile on the coarse straw bed. And she appeared to be in a deep faint.

“Girl…girl?” He didn't even know her name. “Wake up.”

He scowled, remembering how he'd thrown her against the barn, struck her with his fist. True, he'd held back on the blow, thinking it was aimed at naught but a scrawny boy, but still…

She looked more beautiful than ever, lying there with her rose-gold hair swirled across the pillow, her long lashes sweeping across fair, exquisite cheeks.

He swore again and stalked to the window, opening it high, letting the chill fresh air blow in. Then he went back to find her stirring at last.

“Thirsty…” It was a whisper, faint and weak. She touched a hand to her throat.

Those incredible violet eyes opened, fixing upon him. The pleading he saw within their luminous depths stirred something inside him he hadn't thought he possessed.

“Some…wine…”

He went to the door, flung it open. The din from below surged through the hallway into the dank, narrow room.

“Innkeeper!” he shouted.

From the taproom came the sounds of laughter, singing, shouting, along with the odors of smoke and grease and ale.

“Innkeeper!” he roared.

No response. It was useless. No one could hear a blasted thing.

He threw one last glance toward the girl lying upon the bed. She hadn't moved a muscle; in fact, her eyes had drifted closed once again.

Blaine strode to the head of the stairs. “Damn it—
innkeeper
!” he shouted again, and this time a fat red face appeared at the bottom of the landing.

“Bring me up wine. Plenty of it. And make it quick!”

He wheeled and returned to the room.

“It's all right, I'm getting you some—”

He broke off. The bed was empty but for the worn gray coverlet. And so was the room. He was alone with the poor furnishings and the open shutters flapping in the wind.

He charged to the window in time to glimpse a slim form riding a white mare through the gloom. Too late he saw the tree, whose thick branches were within jumping distance of the inn's window.

“Lying little sneak.” Blaine gritted his teeth amd swung a leg over the windowsill to go after her. No one got the better of the Wolf of Kendrick. No one.

Then he shrugged and drew back inside.
It's better that she's gone,
he decided grimly. Something about that girl was distracting, and he didn't like it. She'd made him lose his concentration on the quest ahead of him. He needed to think only about the forest and the search for the Necklace of Nyssa. And about the dream that was his guide to the prize.

He couldn't afford to let himself be distracted by some stubborn little imp with a sensuous pink mouth and eyes
that glowed more brilliantly than any jewels he'd ever seen. Let her venture into the forest tonight if she chose. He would no doubt come upon her lifeless body in the morn.

And she'd have only herself to blame.

Blaine of Kendrick turned away from the window, and when the wine came he drank it himself—every last drop. But even as he threw himself down at last upon the narrow bed where only a short while ago the imp had lain, he couldn't stop thinking about her.

And wondering if he would ever see her again.

Think about the necklace
, he told himself.
And the princess.

Better yet, think about kissing the princess. And bedding her.

He'd never kissed a princess before and he was looking forward to it.
Think about that.

But as the night crept toward morning and the cool autumn air drifted through the room, he found himself thinking about kissing the lips of a flame-haired girl with a beautiful freckled nose, a girl who had refused to give him so much as her name.

A
PALE, PEARLY
dawn glimmered high above the trees as Willow mounted Moonbeam and once more set upon her way. She'd entered the Perilous Forest last night in the darkest hours after midnight, and even she, who prided herself on her bravery and good sense, had felt a prickly unease at the back of her neck as her mare trotted beneath the sinister, gnarled branches of the forest's great black trees. Not even a beam of moonlight had illuminated her path, but Willow had picked her way slowly and steadily, ignoring the hooting owl that swooped among the branches, seeming to follow her, and paying no heed to the glowing red eyes of shadowy night creatures that peeped at her now and again and then disappeared into thick brush.

After several hours she'd made a silent camp and allowed herself to sleep for a time until the first whisper of dawn glowed across the sky. The notion that she was alone in a forest reputed to be evil and teeming with out
laws did not keep her awake, for she knew she must rest in order to survive. There was no time to waste on fear. She had to sleep, eat, and ride—and somehow find the Troll's Lair where the necklace was hidden. She refused to let fear stop her or slow her down, for her father had no one else to rely on for his rescue, and she would not fail him.

And if any handsome, overbearing, pigheaded, princess-pursuing bully happened to cross her path, she would quickly leave him very far behind.

