Crystal Dreams

by Astrid Cooper

  “Mistress Tavor?” Connal asked.

  Dougall blushed. “She deserves the title and respect of us all,” he said, pointedly.

  “I agree."

  “Why give her the role which normally belongs to the wife of our chieftain? She has the lady's apartments, and ’tis rumored you have no one to share your bed. What say you to this conjecture? Is there something you are not telling me?"

  Connal grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. “You read more into it than there is. Truly! My Lady Witch needs something to occupy her time, and I need someone on whom I can rely to run my house. The two problems are solved in Liandra. ’Tis all."

  Dougall raised a red brow. “Och aye? I think it more than that. Especially since you call her My Lady Witch."

  It was Connal's turn to blush. “You think too much, old friend."

  Inwardly Connal was pleased. He had not misplaced his trust. Another in her position might have sought revenge, not so Liandra. The only people who criticized the new arrangement were those who had been accorded special favor by Jenna or Vanora. Now all were treated equally. He believed in time the Castle would go about its business as if nothing had happened.

  Pity I cannot do the same. Ever she reminds me of...

  Connal closed down that thought. Of late his mind had turned more and more to that empty bed of his. It had never long remained so in the past. Jenna saw to that, and before her there were others, always discreetly ensconced in his arms, but always someone to share the cold, lonely nights. Now, the only women to grace his chambers were Liandra and her cleaning women.

  They polished and cleaned dutifully. He often found an excuse to be in his rooms when they arrived. Often he watched the way Liandra moved around the apartment. She kept to her off-worlder clothes, the tight trousers encasing her comely legs, before the tantalizing sight disappeared up under the heavy folds of her shawl. It drove a man to distraction, to glimpse a little of what she kept hidden. Still, that was the way he wanted it, was it not? And to his chagrin he found more than a few of his men, both old and young, following her passage around the Castle with smoldering, speculative eyes.

  Be damned! He would not return her belt. If he did, then doubtless she would dispense with that shawl and gallivant around in next to nothing, in that thrice-accursed Asarian robe of hers, or worse still, in that body hugging pant suit. And that thing was worse than wearing nothing at all! How it highlighted her figure, hugging her curves... Arran's Mercy!

  Connal slammed down his goblet and strode to the window. He glanced back at his pax-man to see him watching in silent amusement.

  “What be so funny?” he demanded.

  “'Tis you. You be like a caged wild-cat pacing up and down."

  “Damn your hide!” Connal said, and stepped out onto the balcony. He leaned on the balustrade. Below, he saw the gardeners and smelt the freshly cut grass. Further on, others were collecting fruit from the orchard. Between the trees, he saw a flash of robe and smiled. Many people made the shadows beneath the trees their trysting place. He never had. He preferred privacy. Besides which the ground would be next to impossible with stones and twigs digging into one's flesh. Call him old; he much preferred the comfort of a warm, soft bed for his liaisons.

  His smile turned to a frown as he saw Liandra emerge out of the shadows, and a little behind her, Angas. Connal sucked in his breath. He had noticed Angas on several occasions, following her, waiting for a kind word or gesture.

  “Damn you, boy!” Connal's hands throbbed in pain as he gripped the stone balustrade. He watched Liandra dodge Angas’ outstretched hands before she scurried into the orchard. Arran's Mercy, he would ... Then he sobered. He had imprisoned Liandra, forcing her to endure a life, which was foreign to her. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps one day she would seek out the company and pleasure from a man. Or men, more like! One lover would not be enough for her exotic alien tastes. In the future she might even look for marriage and children. Something that all Caledonian women sought, perhaps an alien witch, also? If she wished to take a lover, how could he deny her?

  Connal swore and dragged a hand through his hair. What they had shared together—the memory of her slender beauty still haunted him and woke him at night in a fevered longing.

  “I will not be sharing you!” Connal gasped, as he heard his words. What he just said!

  “Something amiss, Con?” Dougall asked, casually. Too casually...

