A Kingdom of Dreams (9 page)

"I suppose I am, since my father warned me he'd send me to the convent if I spoiled the only eminently suitable offer of marriage I was likely ever to receive."

"Who offered for you?" Royce asked, intrigued.

"Edward Balder, Earl of Lochlordon. Hold still!" she commanded with outrageous temerity when he jumped in surprise. "I'll not be blamed for making a poor job of this if you mean to leap about beneath the needle."

That sharply worded chastisement from a mere slip of a girl who was, moreover, his prisoner nearly made Royce laugh aloud. "How many damned stitches do you mean to take?" he countered irritably.
" 'Twas only a small gash, anyway."

Offended that he apparently considered her daring attack nothing more than a slight inconvenience, Jenny drew back and glared at him.
" 'Tis a huge, nasty gash and nothing less!"

He opened his mouth to argue with her but his gaze was drawn to her breasts where they strained impudently against the fabric of the shirt she wore. Odd that he hadn't noticed until just now how amply endowed she was, or how tiny her waist, or how gently rounded her hips. On second thought, not odd at all, Royce reminded himself, since she'd been wearing shapeless nun's robes until a few hours ago, and until a few minutes ago, he'd been too furious to notice what she was wearing at all. And now that he'd noticed, he wished he hadn't. Having noticed all that, he remembered full well how delightfully rounded her bottom had been. Desire leapt inside him, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Finish your task," he said brusquely.

Jenny noted his sudden gruffness, but she put it down to his moodiness—the same moodiness that caused him to seem like an evil monster one moment and almost like a brother in the next. For her part, her body was almost as unpredictable as his moods. A few minutes ago she'd been cold, despite the fire burning in the tent. Now she felt over-warm in her shirt! Still, she rather wanted to restore the almost friendly companionship they'd shared for the last few moments, not because she desired him for a friend, but simply because it made her less afraid of him. Tentatively, she said, "You seemed surprised when I mentioned the earl of Lochlordon."

"I was," Royce said, keeping his expression noncommittal.

"Why?"

He did not want to tell her that Edward Balder was probably responsible for the somewhat unjust rumors circulating all over London about her. Considering that Balder was a vain peacock, it wasn't entirely surprising that he reacted to being a rejected suitor by blackening the name of the woman who rejected him. "Because he's an old man," Royce hedged finally.

"He's also ugly."

"That, too." Try as he might, Royce could not imagine a loving father actually trying to marry his daughter off to that old lecher. For that matter, Royce couldn't believe her father actually intended to keep her locked away in a convent, either. No doubt the earl of Merrick had merely sent her there for a few weeks to teach her obedience. "How long have you been at Belkirk Abbey?"

"Two years."

His mouth dropped open, then he caught himself and closed it. His face was hurting like hell and his disposition was taking a sudden turn for the worse. "Evidently, your father finds you as unmanageable, headstrong, willful, and unreasonable as I do," he said irritably, wishing for another long draught of wine.

"If I were your daughter, how would you feel?" Jenny demanded indignantly.

"Cursed," he said bluntly, ignoring her wounded look. "In two days, you've shown me more resistance than I encountered at the last two castles I took by force."

"I meant," Jenny said, her eyes filled with ire, plunking her hands on her slim hips, "if I were
your
daughter, and your sworn enemy kidnapped me, how would
you
want me to behave?"

Momentarily dumbstruck, Royce stared at her as he considered what she said. She had not simpered nor pled for mercy. She had, instead, tried her damnedest to outwit him, to escape from him, and to kill him, in that order. She had not shed so much as one tear, even during the sound thrashing he'd given her. Afterward, when he'd thought she was crying, she'd been planning to stab him. It crossed his mind again that she must be incapable of tears, but for the moment he was absorbed in envisioning how he would feel, were she his daughter—an innocent captured from the safety of an abbey.

"Sheathe your claws, Jennifer," he said curtly. "You've made your point."

She accepted her victory with a gracious nod—in fact, with far more grace than Royce had conceded it.

