Into the Dreaming

  Her eyes widened and she regarded him with amazement. “You don’t know what a kiss is?” she exclaimed.

  “Why should I? ’Tis a mortal thing, is it not?”

  She cocked her head and looked as if she were having a heated internal debate. After a moment she appeared to reach a decision and stepped closer to him. Stoically, he held his ground this time, refusing to cede an inch.

  “I merely want to press my lips against yours,” she said, innocence knitted to a disarming smile. “Push them together, like so.” She demonstrated, and the lush moue of her mouth tugged something deep in his groin.

  “Nay. You may not touch me,” he said stiffly.

  She leaned closer. He caught a faint scent, something sweet and flowery on her fiery tresses. It made him want to press his face to her hair, inhale greedily, and stroke the coppery curls.

  He leaned back. Fortunately, the lass was too short to reach his face without his cooperation. Or a step stool.

  “You are so stubborn,” she said, with a gusty sigh. “Fine, let’s talk then. It’s pretty clear we have a lot to talk about.” She paused, then, “He doesn’t know what kisses are,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “That’s never happened in my dreams before.” Perching on the end of the bed, her feet dangling, she patted the space beside her. “Come. Sit by me.”

  “Nay.” When the kitten jumped daintily onto the bed and spilled across the velvet coverlet, he scowled at it. “You or that bedraggled mop of fur—I’m fair uncertain which is more useless. At least the beastie doesna prattle on so.”

  “But the beastie can’t kiss either,” she said archly. “And it’s not bedraggled. Don’t insult my kitten,” she added defensively.

  “You attribute high value to these kisses of yours. I scarce believe they are worth much,” he said scornfully.

  “That’s because you haven’t kissed me yet. If you did, you’d know.”

  Vengeance moved, in spite of his best intentions, to stand at the foot of the bed between her legs. He stared down at her. She scooped up the kitten and pressed her lips to its furry head. He closed his eyes and fought a tide of images that made no sense to him.

  “Perhaps you’re afraid,” she said sweetly.

  He opened his eyes. “I fear nothing.”

  “Then why won’t you let me do something so harmless? See? The kitten survived unscathed.”

  He struggled with the answer for a moment, then said simply, “You may not touch me. ’Tis forbidden.”

  “Why not, and by whom?”

  “I obey my king. And ’tis none of your concern why.”

  “I think it is. I thought you were a man who thought for himself. A warrior, a leader. Now you tell me you follow orders like some little puppet.”

  “Puppet?”

  “An imitation of a real person fashioned of wood, pulled this way and that by its master. You’re nothing but a servant, are you?”

  Her delicate sneer cut him to the quick, and he flinched angrily. Who was she calling a servant? He was Vengeance, he was perfect and strong and … Och, he was his king’s servant. Why did that chafe? Why did he suffer the odd sensation that once he’d not been anyone’s serf but a leader in his own right?

  “Why do you obey him?” she pressed. “Does this king of yours mean so much to you? Is he so good to you? Tell me about him.”

  Vengeance opened his mouth, closed it again, and left the room silently.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “To prepare a meal, then you will sleep and leave me in peace,” he growled over his shoulder.

  Jane ate in bed, alone but for the kitten. Aedan brought her fish roasted over an open fire and a blackened potato that had obviously been stuffed in the coals to cook, accompanied by a similarly charred turnip, then left in silence. No salt. No butter for the dry potato. Not one drop of lemon for the fish.

  Warily, she conceded that she was probably not dreaming—the fare had never been so unpalatable in one of her dreams. And upon reflection, she realized that although she’d attended many dream feasts, she’d never actually eaten anything at any of them. Now, she choked it down because she was too emotionally drained to attempt cooking for herself over an open fire. Tomorrow was another day.

  The tiger-striped kitten, whom she’d christened Sexpot (after apologetically peeking beneath her tail) because of the way the little tyke sashayed about as if outrageously pleased with herself, hungrily devoured a tender fish filet, then busied herself scrubbing her whiskers with little spit-moistened paws while Jane puzzled over her situation.