  He glanced sideways. Unnoticed, sometime, Dougall had joined his side. How long had his pax-man been there? Long enough, if Dougall's grin was any indication.

  Connal strode from the chamber, all but running by the time he reached the orchard.

  Following the sound of Liandra's voice, it took no time to find them. Angas had her trapped against a tree.

  “Good morning to you, Angas,” Connal said, tightly, noticing that Liandra looked almost relieved to see him.

  With a face as red as a beet, Angas turned to him. “Good morning to you, My Lord."

  “What is it you do here?"

  “I was—uh—discussing..."

  Connal folded his arms and scowled. “Off with you! I want a word with My Lady Witch.

  Angas's lips drew down with disappointment. “Your Lady?” He glanced at Connal and shuffled his feet. “My Lord? I did not—I be sorry.” He retreated.

  “My thanks for that, Connal.” Liandra drew the shawl tighter around herself. “He pursues me everywhere."

  “And why not? You entice him with your clothes."

  “I do not! Connal, it says little for your men, if I'm not free to dress as I chose and then walk without fear of being accosted."

  He raised an eyebrow. “The blame lies entirely with you, Liandra. A flirting woman..."

  “I don't flirt."

  “Perhaps not as you understand it. On this world we do not flaunt our lovers before all eyes. Caledonians do not live a celibate life, merely a circumspect one. As long as both parties are consenting, and old enough to be aware of the consequences of their actions, and no clan affiliations are compromised. If you wish to have a man, then do so a little more discreetly.

  “I don't want a lover!” Liandra snapped.

  Connal flicked back her shawl, his eyes smoldering as he took in her curves. “Look at yourself. The way you dress is a tease in itself."

  Liandra retrieved her shawl. “Get used to it, because I won't wear anything else."

  “I have watched how my men follow you about with their eyes. Their curiosity shall cause you trouble. I will not have you behave like a wanton. Henceforth, in public, you will wear only Caledonian clothes."

  “I won't."

  “You shall, witch! If you fail to obey me in this, I will dress you myself. Your choice."

  Liandra folded her arms and glared up at him. “Why are you so intractable? I don't understand you."

  “As chieftain, my word is law. My clan know they must obey me. It is their duty."

  “I once read that absolute power can corrupt absolutely."

  “Am I corrupt?” Connal grinned. “Then, another order for you, Liandra. I want you to take your meals with me each night in the dining hall. No more skulking in your room."

  “Anything else?"

  “Not that I can think of. I will tell you if anything further comes to mind."

  “Damn you, Connal MacArran!"

  He laughed.

  Still with his laughter ringing in her ears, Liandra stalked away and stormed into her chamber. She sent cushions flying about the room.

  * * * *

  “And then he said I was to dress appropriately and join him for dinner. Every night!” Liandra kicked a cushion aside and paced up and down. Fianna watched patiently, then returned her attention to her knitting.

  “Why are you smiling?” Liandra demanded.

  “Indeed, you must see to your wardrobe, and you should join us in the hall. ’Tis only the right thing to do."

  “I thought you'd be on my side."

 
“So I am, Liandra. So I am. Connal has the right of it. The men do ogle you! Besides, you must be cold in those thin clothes. When winter comes, you will be freezing to death if you do not see to your attire."

  Liandra halted her furious pacing. “It gets colder?"

  “Aye. When the frosts and snow come, we do not venture outside, sometimes for days. Weeks if we become snow-bound. You do not have to wear clothes you dislike. You can alter them to your own tastes. Only, show a little discretion."

  “That's what he said. Discretion! Still, he did say I could wear any Caledonian clothes.” Liandra smiled.

  “What are you intending?"

  “Nothing—everything."

  Fianna laughed. “'Tis always dangerous to allow a man to have his way too often. Our chieftain is no exception!"

  They exchanged conspiratorial grins.

