by Sahara Kelly
Renny smiled. “It wasn’t hard once I had all the pieces of the puzzle. And it was most clever of you to save his heart in one place and his passion in another.” She bowed her head respectfully.
The woman chuckled. “A moment’s snap decision. I could have come up with a much better plan if I’d been prepared. But that woman’s actions took me by surprise. I was determined not to let your love die. Had I more time, I could’ve saved you both. As it was…”
Renny reached out a hand and gently touched the other woman’s arm. “As it was, the end result was the same. It just took a little longer, that’s all.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Would that I had your patience. Several thousand years is a bit more than a little longer, even in my frame of reference.”
Renny smiled. “Love is worth waiting for, no matter how long it takes.”
The woman stopped at that and reached out a hand to Renny, stroking her cheek. “You would have made a wonderful High Priestess yourself, had your heart not been pledged to your Raven.”
Renny obeyed her instincts and dropped a slight curtsey. “I’m honored you think so, Mistress.”
“But you will be an even better wife. And, I’m sure, a mother too.” She reached inside her garment. “This is for you. To give to your daughter as I give it to you.”
Renny looked curiously at the woman’s hand where a small alabaster dove rested.
“The raven and the dove are united at last,” continued the woman, “and my blessings shall shine on them both.” She placed the amulet in Renny’s hand and curled her fingers around it.
“Thank you, Mistress. I’m…well, I don’t know what to say.” Renny blinked at the gift. This was, she knew, quite out of the ordinary.
“Say nothing. But remember me.” The woman walked away.
“How? How shall I remember you?” Renny whispered after her, but she heard and turned her head a little to answer.
“Remember me as one who has many names. Ashtart, Aphrodite, Turan, Kypris, Cythera, Hathor—it matters not what you call me. Only that you remember what I am.”
“You are the Goddess of Light.” Renny stared after her.
“Yes.” A laugh floated on the breeze through the flowers. “And what else?”
“And…love.”
“Right again. Farewell, little dove.”
“Goodbye, Mistress…”
*~~*~~*
“Hey. Shouldn’t that be hello, Master?”
A hot tongue slicked around Renny’s ear, waking her from her dream. She snorted. “I don’t think so, buster. But keep hoping.” The tongue made its way down to the little spot where her neck met her shoulder and was promptly followed by a nibble from white teeth. “On the other hand, keep doing that and I’ll call you whatever you want.”
Jacob chuckled. “You were dreaming.” His hands slipped to her breasts and rested there, cupping them gently as they snuggled beneath the covers. “Good dreams?”
“Oh yeah, Jake. Really good dreams.”
“I was in them, huh?”
Renny giggled. “You’re always in my dreams, big boy. Didn’t you know that? You’ve been in them for thousands of years.”
“Riiiiight.” He laughed and squeezed her, gently arousing her nipples with his thumbs. “Good answer, though.”
A certain part of his body was already awake apparently, since Renny found herself nestling up to a rather nice length of cock, hard, erect and ready for action. “Mmm. Well, well. What have we here?” She parted her thighs and rubbed her pussy against him, hooking one leg over his hips.
“Aha. You have discovered the secret weapon of mankind everywhere. The instrument of magical mystery and desire. The tool of passion that has been specially designed to bring women bliss, ecstasy and lots of throbbing spasms.”
“You’ve been reading my romance novels again, haven’t you?”
“Nope. If I had I would’ve called it the purple helmeted warrior of love.”
Renny exploded into laughter. One of the best things about her husband was his ability to make her laugh at any time without preamble. He’d just come out with something unexpectedly outrageous and send her into hysterics at the drop of a hat.
“C’mere and bring your purple helmeted warrior with you. I’ve got some ideas about that fella…” She snuggled close as Jake snuggled even closer.
“Okay.”
“You’re a gift from the Goddess, you know that?” Renny sighed out the words as Jake’s cock slipped inside her and made itself at home.
“Yep. I’ve been telling you that for ages.”
Renny smiled with pleasure. “You have no idea how right you are. Now why don’t you let that warrior of yours invade and conquer me?”
“You’re gonna have to put up with the purple helmet, you know…”
“That’s okay. I love it all.” Renny gripped him tightly for a second before relaxing into his passion. “I love you. And that’s the only thing that’s ever really mattered.”
Epilogue
Dr. Jacob Corvo ran his hand through his hair and stared at his wife. “Do you really think this would work?”
She closed the folder and leaned back in her chair. “Yes, I do Jake. I really do.” Her hair was pulled back neatly this morning, much to Jake’s displeasure. He liked it loose and preferably lying messily over some naked part of his body.
“Look.” She tapped her fingers on the cover of the folder. “Your papers and your research have given you a reputation as a psychologist with an interest in sleep issues. I have my archaeology, which helps give me a background in history and the past. I don’t want to go away from you on digs or anything and teaching would eventually bore the crap out of me…you know that as well as I do.”
Jake chuckled. His wife was volatile, beautiful, intelligent—and in this case right. “Okay. So you don’t want to be bored.”
