In My Wild Dream

by Sasha Lord

  Moxie nodded. “When Liam asked Sarah to marry him, Douglas Tate made the great table as a wedding gift. It took him a year to complete.”

  Kassandra walked slowly over to the tapestries. “These are incredible.”

  “They tell the tale of Cadedryn’s ancestors. One day you will be woven into Caenmore history.”

  Kassandra turned to face Moxie. “He does not love me. He wanted his title and lands. His offer to marry me was based upon his need for my protection.”

  Moxie laughed. “Your protection? Forgive me, milady, but he is a seasoned warrior and you are but a little lass. I doubt he asked for your hand out of necessity. Do you love him?”

  Kassandra sighed. Did she? She dreamed of him. Her heart raced when he was near. She wanted to see him happy and satisfied. “I think so,” she murmured. “I always knew we were destined to find each other.”

  Moxie shook her head. “No, dear. Love is not something you think you feel. You know it. Perhaps the reason he has not said that he loves you is because he is not certain you love him.”

  Moxie led Kassandra up the stairs, then down the length of the hallway to the last room. As she opened the door, Kassandra gasped. The enormous room contained three carved wardrobes and an elegant canopy bed as well as a small table and chairs. But the most astonishing feature of the room was the huge stone fireplace that filled the entire far wall.

  “It is so big!” Kassandra cried as she stepped into the room. She walked up to the mantel and touched the carved stones.

  “This was Sarah’s favorite room. Liam had it designed just for her, and had the stone imported from a faraway place. Sarah loved to sit in front of the fire and tell stories to Cadedryn.” Moxie blinked her eyes several times to stop her tears. “We all miss her.”

  Kassandra looked at her with compassion. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Cadedryn was hurt the most. He lost his mother and his father.” She cleared her throat and stepped back in order to shut the door. “Well, if you need anything, I will be pleased to assist. In the meantime, a bath will be sent up to you, and feel free to search the wardrobes for suitable clothing. Yours looks a bit worse for the wear. Sarah was small, like you. Some of her clothes might fit you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Moxie cast her a happy, grateful smile. “No, thank you. I am so pleased to see Lord Cadedryn again, especially now that he has a bride of his own. Perhaps soon the halls will echo with the sounds of another youngster.”

  Cadedryn stood in a room built off to the side of the great room, stroking Triu-cair’s silky fur. The weasel had adapted well to his makeshift leash and had bounded along after Cadedryn as he entered the room, then leapt into his arms. The polecat’s presence was comforting and Cadedryn smiled as he looked around. Liam had spent much of his time here reading tally sheets and instructing his overseers. It was also where he had shown Cadedryn a Bible filled with elegant pictures and rows upon rows of finely penned scripture.

  Cadedryn placed Triu-cair on the floor, then walked to the desk where the Bible was stored. Locating the drawer, he pulled it out and opened the book’s front cover, then ran his finger down the names and dates. The last read Liam and Sarah, birth of son Cadedryn 1051. He looked at the entry with sadness. His father had been too devastated to enter the date of Sarah’s death.

  Unease rippled through him. The room was forlorn, empty of the sounds he had taken for granted as a child. His father’s booming voice . . . his mother’s tinkling laugh. Now the emptiness yawned around him, transforming the sanctuary into a cold and unwelcoming cavern.

  As he closed the book, he noticed a slip of paper peeking out from between the pages. Curious, he withdrew the letter and opened it. The words were faded and the paper was yellow and brittle. Cadedryn squinted, trying to make out the words. It was addressed to his father. Liam, it read, I . . . Sarah’s death. I warn you, more will . . . Take care . . . You and your son . . . If you want to save him . . . foster. . . . family . . . murder.

  There was no signature at the bottom.

  Cadedryn slowly refolded the letter and replaced it between the pages of the Bible. Something had happened to his father. Liam had been warned and then been advised to send his only son to foster for protection. Cadedryn had not been cast aside because his father no longer wanted him. Liam had been trying to save him.

  There are things you do not know, his father had said to him that final day. Had Liam received the letter that very morning? Was that why he had been in the meadow, screaming at the injustice of it all? Had the missing words in the letter been kind or cruel? Had the letter been a warning . . . or a threat?

  He intended to find out, and Kassandra was going to help him.

  Cadedryn extracted a quill and trimmed it with a penknife, then found an inkwell tucked into another drawer. After carefully opening the Bible’s cover, he dipped the quill and wrote in the missing entry. Sarah and Liam Caenmore, death 1066.

  He paused, his quill hovering over the page. Triu-cair scrambled up on top of the desk and rose on his hind legs. “Soon,” Cadedryn promised as he lowered the quill and sanded the words. “Soon we will find out who harmed my family and put the murderer to rest. Then, provided I can convince Kassandra, I will write your mistress’s name beside mine.”

  Triu-cair sniffed the quill and batted it between his paws.

  Cadedryn closed the Bible and placed it back in the drawer. He extracted a piece of paper and, after wrestling the quill back from Triu-cair’s nimble paws, he prepared to write two letters.