  She’d been astonished to discover Aedan had no idea what a kiss was, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made.

  Aedan not only didn’t know he was Aedan, he didn’t remember that he was a man, hence he didn’t recall the intimacies of lovemaking!

  She wondered if that made him a virgin of sorts. When they finally made love—and there was no doubt in her mind that they would, one way or another, even if she had to ambush and attack him—would he have any idea what it was all about? How strange to think that she might have to teach him, he who’d been her inexhaustible dream tutor.

  He certainly hadn’t liked being provoked, she mused. He’d grown increasingly agitated when she’d mocked him for obeying his king and had visibly bristled at the idea of being a mere servant. Still, despite such promising reactions, he had a formidable shell that was going to be difficult to penetrate. It would help if she knew what had happened to him. She needed to make him talk about his “king,” and find out when and how they’d met. Were there indeed a “faery king,” perhaps the being had enchanted him. The idea taxed Jane’s credulity, but, all things considered, she supposed she couldn’t suspend disbelief without suspending it fully. Until she reached some concrete conclusions about what was going on, she would be unwise to discount any possibilities.

  Whatever had happened to him, she had to undo it. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long, because she wasn’t sure how long she could stand watching her soul mate glare at her with blatant distrust and dislike. Withholding kisses. Refusing to let her touch him.

  You have one month here with him, no more, a woman’s lilting voice whispered.

  Sexpot stopped grooming, paw frozen before her face. She arched into a horseshoe shape and emitted a ferocious hiss.

  “Wh-what?” Jane stammered, glancing about.

  Cease with your absurd protestations that this place is not real. You are in the fifteenth century, Jane Sillee. And here you may stay, if you succeed. You have but one full cycle of the moon in the sky to make him remember who he is.

  Jane opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, but nothing came out. Sexpot suffered no such problem, growling low and long. Gently smoothing the spiked hairs on the kitten’s back, Jane wet her lips and swallowed. “That’s impossible, the man will hardly speak to me! And who are you?” she demanded. I’m talking to a disembodied voice, she thought, bewildered.

  I’m not the one who doesn’t know. Worry about him.

  “Don’t be cryptic. Who are you?” Jane hissed.

  There was no reply. After a few moments, Sexpot’s back no longer resembled a porcupine’s, and Jane realized that whoever had spoken was gone.

  “Well, just what am I supposed to do?” she shouted angrily. A month wasn’t a whole lot of time to figure out what had happened to him and to help him remember who he was. She’d like to know who was making up the rules. She had a bone or two to pick with them.

  Aedan appeared in the doorway, glancing hastily about the chamber. Only after ascertaining she was alone and in no apparent danger did he speak. “What are you yelling about?” he demanded.

  Jane stared at him, framed in the doorway, gilded by a shaft of silvery moonlight that spilled in the open window, his sculpted chest bare, begging her touch.

  She was suddenly stricken by two certainties that she felt in the marrow of her bones: that as the woman had said, she truly wa
s in the fifteenth century, and that if she didn’t help him remember, something terrible beyond her ability to imagine would become of him. Would he live and die the icy, inhuman creature he’d become? Perhaps turn into something even worse?

  “Oh, Aedan,” she said, the words hitching in her throat. All her love and longing and fear were in his name.

  “I am Vengeance,” he snarled. “When will you accept that?”

  When he spun about and stalked from the chamber, Jane sat for a long time, looking around, examining everything anew, wondering how she could have thought for even a moment that she might be dreaming. The reason everything had seemed so real was because it was so real.

  She fell back onto the bed and stared at the cobwebby ceiling through the shimmer of silent tears. “I won’t lose you, Aedan,” she whispered.

  Hours later, Vengeance stood at the foot of the bed, watching her sleep. He’d passed a time of restless slumber on the floor in the hall and awakened intensely agitated. His rest had not been of the kind he’d known in Faery—an edgy, mostly aware state of short duration. Nay, he’d fallen into deep oblivion for far longer than usual, and his slumbering mind had gone on strange journeys. Upon awakening, his memory of those places had dissolved with the suddenness of a bubble bursting, leaving him with the nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something of import.

  Troubled, he’d sought her. She was sprawled on her back, pink gown bunched about her thighs, masses of fiery curls about her face. The kitten of which she seemed strangely fond—and it was too stringy to be palatable over a fire, nor was it capable of useful labor, hence her interest in it baffled him—was also sprawled on its back and had managed to insinuate itself into her hair. Its tiny paws curled and uncurled while it emitted a most odd sound. A bit of drool escaped its thin pink lips.

  Cautiously, Vengeance lowered himself onto the bed. The lass stirred and stretched but did not awaken. The kitten curled itself into a circle and purred louder.

  Gingerly, Vengeance plucked up a ringlet of her hair and held it between his fingers. It shimmered in the moonlight, all the hues of flame: golden and coppery and bronze. It was unlike aught he’d seen before. There were more colors in a simple hank of her hair than had been in the entirety of his world until yesterday.

  He smoothed the curl between his thumb and forefinger.

  The kitten opened a golden eye and stared at Vengeance’s dark hand.

  It did not flee him, he mused, which confirmed he wasn’t faery; for ’twas well known that cats loathed fairies. On the other hand, it didn’t attempt to touch him, which he supposed meant he wasn’t human either, for the thing certainly flung itself at the lass at every opportunity.

  So what am I?

  Sliding his hand beneath her tresses, he sneaked a quick glance at her. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted. Her breasts rising and falling gently.

  Two hands.

  It felt. So. Good.

  There certainly was a lot of touching going on in this place. Even the kitten seemed to crave it. And she—ah, she touched everything. Petted the beastie, stroked the velvety coverlet he’d procured in Kyleakin, and would have touched him a dozen times or more—he’d seen it in her eyes. Kiss me, she’d said, and he’d nearly crushed her in his arms, intrigued by this “pressing of the lips” she’d described. The mere thought of touching such warmth did alarming things to his body. Tentatively, he touched the tip of his index finger to her cheek, then snatched it away.

  The kitten buried its pink nose in her hair. After a moment’s pause, Vengeance did, too. Then rested his cheek lightly against it, absorbing the sensation against his skin.

  Why do you obey him? Is he so good to you?

  Vengeance tried to ponder that thought. His king was … well, his king. What right did Vengeance have to question whether his liege was good to him? It was not his place!

  Why not? For the first time in centuries, unhampered by the constant coercion of the king’s dark spells, an independent thought sprouted and thrust down a thick taproot in his mind. He had no idea whence such a blasphemous thought had come, but it had, and it defied his efforts to cast it out. Pain lanced through his head behind his eyes. Excruciating pressure built at his temples, and he clamped his hands to his ears as if to silence voices only he could hear.

  Aedan, come quickly, I have something to show you. Da brought me a baby pine marten! A lass’s voice, a lass who’d once been terribly important to him. A wee child of eight, about whom he’d fretted and tried to protect. Mary, she’ll be fine with the wee pet, a man’s voice said.

  But we’re sailin’ out on the morrow, Mary protested. ’Tis wounded and might harm her without meanin’ to.

  Aedan has a way with the wee creatures, and he’ll watch o’er his sister.

  “Aedan,” he breathed, testing the sound of it on his tongue.

  “Vengeance,” he whispered after a moment.

  Neither name fit him like skin on bones. Neither place he’d been—neither his land of ice nor this isle—felt like well-worn boots, broken in and suited to the heel.

  He suffered a fierce urge to claw his way from his own body, so strange and ill-fashioned did it suddenly seem. In his king’s land he knew who he was and what purpose he served. But here, och, here, he knew nothing.

  Nothing but pain in places deep in his head and tingles in places deep in his groin.

  Warily, he eyed the pale curves of her legs peeking from the hem of the gown. How smooth they looked … how warm.

  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, envisioning his beloved home with his king.

  Be ye the new laird and lady of Dun Haakon? the shopkeeper queried brightly in his mind, obliterating his soothing image of ice and shadow.