A smile curved her lips as the sun burst through clouds high above and the mare quickened her pace. Willow was very pleased with the way she'd outwitted Blaine of Kendrick last evening. The thought of his fury when he returned to the room in the inn and found her gone made her giggle.

But remembering the relentless determination that she'd glimpsed in his eyes more than once, she suddenly felt a chill and hoped he would
not
catch up to her at all. In fact, nothing would please her more than if she never saw or thought about the Wolf of Kendrick again.

The trouble was, she kept thinking of him, remembering the strong grip of his hands, the gleam of those coal-black eyes—and the way he'd looked at her with concern when he'd thought she'd fainted. That showed that there was
some
compassion in the man—though not much, she decided. He wanted to marry some poor princess simply to outdo the competition. He didn't believe in love and probably not in friendship, loyalty, honesty, or responsibility either. Or in any other virtue she could call to mind.

He was exactly the kind of man her father had always warned her about—and the complete opposite of Adrian.

She sobered, thinking of Adrian. The familiar pang in her heart made her sigh, but her attention quickly refocused on the present as she suddenly reached a fork in the road and she realized she had to choose between two paths.

Straight ahead, the trees grew together even more
thickly. An ominous, heavy odor hung in the air, like rotting flowers. To her right branched a more open path where green shrubs sprouted, and a bluebird perched on the limb of a tree. The path jutted down toward a steep embankment, then disappeared.

Which one would lead to the Troll's Lair with the least amount of danger?

The odor of rotting flowers, which seemed to come from the first trail, made her wrinkle her nose. She chose the second.

“This way, Moonbeam—and may it be the right path,” she murmured to the mare as she spurred the animal forward at a quick clip.

Something seemed familiar about this place. Suddenly Willow remembered. She had seen it before—in the dream.

The dream had showed her the rows of green shrubs and…yes, the embankment. The bluebird swooped ahead, and she remembered that, too.

Follow the bluebird.
Her father's voice, as she'd heard it in the dream. It was often this way in the dreams he sent forth—the images and details came back to the dreamer later, as the path of the dream unfolded.

With a quickened pulse, she followed the bright wings of the bird.

But even as she spurred the mare forward in pursuit, she felt a rope descend quick as a snake around her shoulders and slip down to tighten around her arms. She cried out suddenly as the rope bit into her flesh and pinned her arms uselessly at her sides.

There came the sounds of horses crashing through the brush, and suddenly she was surrounded by three armed, unsavory-looking men on horseback.

“What's this? A boy traveling alone through the Perilous Forest?” The shortest of the three men, a barrel-chested scoundrel whose black beard was as unkempt as his greasy mane of shoulder-length hair, rode right up to
her and laughed uproariously as he surveyed her helpless posture.

A second man, the lean, rust-haired one who held the other end of the rope that had ensnared her, spoke from the saddle of his muscular gray destrier. “You're either stupid or addlepated, lad. Don't you know that no one gets out of our forest alive?”

“And now you won't either,” the third man jeered in a voice so deep and hoarse that she could barely decipher his words. Yet she understood them well enough, and they chilled her blood, for they were almost as unsettling as his thin, rodentlike face and cruel eyes.

“I…mean no harm, sir.” Willow moistened her lips, biting back tears as the rope cut painfully into her flesh. “I am only…passing through. If you let me go—”

“Let you go? Hah. Now why would we do a thing like that?” The lean man who held the rope chortled, but suddenly Blackbeard squinted his dung-brown eyes and began to study her more acutely.

“Well, well, 'tis something strange about this boy,” he muttered, his ruthless gaze traveling from Willow's pale face down to where the rope pulled taut across her chest. She suddenly realized that it revealed the shape of her breasts, outlined beneath her cloak. Her heart began to thud as Blackbeard grabbed her pony's bridle, grinning savagely.

“Take the rope off, Liam, and ye might just find we've caught us more than we bargained for.”

“Meaning?” The Rodent also rode closer for a better look, but even as he did so, Blackbeard snatched the cap off Willow's head, and her hair tumbled down, bright and vibrant against the dull brown of her cloak.

“A girl, eh?” Liam dismounted, still holding the rope. He let out a whistling breath and strode forward. Without warning he yanked at the rope, and she was tugged helplessly from the saddle.

Breathing hard, Willow suddenly found herself in the
center of the group as Liam slipped the rope from her shoulders.

“Let's take off this cloak and see how comely you are, my lady,” Blackbeard ordered, but as he reached for her, Willow spoke in a crisp, sure tone.