It was the first time Royce had seen her really
smile
, and the effect on her face was more than startling. The smile came slowly, dawning in her eyes until they positively sparkled, then drifting to her generous lips, softening them at the corners until they parted, allowing a glimpse of perfect white teeth, and a pair of dimples that peeked at him from the corners of her soft mouth.

Royce might have grinned at her, but at that moment he caught the disdainful look on Gawin's face, and it dawned on him that he was behaving like a besotted gallant to his prisoner—more importantly, to the daughter of his enemy. Most of all, to the woman whose destructiveness meant that many of his men would shiver in the unseasonable cold tonight, without blankets to offer them any warmth. He nodded curtly at the pile of rugs. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow, you can start repairing the damage you did to the blankets."

His brusqueness banished the smile from her face, and she stepped back.

"I meant what I said," he added, angrier with himself than he was with her. "Until you've repaired the damage to the blankets, you sleep without them."

Her chin came up in the arrogant pose he'd grown used to from her, and she turned to walk toward the rugs that served as his bed. She moved, Royce noted grimly, with the provocative grace of a courtesan,
not
a nun.

Jenny lay down atop the furs while he blew out the candles; a few moments later, the earl stretched beside her, pulling the furs over him for warmth. Suddenly the comforting glow from the wine began to desert her, and her exhausted mind started replaying each nerve-shattering hour of the endless day, from early dawn when Brenna and she planned their escape, until a few hours ago, when the man beside her had recaptured her.

Staring up into the darkness, she relived the most shattering scene of all—the one she'd been trying to forget all night. Before her eyes she saw Thor in all his magnificent splendor, prancing effortlessly through the woods, racing along the ridge, jumping obstacle after obstacle, and then she saw him lying dead against the boulder, his glossy coat shining in the moonlight.

Tears gathered in her eyes; she drew a shattered breath and then another, trying to hold them back, but the anguish she felt for the courageous animal would not go away.

Royce, who was afraid to fall asleep until she did, heard the ragged texture of her breathing, and then a slight, suspicious sniff. Positive she was feigning tears in hopes he would relent and let her beneath the furs, he rolled onto his side and in one smooth motion caught her face and turned it toward him. Her eyes were glittering with unshed tears. "You're so cold, you're fighting back tears?" he uttered in disbelief, trying to see her face with only the dying embers of the little fire in the center of the tent for illumination.

"No," she said hoarsely.

"Then why?" he demanded, completely at a loss as to what could have finally battered down her stubborn pride and made her cry. "The thrashing I gave you?"

"No," she whispered achingly, her eyes locked with his. "Your horse."

Of all the things she could have said, that answer was the one he least expected and most wanted to hear. Somehow knowing that she regretted the senseless loss of his horse made it seem somehow less painful.

"He was the most beautiful animal I've ever seen," she added hoarsely. "If I'd known that taking him this morning might have led to his death, I'd have stayed here until I could—could find some other way."

Staring up into the earl's hooded eyes, Jenny saw him wince as he pulled his hand away from her face. "It's a miracle you fell off or you'd both have died," he said gruffly.

Turning onto her side she buried her face in the furs. "I didn't fall," she whispered brokenly, "he
threw
me. I'd ridden him over higher obstacles all day. I knew we could clear that tree with ease, but when he jumped, he reared up at the same time, for no reason at all, and I fell backward. He
shook
me off before he jumped.

"Thor sired two sons, Jennifer," Royce said with rough gentleness, "in his exact likeness. One of them is here, the other at Claymore being trained. He isn't completely lost to me."

His captive drew a shattered breath, and in the darkness, she said simply, "Thank you."

A biting wind howled through the moonlit valley, taking sleeping soldiers in its frigid embrace until their teeth chattered convulsively, as fall made an ungraceful and early debut, masquerading as winter. In his tent, Royce rolled over beneath the warm furs and felt the unfamiliar brush of an icy hand against his arm.