  * * * *

  Silence descended on the diners the moment she strode into the hall. For the amount of trouble she had gone to, Liandra had the satisfaction of seeing the choked, pained look on Connal's face, as she joined him at the high table.

  From the storeroom, Liandra had appropriated a boy's kilt, which, after a little alteration, molded itself to her figure. Over all she wore a blue velvet tabard, and around her neck, a trailing silk scarf. Velvet slippers and fine hose completed the outfit.

  Liandra smiled sweetly at Connal as he stood up to greet her. He pulled out a chair next to his and helped her to be seated, before resuming his place. The dining hall was now returning to normal, as more and more people began to resume their conversation and laughter.

  “Is something wrong, Lord MacArran?” Liandra asked, thinking that Connal looked as if he was fit to explode.

  “Nothing,” he ground out.

  “You look feverish. Should I send for the healer? That fish-liver oil does wonders. Cured some of your kin-folk of their recent malaise.” She laughed. If anything Connal looked even sicker at her suggestion. Hastily, he gulped down a great mouthful of wine.

  He glanced at her. “Those clothes were not exactly what I had in mind."

  “You did say I must wear Caledonian clothes when I venture out of my room. These are such."

  “They are men's clothes."

  “But Caledonian."

  “Aye. Well, then let me make it plainer to you then, witch. You are to wear Caledonian women's clothes."

  “I see.”

  “I do appreciate your effort, however."

  “Thank you."

  “I am certain you will look even more fetching in proper attire. ’Tis best to leave something to a man's imagination, for if ’tis so easily satisfied an admirer may quickly lose interest."

  “I have no desire to interest any!"

  “Ensure it is so, then, by your choice of clothing when next you come to my table. However, whether you like it or not you are the object of lust from at least one quarter I could name."

  “Don't be ridiculous. If you're going to torment me...”

  As Liandra went to stand, Connal's hand around her wrist restrained her.

  “I have not finished. Besides which I did not give you my leave to depart."

  She tore free from his grasp. “I don't need your permission to come and go."

  “Do you not? You sit at my high table, so ’tis only courtesy to ask leave of your host. Or do you have so little regard for our ways you would flout the tradition?"

  “No, I cannot defy your convention."

  “Good, now sample treats from my table. Amilia has accomplished wonders, tonight. Besides, you are still much too thin."

  “I am not."

  “Why are you always so contrary?” He sighed and shook his head in exasperation.

  “Because you're always so domineering."

  “I?” Connal chuckled. He held out one of the silver plates. “Try this. I like peace and quiet when I dine, so if you are eating, you cannot argue with me."

  “Yours is an insufferable barbarian arrogance and logic!” Liandra frowned at his laughter. “I'm not hungry."

  Unperturbed, Connal placed food on her plate. She stared at it. The aroma made her mouth water. Glancing sideways at him, she watched as he ate neatly and quickly. He smiled at her between mouthfuls. Liandra looked away, studying the diners in the hall, anything to take her mind far away.

  Sometime later, with hunger gnawing at her, she eyed her plate, longingly. Why was she starving herself to spite him? She was the one suffering, not him. Not ever him. She would be light-headed from hunger if she continued with her childish display.

  Tentatively, she raised the fork to her mouth and bit into the pie. Seven Stars! Its taste was like nothing she had ever savored, not in all the League Worlds! She swallowed and ate more, as quickly as she could. Only after she had begun her second course did she look sidelong at Connal. That infuriating triumphant smile on his lips ... She placed her fork on the table and half turned from him as he laughed.

  “It was good enough to tempt even you, Counselor,” he said. “Admit it."

  “It's amazing how one becomes less discerning in the face of starvation."

  Connal threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You will come to enjoy our way of life, of that I am certain. Weeks ago you would not even touch our food. You called it poison, as I recall.” He regarded her over the rim of his goblet.

  Liandra glared at him. Now, the thought of eating was out of the question. Connal had won that round. She was determined it would be his first and last victory!