“If you touch me, you will die.”

For a moment he froze, his mouth gaping. Then he pushed his greasy dark hair from his eyes.

“Now what does that mean?”

Willow drew a breath. She forced herself to look from one cruel face to the next. She didn't know who these men were, but she knew what they were. Their ragged garb and well-fed horses and rough ways told her all she needed. Outlaws. Brutal men who lived like animals, killing and marauding in packs, knowing no law but their own.

“I am here on orders of Lisha the Enchantress,” she said as calmly as she could. “If you harm me or waylay me in any way, she will have her vengeance upon you.”

She held her breath as they all stared at her. Slowly the men exchanged uneasy glances.

Blackbeard was the first to give his head a shake. “Methinks you are lying, my lady. What proof have you?”

“You'll have all the proof you need when Lisha turns you into stone,” she replied gravely and fixed him with a stern look. “You have already delayed me. If you value your lives, you'll—”

“I say we take her to Eadric and let him judge the truth.” Rodent ran his sharp, beady eyes over her. “Eadric the Terrible has a rule: all who trespass in this forest must pay him a toll. Whoever we find within these borders must be brought before him so he can decide what that toll will be.”

“But Lisha the Enchantress—”

“I'd rather face the wrath of an enchantress than Eadric when he's crossed!” The lean man seized her by the hair. “Come along with me.”

Terror bubbled through Willow as he dragged her to
ward his steed. She tried to pull free of the outlaw's grip, and he suddenly shoved her toward his horse with such force that she fell into the dirt. As the others laughed, he bent to haul her up. At that instant Willow grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into the man's face. He screamed as the gritty particles blinded him, and quicker than a blink, Willow sprang up and snatched his sword from its sheath.

“Stand back,” she ordered, whirling to face them all. She hefted the sword smoothly and eyed her enemies.

As Blackbeard and Rodent drew their own swords and advanced slowly toward her, Willow held her ground. Liam staggered blindly toward the brush, cursing and trying to rub the dirt out of his eyes.

“That was a mistake, wench,” Blackbeard muttered. “Now you've asked for it.”

“Woman or no, we'll slice you to ribbons and then bring you to Eadric,” Rodent snarled.

As they both closed in on her simultaneously, Willow swung the sword. Desperately she parried a blow from Blackbeard and then darted aside to strike out at Rodent. Her sword point bloodied his arm but missed his chest; she was suddenly locked in a life-and-death battle with them both, struggling to hold them at bay and to strike wherever she could.

Though she'd been well trained, these outlaws were soldiers-turned-marauders, and they had weathered many battles—battles against men larger and stronger than she. She was agile and quick, but in a prolonged fight against the two of them she knew she could not last. She would have to wound or kill one quickly so that she could use all her energies against the other—and she could only pray that Liam would be unable to recover enough to jump into the fray.

Suddenly Blackbeard sprang forward with a nasty thrust that caught her shoulder, and she felt a hot fire slice through her flesh. Then came the warmth of trickling blood.

The world spun for a moment, but she gripped the sword tighter despite the burning in her shoulder and parried another bone-jarring blow.

“We've got you now!” Rodent crowed, but suddenly there was a whooshing sound and a great rush of hooves, and she glanced dizzily up to see what looked like a dark cloud descending. A scream tore from her throat as Blackbeard charged at her, his sword lunging…lunging…

His screech of pain echoed through the forest long after he fell dead. A black-eyed warrior on horseback cut him down with one stroke. The warrior leapt from his saddle and planted himself squarely between Willow and the other man, but not before Willow saw that he was Blaine of Kendrick, his face set and cold, his black eyes locked upon those of his opponent with deadly intent.

“Stand back, imp,” he ordered coldly without glancing over his shoulder at her, yet even as he spoke the words, Willow tried to take a step forward. She would fight her own battle. She didn't need help.

But each moment the world was growing strangely more dark. The pain in her arm seared like hell's fire.

Through a gray haze she saw a sword blade slash the air in a dizzying glint of silver, saw the rapid thrust and parry as Blaine of Kendrick fought her enemy. She heard a grunt, an oath, both of which came from the direction of the brush to her right, and then suddenly Liam was flying toward Blaine, a cudgel in his hands. Blaine, intent upon his battle with Rodent, had left his back unprotected.

Willow's lips parted—she cried a warning, but the words died in her throat as the earth rose up to meet her, and then there was only the darkness and the silence and the cold.