Dreamspell

by Tamara Leigh

  With a spur of heels, Wynland guided the horse onto the beaten path that wended upward to the castle. Shortly, they crossed another bridge over what Kennedy guessed was a moat. That was where the fairy tale took a sharp turn off the page. Who knew what pestilence the fetid muck harbored?

  Shouts drew her regard overhead. Several men leaned out of recesses in the upper wall and called greetings to Wynland, welcoming his return as if he had been gone days rather than hours. In silence, he directed his horse beneath the arched entrance and through a shaft outfitted with not one but three sets of doors three times the height of a man and bounded by soldiers.

  If the rest of the castle was as well-manned, no one came or went unchecked. That included Kennedy. Though all were quick to give Wynland their attention, they stole furtive glances at her. Did they know of the attack on Lady Lark’s entourage? Was that behind their interest? Or was it her appearance? The blood on her skirt and her straddling of the horse that revealed a bit of leg?

  A clamor reached Kennedy in advance of their exit from the shaft, but she was unprepared for the flurry of activity in the courtyard they entered. People dressed in the clothes of common folk were everywhere, along with dogs, horses, wagons, contraptions—one that looked like an enormous grinding wheel. From the far left came the sound of metal being struck. To the right, a glowing fire radiated enough heat to work up a sweat.

  Kennedy could hardly believe the depth of imagination that had concocted such a fabulous dream, especially considering her limited knowledge of history.

  There were more shouted greetings, nods, gap-toothed smiles, arms raised in recognition of the man who plotted a heinous act to assure his ascendancy to earl. Although Kennedy couldn’t imagine these people cared for him, he certainly had their respect—likely through fear.

  Wynland ushered his horse beneath a portal and into another courtyard. It also teemed with laborers. In one corner, women bent over immense barrels, some stirring, others scrubbing on what looked like washboards. Opposite, teenage girls hung strips of red cloth from a clothesline stretched overhead. In the middle of the courtyard stood a small building open on one side, the man inside working amid rows of candles.

  “M’lord, m’lord!” A smudge-faced, wild-haired boy bounded into Wynland’s path.

  He jerked the reins and Kennedy wondered what harsh words he would speak.

  “Tell the tale, m’lord,” the boy implored with lit blue eyes. “How many did ye kill?”

  Oh, about a dozen.

  To her surprise, Wynland leaned down and ruffled the child’s fair hair. “None yet, Jeremy.”

  Disappointment shrunk the boy’s brow, reminding her of someone. Finally, she had placed a person in her dream—sort of. Jeremy was familiar, but she didn’t know where she had seen him.

  “Not even one, m’lord?”

  “There were none to kill.”

  Jeremy propped his hands on his hips. “Ye’ll not let the brigands go, will ye?”

  “You know I will not.”

  With a grin that revealed he was short a front tooth, the boy turned his gaze on Kennedy. “Who is that, m’lord?”

  “’Tis Lady Lark come to care for John and Harold.”

  With wide eyes and a mouth to match, Jeremy said, “M’lady is most fair. Not at all what John and Harry feared.”

  Kennedy had to smile. Not since before her illness had she received such a sincere compliment.

  “Have ye something for me, m’lord?”

  Wynland tossed a coin to him, and the boy snatched it from the air with a greasy fist. Hooting with joy, he spun and disappeared among the many.

  “Your new home,” Wynland said, “Brynwood Spire.”

  Kennedy looked up at the building at the center of the castle. Though impossible to overlook, that was what she had done, engrossed as she was with the activity before the grandiose structure. Six stories high, as many wide, its top edge notched all around, it gave new meaning to her notion of how a castle should look.

  “It’s. . .” She shook her head. “. . .big.”

  “You expected less?”

  She looked around. “Actually, I hadn’t thought much about it.”

  “Then you ought to. The earldom of Sinwell is vital to England—strategically located, fertile, and among the wealthiest.”

