Into the Dreaming (7 page)

In the meantime, Jane was learning to cook over the open fire in the great hall. Each afternoon the women taught her a new dish. Unfortunately, each evening she ate it with a man who refused to eat anything but hard bread, no matter how she tried to tempt him.

Late into the twilight hours, Jane scribbled busily away before the fire, sometimes making notes, sometimes working on her manuscript, all the while peeking at Aedan over her papers and writing the future she hoped to have with him. She liked the laborious ritual of using quill and ink, the flames in the open hearth licking at her slippered toes, the hum of
crickets and soft hooting of owls. She relished the complete absence of tires screeching, car alarms pealing, and planes flying overhead. In all her life, she’d never experienced such absolute, awe-inspiring stillness.

By the end of the first week of renovations, she’d begun to draw hope from Aedan’s bewildered silence. Although he refused to speak to her, day by day he participated a bit more in the repairs to the estate. And day by day, he seemed a bit less forbidding. No longer did she see disdain and loathing in his gaze, but confusion and … uncertainty? As if he didn’t understand his place and how he fit into the grand scheme of things.

Jane intended to use her mouth as wisely as possible. She learned in her psychology courses at Purdue that attacking “amnesia” head-on could drive the person deeper into denial, even induce catatonia. So after much hard thought, she’d decided to give Aedan two weeks of absolutely no pressure, other than acclimating to his new environment. Two weeks of working, of being silently companionable, of not touching him as she so longed to do, despite the misery of being with him but forbidden to demonstrate her love and affection.

After those two weeks, she promised herself the seduction would begin. No more baths in Kyleakin in one of the village women’s homes. She would begin bathing before the fire in the hall. No more proper gowns in the evening. She would wear lower bodices and higher hems.

And so, Jane bided her time, cuddled with Sexpot in the luxurious bed, and dreamed about the night when Aedan would lay beside her and speak her name in those husky tones that promised lovemaking to make a girl’s toes curl.

Aedan stood on the recently repaired front steps of the castle and stretched his arms above his head, easing the tightness in his back. The night sky was streaked with purple. Stars twinkled above the treetops, and a crescent moon silvered the lawn. Every muscle in his body was sore from toting heavy stones from a nearby quarry to the castle.

Although he’d learned to avoid pain in the land of shadows, the current aches in his body were a strangely pleasurable sensation. He’d refused to participate in the repairs at first, withholding himself in silent and aloof censure, but much to his surprise, as he’d watched the village men work, he’d begun to hanker to lift, carry, and patch. His hands had itched to get dirty, and his mind had been eager to redesign parts of the keep that had been inefficiently, and in places, hazardously constructed.

Pondering the three commands his king had given, he’d concluded there was nothing to prevent him from passing time more quickly by working.

When on the third day he’d silently joined the men, they’d worked with twice the vigor and smiled and jested more frequently. They asked his opinion on many things, leading him to discover with some surprise that he
had
opinions, and, further, that they seemed sound. They accepted him with minimal fuss, although they touched him with disconcerting frequency, clapping him on the shoulder and patting his arm.

Because they weren’t females, he deemed it acceptable.

When they asked the occasional question, he evaded. He completely ignored the lass who doggedly remained in the
castle, leaving only to traipse off to the village, from whence she returned clean and slightly damp.

And fragrant-smelling. And warm and soft and sweet-looking.

Sometimes, merely gazing upon her made him hurt inside.

Vengeance shook his head, as if to shake thoughts of her right out of it. With each passing day, things seemed different. The sky no longer seemed too brilliant to behold, the air no longer too stifling to breathe. He’d begun to anticipate working each day, because in the gloaming he could stand back and look at something—a wall recently shored up, steps relaid, a roof repaired, an interior hearth redesigned—and know it was his doing. He liked the feeling of laboring and rued that his king might deem it a flaw in his character, unsuitable for an exalted being.

And each day, when his thoughts turned toward his king, they were more often than not resentful thoughts. His king might not have bothered to inform him of his purpose at Dun Haakon, but the humans were more than willing to offer him ample purpose.

Purpose without pain.

Without
any
pain at all.

He had a blasphemous thought that took him by surprise and caused a headache of epic proportions that throbbed all through the night: He wondered if mayhap his king mightn’t just forget about him.

S
WIFTLY DID ONE BLASPHEMOUS THOUGHT BREED ANOTHER
, the next more blasphemous, making the prior seem nearly innocuous. Swiftly did traitorous thought manifest itself in traitorous action.

It was on the evening of the eleventh day of his exile, when she was laying her meal on the long table in the great hall, that Vengeance began his fall from grace.

He’d labored arduously that day, and more than once his grip had slipped on a heavy stone. Furthering his unease, wee children from the village had played on the front lawn all afternoon. The sound of their high voices, bubbling with laughter as they chased a bladder-ball at the edge of the surf or teased the furry beastie with woolen yarns, had reverberated painfully inside his skull.

Now, he sat in the corner, far from the hearth, chewing dispiritedly on hard bread. Of late, he’d been eating loaf after
loaf of it, his body starved by his daily labors. Yet no matter how much bread he consumed, he continued to lose mass and muscle and to feel lethargic and weak. He knew ’twas why his grip had slipped today.

Of late, when she spread the table with her rich and savory foods, his stomach roiled angrily, and on previous evenings, he’d left the castle and walked outdoors to avoid temptation.

But recently, indeed only this morning, he’d thought long and hard about his king’s remark concerning sustenance and had scrutinized the precise words of his command.

You must eat, but I would suggest you seek only bland foods
.

I would suggest.

