Dreamspell

by Tamara Leigh

  “Nay,” he murmured, “I did not do it.”

  What? Then she remembered, and with remembrance came embarrassment. He had been awake last night, had watched as she clasped the chemise to her and asked a question that his answering silence had indicated he slept.

  She drew a deep breath. “Well, that makes me feel better.”

  “Does it?”

  Why was he still holding her? “I can manage on my own, Mr. Wynland.”

  He released her and nodded toward a copse of trees. “’Twill assure your privacy.”

  To “relieve” herself. Lovely. Not since her failed attempt at “roughing it” as a teen had she made do without a toilet as this dream forced her to do. “Thank you.”

  He smiled.

  She wished he wouldn’t do that. His warming toward her was wearing a hole in her defenses and giving rise to traitorous flutterings. She made a beeline for the copse.

  When she returned, a man outfitted as a soldier rode toward Wynland where he stood beside the stream. She didn’t recognize him, but since he was accompanied by one of the men Wynland had posted at the outer edge of the wood, she guessed he was a newcomer.

  “Alfred,” Wynland called. “Bring you word from my brother?”

  His brother? Kennedy frowned, but then she realized it wasn’t his nephews’ deceased father of whom he spoke but the disagreeable younger brother she had met at Brynwood Spire. Richard, wasn’t it?

  “I do, my lord.”

  Kennedy made it to Wynland’s side as the messenger reined in.

  The man dismounted, grimaced as if his ride had been as long as the one that made Kennedy’s legs shaky. “My lord ordered that I deliver you this missive.”

  Wynland accepted it. “Refresh yourself ere you return to Brynwood.” He jutted his chin to where his men gathered upstream. As if in no hurry to learn what was so important it had to be delivered by pony express, Wynland thumbed the wax seal, then tucked the paper into his belt. He bent to the stream and splashed cold water on his face.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Kennedy asked.

  He looked up. “When Squire James returns.”

  “What does he have to do with it?”

  Wynland stood. “For one who gives few answers, you ask many questions.”

  “Call me inquisitive.”

  He used his sleeve to wipe the water from his face. “Squire James is my reader.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When I have not my steward to read for me, as when I am gone from the castle, the task falls to James.”

  Kennedy nearly dropped her jaw. “You don’t scrub your own back and you don’t do your own reading?”

  Annoyance skittered across his face. “One by choice, Lady Lark, the other by necessity. Could I read the missive, I would.”

  An old ache bubbled to her surface. “You don’t know how to read?”

  He shrugged. “I ready poorly. In that there is no shame.”

  Wasn’t there? Her mother had known shame, still did despite coping skills so finely honed that her second husband had yet to discover her struggle. “Do you have a learning problem?”

  From his expression, it was as if she had asked if he had three heads.

  “I mean, was it hard for you to learn how to read or were you just not interested?”

  His annoyance returned full force. “Tell me, Lady Lark, for what do I need to read when another can do it for me?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking downstream.

  Wincing at the rough ground under her thin soles, Kennedy hurried after him. “It’s surprising, that’s all.”

  He turned. “Nay, that one cannot ride a horse is surprising, especially when one is of the nobility—or claims to be.”

  Eager to avoid the subject, Kennedy pressed on. “It’s not too late. You could still learn to read.”

  “Why?”

  “Everything revolves around the written word. It’s. . .important.”

  “And riding is not?”

  She squirmed in her shoddy undies. “In this day and age, I suppose.”

  “You live in this day and age. Mayhap reading is more important in Oz, but in England, ‘tis command of one’s horse that calls the battle.”

  Talk about backward! He had a letter from his brother that was surely important and was held hostage by what she guessed was an unwillingness to learn how to read. “Surely someone else can read it to you?”

  “There is no one.”

  “No one here knows how to read?”

  “Some can, but those whom I trust read no better than I.”

  Interesting. Though, supposedly, these were his “men,” it seemed he was watching his back. “What about me?”

  His lids narrowed. “You?”

  Amazing how he could make a three-letter word ring with the reputation of one of four letters. “I can read it.”

  He considered her, then held out the missive.

  She broke the wax seal and unrolled to the tune of thick, black writing. Oh no. Though this dream had returned her health to her, it hadn’t done a thing for her far-sightedness. She squinted and found a semblance of focus only to run into another obstacle. The letter wasn’t written in English. At least, not English as she knew it. However, it did share a likeness to Shakespearean English—which she had struggled with in an undergraduate class.

  “Well?” Wynland asked.

  “Just a moment.”

  “Did you not profess to know how to read?”

  “I do know how to read. It’s just that the handwriting is poor.” Did that sound as unconvincing to him as it did to her? “Your brother must have been pressed for time.”

  “Pressed for time. . .” Wynland shrugged. “He may have been, but ‘twas not likely he who wrote the missive.”

  “So he doesn’t know how to write?”

  “He does. Some.”

  Kennedy lowered her gaze and landed on the word “Farfallow” near the bottom of the page. She knew the name. It was the monastery that hosted the fatal confrontation between Wynland and Sir Arthur.

  “Are you going to speak my brother’s words or not?”