He opened an eye and saw Jennifer shivering atop the furs, her slim body curled into a tight ball, her knees drawn up against her chest, as she tried to keep warm. In truth Royce was not so drugged with sleep that he knew not what he was doing, nor had he forgotten that he'd forbade her the warmth of blankets until she righted the damage she'd done to his men's. And, to be completely honest, as he wearily considered her shivering form, it did occur to him that his loyal men were shivering far more outdoors, without a tent. And so there was absolutely no justification for what Royce did next: Leaning up on his elbow he reached far across Jennifer and grasped the edge of the thick pile of furs, then he pulled them up and over her, rolling her into them until they made a warm bunting around her.

He lay back again and closed his eyes without remorse. After all, his men were conditioned to hardship and the elements. Jennifer Merrick was not.

She moved, snuggling deeper into the furs, and somehow her bottom came to rest against Royce's updrawn knee. Despite the insulating barrier of furs, his mind instantly began reminding him of all the delectable female attributes that lay just within his easy reach. And just as persistently, Royce shoved the thoughts aside. She had the peculiar ability to be at one and the same moment an innocent, untried girl and a golden-haired goddess—a child who could snap his temper as easily as a twig, and a woman who could soothe even pain with a whispered, "I'm sorry." But child or woman, he dared not touch her, for one way or another, he would have to let her go, or else relinquish all his carefully laid plans for a future that would be his in less than a month. Whether Jennifer's father yielded or no, it was actually no concern of Royce's. In a week, two at the most, he would either hand her over to her father, if he surrendered on terms that were agreeable to Henry, or to Henry himself if her father refused. She was Henry's property now, not Royce's, and he did not want the complications that would come from every direction if he bedded her.

 

 

The earl of Merrick paced before the fire in the center of the hall, his face contorted with wrath as he listened to suggestions from his two sons and the four men whom he counted as his closest friends and kinsmen.

"There's naught to be done," Garrick Carmichael put in wearily, "until King James sends us the reinforcements you asked for when you told him the Wolf has the girls."

"
Then
we can attack the bastard and demolish him," his youngest son, Malcolm, spat. "He's close to our borders now—there's no long march to Cornwall to weary us before we go to battle this time."

"I don't see what difference it makes how close he is or how many men we have," William, the eldest son, quietly said. " 'Twould be folly to attack him unless we've freed Brenna and Jenny first."

"And how in God's name are we supposed to do that?" Malcolm snapped. "The girls are as good as dead as it is," he said flatly. "There's naught to do now but seek revenge."

Far smaller in stature than his brother and his stepfather—and far calmer of temperament—William brushed his auburn hair off his forehead and leaned forward in his chair, looking about him. "Even if King James sends us enough men to trample the Wolf, we'll not get the girls free. They'd be killed in the fighting—or murdered as soon as it began."

"Stop arguing with every plan unless you have a better one!" the earl snapped.

"I think I do," William quietly replied and all heads turned to him. "We can't get the girls out by force, but stealth might do the trick. Instead of sending an army out to challenge him, let me take a few men with me. We'll dress as merchants, or friars, or something, and we'll follow the Wolf's army until we can get close to the girls. Jenny," he said fondly, "may well realize what I say is true. If so, she'll be watching for us."

"I say we attack!" Malcolm burst out, his desire to pit himself against the Wolf again overwhelming his reason, as well as what little concern he had for his sisters.

Both young men turned to their father for an opinion. "Malcolm," the earl said fondly, " 'tis like you to want to take a man's approach—to exact revenge and damn the consequences. You'll have your chance to attack when Jamie sends us reinforcements. For now"—he glanced at William with a glimmer of new respect—"your brother's plan is the best we have."