It was the most nebulous phrase his liege had ever uttered.
I would suggest
. That was not at all how his king spoke to Vengeance. It made one think the king might be … uncertain of himself, unwilling, for some unfathomable reason, to commit to a command. And “bland.” How vague was bland? An engraved invitation to interpretation, that word was.

After much meditation, Vengeance concluded for himself—a thing coming shockingly easier each day—that apparently his king had suffered some uncertainty as to how hard Vengeance might be laboring, so he’d been unable to anticipate what sustenance his body would require. Thus, he had “suggested,” leaving the matter to Vengeance’s discretion. As his king had placed such a trust in him, Vengeance resolved he must not return to his king weakened in body and risk inciting his displeasure.

When he rose and joined her at the table, her eyes rounded in disbelief.

“I will dine with you this eve,” he informed her, gazing at her. Nay, lapping her up with his eyes. The tantalizing scent of roasted suckling pig teased his nostrils; the glorious rainbow hues of fiery-haired Jane clad in an emerald gown teased something he couldn’t name.

“No bread?” she managed after an incredulous pause.

“ ’Tis not enough to sustain me through the day’s labors.”

“I see,” she said carefully, as she hastened to lay another setting.

Vengeance eyed the food with great interest. She served him generous portions of roast pork swimming in juices and glazed with a jellied sauce, roasted potatoes in clotted cream with chive, some type of vegetable mix in yet another sauce, and thin strips of battered salmon. As a finishing touch, she added several ladles of a buttery-looking pudding.

When she placed it before him, he continued to eye it, knowing he’d not yet gone too far. He could still rise and return to his corner, to his bread.

I would suggest
.

He glanced at her. She had a spoon in her mouth and was licking the clotted cream from it. That was all it took. He fell upon the food like a ravening beast, eating with his bare hands, shoving juicy, deliciously greasy pork into his mouth, stripping the tender meat from the bones with his teeth and tongue.

Christ, it was heavenly!
Rich and succulent and warm.

Jane watched, astonished. It took him less than three minutes to devour every morsel she’d placed on his plate. His aquamarine eyes were wild, his sensual mouth glistening with juices from the roast, his hands—oh, God, he started
licking his fingers, his firm pink lips sucking, and her temperature rose ten degrees.

Elation filled her. Although he’d never admitted that he’d been ordered to eat only bread, she’d figured it out herself. Each night while she’d dined, he’d shot furtive glances her way, watching her eat, eyeing the food with blatant longing, and a time or two, she’d heard his stomach rumble.

“More.” He shoved his platter at her.

Happily, she complied. And a third time, until he sat back, sighing.

His eyes were different, she mused, watching him. There was something new in them, a welcome defiance. She decided to test it.

“I don’t think you should eat anything but old bread in the future,” she provoked.

“I will eat what I deem fit. And ’tis no longer bread.”

Her lips ached from the effort of suppressing a delighted smile. “I don’t think that’s wise,” she pushed.

“I will eat what I wish!” he snapped.

Oh, Aedan
, Jane thought lovingly, fighting a mist of joyous tears,
well done
. One tiny crack in the façade, and she had no doubt that a man of Aedan’s strength and independence would begin cracking at an alarming rate now that it had begun. “If you insist,” she said mildly.

“I do,” he growled. “And pass me that wine. And fetch another flagon. I feel a deep thirst coming on.” Centuries of thirst. For far more than wine.

Aedan couldn’t get over the pleasure of eating. Sun-warmed tomatoes, sweet young corn drenched with freshly churned
butter, roasts basted with garlic, baked apples in delicate pastry smothered with cinnamon and honey. There were so many new, intriguing sensations! The fragrance of heather on the autumn breeze, the salty rhythmic lick of the ocean when he swam in it to bathe each eve, the brush of soft linen against his skin. Once, when no one had been in the castle, he’d removed his clothing and stretched naked on the velvet coverlet. Pressed his body into the soft ticks. Pondered lying there with
her
, but then he’d caught a rash from the coverlet that had made the part of him between his legs swell up. He’d swiftly dressed again and not repeated that indulgence. Unfortunately, the rash lingered, manifesting itself at odd intervals.

There were unpleasant sensations, too: sleeping on the hard, cold floor whilst she curled cozily in the overstuffed bed with the beastie. The tension of watching the lass’s ankles and calves as she sauntered about. The sickness he felt in his stomach when he gazed upon the soft rise of her breasts in her gown.

He’d seen much more than that, yestreen, when the audacious wench had tugged a heavy tub before the fire and proceeded to fill it with pails of steaming water and sprinkle it with herbs.

He’d not comprehended what she was doing until she’d been as naked and rosy-bottomed as when she’d arrived at the castle a fortnight past, and then he’d been too stunned to move.

Feeling strangely nauseous, he’d finally gathered his wits and fled the hall, chased by the lass’s soft derisive snort. He’d warred with himself on the newly laid terrace, only to return
a quarter hour hence and watch her from the shadows of the doorway where she couldn’t see him. Swallowing hard, endeavoring to slow his breathing, to stop the thundering of his blood in his veins, he’d watched her soap and rinse every inch of her body.

When his hands were trembling and his body aching in odd places, he’d closed his eyes, but the images had been burned into his brain. Thirteen more days, he told himself. Less than a fortnight remained until he could return to his king.

But with each day that passed, his curiosity about her grew. What did she ponder when she sat before the hearth staring into the flames? Why had she no man when the other village women did? Why did she watch him with that expression on her face? Why did she labor so over her letters? Why did she want him to touch her? What would come of it, were he to comply?

And the most pressing question of late, as his thoughts turned less often to his king and more often to that puzzling pain between his legs or the hollow ache behind his breastbone: