“Remember this is not your friend,” Liandra's voice intruded. “I'm using his image to focus my search."
“But he be so real."
“Your visualization is unusually intense. In the real world, you and he must share a strong bond."
“Aye. Else I would not be here."
“Now, don't interfere, I need to concentrate.” She paused. “Garris, look at me.”
He turned hesitantly. Fearfully, he glanced back over his shoulder, into the hidden recesses of the dream-dimension.
“Garris. Listen to me. No other!” she commanded.
Connal saw his friend's image shudder, wavering to near transparency, so torn was he between her call and that other which held him. Then he vanished.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “That's all..."
“Not by a long measure, ’tis not all! I have been polite in the asking. Now, enough of your games, witch. Garris risked everything to come to you. He has disappeared. I know you be involved. I want my kinsman back. No tricks. No lies."
“I don't know what you're talking about! What are you hiding from me?"
“If you be the professional, read my mind. ’Tis what you do, is it not?"
“No!” She sighed. “I'm too tired. I must end the dream."
“Not yet!"
Against his will, she led him up, towards the light.
Connal felt his awareness return to his body resting against the soft cover of the crystal bed.
An instant later, he was wrenched back into the dream-dimension. This time the transition was violent. Winds tore at him as he plummeted down a long, dark tunnel that seemed to stretch to infinity. Finally, his momentum slowed as thick billowing mist enshrouded him Ahead, Connal saw his own image rise up out of the fog, trailing thin fingers of mist that eddied about his body as he strode forward. His black cloak flapped around his body with the wind of his speed.
Instinctively, Connal put out his hands to avoid the collision with his dream-form. As the image fragmented, Connal felt pain slice through him, like a knife twisting in his gut, dismembering him. He cried out with the agony of it. Red stars exploded in his skull.
He came to his senses, lying face first against something cold and moist, like snow. Icy mist coiled around his body. Shoving back the wet hair from his eyes, he pushed himself to his knees.
“What is happening to me?” Connal yelled. No longer the spectator, he was inside the dream. A participant. Feeling, hearing, tasting...
He struggled to stand, hampered by the clinging, wet folds of his cloak. Cloak? He quickly glanced down. His disguise had gone. Beneath his cloak he wore his plaid and a thick shirt open to the waist. At his side, sure enough, his trusty knife.
Arran's Mercy! Stop this at once! His thought vibrated through the dreamscape.
“I'm not doing it!” she replied, her voice a faint whisper. “We've entered the deepest level, where the boundaries between dreams and reality become blurred.”
“End this dream!"
“I'm trying. Wait there, I'll come to you."
Minutes passed, then a whirlpool of colors appeared before him. Slowly, they took on shape and substance. The witch solidified a few paces from him. He watched as her eyes took in his transformation.
“Who are you?’ she demanded.
“I be the one to ask the questions, Weaver!"
Taking her shoulders, he shook her once. Her hands pressed against his bare chest. At her touch, molten fire pooled in his groin. He groaned, not from pain, from a deeper, more intimate agony, the hard reality of which pressed upward against her.
“No!” she cried, pushing at his hips.
“I want this finished,” Connal hissed.
“I'm trying."
“Do better than try, witch, else..."
A rainbow of colors shimmered around him. Connal found himself in yet another shadowy dream-place. He laughed, his whole being alight, alive to a woman's presence. He held out his hand and to his amazement it was the witch who went to him quickly, willingly.
Only—not she. Dressed in a Caledonian robe of russet velvet, her long hair, now freed of its bonds, no longer green, flowed down her back like a river of rippling silver.
“Something is corrupting our sharing,” she said. “We must escape, or perish! Concentrate on returning to your real body."
The dreamscape flickered, then returned, more solid, more real. Her fear washed over him, cold and sharp.
“You are touching my mind!” Connal cried.
“It's the dream-link. I've never experienced this ... It's almost as if something is holding me prisoner. Are you...?"
“No, witch. I like this less than you. I can not stop. I do not want this—Ach, no!"
His arms enfolded her in a tight embrace that he knew, from their mental rapport, made her heart beat frantically. Not from fear. From desire. Smiling, he lifted her against the taut expectancy of his fevered body. His lips brushed against hers, softly sliding, savoring, sampling her sweetness. Slowly, slowly, he increased the pressure of his kiss, parting her lips. His tongue plunged into her mouth, entwining sinuously, stroking...
She twisted her head away. “This is wrong!” she shrieked. “I can't. Mustn't."
He felt her wrestling against the dream. She pushed hard against his chest. The dream held them both captive.
Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her through the mists to another dream-place, where he deposited her gently onto a pile of thick, soft rugs that lay before an open fire. With infinite care, patience, tenderness, he teasingly removed every item of her clothing, before he, too, was naked, his body pressed to hers.
“No! Stop!” she demanded.
“Too late for that, Mistress. You must finish what you start."
Fingers snagging gently in her hair, he drew her head back to expose her neck to his mouth and tongue. His lips traced a path of hot moisture across her silken skin. Skin with an aroma of musk. Pungent. Intoxicating. Skin that burned and shivered with hot expectation. Expectation of him!
The sweet agony, the tension inside his head, in his body, spiraled out of control. His mouth descended to one of her breasts, to the nipple, teasing it, bringing it to a hard nub.
“Please,” her voice was a faint murmur.
“Please ... what, My Lady Witch?” His husky whisper caressed, as his fingers fanned over her body. “Please ... that I stop, or please that I continue?” He raised himself on an elbow to smile down at her.
“Don't call me witch. My name is Liandra.”
Her laughter was like gentle music to his ears. He felt her hands curl into his hair as she arched her body to accommodate his questing mouth. Lower and lower he ventured until he found her center. She gasped as his lips and teeth scrolled and teased. As his fingers gently probed her, she moaned like one possessed. On and on he carried her, her heat spilling out over his hand.
Enjoined by the bed, by the dream, Connal experienced her responses amid his own. Such intensity, it took his breath away. He could not stop, nor could she. She took him with her as her climax came, ripple upon molten ripple. On and on they both traveled, until she plummeted, drawing him with her over a deep, dark chasm that exploded into brilliant, searing light.
“Connal,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. He pressed his face into her palm, his lips caressing, his tongue coaxing, inflaming.
He groaned as her hand touched his rigidity, a finger tracing along the length of his shaft, stroking, teasing. As her hand clasped his nest, he thickened painfully.
She laughed up at him, her eyes dark and triumphant. “Come to me, Connal. At last. Be one with me."
Ice seeped into his heart and loins, returning a small measure of sanity. “Arran's Mercy, no!” He pried her fingers from his tumescent flesh.
“No?” she cried.
“I am master, here, witch. Your spells have no power over me.” He hurled himself into the darkness, and she followed.
“Connal, wait!"
H
e kept his distance. “I want Garris. Now, witch!"
“Please ... Oh... No!"
She skidded to a halt, fear on her face. Hers was a terror so profound that the dreamscape shivered. Connal reeled away from it.
“Something's wrong! Go, Connal, back to the light. That way!” She turned and ran.
Something tugged at him, drawing him backwards. An explosion of light, her scream shattered the dream.
Connal awoke to find himself pinned against the bed. Wearily he opened his eyelids. She lay atop him, her body wedged between his widespread legs.
“Witch, enough!"
No response. The coldness of her body seeped into his. Quickly, but gently he lifted her away, and stared down at her ashen face. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Flinging off his dreamer's cap, he jumped from the bed. Disoriented, he staggered, clutching at the bed post until the room stopped its pitching.
Connal reached down and shook her shoulder. “Mistress?” She moaned weakly. He tore off her dreamer's cap and she screamed.
Instantly, the room was filled with high-pitched chiming.