  And aren’t you just dying to get your hands on it? “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Wynland urged his horse forward and reined in before a long flight of steps that led up to what she assumed was the entrance. He dismounted and passed the reins to Squire James who waited for him. “I will be gone but a few minutes. See that my horse is watered and ready to ride when I return.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  My lord this, my lord that. Was it really necessary?

  “Lady Lark.” Wynland raised his arms.

  Tempted as she was to refuse his help, Kennedy leaned toward him. His great hands gripped her waist and lifted her down. No sooner did her feet touch ground than he released her and turned toward the steps.

  He probably feared he would catch something from her as he had earlier alluded. Trying not to feel the warm imprint of his hands, she lifted her skirt and followed him. Dozens of steep steps later, she caught up with him at the top landing. Feeling deep appreciation for whoever had invented the elevator, she looked to Wynland and found him studying her as if she were a one-thousand piece puzzle he must put together without a picture to guide him.

  “A moment,” he said and lifted the circlet from her head. He adjusted the veil that hung longer on one side and resettled the circlet.

  “Thank you,” Kennedy murmured.

  He looked like he might smile. “So you do know something of propriety.” Before she could concoct a comeback, he turned his back on her. “Come, my mother will wish to receive you.”

  Had Mac’s book mentioned Wynland’s mother? If so, either the reference was obscure or Kennedy had been too tired to store the information.

  The two soldiers who stood guard at the massive doors offered the usual “My lord,” gave Kennedy the once-over, and pulled the doors open.

  Inside, Wynland allowed her only a cursory examination of her surroundings before he struck out across the stone floor—not that more was needed. The entrance hall was stark, nothing extraordinary about it. So what had happened to the run of imagination that had brought her this far?

  “Brother!” someone called. Descending a stairway was a man whose resemblance to the one he called “brother” seemed limited to hair color and build. Younger than Wynland by five or so years, his features were more handsome, eyes darker, and when he stepped off the stairs she saw he was shorter by several inches. “What news do you bring?”

  “They are all dead, excepting Lady Lark.” Wynland stepped to the side to reveal Kennedy.

  Surprise shot across the man’s face. “Lady Lark?” His gaze traveled down her, but when it returned to her face he had regained his composure.

  “Lady Lark,” Wynland said, “my brother, Richard Wynland, Baron of Kinsey.”

  Before Kennedy could respond, Richard demanded, “What of the attackers?”

  “Gone.” Wynland began to ascend the stairs.

  Richard looked to Kennedy again, allowed her a glimpse of what might pass as dislike, then motioned her to precede him.

  Don’t take it personally. It’s just the stuff of dreams. She stepped forward. This stairway was less imposing than the first, and she soon found herself in a room so immense, so fabulously furnished, and so alive with the people of this era that she halted.

  Brightly painted pillars supported an arched ceiling splashed with vibrant green, black, and gold. Tapestries around the walls depicted lovers in a garden, battling knights, and a dragon perched on a shield like those on the shirts worn by Sinwell’s men. A fireplace the size of her spare bedroom was fueled by enormous logs. And the men and women, with their aristocratic deportment and splendid costumes—the men in shirts over hose and pointed shoes—l
ooked as if they had walked off a movie set. But what was hay doing on the floor? Were they expecting cows?

  An older woman wearing an ivory dress with sleeves that fell from her wrists to her calves, appeared in a fog of perfume that made Kennedy wince. “Lady Lark?” Her voice was so melodious it could have been an instrument.

  This had to be Wynland’s mother. She was petite, but there was no mistaking the resemblance, from the blonde hair encased in strange wire cylinders on either side of her head to intense blue eyes to soaring cheekbones.

  Kennedy stuck out a hand. “Yes, I’m Lady Lark.”

  As if a handshake was beneath her, the woman frowned.

  Remembering another time, another place, another woman who had made her feel ten inches tall, Kennedy stole a glance at Wynland where he stood beside his mother. His expression was all the confirmation needed that a handshake was not how things were done here.

  She lowered her arm. If they hadn’t shook hands back then—now—how had they greeted one another?

  “I am Lady Aveline, Lord Wynland’s mother.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Another frown, then a sniff as she noticed Kennedy’s bloodied skirt. “My son has assured me you are uninjured.”