  “Nay,” he whispered. “I am Vengeance.”

  Six

  THE VILLAGERS DESCENDED UPON THE CASTLE AT DAYBREAK.

  Jane awakened slowly, feeling disoriented and vulnerable. She’d not dreamed of Aedan, and if she’d suffered any remnants of doubts that she was in the fifteenth century before she’d fallen asleep, they were gone now. She’d never slept through an entire night without at least one dream of her Highland love.

  At first she wasn’t certain what had awakened her, then the clamor of voices rose in the hall beyond the open door of the bedchamber. High-pitched and excited, they were punctuated by stilted, grudging replies in Aedan’s deep burr.

  Swiftly she performed her morning ritual of positive reinforcement by announcing brightly to the empty bedchamber, “It’s today! What better day could it be?” She’d read somewhere that such small litanies were useful in setting one’s mood, so she recited it each morning without fail. Yesterday was a memory. Tomorrow was a hope. Today was another day to live and do one’s best to love. In her estimation that was pretty much all a person could ask.

  Kissing the drowsy kitten on the head, she slipped from the bed, quickly stripped off her wrinkled dress, then donned the simple yellow gown she’d unearthed yesterday while going through the trunks. She was looking forward to wearing it, because it was undeniably romantic with its low, laced bodice and flowing skirt. Coupled with the complete lack of undergarments in any of the trunks, she felt positively sinful. Ready for her man at any moment. How she hoped it would be today!

  Casting a quick glance about the room, she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. She was going to want a few more items from the nearby village, and soon, specifically a large bathtub and whatever medieval people used for toothpaste and soap. Lured by the hum of voices, she hurried from the bedchamber.

  Vengeance backed against the hearth like a cornered animal. A dozen yammering villagers thrust baked goods and gifts at him and prattled nonstop about some legend and how delighted they were to have a MacKinnon back to watch over them. How they would serve him faithfully. How they planned to rebuild his castle.

  Him—watch over them? He’d as soon sweep his hand and raze the room, leaving naught but bones and silence!

  But he kept b
oth his hands, and the fairy gifts of destructive power his king had given him, carefully behind his back, because he didn’t know what the blethering hell his liege wanted. Rage simmered in his veins—rage at the villagers, rage at his liege—stunning him with its intensity. Then she sauntered in and some of the rage dissipated, ousted by discomfort of another sort, slightly more palatable but no less disconcerting.

  She was a sunbeam flickering about the gloomy interior of the hall. As he watched in tense silence, she smiled and spoke and took the villagers’ hands in hers, welcoming the entire ragamuffin lot of them into what had been, for a blissfully short time, his quarters alone. How and when had he so completely lost control of himself and his environ? he wondered. Was control something the Fates leeched away slowly over a period of time, or a thing instantaneously nihilated by the mere appearance of a female? Enter woman—exit order.

  And och, how they were smiling at her, beaming and adoring, clearly accepting her as their lady!

  “She’s not a MacKinnon,” he snapped. Best he swiftly disabuse them of the foolish notion that he was laird and she lady.

  All heads swiveled to look at him.

  “Milord,” one of them said hesitantly after a pained pause, “ ’tis naught of our concern if ye’ve handfasted her or no. We’re simply pleased to welcome ye both.”

  “Nor am I a MacKinnon,” he said stiffly.

  A dozen people gaped, then burst into uneasy laughter. An elderly man with silver hair, clad in russet trews and a linen shirt, shook his head and smiled gently. “Come,” he beckoned, hastening from the hall into the adjoining wing.

  Wholly irritated with himself for doing so, Vengeance sought the lass’s gaze. He was so accustomed to obeying orders that making simple decisions, like whether or not to follow the elder, paralyzed him. He despised the confusion he felt, despised being left to his own devices. She stepped toward him, looking as if she planned to tuck her hand through his arm. Baring his teeth in a silent snarl, he spun around and followed the old man. Better his own decisions, he decided, than to rely upon her.