  She swallowed. “It says, ‘Brother, I send thee—you”—she might as well translate it to her own understanding—“greetings from Brynwood Spire. We yet have. . .no word of Crosley and the children.” She affected to clear her throat while silently reading the next passage. Though it may be naught, one of my men tells of having seen Sir Arthur in private conversation with the monk who passed the night at Brynwood Spire last month. As the monk was from the monastery of Farfallow, a day and a half ride from Cirque, mayhap you ought to stop there.

  “What else does it say?”

  This was her dream and she wasn’t about to have blood shed in it. “It. . .that. . .” As Wynland claimed to be a poor reader, meaning he managed to some degree, did she dare skip over Farfallow? If she did and he later looked at the letter, he might recognize the name and have another read it to him—unless she was able to dispose of the missive.

  In your dreams. Though he might be fool enough to let her read it, he didn’t trust her any further than that.

  “Continue, Lady Lark.”

  “He says all is well at Brynwood and wishes you. . .Godspeed.” As she returned the missive to him, she sent up a prayer that he wouldn’t have his squire read it.

  “Thank you, Lady Lark. You have been of service to me.” He strode to his horse, patted its neck, and tucked the missive in one of the packs. “You think you could learn me to read?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Though as a teen she had been determined to help her mother break the code, nearly every attempt had ended in frustration. “I don’t think so.”

  A passing breeze flirted with the hair at his brow, lifted it, sifted it, sent strands into his lashes. “Still we shall try, hmm? In exchange, I shall teach you to ride.”

  She nearly choked. “I don’t think so.”

  “A lady ought to know ho
w to handle a horse.”

  In the words he had earlier spoken, she found a lifeline. “Why do I need to handle a horse when someone else can do it for me?”

  He returned to her side and flashed that new smile that worked miracles on his scarred countenance and caused her fingers to tingle. “Because, my lady, two astride is too intimate for a man and woman who are not yet intimate. ’Tis most uncomfortable, do you not agree?”

  She gulped. “Yes.”

  “Then we shall begin this day. You will take the reins when we ride from here.”

  “Your horse’s reins?” She looked to the beast. To her dismay, the horse appeared to be watching her—taunting her with those enormous wet eyes. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  His hand closed around her arm. “First overcome fear. If you do not, it will be the horse that rides you.” His strength easily conquering her resistance, he pulled her along. “It is the most important lesson. Once you learn it, all else follows.”

  Her feet skidded over the ground. “What about lunch? I’m thirsty and hungry.”

  “After I have presented you to my horse.”

  “We’ve already met.”

  “Not properly.”

  As they neared, the horse snorted.

  “No fear,” Wynland spoke sharply.

  “Oh, believe me”—she strained backward—“I know fear.”

  “Nay, Lady Lark, have no fear.” He released her. “Don’t move. Just watch.” He smoothed a hand down the animal’s shoulder, moved to its head and stroked its jowl. “It has been a long day, and you have served me well, my friend.”

  The horse pushed its muzzle into his palm and blew loudly.

  “Aye, you have.”

  How calming his voice was, almost enough to make Kennedy assume a cross-legged position.

  “Know you Lady Lark?” Wynland nodded at where she stood. “She of fair face and long—very long—legs?”

  They weren’t that long!

  “She has come to meet you proper.” He put his face near the beast’s. “Be gentle now.” He motioned Kennedy forward.

  She unstuck her right foot, then left. No fear. Wynland stepped aside when she was face to face with the horse. She swallowed hard. Though she had thought it was bad to bounce around atop the creature, this was worse.

  The horse made a low “huh-huh” sound and laid an ear back.

  Kennedy flashed Wynland a tight smile. “Satisfied?”

  “Talk to him—calmly. As you do, move to his shoulder and smooth your hand down it.”

  She took a leaden step to the side. “Nice horsie.” She grimaced when the animal turned its head to follow her. “Very nice horsie.”

  “Horsie?” Wynland regurgitated.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It lacks command.”

  “You never said anything about command. You said to speak calmly. Which is it?”

  Impatience lit his eyes. “Think of him as a man, Lady Lark—one from whom you require a favor. Surely you know what to do.”

  Kennedy cooled her outrage with a reminder of the woman she played. “Aye, I do,” she put a medieval spin on her speech, “and very well, thank you.”

  “Show me.”

  She held Wynland’s gaze, lifted a hand to the horse’s shoulder, and said on a husky breath, “Hello, big boy.”

  She didn’t look away when Wynland’s incredibly blue eyes turned black, when he stepped forward, when his head lowered, when his mouth closed over hers. It was as if they stared into one another, seeing what no other had seen. This time she didn’t resist. She felt his kiss through every part of her, shared his every breath, and melted.

  Without realizing she had closed her eyes, she slipped her arms around his neck. He felt so real, as if she had not dreamed him into being. Feeling the rasp of his beard and moustache, she opened her mouth.

  He pulled back.

  She blinked and, becoming aware of raised voices, saw he had shifted his regard to something on the other side of the horse. She followed his gaze to where a fight had broken out, and for which she ought to be eternally grateful. Ought to be, though regret burrowed within her. Fulke—

  What was wrong with her? He was Wynland, not Fulke. And it was only a kiss. Wasn’t it?

