Crystal Dreams

by Astrid Cooper

  She does not care for Angas!

  It was as if something long dead within him suddenly sprang to life. His body was suffused with a heat that lit every cell, then it fled, replaced by a pleasant heady warmth. Liandra shivered as she sensed a nerve twitch uncontrollably at the base of his spine. Her own skin itched in response.

  “Seven Stars!” Connal ground out, breaking their telepathic link.

  Liandra tried to smile. “You use a League oath, Lord MacArran."

  “That I do. Maybe you have contaminated me beyond hope of redemption.” His smile faded as Liandra shuddered. He tightened his arms around her. “Is there anything I can do for you?"

  “Will you just hold me? What you're doing is the best thing for me."

  “I do not understand."

  “Normally I would seek the aid of another Asarian. In times of great stress we give comfort to each other."

  “By holding? By joining minds and bodies?”

  There was just a tinge of ice to his voice, coupled by a sudden tensing of muscles beneath her. Was Connal afraid she would ask him to share with her? And at that thought something stirred within her own body, tensing her own muscles. How she wanted him to share! But she dare not ask.

  “I ... If you can hold me just a few minutes longer. Can you manage that? I don't want to disgust you."

  “'Tis no hardship for me. You can never disgust me, Liandra.” Connal rested his cheek on her head and gently rocked her in his arms.

  “I should return to my room,” Liandra whispered.

  “Why?” Connal asked. “Do you not trust me?"

  “I need to heal myself. Today's events were very..."

  “Aye. Mark me well when I say Liandra, you shall never be treated so by any of my people again. Can I make some recompense? Allow me to heal you?"

  Liandra laughed, gently.

  “Is that so amusing?” Connal whispered against her temple.

  “You aren't Asarian."

  “No, but we men of Caledonia have ways and means. What would an Asarian do that I cannot?"

  “One of my kind would sing to me, or think in music to soothe me."

  Connal laughed. “If I were to sing to you, My Lady, your nerves would be much abused. My voice is little better than my ability to play the lute. I have a better idea."

  Still holding her in his arms, he eased himself out of the chair and carried her across the room. Gently depositing her on his bed, he removed her slippers and tucked the quilt around her.

  “Con..."

  “My word as Chieftain you are safe ever with me."

  “I know that."

  He smiled. “Perhaps now that you concede you can trust me, maybe you will learn other things."

  He strode out of the room and returned moments later carrying a book. Kicking off his boots, he swung himself onto the bed and covered himself with part of the quilt.

  Liandra was too amazed to protest, and more than a little curious as to what he intended. When he drew her against him, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder, she snuggled against his warmth. An arm enfolded her to him.

  “This was my mother's favorite. ’Tis called Fire on the Heather. Such a ridiculous title, it can only be a woman's book.” He chuckled as he turned to the first page. Liandra glanced at it. The jumble of letters and words swirled around and hastily she closed her eyes against the queasiness.

  She listened to the story, a romance, full of magic and love, betrayal and reconciliation. She laughed and almost cried as his narrative brought the story to life. He used a different tone of voice when each character spoke. She had never experienced anything like it, not in any of the serials played on the 3-d image screen, nor when her language servitor read to her. Perhaps it had something to do with the narrator. She smiled dreamily. With her ear pressed to his chest she listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart, and felt the vibrations through his body as he spoke.

  You are such a man of contrasts, Connal MacArran. Fierce like a wild beast, yet so gentle with Bronnia. And now you heal me in a way no Asarian could. My

  Connal...

  She was too content to struggle against the realization. My Connal. It wasn't wrong, or dangerous. How could it be? It felt right. The warmth and the light flowed through her veins and she snuggled closer against him, sighing as the sleep bore her gently away...

  * * * *

  Liandra had not moved for some time, Connal realized, nor had she spoken. Perhaps she was bored? He was probably a poor substitute for her reading-servitor. He glanced down at her and saw her asleep, her hand curled against his chest, a slight smile on her lips. Vulnerable. So fragile, his Lady Witch. What had occurred in his halls would never be repeated. If any man, or woman, dared raise voice or hand against her again, he would kill them. Arran's Mercy, he would! And be damned to the consequences.