D
uring the next five days, Jenny began to recognize the routine followed by the resting army. In the morning, shortly after dawn, the men arose and practiced with their weapons for several hours, making the fields and valley ring with the ceaseless, discordant clanging of sword against shield, broadsword against broadsword. The Wolf's archers, whose skill was legendary, practiced daily also, adding the twang of their bows to the clanking of metal on metal. Even the horses were taken out each day and drilled, their riders galloping them at breakneck speed in mock charges against imaginary foes, until the sounds of warfare continued to drum and echo in her ears long after the men ceased for the midday meal.

Sitting just inside Royce's tent, her fingers busily sewing at the blankets, Jenny listened to the endless clamor, trying unsuccessfully to keep her worries under control. She couldn't imagine how her father's army would survive when pitted against the finely honed "war machine" the Wolf had made of his men, not could she help worrying that Merrick keep would be unprepared for the sort of assault it was bound to receive. Then her worries shifted to Brenna.

She hadn't had more than a brief glimpse of her sister since the night of their ill-fated escape. Stefan, the earl's younger brother, was evidently responsible for keeping Brenna prisoner in his tent, just as the earl of Claymore had assumed responsibility for Jenny; however, the earl had forbidden the girls to be together. Jenny questioned him repeatedly about Brenna's safety and he'd replied with seeming honesty that Brenna was perfectly safe and being treated as a guest by his brother.

Putting her sewing aside, Jenny stood up and went to the open flap of the tent, longing to walk about. The weather was lovely for early September—warm during the day, though cold at night. The Wolf's elite guard—fifteen men whose sole responsibility was to Royce, not the army—were practicing on horseback at the far side of the field, and though she longed to walk outside in the sunshine, even that was forbidden to her by her captor, whose attitude toward her seemed to harden more each day. The knights, especially Sir Godfrey and Sir Eustace, who'd been almost polite before, now treated her like an enemy whose presence they were forced to endure. Brenna and she had duped them, and none of them were likely ever to forget or overlook it.

That night, after she'd eaten, Jenny again brought up the subject most on her mind. "I wish to see my sister," she said to the earl, trying to match his cool mood.

"Then try
asking
me," he said shortly "not
telling
me.

Jenny stiffened at his tone, paused to assess her predicament and the importance of achieving her goal, and after a meaningful hesitation, she conceded with a nod, and sweetly said, "Very well, then. May I see my sister, my lord?"

"No."

"Why in God's name not?" Jenny exploded, momentarily forgetting her meek pose.

His eyes sparked with laughter. "Because," Royce commented, enjoying sparring with her even though he'd decided to keep her at arm's length physically and mentally. "As I've already told you, you are a bad influence on your sister. On her own, without you, she'd never have imagination or courage enough to plan an escape. And without her, you
can't
consider leaving."

Jenny would have dearly loved to call him names that would have scorched his ears, but to do that would only defeat her purpose. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I give you my word not to try to escape."

"Are you willing to do that?"

"Yes. Now may I see my sister?"

"No," he rejoined politely, "I'm afraid not."

"I find it amazing," she announced with magnificent, regal disdain as she slowly arose, "that you aren't certain an entire English army can confine two mere females. Or is it
cruelty
that makes you refuse me?"

His mouth tightened, but he said nothing, and immediately after supper he left and did not return until long after Jennifer had gone to sleep.

The following morning, Jenny was astonished to see Brenna being led toward the tent. The gray habits they'd buried near the stream were too filthy to wear and, like Jenny, Brenna was now garbed in tunic, hose, and high soft boots obviously borrowed from one of the pages.

After embracing warmly, Jenny pulled her sister down beside her and was about to launch into a discussion of possible means of escape, when her gaze fell upon a pair of men's boots that were visible between the base of the tent and the ground. Boots with the golden spurs that were forbidden to any but a knight.

"How have you fared, sister?" Brenna asked worriedly.

"Very well," Jenny answered, wondering which of the knights was out there and if whoever it was had been
ordered
to listen to what the girls said. A sudden, thoughtful look crossed Jenny's face and she added slowly, "In fact, had I known how well treated we would be amongst them, I'd not have attempted our foolhardy escape."

"What?" Brenna gasped, her face agog.