  One he addressed to Ronin McTaver, making polite inquires about the health of Kassandra’s family and assuring Ronin and Kalial that Kassandra was in safe hands. Kassandra had been continually vague about her home, and he needed more details before he could proceed with their betrothal, including how to formally request her hand and how to appropriately compensate her family for her loss through marriage.

  He addressed the other letter to the king. This one was brief. It indicated his appreciation for the return of his title and reiterated his loyalty to the crown. He also added that he had chosen a bride, and due to unusual circumstances, would like special permission to wed her.

  Cadedryn sealed the letters, then rose and walked to the window. They would go out by messenger tomorrow.

  He would spend tonight trying to convince Kassandra to stay.

  Chapter 21

  Later that evening they graced the dinner table in silence, waiting for the next course. Cadedryn sat at the head of the table with Kassandra directly to his right. An elaborately engraved candelabra holding four candles illuminated their end of the table, creating a sense of intimacy in the great hall.

  “The table and chairs are beautiful,” Kassandra mentioned as she took a sip of her soup. “Moxie told me that your grandfather made them.” She was wearing a midnight-blue velvet gown shot with long rows of green ribbon that had belonged to Cadedryn’s mother. Although out of date, the dress was in perfect condition and fit her well.

  “Yes,” he answered as he looked up from his wine goblet. “He enjoyed working with his hands, and encouraged Sarah to do the same. My mother learned how to engrave metal and created many exquisite pieces of jewelry.”

  The gown suited Kassandra. Unlike the pale pastels she usually wore, the dark blue made her eyes even more brilliant. Did she have any idea how beautiful she was? She acted nothing like Lady Corine, who preened frequently and always posed to highlight her best features. Kassandra’s motions were brisk yet graceful, much like a young girl who had not yet discovered her inner passion even though he knew differently. His groin tightened as his gaze swept her unbound tresses. “I love your hair,” he murmured.

  She brushed it back self-consciously. “I asked Moxie for a mantle, but she said Sarah never wore one.”

  “I’m pleased she was unable to honor your request.”

  Kassandra averted her eyes. “My hair makes me look too heathen.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps tha
t is what I like about it.” “Who made the candleholder?” Kassandra asked, diverting the conversation.

  “I did. I want you to wear your hair down and unfettered always.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You made it? You work metal, too?”

  “I used to. Will you do that? Wear your hair free for me?”

  “This is beautiful. It takes much skill to do such intricate work.”

  “I made that as a boy. It is a crude piece compared to my later work.”

  “Later work?”

  He stared at her. The candlelight flickered across her face, bringing out the red and gold of her hair. Her eyelashes were like burnished copper and the light freckles dusting her nose brought depth and character to her perfect features. He wanted her. Now. Forever.

  “Cadedryn!” she said sharply as she covered her mouth. “Why are you staring at me? Do I have something caught in my teeth?”

  He dragged his gaze away and motioned to a servant for a refill of wine. “You didn’t answer my request about your hair.”

  “You didn’t answer my question about your work.”

  He drained the goblet and peered at her over the rim. “Why must I surrender first?” he murmured softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

  Her brows drew together and she looked at him curiously, suddenly aware of a new tension in the air. His hooded expression revealed little. “I told you that I am uncomfortable about my hair color. It makes me look like a . . . like a . . .”

  “Like a fire faery, dancing in a blazing hearth.”

  She sat back, nonplussed. “You sound like a bard.”

  “Am I less a warrior because I can compliment a woman with flowery words?”

  Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak. She finally shook her head.

  “I am sending a missive to your family, informing them of your whereabouts. Can I convince you to stay until we hear back from them?”

  “What does it matter? The sooner I leave, the easier it will be.”

  Cadedryn cast about for another excuse. He did not want to tell her about the second letter. “I need your help, Kassandra. I must find my father’s murderer and so far, you have provided my only clue. Won’t you be kind and help me? Give me a fortnight. How can a few weeks of your time compare to bringing a villain to justice?”

  She looked across the candles at his intent expression. He needed her. Despite her efforts to convince herself otherwise, they were connected. They were linked, soul to soul. He had hurt her and rejected her, but she had also hurt him by toying with his emotions. Even if she was convinced that they could not wed, she could fulfill her obligations and stay near him until the danger was resolved. If she did not, her dreams would plague her and guilt would haunt her.

  She trembled as she lowered her gaze, unable to admit even to herself that she wanted to stay.

  “If you need me, I will help you,” Kassandra murmured.

  “Then why don’t we drop our guard and be true to ourselves? There is no one in this castle to impress, nor anyone within these walls who cares what clothes we wear or what color your hair is. Wear your tresses down and cease being self-conscious. Let us relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

  “What about you?”

  “I will show you my metalwork.”

  It was her turn to notice the candlelight flickering over his hardened features, softening the harsh lines and making him seem almost vulnerable. Who was he? A swordsman who enjoyed women only for pleasure? A politician who manipulated marriages and fortunes? A poet? A lover?

  “Come.” He stood up, sliding the chair back and reaching immediately for hers. “It has been ten years since I entered the forge.”

  She stood more slowly, aware of the dinner yet to be completed. “The servants . . .”