  And how many times had she thought that? Connal had a way of undermining her resolve. Had a way of unsettling her, so that sometimes it was difficult to think, to know what to do. So much for being a professional counselor! She couldn't even check the outrages done to her by one conceited barbarian.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As Liandra rounded the corner, she heard a ringing, clashing noise coming from the end of the corridor.

  Curiously, she walked forward and peered over the balcony. In a hall that ran the entire length of that part of the Castle, she saw men practicing with weapons: swords, daggers, shields and lances. In stunned horror she watched them, her gaze resting on Connal. Stripped down to nothing but his kilt, he circled and sparred with a kinsman in the center of the hall.

  The two men lunged at each other and Liandra gasped as their swords and bodies crashed together in a ferocious display, before they sprang away to again circle and taunt one another. Almost like a ballet, they moved sinuously, rhythmically, in a deadly dance where sword and body moved as one in a flurry of graceful speed and balance. She watched, enthralled, despite her disgust. Though, Seven Stars, why such barbarity should hold any interest for her, she did not know.

  Oh really? She smiled grimly to herself, her eyes riveted upon Connal. He was beautiful, and for a man his size, surprisingly graceful. His body glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration. As he moved, muscles bulged and rippled along his torso. And that kilt rode higher, swaying, giving a glimpse of upper thigh. Too intriguing.

  The battle between Connal and his partner intensified. Shield crashed against shield. Their swords arced and parried in defense. Around and around the room they traded blows.

  Liandra flinched at every ring and clash of steel against steel. Any moment someone would lose an arm—or worse—be killed.

  With a flick of his wrist, Connal's sword disarmed his opponent. The sword clattered onto the floor. Bowing low, Connal's partner acknowledged an end to the contest and laughing, the two men embraced.

  Connal turned away, bending down to collect a towel. Wiping the perspiration from his face, he glanced up and saw her.

  He signaled to her to remain where she was, but instead she withdrew. Calling after her, he took the stairs three at a time, and pursued her down the corridor.

  “A word with you, Liandra!"

  She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. With long strides he came to her side. As she tried to evade him, his fingers clamped down on her wrist, drawing
her close.

  “How long have you been watching me?"

  She raised her chin. “What makes you think you are so important that I'd waste my time watching barbarians trying to kill one another with swords?"

  Connal grinned. “Oh aye? This is our exercise. A sport. Men enjoy such."

  “Only you could consider it a sport."

  “And women enjoy watching it, too, judging by the look of you. Am I correct?"

  “No,” Liandra said, indignantly.

  “Then what were you doing standing there open-mouthed, if not enjoying? What I saw on your face demands clarification."

  “There's a difference between observing and enjoying."

  He raised a disbelieving brow. “Truly? One day you must explain such distinctions."

  “A barbarian would not grasp the subtleties between the two."

  Connal grinned. Curling a finger under her chin, he raised her face. “I am not a barbarian, Liandra. Have I not proven that to you, yet?”

  That voice had taken on a husky timbre, and as always at its sound, she felt her body pulse. Her heart thudded against her ribs. So close, Connal's naked chest, his flushed skin glistening with perspiration. Instead of feeling disgust at such a disheveled state, her nerve endings spiraled into her core, tightening and warming.

  Her eyes lifted to a safer height. Or so she thought. His hair was tied back severely from his face, yet tendrils had escaped to curl against his brow and cheeks, giving him a roguish appearance. A barbarian rogue—that was what he was! Liandra smiled.

  “I like not that smile of yours. It bodes ill for any man. And me in particular, I think.” Laughing gently, he stepped closer.

  Liandra swallowed against the tight dryness in her throat as his musky male scent washed over her.

  Connal stroked her cheek. “You be blushing, Liandra. How so? I think I should leave you to regain your composure.” He smiled mischievously. “Good day to you, Mistress Tavor. Next time your curiosity of a man becomes aroused, take a cold bath."

  “W—why you...” Liandra stammered her outrage. “I'm impervious to any man's..."