  He put the book to one side. He would finish reading it to her another time. Shifting in the bed, he eased cramped muscles. In response, she nestled against him, throwing one leg casually across his thigh. Connal sucked in his breath, for in that unconscious act she had touched parts of his anatomy, and as a result he felt the familiar tightening begin in the pit of his stomach, then coil downwards.

  He stroked her hand and her fingers entwined with his. She murmured something against his chest—some alien word. He gritted his teeth. He should not be doing this! For now, his body clamored for a deeper intimacy. His fingers traced up and down her arm. Desire and delight coursed through his veins. Delight of having her in his arms, on his bed. The mere holding of her gave him so much pleasure. And so much pain. He tenderly kissed the top of her head, breathing in the sweet, floral scent of her hair. He groaned against her temple, as his body flamed hot and ready, taut and painful, insisting on its customary release. Well, he had started this dangerous journey, so now he would have to endure it, however much discomfort it caused. He had promised her she was safe in his bed.

  He closed his eyes, drew her tighter against him, stroking her body, taking so much enjoyment from the feel of her against him. His arousal passed through another phase, he was shocked to discover. Something that had never occurred. His comfort, his fulfillment, came by the simple satisfaction of just holding her as she slept in his arms, obliviously. Trustingly. That was a greater fulfillment than any coupling.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Connal leaned back in his chair beside the fire and studied Liandra seated opposite him. It made him smile to see her hands folded demurely in her lap. No longer the alien enchantress, now the lady in her Caledonian clothes. The robes became her. He cleared his throat, as his thoughts began to take an alarming turn.

  “Ten days ago, you undertook Bronnia's restoration. And your progress?"

  “I play with her daily. She's young and strong, so physically, she's mended quickly. Mentally, there are still wounds. She remembers the brutality, though she doesn't dwell upon it. That's a good sign. I will see to it that she puts it behind her. Now free of her uncle's cruelty, she's started to blossom. Thanks to Fianna, she has begun to read."

  “I thought her incapable."

  “Because no one understood. Dyslexia is a rare complaint."

  “Dyslexia?” Connal grimaced. “Is it contagious?"

  Liandra laughed. “It's not a disease. It's an inability to properly see the written word. The brain jumbles and confuses what the eye sees. I can help her a little, though I'm not a trained educator, and I can't read anything."

  “I am certain you will do your best, Liandra. My thanks for your interest in my fosterling. And what of Fianna? How does she fare? She never speaks of Garris."

  “Fianna has taken over the role of mother to Bronnia. It gives her someone to focus upon."

  “I had noticed. The two heal one another. Bronnia takes Fianna's mind away from her loss. And you, Liandra. What about your loss? Who consoles you?"

  “I have many friends in the Castle. I have to believe that my father has dealt with the dream-scape problems, otherwise I'
d go insane with worry.” She paused. “And it is my hope that in the future you might relinquish my captivity."

  Connal folded his arms. “You are a MacArran clans-woman, not a captive."

  “I'm kept here against my will. Though the conditions of my imprisonment are far from intolerable."

  “Do not look to my change of heart, Liandra. Such has no future.” Connal glanced away, his eyes lingering on the bed, which they had shared. And that memory had sweetly haunted him ever since. He had left the bed while she still slept, not trusting himself to have the strength and courage to leave her when she was awake. It had been the hardest thing in his life, to leave, when he wanted to stay beside her and wake her. To awaken her to the touch of a man ... Connal suppressed the thoughts and forced himself to his feet. Returning from his desk, he held out a small sporran to Liandra.

  “I thought you might like to have this."

  “Thank you,” she said. Not made of customary leather, instead it was fashioned from velvet, embroidered and tasseled with gold beads and thread. “It's very beautiful."