  “Forget the rules. Let us do as we want for a short while. Soon enough we will be forced to make decisions. Is it so terrible to interrupt a meal?”

  Her heart fluttered and her breathing quickened.

  “For tonight, forget that the sun rises every morn and the winter comes every year. Shall we not live for the moment and defy convention?”

  She smiled, a glimmer of mischievousness making its way into her blue eyes.

  He smiled back and stroked her red curls. “Any woman who could come boldly to my room in order to exact revenge must have a bit of wildness in her heart. It does not take a soothsayer to decipher your true soul.”

  She trembled at his caress while his words touched her deep inside. She had spent years trying to deny her impulsiveness and a lifetime trying to temper her wildness. “My dreams set me apart from everyone. My family tries to understand, but even they do not quite comprehend me. I often feel very . . .”

  “Alone? Is that why you clung to your dream mate so tightly? Is that why you sought to find me?”

  “Perhaps. Yes.”

  “This is not a dream, and I am flesh and blood. I understand you.”

  “Do you believe in my dreams?”

  His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Yes.”

  She stepped into his arms and laid her head against his chest.

  “Will you leave your hair uncovered for me?”

  “Yes. I will,” she whispered.

  He took her hand, laced his fingers with hers and led her outside into the moonlight. The massive courtyard was deserted, although one could see torches flickering in the manned sentinel towers at each corner. He walked her past the stables and led her to the far side of the courtyard to a large stone building that stood next to a flowing fountain of spring water.

  A heavy double door blocked their way. Cadedryn lifted a key from a nail on the wall and unlocked the door. “I left orders for no one to enter the forge. It will not be clean. Would you rather wait until morning?”

  She shook her head and grabbed a torch and flint from the wall.

  He grinned, his heart lighter than it had been in years. He struck the flint and lit the torch for her, then pushed open the left door.

  It groaned as it scraped inward, revealing a dark, cavernous workroom that echoed with memories of fire and metal.

  “When I worked here,” he said as he brushed cobwebs out of their way, “I imagined a fire faery watching over my shoulder, keeping me safe.”

  She lifted the torch and stared into his eyes.

  “I did not tell you everything,” he said quietly. “I believe your dreams because I dreamed of you, too, only I had forgotten. Seeing you sleep next to the campfire as we rode here reminded me of my buried memories.” He touched her face. “We belong together.”

  She shook her head in confusion.

  “As a youth, I felt a flame-haired female watching over me, protecting and soothing me. I did not recognize your face, Kassandra, but I know you have been with me for a very long time. Somewhere along the way, I lost my path. You were sent here to help me find it again. My mother would have liked you.”

  She swallowed, tears thickening her throat and filling her eyes. “Show me this place you loved,” she whispered.

  He strode through the room, lighting two more torches, then placing hers in a holder beside the door.

  As the torches flickered to life, the room was transformed. Rows upon rows of finely worked swords lined the walls, three and four thick in some places, each different in some unique way. Short swords with corded handles, long swords with elegant engravings, even broadswords with jeweled hilts filled the space. Some swords were blackened while others shimmered with a polished sheen and still others were inlaid with copper, silver or gold. It was an armory of supreme craftsmanship, unlike anything Kassandra had ever seen.

  “Who made all these?”

  “I did. At least, most of them. A few are examples from foreign masters.”

  “It takes years to learn this craft. Years of intense dedication.”

  He walked over to a blackened long sword and lifted it to the torchlight. Although the center was black, the double-sharp edge was shiny. A
beautiful engraving down the length of the sword reminded her of something. She stepped over and peered at it. “The dirk!” she exclaimed. “It is the same pattern as on the dirk.”

  “My mother taught me how to work metal from the moment I was able to hold a tool. When I was seven, my father hired a sword master to design a special sword for him, and when the master saw my interest, he let me practice my craft on his template swords. I soon tired of decorating and demanded to learn how to forge the swords themselves. Over the years, I honed my craft, ever improving on my workmanship.”

  “These are superb. Artistry is in your blood.”

  “So is war. While creating swords, I also learned how to use them. It made me into the swordsman I am, allowing me to defend Scotland from her enemies. My father told me that demonstrating my loyalty through swordsmanship could provide my best chance to regain the title. At the time, I did not care about titles, but after his death, I had nothing else. The fight to reclaim my title gave me purpose and direction.”

  Flashing back to the time she had seen him fight, Kassandra smiled. “You were superb the day on the ridge when you saved me, but you frightened me the time in the fighting yard. I had never seen men fight so brutally. Not at all like the men from my home.”

  He lifted a lock of her hair with his sword. “I wanted you to see the true man you so recklessly set your eyes upon.”

  She closed her eyes and inhaled, smelling the dust and cobwebs, but also smelling the tang of metal and the smoke of a long-dead fire.

  He touched her closed lids, stroking her long eyelashes as they cast shadows across her cheeks. “But you are an enigma to me. You push and pull me . . . draw me closer, then thrust me afar. Your body aches for me, your dreams conjure me. But your mind rejects me. How is this possible?”

  “Why did you really bring me to Aberdour?” she questioned softly, her breath held.

  “To give us time.”

  “Time for what?”