A Kingdom of Dreams

  "Cream velvet—" said Aunt Elinor smiling and opening her arms. "So very impractical, my love, but so very beautiful! Almost as beautiful as you—"

  Jenny raced into her embrace. "Oh, Aunt Elinor, I'm so very happy to see you. I was afraid you weren't coming—"

  Brenna answered a knock on the door, and then she turned to Jenny, her words abruptly choking Jenny's outpouring of delighted greeting: "Jenny, Papa desires you to come downstairs now. The documents are ready to be signed."

  A terror that was almost uncontrollable swept over Jenny, twisting her stomach into sick knots and draining the color from her face. Aunt Elinor tucked her arm in Jenny's and, in an obvious effort to distract her from concentrating on what awaited her, she gently drew Jennifer toward the door, while chatting about the scene that awaited her downstairs.

  "You shan't believe your eyes when you see how full the hall is," she jabbered in the mistaken belief that a crowd would lessen Jenny's fear of a confrontation with her future husband. "Your papa has one hundred of your men standing at arms at one side of the hall, and he"—the faint sniff of superiority in her voice made it clear "he" was the Black Wolf—"has at least that many of his own knights standing directly across the room, watching your men."

  Jenny walked woodenly down the long hall, each slow step feeling like her last one. "It sounds," she said tautly, "like the setting for a battle, not a betrothal."

  "Well, yes, but it isn't. Not exactly. There are more nobles than knights down there. King James must have sent half of his court here to witness the ceremony, and the heads of the nearby clans are here, too."

  Jenny took another wooden step down the long dark hallway. "I saw them arrive this morning."

  "Yes, well, King Henry must have wanted this to seem a special occasion for celebration, for there are all sorts of English nobles here, too, and a few of them brought their wives. It's very wondrous to behold—the Scots and the English in their velvets and satins all gathered together…"

  Jenny turned and started the short, steep descent down the winding stone steps to the hall. "It's very quiet down there—" she said shakily, her ears picking up the muted sounds of male voices raised in forced joviality, a few coughs, a woman's nervous laughter… and nothing else. "What are they all doing?

  "Why, they're either exchanging cold looks," Aunt Elinor cheerfully replied, "or pretending they don't know the other half of the room is present."

  Jenny was rounding the last turn near the bottom of the stairs. Pausing to steady herself, she bit her trembling lip, then with a defiant toss of her head, she lifted her chin high and walked forward.

  An ominous hush slowly swept over the hall as Jennifer came into view, and the spectacle that greeted her eyes was as foreboding as the silence. Torches burned brightly in stands mounted on the stone walls, casting their light on the staring, hostile spectators. Men-at-arms stood stiff and straight beneath the torches; ladies and lords stood side by side—the English on one side of the hall and the Scots on the opposite—exactly as Aunt Elinor had said.

  But it was not the guests who made Jenny's knees begin to shake uncontrollably, it was the tall, powerfully built figure who stood aloof in the center of the hall, watching her with hard, glittering eyes. Like an evil specter, he loomed before her in a wine-colored cloak lined with sable, emanating wrath so forceful that even his own countrymen were standing well away from him.

  Jennifer's father came forward to take Jennifer's hand, a guard on each side of him, but the Wolf stood alone. Omnipotent and contemptuous of his paltry enemy, he openly scorned the need for protection from them. Her father tucked her hand through his arm as he guided her forward, and the wide path through the great hall that divided the Scots from the English widened yet more as they approached. On her right stood the Scots, their proud, stern faces turned toward her with anger and sympathy; on her left were the haughty English, staring at her with cold hostility. And straight ahead, blocking her way, was the sinister figure of her future husband, his cloak thrown back over his wide shoulders, his feet planted slightly apart, his arms crossed over his chest, inspecting her as if she were some repulsive creature crawling across the floor.

  Unable to endure his gaze, Jenny focused her eyes on a point just above his left shoulder, and wondered a little wildly if he meant to stand aside and let them pass. Her heart thundering like a battering ram in her chest, she clutched her father's arm, but still the devil refused to budge, deliberately forcing Jenny and her father to walk around him. It was, Jenny realized hysterically, only the first act of contempt and humiliation to which he would treat her publicly and privately for the rest of her life.

  Fortunately, there was little time to dwell on that, because another horror awaited her directly ahead—the signing of her betrothal contract, which was spread open upon a table. Two men stood beside it, one of them the emissary from King James's court, the other the emissary from King Henry's court, both of whom were here to witness the proceedings.

  At the table, Jennifer's father stopped and released her clammy hand from the comfort of his grip. "The Barbarian," he enunciated clearly and audibly, "has already signed it."

  The hostility in the room seemed to escalate to frighteningly tangible proportions at his words, crackling through the air like a million daggers hurtling back and forth from the Scots side of the hall to the English. In frozen, mute rebellion, Jenny stared at the long parchment containing all the words that set out her dowry and condemned her irrevocably to a life, and all eternity, as the wife and chattel of a man she loathed, and who loathed her. At the bottom of the parchment, the duke of Claymore had scrawled his signature in a bold hand—the signature of her captor, and now her jailor.