Jenny signaled her to keep silent, then she cupped Brenna's face between her hands and physically directed her gaze to the black boots just outside the tent. In the barest whisper, she said, "If we can convince them we no longer wish to escape, we'll stand a much better chance of getting an opportunity to do it. We have to leave, Brenna, before Father surrenders. If he does that, 'twill be too late."

Brenna nodded her understanding and Jenny continued, "I know 'tis not at all the way I felt when first we were captured, but to tell you truly, I was badly frightened alone in those hills the night we attempted to escape. And when I heard that wolf howl—"

"Wolf!" Brenna cried. "You said it was an owl."

"No, I'm almost certain as I reflect on it, that 'twas a horrible wolf! But the point is, we're safe here—we'll not be murdered or molested as I originally thought, so there's no reason for us to risk trying to escape and find our way home on our own. Soon enough, one way or another, Papa will gain our release."

"Oh, yes!" Brenna chimed in, when Jenny pantomimed for her to agree aloud. "I agree perfectly!"

As Jennifer hoped, Stefan Westmoreland, who'd been standing outside the tent, reported what he'd overheard. Royce listened with considerable surprise, but the logic behind Jennifer's apparent willingness to quietly resign herself to captivity was undeniable. Moreover, Jennifer's apparent willingness to quietly wait out her captivity was sensible, and so were the reasons she'd given her sister for her decision.

And so, albeit with some instinctive misgivings, Royce ordered the guard around his tent reduced from four to one, and that guard was Arik, who was there solely to ensure the captives' safety. No sooner had Royce given the order than he found himself stopping, wherever he might be in the camp, to look at his tent—always expecting to see a tousled mass of red-gold hair trying to creep from beneath it. When two days passed and she remained obediently within the tent, he reversed his other edict and told Jennifer she would be permitted to be with her sister an hour each day. And then he doubted the wisdom of that decision, too.

Jennifer, who knew full well the reason for these changes, vowed to watch for any further opportunity to strengthen the earl's ill-founded trust and thus lull him into further relaxing his guard.

The following night, fate handed her the ultimate chance, and Jenny took full advantage of it: She had just stepped outside with Brenna, intending to tell Arik they wished to stroll about the perimeter of the tent—the area they were now restricted to for exercise —when two things simultaneously occurred to Jenny: The first was that Arik and the Black Wolf's guards were more than twenty-five yards away, momentarily occupied with some sort of fight which had broken out among the men; the second was that, far off on her left, the earl had turned and was watching Jennifer and Brenna closely.

Had Jenny not known he was watching, she might well have attempted to flee into the woods with Brenna, but since she instantly realized he'd apprehend them within minutes if they tried, she did something much better: Careful to appear as if she had no idea they were being watched, Jenny linked her arm with Brenna's, and pointed toward the absent Arik, then she deliberately strolled away from the woods, obediently keeping to the perimeter of the tent as they had been told to do. In doing so, Jenny skillfully made it appear to Royce that, even without guards, she could be trusted not to try to escape.

The ploy worked magnificently. That night, Royce, Stefan, Arik, and the Black Guard gathered to discuss the plan to break camp the next day and begin marching thirty miles northeast to Hardin castle, where the army would rest while awaiting fresh reinforcements from London. During the discussion and the meal that followed it, Royce Westmoreland's behavior to Jenny verged on gallant! And when everyone had left the tent, he turned to her and quietly said, "There will no longer be any restrictions whatever on your visits with your sister."

Jenny, who'd been about to sit down amidst the pile of fur rugs, stopped in mid-motion at the unfamiliar gentleness in his voice and stared at him. Uneasiness coursed through her, inexplicable but tangible as she gazed at his proud, aristocratic face. It was as if he had stopped thinking of her as his enemy and was asking her to do the same, and she knew not how to react.

As she gazed into those fathomless silver eyes, some instinct warned her his offer of a truce could make him more dangerous to her than he had been as her foe, yet her mind rejected that notion, for it made no sense to her. Surely she could only benefit from a surface friendship between them, and, in truth, she'd rather enjoyed their lighthearted banter as she stitched his wound the other night.

