Into the Dreaming (2 page)

“What concession does the king make?” the queen asked shrewdly. Any bargain between faery and mortal must hold the possibility for the human to regain his freedom. Still, no mortal had ever bested a faery in such a bargain.

“At the end of his sentence, he will be granted one full
cycle of the moon in the mortal world, at his home at Dun Haakon. If, by the end of that time, he is loved and loves in return, he will be free. If not, he serves as the king’s new Hand of Vengeance until the king chooses to replace him, at which time he dies.”

The queen made a sound curiously like a sigh. By such cruel methods had the Unseelie king long fashioned his deadly, prized assassin—his beloved Vengeance—by capturing a mortal, driving him past human limits into madness, indurating him to all emotion, then endowing him with special powers and arts.

Since the Unseelie king was barred entrance to the human world, he trained his Vengeance to carry out his orders, to hold no act too heinous. Mortals dared not even whisper the icy assassin’s name, lest they inadvertently draw his merciless attention. If a man angered the Unseelie king, Vengeance punished the mortal’s clan, sparing no innocents. If grumblings about the faery were heard, Vengeance silenced them in cruelly imaginative ways. If the royal house was not amenable to the faery world, Vengeance toppled kings as carelessly as one might sweep a chessboard.

Until now, it had been the Unseelie king’s wont to abduct an insignificant mortal, one without clan who would not be missed, to train as his Vengeance. He went too far this time, the Seelie queen brooded, abducting a blood grandson of one of fair Scotia’s greatest kings—a man of great honor, noble and true of heart.

She would win this mortal back.

The queen was silent for a time. Then, “Ah, what five hundred years in that place will do to him,” she breathed in a
chilling voice. The Unseelie king had named the terms of his bargain well. Aedan MacKinnon would still be mortal at the end of his captivity but no longer remotely human when released. Once, long ago and never forgotten, she’d traversed that forbidden land herself, danced upon a pinnacle of black ice, slept within the dark king’s velvet embrace …

“Perhaps an enchanted tapestry,” she mused, “to bring the MacKinnon the one true mate to his heart.” She could not fight the Unseelie king directly, lest the clash of their magic too gravely damage the land. But she could and would do all in her power to ensure Aedan MacKinnon found love at the end of his imprisonment.

“My queen,” the messenger offered hesitantly, “they shall have but one bridge of the moon in the sky. Perhaps they should meet in the Dreaming.”

The queen pondered a moment. The Dreaming: that elusive, much-sought, everforgotten realm where mortals occasionally brushed pale shoulder to iridescent wing with the fairy. That place where mortals would be astonished to know battles were won and lost, universes born, and true love preordained, from Cleopatra and Mark Antony to Abelard and Heloise. The lovers could meet in the Dreaming and share a lifetime of loving before they ever met in the mortal realm. It would lay a grand foundation for success of her plan.

“Wisely spoken,” the queen agreed. Rising from her floral bower with fluid grace, she raised her arms and began to sing.

From her melody a tapestry was woven, of faery lore, of bits of blood and bone, of silken hair from the great, great-grandson of the McAlpin, of ancient rites known only to the True Race. As she sang, her court chanted:

And when the tapestry was complete, the queen marveled.

“Is this truly the likeness of Aedan MacKinnon?” she asked, eyeing the tapestry with unmistakable erotic interest.

“I have seen him, and it is so,” the messenger replied, wetting his lips, his gaze fixed upon the tapestry.

“Fortunate woman,” the queen said silkily.

The faery queen went to him in the Dreaming, well into his sentence, when he was quite mad. Tracing a curved nail against his icy jaw, she whispered in his ear, “Hold fast, MacKinnon, for I have found you the mate to your soul. She will warm you. She will love you above all others.”

The monster chained to the ice threw back his dark head and laughed.

It was not a human sound at all.

J
ANE SILLEE HAD AN INTENSELY PASSIONATE RELATIONSHIP
with her postman.

It was classic love-hate.

The moment she heard him whistling his way down her walk, her heart kicked into overtime, a sappy smile curved her lips, and her breathing quickened.

