by Tamara Leigh
Only a dream. He can cut you in two and you’ll awaken whole. At least, as whole as a person with a death sentence hanging over her head…
“You do not need that.” His voice was deep and accented, though of a more precise nature than the dying man who had mistaken her for his lady. “You have naught to fear from me.”
Of course she didn’t. He was only a figment, though from where he had originated she had no idea. But with those cheekbones, shoulder-length blond hair, and closely clipped beard and moustache, he was likely a belly-button-bearing model from a billboard she passed on her way to the university.
“Lady Lark?”
She blinked, then nearly laughed at the realization she had dreamed herself into the mysterious lady of Mac’s book. What was the year? 1373? As for this behemoth, was he Fulke Wynland? He had to be. Forget that he was blonde rather than darkly sinister as she had imagined, that his eyes were blue, rather than bottomless black. He was surely the one responsible for the carnage to which she had awakened, not to mention the death of his nephews and the disappearance of the king’s mistress—the same woman he mistook her for.
She jabbed the branch at him in hopes it would send horse and rider back to wherever they had come from.
The animal rolled its huge eyes, reminding her of the one time she had ridden a horse, a mistake that culminated in her missing a barbed wire fence by inches.
“I am Lord Wynland of Brynwood Spire.”
And beneath his armor he probably wore a medallion with a two-headed—what was it? Wyvern? “Stay back!”
“I am King Edward’s man. Be assured, no harm will befall you.”
She swung the branch. “I’ll brain you!”
He frowned deeply, as if her words were foreign, as if her subconscious had not formed him from the pages of an old book. “After what you have seen, my lady, ’tis natural you would suffer hysterics.”
“Oh, puh-lease!”
He lowered his gaze over her. “You are injured?”
No sooner did she follow his gaze to her bloodied skirt than he lunged, seized hold of the branch, and used it to haul her toward him.
Kennedy let go, but not before he caught her arm. Handling her as if she were a child rather than a woman who topped out at five foot eight, Wynland lifted her off her feet and deposited her on his saddle between his thighs.
She reached for his face. Unlike her hair, she hadn’t dreamed herself a set of long nails, and she fell short by the split second it took him to capture her wrist and grip it with the other.
“Calm yourself!”
She strained, kicked, bit—and got a mouthful of metal links that made her teeth peal with pain.
“Cease, else I shall bind you hand and foot!”
Before or after he killed her? She threw her head back and got a closer look at her version of Fulke Wynland. Not model material after all. As blue as his eyes were, his face was flawed. A scar split his left eyebrow, nose had a slight bend, and the jaw visible beneath his beard was mildly pocked as if from adolescent acne or a childhood illness. Handsome? Definitely not. Rugged? Beyond. Deadly? Ever so.
Realizing her best hope was to catch him off guard, she forced herself to relax.
Wynland gave a grunt of satisfaction, reached down, and yanked up her skirt.
Horrified that her dream was taking a more lurid turn, she renewed her struggle.
The horse snorted and danced around, but neither Kennedy nor the skittish animal turned Wynland from his intent. His large hand slid from her ankle to her calf to her knee.
It was then she felt the draft and realized that, somewhere between reality and dream, she had lost her underwear.
When his hand spanned her thigh, she opened her mouth to scream, but just as quickly as the assault began, it ended. He thrust her skirt down and smiled—if that wicked twist of his lips could be called a smile. “Worry not, my lady, I place too high a value on my health to risk it with you.”
What, exactly, did he mean? That she was promiscuous? Diseased? Of course, she did portray a king’s mistress…
“Whose blood if not yours?” Wynland asked.
That was why he had touched her? She didn’t know the man’s name, only that he had rejected her as being his lady. She frowned. How was that? If she was Lady Lark, why had one of the players in this dream not recognized her?
“Whose?” he growled.
She shifted around to fully face Wynland. “What does it matter?”
His lids narrowed. “A soldier—nay, a dozen—bled their last to defend you. What does it matter who they were? Who their wives and children are?”
When he put it that way… But she wasn’t the villain, he was. Those men were dead because he had ordered it. Or done it himself. “Put me down.”
“What befell your escort?”
Why the pretense when he meant to kill her? Or did he? According to Mac’s book, no trace of Lady Lark was ever found. Had Wynland allowed her to live—for a while, at least?
It’s a dream!
Though she knew he was only smoke floating about her mind, she detested him for the sins of the man after whom she had fashioned him. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to my escort?” She was bold, and it felt good, so like her old self before this thing in her head pulled the life out from under her.
Wynland’s face darkened. “You think I am responsible?”
“If the shoe fits…”
Confusion slipped through his anger. “What shoe?”
One would think she had truly hopped back in time. If this was anything like what Mac experienced, no wonder he thought it was real. She only hoped that when she awakened she would remember the outlandish dream long enough to record it. “You don’t want me at Burnwood.”
“Brynwood, and, nay, I do not. But I assure you, had I wished you dead, we would not be having this conversation.”
