Dreamspell (23 page)

Without a word, he lifted her high into his arms. As he carried her past Moriel, she forced herself to look at the dead man. Cardell’s dagger jutted from the assassin’s chest between the lacings of his tunic. Remembering his foul breath and his hands on her, she squeezed her eyes closed. If he was behind the attack on Lady Lark, he couldn’t have done it alone, not with so many casualties.

Fulke’s arms tightened around her. “’Tis over, Lark.”

No, there was something wrong with the equation. Fulke knew it too, as evidenced by his questioning of Moriel about the attempt on Lady Lark’s life. And there was more he did not know to ask. Specifically, why would Cardell murder John and Harold when they were his ticket to Sinwell?

She looked up. “It’s not over. There’s more to it.”

“Hush, Lark. I have you.”

He did. And he wouldn’t let her fall. Knowing there was no safer place, she buried her face against him.

B
lood slammed through Fulke’s veins. Why had she done it? He looked from where she huddled under the blanket to the seam she had opened in the back of his tent. Not to escape him, but to bathe. She had nearly been killed!

Abruptly, he turned down his inner raging. Her foolishness was not where his thoughts ought to dwell, but on Moriel. If John and Harold were all Cardell sought, why Lark? In the hope her murder would fall upon Fulke, inducing Edward to grant wardship to the baron? Perhaps, for if it had been Fulke marked for death, Cardell’s hand in it would show.

“Fulke?” Lark’s voice trembled.

He knelt beside her, the sight of her causing his blood to spit and seethe again. Eyes that had snapped at him on the night past were haunted, a face that had been bright and lively was pale, scratched, and bruised. But she was safe now. If he had to bind her to him, no more harm would befall her. He reached for the salve his squire had delivered.

“I shouldn’t have gone without you,” she said.

He wanted to reprove her that she might never again do something so foolish, but it was not what she needed. “You should not have.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smoothed salve over her livid cheek. “’Twill heal fine.”

“Thank you.”

He regarded her a long moment. “I must ask, Lark, was Moriel among those who attacked your baggage train?”

She averted her gaze. “I don’t know.”

Her head injury again? After all that had happened, still she did not trust him? It was he who ought not to trust her, especially after his discovery this morn that his brother’s missive was gone. A moment’s analysis of Lark’s behavior on the day past had convinced him that she had taken it, meaning the message she had read to him was likely false. Thus, he had returned to the tent to confront her—and found it empty. No sooner had he called to his knights than her scream cut the wood. Though God had sped him to her side, guided his sword arm, delivered her from death, she continued to withhold from him.

“Even after ‘tis told who murdered my brother, still you fear me?”

Kennedy looked back at him. “I knew last night you didn’t do the things they said you did—that you didn’t order the attack on my baggage train, that just about everything I knew about you or thought I knew was false. The author was wrong. History—” Reality slapped her across the face. Not
her
baggage train. Lady Lark’s. Since awakening this morning, not once had it crossed her mind this was only a dream. She had lived every moment as if she were truly here. Considering what had happened at the pool, she was grateful for the reminder, but the part of her that was wrapped around Fulke mourned.

“Never have I had such a vivid dream,” she breathed. “It’s as if Moriel truly happened.”

Fulke dragged her to sitting. “He
did
happen! This is not a dream.”

She shook her head. “You’re part of my research. I made you up—put myself here. You exist only in my mind, just like. . .” She remembered Moriel. “No. None of you are real. You’re six hundred years dead.”

Fulke shook her. “I do exist! This moment is now, not in the past, not in a dream.”

As much as Kennedy feared what awaited her outside the dream, her encounter with Moriel frightened her more. “It didn’t happen.”

Fulke thrust his face near hers. “You didn’t foolishly go alone to the pool? Expose yourself for any man to look upon? To want? To take?”

She wrenched free. “You think I asked for it? Is that what you’re saying?”

Fulke stared at Lark. It
was
what he was saying, and after all she had been through. . . He closed his eyes. “Forgive me. I did not mean it.”

She lowered her face, and he heard her muffled sob. “I don’t want to die,” she said softly.

He peered at her face through the hair fallen over it and felt a tug in his chest.

“Especially now.”

Why? Had it something to do with him? Fulke swept the hair from her face. “Put away your fear, Lark. By my troth, ever shall you be safe at my side.”

Derisive laughter bubbled from her, and she looked up. “Until I die?”

They were more than words, something to do with the dream she believed this to be. But he would not be pulled into that mire again. “Until you die a very old woman.”

“That I would like to see.”

“You shall.”

Her smile was bitter. “I know you don’t believe me, but this isn’t my world, Fulke. I can’t stay.” A tear streaked her cheek and disappeared into the neck of her chemise.

When he pulled her onto his lap, she buried her face against his neck and silently cried.

Time forgotten, the press to continue the search for his nephews suspended like dust on the air, Fulke held her and felt his chest fill with emotion for the woman who would be his wife. Aye, his wife. He wanted Lark for more than one night, wanted to make her smile as she had done for Sir Malcolm, wanted her passion—even if it meant losing himself in her madness. He drew her heavy hair through his fingers. “No one will hurt you ever again.”

She dropped her head back and regarded him past swollen lids. “I still feel his hands on me.”

He kissed her forehead and, in that moment, knew that to keep her safe he must send her from him. “He will not touch you again.”

She tucked her head beneath his chin, and he held her until it was well past time for them to break camp. “We must needs ride, Lark. I will assist you in dressing.” Though he expected her to object, she stood for him while he drew the undergown and surcoat over her head and secured the laces. Leaving her hair to fall down her back, though it would whip about his face during the ride, he clasped her hand and led her outside.