But the moment he failed to deliver the acceptance letter extolling the wonders of her manuscript, or worse, handed her a rejection letter, she hated him.
Hated
him. Knew it was his fault somehow. That maybe, just maybe, a publisher had written glowing things about her, he’d dropped the letter because he was careless, the wind had picked it up and carried it off, and even now her bright and shining future lay sodden and decomposing in a mud puddle somewhere.

Just how much could a federal employee be trusted, anyway?
she brooded suspiciously. He could be part of some covert
study designed to determine how much one tortured writer could endure before snapping and turning into a pen-wielding felon.

“Purple prose, my ass,” she muttered, balling up the latest rejection letter. “I only used black ink. I can’t
afford
a color ink cartridge.” She kicked the door of her tiny apartment shut and slumped into her secondhand Naugahyde recliner.

Massaging her temples, she scowled. She simply had to get this story published. She’d become convinced it was the only way she was ever going to get him out of her mind.

Him. Her sexy, dark-haired Highlander. The one who came to her in dreams.

She was hopelessly and utterly in love with him.

And at twenty-four, she was really beginning to worry about herself.

Sighing, she unballed and smoothed the rejection letter. This one was the worst of the lot and got pretty darned personal, detailing numerous reasons why her work was incompetent, unacceptable, and downright idiotic. “But I
do
hear celestial music when he kisses me,” Jane protested. “At least in my dreams I do,” she muttered.

Crumpling it again, she flung it across the room and closed her eyes.

Last night she’d danced with him, her perfect lover.

They’d waltzed in a woodland clearing, caressed by a fragrant forest breeze, beneath a black velvet canopy of glittering stars. She’d worn a gown of shimmering lemon-colored silk. He’d worn a plaid of crimson and black atop a soft, laced, linen shirt. His gaze had been so tender, so passionate,
his hands so strong and masterful, his tongue so hot and hungry and—

Jane opened her eyes, sighing gustily. How was she supposed to have a normal life when she’d been dreaming about the man since she was old enough to remember dreaming? As a child, she’d thought him her guardian angel. But as she’d ripened into a young woman, he’d become so much more.

In her dreams, they’d skipped the dance of the swords between twin fires at Beltane atop a majestic mountain while sipping honeyed mead from pewter tankards. How could a cheesy high-school prom replete with silver disco ball suspended from the ceiling accompanied by plastic cups of Hawaiian Punch compare to that?

In her dreams, he’d deftly and with aching gentleness removed her virginity. Who wanted a Monday-night-football-watching, beer-drinking, insurance adjuster/frustrated wannabe-pro-golfer?

In her dreams he’d made love to her again and again, his heated touch shattering her innocence and awakening her to every manner of sensual pleasure. And although in her waking hours, she’d endeavored to lead a normal life, to fall for a flesh-and-blood man, quite simply, no mere man could live up to her dreams.

“You’re hopeless. Get over him, already,” Jane muttered to herself. If she had a dollar for every time she’d told herself that, she’d own Trump Tower. And the air rights above it.

Glancing at the clock, she pushed herself up from the chair. She was due at her job at the Smiling Cobra Café in
twenty minutes, and if she was late again, Laura might make good on her threat to fire her. Jane had a tendency to forget the time, immersed in her writing or research or just plain daydreaming.

You’re a throwback to some other era, Jane
, Laura had said a dozen times.

And indeed, Jane had always felt she’d been born in the wrong century. She didn’t own a car and didn’t want one. She hated loud noises, condos, and skyscrapers and loved the unspoiled countryside and cozy cottages. She suffered living in an apartment because she couldn’t afford a house. Yet.

She wanted her own vegetable garden and fruit orchard. Maybe a milking cow to make butter and cheese and fresh whipped cream. She longed to have babies—three boys and three girls would do nicely.