“Arran's Mercy! What now?"
Desperately, Connal wrestled the curtains aside and found the source of the noise, a sensor box embedded in the wall, with a jewel in its center flashing red. He ripped the crystal from its mounting. It came away, burning his hand. The beeping did not stop. More chorused the original, a cacophony of noise, unrelenting from every sensor. How long did he have before someone came in answer to the alarms? Not long enough to have his answers. Not long enough for him to get away, undetected.
There was nothing for it. He had to call his ship. Connal dug into his thigh pocket and drew out the pencil-shaped com-link and flipped open the top with his thumb.
“Dougall!"
No response, just static.
“Dougall! Be you there?"
“Aye, Lord."
“There has been a change in plan.” Connal swallowed down hard. Panic and fear tasted bitter in his mouth. He had never trusted the transfer machine, but now he was going to have to rely on it more than ever, or risk losing everything. “Is my signal clear and strong?"
“Yes."
“I want you to transport me and everything within a six foot radius of my signal to the ship."
“Are you demented?"
“Do it! And once I am on board, head for home. Maximum speed. Get me out of this alien menagerie!”
CHAPTER TWO
En route between the stars
“She is not going to die?” Connal asked, looking down at the witch's pale face.
“No. My medicine has stopped the convulsions,” the old woman said. “However, it was a close thing, Connal. Lucky for her, you insisted I accompany you."
“I thought Garris might need your ministrations, Katrine. I did not expect you would be tending an alien, instead."
Katrine smiled. “I am confident there will be no lasting effects from her seizures. She shall soon awaken."
“No. I want her sedated until we reach home."
“Four days asleep? Is that wise, my lord?"
Probably not, but I need time. Time to decide what is to be done. Time to recover my wits after my foray into enemy territory.
“She cannot be allowed to see our world, our secrets,” Connal said.
“Is it not too late for that?”
He flinched, for Katrine's voice held a tinge of accusation, and truth.
“If everything goes well, her remembrance of me will become part of her dream.” He dragged a hand through his hair. If everything goes well. So far, nothing had gone to plan. And in the process, he had damned near killed the witch by tearing the dreamer's cap from her head. The instant of severance from her bed, she had screamed, and then her seizures began. Bringing her on board ship, the corridors and then his cabin had echoed with her cries, until Katrine had silenced them with her concoctions.
“My lord, you look tired. Perhaps I should prescribe a sleeping potion for you?"
“No. Katrine, thank you for your service. Best leave me now."
“I need to tend her, see to her other needs, now that she is over the worst."
“No!” Connal snapped. “I want no other contaminated by her person, or possessions. I shall watch over her. You may monitor her progress when you bring the sedatives. Only then."
“I have been a healer for fifty years. I do know what I am about."
“I have no doubt of it. Still, I must do what I must."
“As you say, lord,” Katrine said tightly.
Connal watched her mixing another potion. Turning away, he strode to the porthole. With arms on either side of the window he stared out. Stars, red-tinged, streaked past as the ship hurtled through the abyss between the constellations. One star beckoned. Home, still so far distant. How he hated the dark and cold of space! Cold and dark, like that dream-place. His hand curled into a fist as he remembered.
“It is done,” Katrine said stiffly.
Connal turned wearily back to the cabin. “Thank you. Now, leave me.’
Collecting her medicine bag, Katrine went to the door. As it slid open, she glanced back.
“I am all right,” Connal said, waving aside her unspoken concern.
“I have been the family healer since before your birth. I know when you are all right and when you are not."
“I am sorry, Katrine. Please, just away with you!"
Connal waited until the door closed behind her. Steeling himself for what he had to do, he stalked over to where the Dream-weaver lay asleep on his bunk. Though still pale, her cheeks had gained a faint pink hue. He frowned. No, it was not a natural flush. He gently stroked her cheek and mouth. Colored by some artificial means, like her mint hued eyelids. Obviously permanent, for despite what she had been through, her make-up had neither smudged, nor deteriorated. Unlike her hair. Still green, but now diminished to a shining copper-green. He much preferred her dream-state silver tresses.