“So this house—we can get a good price on it from your grandmother. You know she’d be ecstatic to sell to us. We buy it and open our own little mini-institute.” Renny’s hand pushed the folder back over the table towards him.
“The licensing isn’t too bad because we wouldn’t be a medical facility. You know you’re fascinated with sleep stuff and dreams and things…”
“Are you saying I take you to bed too much?”
“No, and stay on subject here.” Renny glared at him.
“Sorry.” He grinned unrepentantly. It was true, however. He couldn’t get enough of his wife and he’d be damned if he’d apologize for it.
“Jake, I have this…this feeling…call it gut or intuition or whatever…” Renny turned serious, biting her lip for a moment as she chose her words carefully. “I just have this gnawing notion at the back of my mind that there are people out there who have problems with their dreams. Like I did when I was little.”
Jake nodded. Renny had told him of her extremely realistic dreams and how she’d gone through a variety of therapies to understand and eventually eliminate them. It had been difficult for her though, since sleep was essential to physical and psychological health and development.
Her hand crept up to the little dove she always wore around her neck. It matched the raven he wore around his and he knew when she reached for it, she was feeling intensely about something.
“I really believe you and I might be able to help, Jake. This is an area where we’ve both had some experience albeit on different levels. Even if we just offer a place for dreamers to come and talk about their dreams without being judged—that would be something…” She waved her hand in a wide gesture. “And this house—it’s perfect. Lots of rooms, far enough off the beaten path that our guests could enjoy some privacy…it’s in a beautiful setting…”
Jake stood and paced to the window, looking out over the winter landscape and noting the mud where the snow was melting away. It would be spring soon. And he knew Renny was right.
“Okay.”
*~~*~~*
He did not know that earlie
r that morning a writer in Boston had just finished her latest novel. It was a romance novel, although fortunately the writer was good enough that she’d not had to invoke any warriors of love, purple-helmeted or otherwise.
Set in the Regency, this novel would probably join the six other titles of hers on the best-seller lists and garner reviews that repeated a refrain—comments that had begun to appear when the first book hit the stores five years before.
“Fabulous characters, hot and believable storylines, the amazing Maura Donner has created a Regency romance that defines the genre. With an attention to detail that is stunning in its depiction of a long-ago time, Ms. Donner easily transports the reader back to London in 1810…”
It was true. Maura Donner wrote as if she had been standing on the pavement outside Almacks. As if she had stood in the foyer of Devonshire House.
In fact—she had.
Most nights she found herself in London during the Regency. She dreamed vividly, seeing everything in detail, remembering it clearly. And it was in her dreams that she’d fallen in love.
Idly, Marianne Donovan—also known as Maura Donner—turned over a prescription form in her hand. It was for a strong sleep aid and she’d begged her doctor for it, citing stress and the need to get some quality rest.
She knew that too many would guarantee her rest—for eternity. And she was seriously considering the notion.
Because it was hard to love a man from the past, who existed only in one’s dreams. And it was even harder to watch him die—over and over again…
A Watch of Nightingales
Author’s Note
Once again, the title of this story is taken from an “old” English expression denoting a flock of birds—in this case, nightingales. Such collective nouns are, sadly, no longer in use these days, which is a darned shame. The picturesque images offered by these phrases - an Exaltation of Larks, a Charm of Hummingbirds, a Deceit of Lapwings - are gloriously descriptive and uniquely delightful. It’s sad that our language is slipping so rapidly away from the richly elegant and into the mundane—but understandable. Expressions like these wouldn’t fit our world of thirty-second soundbytes or downloadable video clips.
The nightingale itself is a casualty of our times. A smallish bird, native to England and Europe, it is migratory and breeds as far east as Southwest Asia. The chilly winters will find it heading south for Southern Africa. Although it will sing during daylight hours, it is distinct in that it will sing late at night in the darkness of a summer evening. It is, of course, especially noticeable at that time, when other voices are silent. The male serenades its mate at the peak of breeding season with a loud and impressive song, featuring a wide range of whistles and trills. While it once ranged freely across Britain, its numbers have dwindled and there are now, by some estimates, as few as five thousand nightingales still remaining in Southeast England.
Oddly enough—and for your trivia file—the nightingale is the national bird of Iran.
Chapter One
“Who should I sign this to?”
“Just to Joanie, please. Oh, Miss Donner, I can’t tell you what a privilege this is—to meet you in person.”
The woman tittered and gushed as Marianne signed her pen name on the flyleaf of her latest novel. “Thank you, Joanie. You’re very kind.”
“No, really. I’ve read all your books several times. It’s like you take me back to the Regency—to England in the 1800’s. I don’t know how you do it. But it’s almost like you’ve been there.”
Marianne smiled again. “I’m glad you enjoy them.”
Stock answer. It was hard to say anything else. The truth would have shocked the hell out of her readers who just enjoyed the latest Maura Donner romance. Nobody knew that Maura Donner had been there.
She went there damn near every night in her dreams.
Marianne pinched the bridge of her nose and realized that the book signing was winding down. Joanie had been the last reader in the line and it was with a sigh of relief that Marianne glanced over at Shelley and gave her the “cut” sign. It was enough. They were done.