  Connal smiled. “There be something inside."

  Liandra opened the catch and drew out the delicate crystal and silver filigree necklace.

  “'Tis my way of thanking you for your hard work in running my household. The Castle has never been so efficient. Too long there has been need of a lady's hand about the place."

  Liandra smiled. “It isn't a hardship, I enjoy it.” She ran her fingers over the crystal necklace. The stones were of a high quality, their resonance clear and strong. “These are local?"

  “Aye. Near the southern boundary of my County, there is a network of caves, some of them made up entirely of these crystals."

  “The League would...” Liandra glanced at him nervously.

  Connal raised an enquiring brow. “Aye? Finish what you started."

  “Asarian traders roam the star systems for quality crystals such as these. We need them for our work, in ever-increasing quantities. Our own supply is almost exhausted."

  “Too many crystal beds and the like?"

  “Aye ... I mean yes!"

  “You speak more like a Caledonian each day."

  “I'm being contaminated!"

  “I prefer the word civilized.” Connal laughed as Liandra grimaced. “Here, allow me.” Taking the crystal necklace from her, he gently brushed aside her hair and fastened the catch. His eyes, with their own volition, roamed down to where the gems rested against the swell of her breasts. What he would not give to rest against her like ... Damn those crystals for their good fortune! He smiled to himself, putting aside his impossible thoughts.

  “Tonight we are holding a special celebration to mark the commencement of winter. Will you attend?"

  “Is that an order, or an invitation?"

  Connal frowned. “I was inviting you."

  “Then I'll be there."

  “And as always, properly attired.” He waited for her explosive reaction, disappointed when it did not occur. “Why are you smiling?” Connal asked.

  “Just—nothing."

  “Hmm. Why do I not like the way you smile? It alerts me to your conniving. Then I look forward to your company at my table tonight, suitably clothed in Caledonian women's clothes."

  Liandra strode to the door. “Until tonight then.” She paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “Thank you for your gifts, Connal. I shall treasure them."

  “My pleasure, My Lady Witch.”

  * * * *

  Liandra paused at the entrance to the dining hall, filled to capacity, the laughter and talking a deafening roar. Tonight the cavernous chamber had been decorated with flowers and vines and in the center, hanging from one of the massive light frames, she saw a strange spiky bush of red and green. Trinkets and ornaments hung from its many branches. She noticed that the people avoided walking under it. Wasn't it safe to walk beneath it? If so, why did Connal allow it to hang there?

  As Liandra slowly made her way to Connal's table, many people hailed her in welcome. Finally reaching the high table, she smiled at Fianna and Bronnia and then at Connal.

  “I thought I requested you wear a suitable woman's gown. A Caledonian gown,” he said icily.

  Liandra smiled, projecting what she hoped was a picture of pure innocence. She had fashioned her clothing from a length of black brocade velvet. It was the most beautiful fabric she had ever seen, its patterned surface embroidered with tiny flowers and leaves. She hadn't been able to bear the thought of cutting it, so she had wound it around her body and pinned it, so that it left her arms and one shoulder bare. The remainder of the fabric hung down her back to her ankles. Her only jewelry, her crystal necklace and a pair of earrings borrowed from Fianna. Instead of wearing her hair loose, she had coiled it on top of her head. Her make-up was highlighted by the subtle addition of more colored shading on eyelids and lips. It felt strange to have such on her face, but she would have to get used to it.

  “Liandra?” Connal's voice intruded and she drew her thoughts back.

  “Don't you like my clothes?” she asked.

  As she went to take her seat, his fingers gently, but firmly, held her shoulder. “Was it your intention to make your gown a breacan an fhelidh?"

  “A belted plaid?” Liandra frowned. “Why must Caledonian be so unpronounceable?"

  “I do not find it so,” Connal said.

  Liandra returned his smile. “Fianna said welcoming the winter solstice was an important occasion, so I dressed appropriately."

  “Your interpretation is quite fetching."