The men were ready. He looked to each and, lastly, Sir Waite. As with the others who had believed him responsible for his brother’s death, the accusation was gone from the knight’s eyes. They were his men now.

The tent came down quickly and, shortly, Fulke and Lark were mounted.

“You are ready?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

Uncaring who bore witness, he put his mouth to hers. “It does,” he said against her lips, and pulled back. “Now I must know the contents of my brother’s missive.”

Kennedy’s heart slammed into her ribs.

“I do not ask for an explanation, Lark, only the message.”

Why was he so understanding when he ought to be raging? Was it because of Moriel? Did he fear she was going to fall apart? As much as she longed to tell him the truth, she couldn’t. Dream or not, a man’s life was at stake. Fulke hadn’t killed his brother, but he
would
slay Sir Arthur.

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“Then I shall know in two days’ time,” he said gruffly.

Meaning he had sent someone to Brynwood to retrieve his brother’s message.

Fulke gathered the reins. “One day,” he said, “you will trust me.” He looked to his men. “To Farfallow!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

F
arfallow. As Kennedy had done throughout the ride, she worried the name inside out. Was it only coincidence that Fulke was headed there? Or a game he played, asking about the missive when, somehow, he had learned its contents? Regardless, he was going to the monastery and there was nothing she could do.

Head throbbing, reminiscent of the tumor outside her dream, she touched the goose egg in the middle of her forehead. It returned her to Moriel, invoking memories she didn’t care to relive. She pulled her hand away.

Maybe Sir Arthur wasn’t at Farfallow yet. Hadn’t it taken Fulke two weeks to catch up to him? Perhaps they would arrive at the monastery and find him absent. But if he was at—

The orange and blue clad soldiers with their flying flags came at them from the left. Though Kennedy’s first thought was that they were being attacked, the small number of soldiers, coupled with Fulke’s lack of urgency, dissuaded her. He and his men reined in and the newcomers halted.

“You are Lord Wynland?” asked an armored man with bulging bloodshot eyes.

“I am. What news do you bring?”

“I am Sir Edgar, sent by Baron Howarth to bear the glad tidings that my lord holds your nephews at Glenmar.”

Kennedy caught her breath.

“And Crosley?” Fulke demanded.

A knowing smile revealed a mouthful of decayed teeth. “The baron has left the miscreant hurting but whole that you might part him yourself.”

Confusion flew through Kennedy. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not according to
The Sins of the Earl of Sinwell.

“I will ride escort for you, my lord,” Sir Edgar said.

Though Kennedy couldn’t be certain, she thought Fulke hesitated. Why didn’t he turn and ride pell-mell for Glenmar? She looked around. “What are you waiting for?”

The bitter edge to her voice decided Fulke. Though he had set himself to deliver her to Farfallow for safekeeping while he continued his search, she gave him another reason for putting her from him. What he must do was between Crosley and himself, something for which she need not be present.

Passing over Sir Malcolm who knew too well how to make Lark smile, he ordered four of his most experienced knights forward. “Sir Daniel, you and the others will deliver Lady Lark to Farfallow this eve and remain there with her.”

“Aye, my lord.” Sir Daniel guided his horse alongside.

Lark shrank back against Fulke. “I want to stay with you.”

“You will be safe there.”

Her eyes lit. Realizing an argument was forthcoming, and curiously sensitive to the fear that likely put it there, he rumbled, “Hold,” and spurred his horse away from the others. At a distance where none might overhear, he turned her to face him. “At Farfallow, you will be cared for. I vow, no harm will come to you.”

“What makes you think I need to be cared for?”

“After what happened this morn—”

“Is that why you were going to Farfallow? To leave me there?”

“Aye, and there you shall go.”

“You said I would be safe at your side, and now you mean to abandon me?”

It was what he had said, but he could not take her to Glenmar, not with what he must do. “I shall come for you as soon as my business is finished.”

Color swept her pale cheeks. “You plan to kill Crosley, don’t you?”

“He must answer for what he has done.”

“All he did was try to protect John and Harold. For that he has to die?”

“’Tis not that simple, Lark.”

She drew a deep breath. “Your nephews are in danger, but not from Crosley. Someone else killed them.”

Curse her madness! “They are not dead.”

“They will be.”

If not for the tripping in his chest, Fulke thought he might put her to the stake himself.

“Though you didn’t do it—I know that now—history says you were the one. A despised man. A man who—”

“Did you not tell me this is but a dream? If that is all it is, Lark, then history may, indeed, be accurate.”

Confusion, followed by uncertainty, played across her face. Finally, she said, “Yes, a dream,” and cupped his face between her hands. “Listen to me, Fulke Wynland of my dreams, Crosley’s death is undeserved.”

Jealousy twisted inside him. “Do you love him?”

Her eyes grew large. “I. . .” She struggled, as if it was a question to which there was no answer, then shook her head. “He’s only a friend. Retrieve your nephews and let him go.”

That the man could plague him evermore? Fulke looked to his men. If he was to hold Sinwell for John’s ascension, Crosley must serve as an example of what befell those who went against their lord. “’Tis time I ride on Glenmar.”

“Please, don’t.”

He refused to fall into her eyes. “I will come for you when I am done.”

She smiled bitterly. “Don’t count on me being there.”

Her threat was almost enough to turn him, but his course was set as if fate had long ago foretold it. He lifted her chin and pressed his mouth to hers.

She pulled back. “Goodbye, Mr. Wynland.”

So they were back to formalities. It pulled something inside him, forced him to concede he liked his name on her lips. “I will not be long.” He guided his horse to his men and drew alongside Sir Daniel. “I trust you will not allow Lady Lark to wander from you.”