  “I was fortunate.”

  Something flashed in the woman’s eyes that gave Kennedy’s memory a painful stir. Her ex-mother-in-law, Celia Huntworth, hadn’t liked her either. But then, the woman’s carefully plans for her debutante-destined son had been ruined when he stepped out of his “class” by marrying Kennedy.

  “I am sure King Edward will be relieved to learn of your well-being,” Celia’s fourteenth-century counterpart said.

  Kennedy nodded. “Yes, he will.”

  Wynland’s mother waved someone forward, and a woman rose from a chair before the fire. Though her dress was less fine than Lady Aveline’s, her sleeves also trailed. “This is my daughter, Marion.”

  Unlike her mother, the thirty-fiveish Marion was no little thing. Though she wasn’t tall by twenty-first century standards, she topped her mother by half a foot and carried ten to fifteen pounds more on her big-boned frame than insurance companies liked. Eyes blackest brown, hair straight and dishwater blonde beneath a veil, mouth wide, she was as different from Lady Aveline as summer was from winter. Not homely, but plain. From her posture to the color staining her cheeks, she appeared to lack her mother’s self-possession.

  Marion inclined her head. “Lady Lark.”

  “Lady Marion.” Had she got that right?

  “My daughter will show you to your chamber where you can bathe and rest,” Lady Aveline said.

  Happy to put distance between herself and Wynland, Kennedy followed the woman. Although the others in the room resumed their conversations, she remained an object of interest. Not until she was before a winding stair did it occur to her something was missing. She spun around, scattering hay, and saw that Wynland strode opposite with his brother.

  “Mr. Wynland, what about. . .” What were their names? “. . .John and Henry?”

  He turned. “John and Harold.”

  Right. “When do I get to meet the boys?”

  “Later.” He resumed his course.

  “Come, Lady Lark,” Marion beckoned.

  Kennedy lifted her skirt and climbed the stairs. Up and around and around they went, to a stone-laid corridor.

  “You have been given the east tower room,” Marion said as she led the way forward, a spring in her step that had not been there before. At the end of the corridor, she pushed a door inward and stepped aside to allow Kennedy to precede her.

  The furnishings consisted of a bed, a stool, a small table with a bowl and pitcher, a raised iron pot that looked like a small barbecue, and a lit candle. Kennedy chuckled. She had dreamed herself into a place over which any self-respecting twenty-first century inmate would have filed a lawsuit.

  “Is there anything you require, Lady Lark?”

  A bath? She searched the room again and noticed a narrow door that had to be the bathroom. She opened it. The room measured three by three feet and was bare except for a ledge against the back wall. And in the center of that ledge was a hole. An indoor outhouse. Wrinkling her nose at the odor, she closed the door.

  “Something is amiss, my lady?”

  Kennedy looked to the woman in the doorway. “I was hoping for a bath.”

  Marion frowned. “I directed the servants in the preparation of your chamber. All should be in readiness.” She crossed to the table and dipped a finger in the pitcher. “The water is still warm.” She poured some into the bowl. “And here is your towel.”

  A bowl of tepid water and a hand towel was her idea of a bath? Hoping she didn’t sound ungrateful, Kennedy said, “I was thinking of a long soak.”

  “In a tub?”

  “You have one, don’t you?”

  “Two, in fact.” That last was spoken with pride. “Unfortunately, all of the fires in the kitchen are taken with preparations for the nooning meal, so ‘tis not possible to warm water for a bath.”

  No plumbing. Kennedy sighed. “Of course.”

  “I will leave you to your ablutions.” At the door, Marion turned back. “I hope we shall be friends.”

  Her words seemed so genuine Kennedy smiled. “So do I.”

  A grin brightened Marion’s face. “Then we shall.”

  Obviously, this Marion and the one she had first met were not the same.

  “Mayhap you will share with me tales of your life at court.”

  Never before out of the twenty-first century Kennedy Plain? Whose only experience with “life at court” was two hours spent in traffic court last summer? “I’d love to.” Chances were she would be long awakened from this dream before she had to make good on that.