Yes, in this day and age, she was definitely a throwback. To caveman days, probably, she thought forlornly. When her girlfriends had graduated from college and rushed off with their business degrees and briefcases to work in steel-and-glass high-rises, determined to balance career, children, and marriage, Jane had taken her BA in English and gone to work in a coffee shop, harboring simpler aspirations. All she wanted was a low-pressure job that wouldn’t interfere with her writing ambitions. Jane figured the skyrocketing divorce rate had a whole lot to do with people trying to tackle too much. Being a wife, lover, best friend, and mother seemed like a pretty full plate to her. And if—no, she amended firmly—
when
she finally got published, writing romance would be a perfect at-home career. She’d have the best of both worlds.

Right, and someday my prince will come …

Shrugging off an all-too-familiar flash of depression, she wheeled her bike out of the tiny hallway between the kitchen and bedroom and grabbed a jacket and her backpack. As she opened the door she glanced back over her shoulder to be sure she’d turned off her computer and ran smack into the large package that had been left on her doorstep.

That
hadn’t been there half an hour ago when she’d plucked her mail from the sweaty, untrustworthy hands of the postman. Perhaps he’d returned with it, she mused; it
was
large. It must be her recent Internet order from the online used bookstore, she decided. It was earlier than she’d anticipated, but she wasn’t complaining.

She’d be blissfully immersed in larger-than-life heroes, steamy romance, and alternate universes for the next few days. Glancing at her watch again, she sighed, propped her bike against the doorjamb, dragged the box into her apartment, wheeled her bike back out into the hall, then shut and locked the door. She knew better than to open the box now. She’d quickly progress from stealing a quick glance at the covers, to opening a book, to getting completely lost in a fantasy world.

And then Laura would fire her for sure.

It was nearly one in the morning by the time Jane finally got home. If she’d had to make one more extra-shot, one-half decaf, Venti, double-cup, two-Sweet’n-Low, skim with light foam latte for one more picky, anorexic bimbo, she might have done bodily harm to a customer. Why couldn’t anyone drink good old-fashioned coffee anymore? Heavy on the sugar—
loads
of cream. Life was too short to count calories. At least that’s what she told herself each time the scale snidely
deemed her plump for five foot three and three-quarter inches.

With a mental shrug, she scattered thoughts of work from her mind. It was over. She’d done her time, and now she was free to be just Jane. And she couldn’t wait to start that new vampire romance she’d been dying to read!

After brushing her teeth, she slipped out of her jeans and sweater and into her favorite nightie, the frilly, romantic one with tiny daisies and cornflowers embroidered at the scooped neckline. She tugged the box near her bed before dropping cross-legged on the stuffed, old-fashioned feather ticks. Slicing the packing-tape seal with a metal nail file, she paused and sniffed, as an irresistibly spicy scent wafted from the box. Jasmine, sandalwood, and something else … something elusive that nudged her past feeling dreamily romantic to positively aroused.
Great time to read a romance
, she thought ruefully,
with no man to attack when the love scenes heat up
. Untouched except in her dreams, her hormones tended to simmer at a constant gentle boil.

With a wry smile, she dug past the purple Styrofoam peanuts and paused again when her hands closed on rough fabric. Frowning, she tugged it free, sending peanuts skittering across the hardwood floor. The exotic scent filled the room, and she glanced at the closed casement window, bemused by the sudden sultry breeze that lifted strands of her curly red hair and pressed her nightie close to her body.

Perplexed, she placed the folded fabric on her bed, then checked the box. No postmark, no return address, but her name was printed on the top in large block letters, next to her apartment number.

“Well, I’m not paying for it,” she announced, certain a hefty bill would shortly follow. “I didn’t order it.” Darned if she was paying for something she didn’t want. She had a hard enough time affording the things she did want.

Irritated that she had no new books to read, she plucked idly at the fabric, then unfolded it and spread it out on the bed.

And sat motionless, her mouth ajar.

“This is
not
funny,” she breathed, shocked. “No,” she amended in a shaky whisper, “this is not
possible
.”

It was a tapestry, exquisitely woven of brilliant colors, featuring a magnificent Highland warrior standing before a medieval castle, legs spread in an arrogant stance that clearly proclaimed him master of the keep. Clad in a crimson and black tartan, adorned with clan regalia, both his hands were extended as if reaching for her.