Nothing came between him and what he wanted, including his nephews. The deaths those little boys had suffered incited Kennedy further. “Just goes to show that if you want something done right, do it yourself.”
He puller her closer. “If you have anything else to say to me, my lady, you would do well to choose your words carefully.”
His hands on her, thighs on either side of her, and breath on her face, were almost enough to make her believe he was real. Only a figment. He holds no more power over you than the next dream.
“Do you understand?”
“What is there not to understand?”
He stared at her, then released her arms and turned her forward. Before she could gulp down the view from atop the horse, he gripped an arm around her waist and spurred the animal through the trees.
She was riding sidesaddle. How much worse could it get? Though she tried to shut out memories of her last horse ride, she remembered exactly how bad it could get. She squeezed her eyes closed. Where was Wynland taking her? And if murder was on his mind, why the stay of execution? No one would hear if she cried out—
He wasn’t alone. The thundering of hooves had surely been of many riders, meaning others could have seen her flight. Fortunate for her, unfortunate for Wynland.
She opened her eyes. Trees sped by at breakneck blur, the forest floor rose and fell, shafts of sunlight blinded.
She retreated behind her lids again and was all the more aware of the hard body at her back and the muscled arm against her abdomen, the sensation so real she felt the beat of Wynland’s heart through his armor. She chalked it up to it being a long time since she had been in a man’s arms, which was more her fault than her ex-husband’s. Graham would have held her if she had let him, but the marriage had coughed its last long before the onset of her illness. Kennedy Huntworth was no more—not that she had gone by her married name. At the urging of Graham’s mother, she had retained her maiden name for “professional purposes.” In the end, it had worked out for the best. Or was it the worst?
Wynland dragged his horse to a halt, and a grateful Kennedy opened her eyes,
only to wish she hadn’t.
Dear Reader,
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EXCERPT
(UNTITLED): A Medieval Romance
Book Six in the Age Of Faith series
From USA Today best-seller, Tamara Leigh, comes the long-awaited sixth book in the AGE OF FAITH series—Sir Durand’s tale.
CHAPTER ONE
Normandy, France
December, 1161
Women were more trouble than they were worth. Or so Sir Durand Marshal told himself each time one dragged him into a mess like this one promised to do.
Black hair and mantle shaking themselves out in the chill air stirred by her flight, the woman rode ahead of three riders who protectively fanned out behind and to the sides of her though they stood little chance of outrunning their pursuers—seven armed men who wore the colors of one who risked much in trespassing on King Henry’s lands. And therein lay the mess, one that could see the crisp layer of snow splashed with crimson of sufficient heat to melt it through.
“Lord, protect us,” he rasped and drew his chain mail hood over his head and gave the signal.
The men under his command did not voice displeasure when the thrust of his arm further delayed the promise of the warm hearth and hot meal denied them these past days of hard riding. They did as bid and followed him from the cover of trees that reached gnarled, wintry fingers toward a sky dark and thick with clouds that looked more like the billowing smoke of a great fire.
“King Henry!” he bellowed and drew his sword as he spurred his destrier forward.
His men repeated the battle cry, voices thundering across the frosted land and causing those bringing up the rear of the pursuers to whip their heads around and shout warnings. But the one leading the pursuit, a broadly-built knight whose red beard jutted on either side of his face, did not give up his prey. Thus, his companions stayed the course.
So be it, Durand accepted the likelihood of bloodshed. He had given King Louis’s vassals a chance to peaceably withdraw from the French lands held by King Henry of England, and if they paid a terrible price, it was on their heads. Unfortunately for their wives and children, the woman who yet evaded capture could not possibly be worth their deaths.
No sooner did Durand think it than the knight protecting her left flank was overtaken by the red-bearded pursuer. The latter swung his sword and landed a blow to the other man’s chest that knocked him out of the saddle.
Blessedly, the other pursuers veered away from the fallen knight who stood a chance providing his chain mail had deflected the blade’s edge. And it seemed it had, Durand saw as he passed near, the snow defiled not by the spray of blood but dirt flung by hooves and the knight’s tumble across it.
As Durand urged his destrier between two of the pursuers, leaving them to his men, the red-bearded knight unseated another of the woman’s protectors. And in the few seconds it took to do so, Durand was granted the time needed to draw level with the one who sought to reach her first. Her mare no match for their war horses, they quickly drew alongside, Durand on the right, the red-bearded knight opposite.
Gripping the saddle with his thighs, Durand released his left-handed grip on the reins and reached for the woman. It was his arm that hooked her, his opponent having not thought far enough ahead to first transfer his sword to the opposite hand.
She screamed as Durand dragged her out of the saddle, and he had only a moment to register she sounded more enraged than fearful before the red-bearded knight caught her skirts and yanked her toward him.
The force of the pull caused Durand’s mount to slam into the mare. Ignoring the ache shooting up his leg, Durand held onto the woman.