She opened her mouth to thank him for his offer, then stopped. It seemed a betrayal to
thank
her kidnapper for his leniency, to pretend that all was forgiven and that they were—well—friends. Furthermore, although she was relieved that she had apparently made him trust her, she felt ashamed for the trickery and deceit she'd used to accomplish it. Even as a little girl, Jenny had been forthright and open—an attitude which had oft landed her in disfavor with her father and which ultimately led her to challenge her unscrupulous stepbrother to a duel of honor, rather than trying to beat him at his own game of deceit. Openness and honesty had gotten her banished to the abbey. Here, however, she'd been forced to resort to trickery, and although all her efforts were being rewarded, and her cause was worthy, she felt somehow ashamed of what she was doing. Pride and honesty and desperation were waging a war inside of her, and her conscience was being assaulted in the fray.

She tried to think what Mother Ambrose would do in this situation, but she simply could not imagine anyone daring to abduct the dignified abbess in the first place, let alone toss her over the back of a horse like a sack of grain, and all the other things Jenny had endured since coming here.

But one thing was certain, Mother Ambrose dealt justly with everyone, no matter how provoking the circumstance.

The earl was offering Jenny trust—even a sort of friendship—she could see it in the warmth of his eyes; hear it in the gentleness of his deep baritone voice. She could not,
dared
not turn his trust aside.

The future of her clan depended on her being able to escape—or else being easy to rescue, for they'd surely at least try that before they surrendered. For that, Jenny needed freedom of the camp—as much as possible. Shameful or no, she could not be righteous and scorn his trust. Nor could she refuse his gesture of friendship without jeopardizing his trust at the same time, but at least she could try to return his friendship with a degree of sincerity and honesty.

Having decided that after a prolonged period of silence, Jenny looked at the earl and lifted her chin and with an unintentionally cool nod, she accepted his offer of a truce.

More entertained than annoyed by what he misinterpreted as her "regal" acceptance of his leniency, Royce crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the table, one brow arched in speculative amusement. "Tell me something, Jennifer," he said as she sat down among the furs and curled her shapely legs beneath her, "when you were in the nunnery, were you not warned to avoid the seven vices?"

"Yes, of course."

"Including pride?" he murmured, distracted by the candlelight glinting in the golden threads of her hair as it cascaded over her shoulders.

"I'm truly not proud," she said with a bewitching smile, well aware that he was undoubtedly referring to her tardy, rather ungracious acceptance of his truce. "I'm willful, I suppose. Stubborn, too. And headstrong. But not, I think, proud."

"Rumor, and my own experience with you, would lead me to think otherwise."

His wry tone made Jenny burst out laughing, and Royce found himself captivated by the infectious joy, the beauty, of it. He'd never heard the music of her laughter before, nor seen it glowing in her magnificent eyes. Seated on a pile of lush furs, laughing up at him, Jennifer Merrick was unforgettable. He realized it as clearly as he realized that if he walked over and sat down beside her, there was every chance he was going to find her irresistible as well. He hesitated, watching her, silently recounting all the reasons he ought to remain right where he was—and then with carefully concealed purpose, he did the opposite.

Reaching out he picked up two tankards and the flagon of wine from the table beside his hip, then he carried all three over to the pile of furs. Pouring wine into the tankards, he handed her one. "You're called Jennifer the proud, did you know that?" he asked, grinning down at her enchanting face.

Unaware that she was plunging lightning-fast into dangerous, uncharted territory, Jenny shrugged, her eyes dancing merrily. " 'Tis merely rumor, the result of my one meeting with Lord Balder, I suspect.
You're
called the Scourge of Scotland, and 'tis said
you
murder babes and drink their blood."

"Really?" Royce said with an exaggerated shudder, as he sat down beside her. Half-jokingly he added, "No wonder I'm persona non grata in the better castles of England."