The dream ... Against his will, his body throbbed, tensed and pulsed in remembrance. He grimaced. How fortunate he now wore his proper clothes. No one could witness his arousal. Different, though, if he had been wearing those infernal League overalls. The fabric molded itself to the contours of his body, so snugly in places; a man could keep no secrets.
Secrets—the witch still kept the secrets that had made him risk all ... Why go off-world, Garris, without so much as a by-your-leave to your lord, or even a word of explanation to Fianna? If he had such a lady as she, to call his own, by Arran, he would not go traipsing off to the stars to seek out the dubious pleasures of the Dream-weaver whom he had kidnapped!
Aye, kidnapped! He tore fingers through his hair. His actions were unpardonable! To himself and his people. His quest to find Garris had brought him to the witch's door, to her bed and her alien dreams. If only it had ended there. Now on top of a missing clansman to worry about, he had an alien woman to placate and more besides.
The Council. Blast them, too! This was clan business and he would not brook any interference, no matter what! No matter from whom! I would defy every League World for you Garris—what a fine pickle you have gotten me into, this time. And no mistake!
Mentally, he shook himself. Too long, he had delayed the inevitable.
Bending forward, Connal fumbled with the snap ties of her gown. His hands trembled so much! In the dream, disrobing her had been so easy. In reality it was damn near impossible. Finally, the material parted. One pert breast, with an erect, rosy nipple confronted him.
He hesitated. Undressing any woman without permission was a frightful invasion and for an unconscious woman—unthinkable! But if he did not, Arran knew what League paraphernalia her clothes or jewels might contain. Notwithstanding her duplicity in Garris’ disappearance, no woman, not even an alien whore would be treated less than honorably while she was in his custody.
Drawing the coverlet over her body, his hands then labored beneath to remove her clothes. Even though he could not see, he could still fe
el feminine curves, thighs, ankles, legs; all igniting, tantalizing. Arran's Mercy! His throat constricted painfully, so he could hardly breathe. He took her hand and unfastened her wristlet translator. Gently prizing her fingers apart, he tugged at her opalescent ring. It would not budge. Her fingers, fine-boned, delicate, curled against his. Long nails, colored green, gently pressed into his skin. Connal frowned at her hands. Hands that had never seen an honest day's work. Hands that plied an art as old as time. Hands that had cupped his manhood. His body throbbed and hardened. Even in her drugged sleep, it seemed she still wove her magic.
“Not on me, witch,” he said, startled by his throaty whisper. Connal carefully leaned forward and slickened her ring finger with his tongue. Her skin tasted of honey and spice. Slipping the ring from her, he resolutely returned her hand beneath the quilt.
Connal stuffed her belongings under his arm and turned to leave. He glanced back over his shoulder. He must be resolute and unrelenting in his questioning of the witch, for Garris’ life depended on his determination. If only she had answered his questions in her apartment, none of this would have been necessary. There would have been no compromises, no complications. But compromises and complications there were aplenty! Damn it! There was no going back, now.
What would her waking bring? Tears or rage? Rage, more like. He had sampled her passion in the dream and it stood to reason that she would have a temper to match. Well, then, so did he.
“You be in my Castle the next time you awaken, witch. You shall rue the day you crossed the will of Connal MacArran."
CHAPTER THREE
Castle MacArran, Caledonia.
Something is wrong.
Snapping open her eyelids, Liandra's horror amplified as she found herself in a deathly still, enveloping darkness. She flung herself upright to her knees, fighting against the panic. Had to get out. Frantically, she crawled across a soft, spongy surface. Something clung to her body, hindering her by folding itself around her legs. Hurling herself away, she fell through a sleek, soft barrier to crash onto a cold, hard surface.
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