Despite her precarious state—suspended above her mare between two destriers—she flailed and clawed, kicked and bucked, and so fiercely Durand feared his mount would stumble and take them both to ground.
“Cease, woman!” He shouted and grudgingly tossed aside his sword and took up the reins to gain better control over his destrier. “I but give aid—”
One of her kicks, all the more injurious for the boots she wore, caught the red-bearded knight in the face, and from his nose flowed crimson that ran into his bared teeth and beard. Spewing blood-colored curses, he wrenched hard on her skirt.
The sound of tearing fabric was supplanted by her shriek. Still, the miscreant held on—until she landed another kick that thrust him sideways and loosened his hold. Then Durand had all of her.
Turning his destrier aside, he thrust the woman onto the fore of his saddle. But though she no longer played the bone tossed between two voracious dogs, her disposition did not improve. As she continued to struggle, her loose black hair whipping across his face, he hauled her back against his chest and glanced over his shoulder at his men who were making quick work of routing the French king’s vassals, including their red-bearded leader.
And still the woman fought, raking at the hand gripping her waist, jabbing her elbows into his mail-clothed ribs, reaching behind to scrape her nails across his jaw and down his throat.
All too aware of the quiver and jerk of the great animal beneath them, Durand shouted, “Be still! I am King Henry’s man.”
That settled her—as it ought to, for whoever she was and whatever King Louis’s men wanted with her, she would fare better with the English king across whose lands she had made her flight.
Durand blew out a breath of relief that swirled white on the chill air. He had her in hand. Not a great feat compared to other services performed for King Henry and his queen, but—
She lurched forward against the arm he had begun to relax, kicked her booted heels into his horse’s side, and slammed her elbow back into Durand’s left eye.
He was not one to ill-treat women, but as he reeled from the blow that threatened to unseat him, he had enough presence of mind to acknowledge his enraged destrier would not suffer the woman any longer, and that could prove deadly for both of them. Thus, he gave the vixen what she sought, flinging her away so she would not be trampled beneath frantic hooves, then turning as much attention as he could muster past his pain to calming the whinnying, lurching destrier.
The one who landed face down in snow too thin to cushion her fall, cried out. The impact jarred her bones, causing ache to shoot head to toe and blood to coat her bitten tongue, but that did not keep her from rising. There was too much at stake to pity her poor body that would be heavily bruised within the hour.
She made it onto her hands and knees, next her feet, and nearly toppled when her boot caught on the lower edge of her bliaut that was far more familiar with the ground than it should be. The count’s man, Sir Renley, had done that, wrenching her skirt with such force the seams at her shoulders had torn through their stitches—fortunately, not all the way, else her bliaut would be down around her feet.
Regaining her balance, she blinked to clear her vision and saw the horse she had enraged and its rider who had tossed her from it were distant, evidence the man was having no easy time mollifying the beast. But moments later, he reined his mount around and started back.
“Dear Lord!” she gasped and spun about. She must—
Must, but could not. Though the tail end of the count’s men who had hounded her and her escort league after league were making their way back the way they had come, pursued by a half dozen of those who had emerged from the wood, only one of her three escort sent to see her to safety remained astride. And he was in the midst of an abundance of knights who, like the one who had thrown her from his horse, were surely of King Henry.
“So close,” she whispered, then assured herself all was not lost. Plans had been made for such an occurrence. Now if she could but keep her mouth shut…
Holding her back to the knight who deserved whatever injuries she had inflicted, she smoothed her damp ski
rt, adjusted her skewed mantle, and draped the hood over her head in the hope that if she had previously encountered any of those who were yet two hundred feet distant, they would not recognize her amid the shadows.
Lord, have mercy, she silently pleaded. Save me from the grasp of greedy men. See me safely home.
Ignoring the pound of hooves behind, her next prayers were those of praise when the two of her escort who had been unhorsed were assisted to their feet. They stood no chance of taking a stand against so many, but she would not see them come to harm for her sake. Hopefully, words would achieve what weapons could not.
Help me not speak where I ought to hold my tongue, Lord, she added and, to aid Him in sealing her lips, ground her teeth so hard they hurt alongside the rest of her.
The knight at her back slowed, but she kept her gaze on the other men of his party and those of her own who advanced. When the one who had tossed her from his horse reined in to her right, she did not acknowledge him. And it was best she delayed as long as possible, for she still felt the boil of anger and knew nothing good would come of unleashing more of that emotion on him, especially as his goodwill would serve her better—if such was possible in light of the blows she had landed to his body. And his pride.
In a surprisingly civil, albeit sardonic, tone he said, “And here I feared you might have broken your neck.”
And who would be at fault for that, knave? she silently indulged her frustration, then pressed her lips lest her tongue tapped out those words.
Well done, praised her beloved Conrad from afar. A civil tone upon a civil tongue is full of the possibility of goodwill, my darling.
Unfortunately, a civil tongue was beyond her at the moment, and so a quiet tongue would have to serve.