  “I'm glad you approve."

  “I did not say I approve, merely that on you it was becoming.” Connal held out her chair and helped her to be seated.

  For a time, they ate in silence. She studied Connal sidelong. In stark contrast to the simple severity of his hair braid, he wore an elaborate shirt with voluminous sleeves. At his neck and wrists were froths of lace. The delicacy of the frills highlighted, rather than detracted from his potent maleness. Truly, he was a man of contradictions, but a man unlike any other she had known! Her blood began to race.

  Hastily, she dropped her gaze and it fell to his kilt. Lower to his bare knees. Lower to his long, hose-covered legs. He shifted in his seat, his kilt parting at the side, to reveal a muscle-contoured thigh. She drew in a shivering breath. Tension coiled itself in the pit of her stomach. She ran a tongue over suddenly dry lips. Glancing up at him, she saw his attention full upon her.

  “Something be wrong?” he asked casually, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “Nothing,” Liandra replied, not recognizing the husky tremor of her own voice. She returned her concentration to her meal. There was no danger in looking at food!

  The servants brought all manner of delicacies to the table, Liandra content to eat her usual meager, simple fare.

  “You are passing up Caledonia's finest foods.” Connal said. “Here, try some of this. ‘Twill put some meat on those bones, Liandra. You are still much too thin."

  “Don't be ridiculous. I've put on weight. Soon I won't be able to fit into any of my suits. Or is that your plan?"

  “You wrong me woman."

  “I have the right of it, Connal MacArran."

  He laughed. Following which, he teased and cajoled her into eating more food than she would ever have imagined possible.

  The dining concluded, the trestles and benches were removed. Men seated themselves on the floor, and unraveled the sash of their kilts to form a covering on the space beside them. Sitting on the strip of tartan, women joined their men folk. The household formed a circle about the floor, leaving the center of the hall empty.

  Four men, dressed in belted plaids, entered that circle. On the floor, they placed swords at right angles and each stood still and erect, hands on hips, waiting.

  Liandra cringed as the raucous noise from the bagpipes echoed around the hall. She would never regard that screeching as music—not in a million years!

  She watched as
the dancers leaped over and across the swords, the tips of their toes touching the spaces between the blades. Faster and faster they moved, their kilts swinging high with the energetic motion of their dance. Without a break in tempo, more men took over, more swords were placed beside the first array until there were thirty men dancing and leaping around the sword patterns.

  More entertainers followed one another in quick succession. A woman with a harp sang a haunting lay, while others presented humorous tales, a mixture of song and narrative, which had their audience screaming with laughter. Then a lone musician walked around the gathering, changing the style and content of his song as he stopped before each person.

  Liandra decided he must be empathic. How else could he do what he did so skillfully, to guess the mood and interest of each man or woman for whom he sang? When she glanced at Connal she saw he watched the musician with obvious pleasure and pride.

  He turned to her suddenly and smiled. “Have you such in that League of yours, Mistress Tavor?"

  “No."

  “Think you a servitor could do such?"

  “No."

  Connal smiled. “No arguments?"

  “None."

  “Glad I am to be sitting down, else the shock of your agreement would knock the legs from under me.” He laughed as Liandra eyed him warningly.

  The musician approached her. The music he played for her was lilting, slow, rhythmic. Sensual. Beside her, Connal shifted in his seat.

  Then the music changed its rhythm, as the entertainer stood before Connal. Once again the tune reflected the focus of his piece. Strength and passion exuded from the lute's every note, though interspersed were moments of calm, not unlike the music he had played for her, Liandra thought.

  Then the musician bowed to Connal and exited the hall to the thunderous applause of the gathering. Other entertainers entered the circle: a juggler, acrobats, more harpists and dancers.

  “Each of my people performs tonight. In this way they make a gift for the Chieftain and his household. What about you, My Lady Witch?"

  Liandra drew her attention away from the harper. “I don't sing publicly and I certainly can't do a balancing act such as your acrobats have performed."