  He released her and his strides ate up the distance separating him from those who thrashed on the ground.

  How many were there? Three? Four? Amid grunts and curses, above the buzz of onlookers, came the gleam of a knife. Then Wynland was in the fray, throwing the men apart, a moment later standing between the two who panted at his feet—Squire James and a knight Kennedy recognized as one of Baron Cardell’s.

  Here was her chance. . . Suppressing her fear of the horse, she moved along its body to a point behind the saddle and laid hands to the pack.

  “Sir Waite, for what do you dishonor yourself by scrabbling with my squire?’ Wynland threw a hand toward the young man whose face bled a long thin line.

  The knight slowly unfolded from the ground. “When one questions a man’s honor and loyalty”—he slapped dust from his shirt—“he ought to be prepared to offer up evidence. This pup did so charge me before all.” He retrieved his knife and held it up for all to see the blood on it. “By my blade, I vow he shall do so no more.”

  “Sheathe your dagger,” Wynland commanded.

  The knight glanced at where Baron Cardell stood back from the others.

  “Now!”

  Sir Waite drove the dagger into its sheathe.

  “Squire James, what say you?”

  The young man gained his feet, took a step toward Wynland, and swayed. “One ought not to speak ill of his liege.” There was a quaver in his voice. “As you are my lord, so you are Sir Waite’s through Baron Cardell, and ‘tis time he and the others accept it.”

  As Kennedy stared at Wynland whose brow furrowed as he listened to Sir Waite’s denial, she heard the rattle of the missive beneath her fingers. Fortunately, the pack’s ties were loosely knotted. As she released them, angry words were exchanged on the other side of the horse. Heart racing, she lifted the flap.

  The horse tossed its head and sidestepped.

  Kennedy peeked over the animal’s back. Thankfully, the horse hadn’t called attention to her—yet. She tried again and once more met resistance. Obviously, the horse knew she was up to no good. She patted his haunch. “Good boy.”

  The horse whinnied.

  Fearing she was about to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she stole a glance at Wynland who remained in the middle of the altercation. Keeping her gaze on him, she pulled the missive from the pack.

  “In future, Squire James,” Wynland said, “do not think to defend me. My brother’s men, now mine”—he looked to Sir Waite and Baron Cardell—“answer to me.”

  The boy looked contrite. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  Kennedy glanced at her ill-gotten gain. Where to hide it? Down her front? In her sock? She shoved it up her sleeve.

  Fulke loomed over Cardell’s knight. “Are you my man, Sir Waite?”

  A hesitation. “I am, my lord.”

  “Then heed me. Forsake your vow of fealty and by my blade your life will be forfeit.”

  “I am to you as I was to your brother—your faithful servant.’

  Kennedy turned her attention to how best to dispose of the missive. The copse would be perfect. However, she had only a half dozen steps under her belt when Wynland called to her.

  Knowing she was turning the color of guilt, Kennedy looked around and found him striding toward her. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “No, but it will save until John and Harold are found.”

  Which brought her back to the missive. She resumed her course.

  “We are not finished, Lady Lark.”

  Did he refer to the riding lesson or the kiss? Was one the lesser of two evils? The horse, she decided as she neared the copse. Definitely the horse.

  Fulke stepped into her path. “Where
are you going?”

  “To take care of a little business.” She pretended embarrassment. “You know. . .that privacy thing.”

  “Again?”

  She put a hand to her abdomen. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Not feeling well or. . .” He lowered his gaze to her mouth. “. . .running away?”

  Actually, she had been feeling a bit crampy, not unlike— No, it couldn’t be. Could it? She raised her chin. “What do I have to run away from?”

  “You would like me to demonstrate?”

  “No, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take care of my business.” She stepped around him.

  “Do not make me come after you, Lady Lark.”

  He thought she might ditch him? “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She scurried out of sight.

  It took longer than expected, but she buried the evidence of her deception. Though she knew that when the missive was discovered missing she would likely be blamed, she would deal with it then.

  Upon returning to the stream, she found Wynland deep in conversation with Baron Cardell. She put her hands on her hips and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sir Leonel appeared and regarded her out of bloodshot eyes. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  With a smile that shaved years off a face pained by what was probably a hangover, he presented an apple and a piece of dried meat. “I brought you these—and a skin of wine.”

  How she missed bottled water, but no chance of that here. Or was there? She looked to the stream.

  “Lady Lark?”

  She accepted his offering. “Thank you. I was just wondering whether or not the water is fit to drink.”

  “’Tis a distance from the nearest village. Still, I would not chance it.”

  She was about to concede it wasn’t worth the risk when that old reminder that this was all in her head set down. “I believe I will.” She knelt beside the stream.

  “Methinks Lord Wynland would not approve,” Sir Leonel warned.

  She tucked her hair into the neck of her gown. “He can disapprove all he likes. I’m going to have a drink.” The water was refreshing, moistening her lips, tongue, and throat, and washing away where Fulke had been.

  A half dozen handfuls later, she stood.