  “Rest well, my lady.” Marion stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

  Kennedy crossed to the left of the bed and opened the single shutter. A shaft of light slanted across the floor, lighting the dust motes and the stain on her skirt. Though she didn’t have clothes to change into, she decided the slip beneath would suffice. As it hit just below the knee, it had escaped the fate of the dress.

  To her frustration, she soon discovered there were no buttons or zippers to release her from the dress, only laces at the back. After much contorting and grunting, she captured the trailing end of one lace and pulled. The bodice loosened, and she quickly vacated the dress. Surprisingly, the slip was pleated, embroidered around the neck, had long sleeves, and was made of what felt like silk.

  Kennedy slipped out of the shoes and tugged off the socks. As she washed the blood from her calves, she pondered the boys. “Later,” Wynland had said. Could he do that? Or, as the king had appointed Lady Lark to care for them, could she demand to see then immediately? Of course, it wasn’t as if the boys were without a protector. They had Sir Arthur Crosley. For a moment, she wondered if he bore any resemblance to Mac. Ridiculous—unless her subconscious decided to cast Mac in the role he had tried to convince her was his.

  Kennedy unknotted her hair and raked fingers through it. It took time to get it to the place where she could braid it, but she enjoyed every moment. Funny, only now that she had it all back did she appreciate what she had too long taken for granted. Day in, day out, she had confined her long hair to a bun or ponytail and silently threatened to whack it off each time it fell into her eyes. Leave it to cancer to take care of the problem. . .

  Kennedy let her sectioned hair slip through her fingers. Deciding to enjoy it for the short time she had it, she shook her head and let the waves fall over her shoulders. No wonder Mac had wanted to believe his dreams were real. If she were just a bit mad, she might herself.

  She lay down on the bed and, certain she would awaken on her living room floor, mumbled, “Good riddance, Mr. Wynland.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  No woman he had ever known was worth dying for. Yet thirteen men had given their lives to protect this one—the king’s leman.
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  A lovely leman, Fulke admitted as candlelight danced through dark hair and skipped across a face rendered innocent in sleep. Though he knew he should not, he pushed the door wider. The movement made the links of his hauberk ring, but Lady Lark did not awaken. Gaining a full view of where she lay on the bed, Fulke slid his gaze to her throat, then over the thin material of her chemise.

  He clenched his hands in an attempt to turn back the attraction he had first felt when he had carried her before him on his horse. The effort was in vain, for the sight of her, looking as if she had fallen asleep awaiting a lover, stirred him to discomfort.

  One could hardly fault Edward for taking her to mistress, for she was beyond lovely, and without aid of rouge or powder. And her scent. . . No perfume had assailed him when he breathed her during the ride to Brynwood. She had smelled of light and air—

  He berated himself for such fanciful thoughts. Fulke Wynland, Baron of Trune, protector of Sinwell, was not fanciful—though once he had been. He lifted a hand to knock as he had earlier done, but Lark murmured and turned fully toward him, causing her chemise to rise.

  What Fulke’s hand had known his eyes quickly learned—muscled calves and firm thighs. It was as if her days were not spent at needlework, but on the training field. Not possible, but he had seen her run. Never had he known a woman to move as she did, and while wearing a gown lifted high. Such strength and stamina were not acquired running around a king’s bedchamber.

  He considered the dwindling candle and reflected deeper on this woman thrust into his life by an aging king determined to upset his vassal’s ordered life—first with the appointment of Sir Arthur Crosley, now this woman. Why had Edward done it? It was something Fulke had questioned a dozen times since receiving word of Lady Lark’s impending arrival. How many nursemaids did two children require?

  Of course, if he was honest, the boys had been adrift until the coming of Sir Arthur. Following the death of Fulke’s half-brother, the earl, it had been necessary to discharge the woman who had cared for John and Harold since birth. For two months, Fulke had disregarded the woman’s impertinence and reports of her speculation over his role in his brother’s death, but when he had come upon her warning the boys against him, his forbearance had shattered.