There were the obligatory thanks to be exchanged, a brief chat with the manager of the little bookstore, a few remaining copies to be signed and, with any luck, sold later on. They would sell, too, mused Marianne as she scrawled her pen name over the books. She was blessed in that regard, at least. Romances were always hot and, at the moment, the current craze was for Regency historicals. An award-winning movie with a couple of huge names had helped fuel the fire.
No, Maura Donner wasn’t complaining.
But Marianne Donovan was tired to the bone. Weary from lack of sleep and interrupted nights when a scream choked in her throat and woke her once more. She couldn’t fall back into her rest after that, but paced her apartment, occasionally writing down some details she’d remembered.
The way the carriages sounded as they rolled over the cobbled streets. Or the reflection of the watchman’s lamp as he walked the rain-soaked roads.
She couldn’t, however, find the words to describe the one thing that always lingered long after the dream had ended.
The song of a nightingale.
And although she’d tried many times, there was one other memory that haunted her and defied the written word.
Him.
The Honorable Christian Lawrence. He of the blue eyes and flying red-brown hair. He of the hard muscles and soft lips. He…
Just thinking about him made Marianne shudder and she dragged her mind away from her private obsession and back to the business at hand.
“Thanks for helping, Shel. It was a good afternoon, I think.” She put her pen back in her purse.
“Yep. Lots of nice folks came out. Shows what a draw you are.” Shelley passed Marianne her raincoat. “Getting them out on a dull day like this—well, hell, honey. You’re a name writer now, I guess. I’d better get used to it.”
Marianne grinned. “Yep. Fame and fortune await us, oh agent extraordinaire. We’ll just sit and rake in the bucks.”
“Nope. No sitting for you. Writing, more writing. I need that next manuscript of yours by the end of next month, remember?”
“You’re a wicked slave-driver, making fifteen percent of my soul.” Marianne walked to the door and looked out at the rain-slicked parking lot. “And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Me neither.” Shelley touched her shoulder. “You try those sleeping pills?”
“Yeah. Didn’t work. I slept a bit, but still woke up feeling like crap.”
“Hey.” Shelley moved away, heading for a notice board where local flyers decorated a good-sized piece of poster board. “If all else fails…” She pulled one free of its pin and started reading. “Perhaps it’s time to try an alternate therapy.”
Marianne rolled her eyes. “Not more herbs, please. They made me sick the last time. And that icky valerian tea was only good for making me pee. I can’t get into the lotus position, don’t want to meditate on my navel—which has to be about the most boring thing on my entire boring body—did I forget anything?”
There was silence as Shelley finished the flyer, then she turned and looked at Marianne. “Yeah. There is something else, apparently. This.” She waved the flyer. “Dream therapy.”
“Uhh…” Marianne blinked. “Dream therapy? What the f—what the hell’s that?”
“Dunno. But if it’ll help you get a good night’s sleep, who cares?” She passed the pale blue sheet to Marianne. “Read it. Call them. Who knows?” She turned. “I gotta scoot. Meeting Robin for drinks and dinner.”
“Okay. You drive safe.” Marianne followed her into the parking lot and ducked into her own car, still holding the flyer.
She put the key in the ignition, but something caught her attention and she turned on the light above her to take a better look. It was a bird—a raven by the looks of it—and it was apparently the logo for this dream therapy place.
Or group. Or whatever it was. She frowned at the sim
ple phrases.
Do you dream? Are your dreams troubling or disturbing in any way? Do you dream in colors? Remember sounds or tastes or smells? Are you having trouble sleeping? If you answered yes to any of these questions, perhaps we can help answer some of your concerns.
Underneath was a title of a book, Dreams and Dream Wanderers, by Jake Corvo and Renny P. Corvo. There followed the obligatory quotes from respected sources, a grainy image of the cover, also featuring a raven and some rather fluffy clouds, and an email address where the interested could obtain more information.
On a whim, Marianne removed her key and left her car, dashing back through the rain to the store.
“Forget something, Miss Donner?” The manager looked puzzled.
“No, I just thought I’d check and see if you’ve got this book in stock? Dreams and Dream Wanderers?” She waved the flyer. “I just read the blurb and it sounds interesting…”
“Hmm.” The manager looked at the paper and checked the title once more. “Seems like I saw it over here somewhere.” He rummaged behind the counter. “Yes, here we are. Local printer—came right to us, since we like to support our community writers.”
He held up the book triumphantly. “This is it, right?”
The cover was more impressive than the flyer had shown. The raven stared expressionlessly at Marianne from its perch above the clouds. And behind it was an eye, vague and misty, but staring as intently as the raven.
“I’ll take it.”
*~~*~~*
The first few chapters were well-written but mundane, telling Marianne nothing she didn’t already know. She had grabbed some leftover pizza, a glass of wine and her new book when she’d finally reached home, happy to close the door of her small townhouse behind her and shut out the noise of the city.
For some reason, she consistently relished the quiet that welcomed her, glad that there were no roommates with radios blaring or the TV interrupting her quiet solitude. It was almost as if the trappings of civilization deafened her on occasion.