  On the table beside the parchment lay a quill and inkhorn and, though Jenny willed herself to touch the quill, her trembling fingers refused to obey. The emissary from King James moved forward, and Jenny looked up at him in helpless, angry misery. "My lady," he said with sympathetic courtesy and the obvious intention of showing the English in the hall that Lady Jennifer held the respect of King James himself, "our sovereign king, James of Scotland, has bade me to extend his greetings to you, and to further say that all of Scotland is indebted to you for this sacrifice you make on behalf of our beloved homeland. You are an honor to the great clan of Merrick and to Scotland as well."

  Was there an emphasis on the word "sacrifice," Jenny wondered dazedly, but the emissary was already picking up the quill and pointedly handing it to her.

  As if from afar, she watched her hand slowly reach for it, grasp it, and then sign the loathsome document, but when she straightened, she could not tear her eyes from it. Transfixed, she stared at her own name, written in the scholarly script Mother Ambrose had made her practice and perfect. The abbey! Suddenly, she could not, would not, believe God was actually letting this happen to her. Surely, during her long years at Belkirk abbey, God must have noticed her piety and obedience and devotion… well, at least her attempt to be obedient, pious, and devoted. "Please God…" she repeated wildly, over and over again. "Don't let this happen to me."

  "Ladies and gentlemen—" Stefan Westmoreland's bold voice slashed through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "A toast to the duke of Claymore and his new bride."

  His new bride … the words reverberated dizzily in Jenny's brain, jarring her from her recollections of the past weeks. She looked around in a dazed panic, not certain whether her reverie had lasted seconds or minutes, and then she began to pray again:

  "Please God, don't let this happen to me…" she cried in her heart one last time, but it was too late. Her widened eyes were riveted on the great oaken doors that opened into the hall to admit the priest for whom everyone was waiting.

  "Friar Benedict," her father loudly proclaimed as he stood at the doors.

  Jenny's breath stopped.

  "Has sent us word he is unwell."

  Her heart began to hammer.

  "And the wedding cannot be performed until tomorrow."
br />   "Thank you, God!"

  Jenny tried to step back, away from the table, but the room was suddenly beginning to spin, and she couldn't move. She was going to faint, she realized with horror. And the person nearest to her was Royce Westmoreland.

  Suddenly Aunt Elinor let out a cry of dismay as she recognized Jenny's plight, and she rushed forward, shamelessly jostling startled clansmen aside with her elbows. An instant later, Jenny found herself wrapped in a fierce hug, a parchment cheek pressed to hers, an achingly familiar voice bubbling in her ear. "Now, now, babe, take a deep breath, and you'll feel right as can be in a moment," the voice crooned. "Your Aunt Elinor is here now, and I'll take you upstairs."

  The world tilted crazily, then suddenly righted itself. Joy and relief poured through Jenny as her father addressed the company in the hall:

  " 'Twill only be a day's delay," he boomed, his back turned to the English. "Friar Benedict is only mildly afflicted, and the good man promises to leave his pallet and come here on the morrow to perform the ceremony, no matter how ill he may still be."

  Jenny turned to leave the hall with her aunt, and she stole a quick glance at her "betrothed" to see his reaction to the delay. But the Black Wolf seemed not to know she was there. His narrowed gaze was trained on her father, and though his expression was as inscrutable as a sphinx, there was a cold, speculative look in his eyes. Outside, the storm that had been threatening all day suddenly whipped itself into a frenzy, and lightning split the sky, followed by the first ominous, primitive boom of thunder.

  "However," her father continued, turning to address the entire hall without ever actually looking at the English on his right, "the feasting will take place as planned this eve. 'Tis my understanding from the emissary of King Henry that most of you wished to return to England at once on the morrow; however, I fear you may have to remain an extra day, since our roads aren't fit for English travel when the storms come."

  A babble of voices burst out on both sides of the room. Ignoring the stares aimed at her, Jenny walked with her aunt through the crowded hall, straight to the stairs that led up two stories to her bedchamber. To sanity and solace. To a reprieve.

  When the heavy oaken door of her bedchamber closed behind her, Jenny turned into Aunt Elinor's arms and wept unashamedly with relief.

  "There, there now, my kitten," said her mother's elderly aunt, patting Jenny's back with her small hand, and talking in the eager, disjointed, determined way that was so much a part of her, "There's no doubt in my mind that when I didn't arrive yesterday or the day before, you gave up and thought I wasn't coming to be with you. 'Tis true, is it not?"

  Swallowing back her tears, Jenny leaned back slightly in her aunt's fond embrace and nodded sheepishly. Ever since her father had suggested Aunt Elinor accompany Jenny to England, Jenny had been concentrating on that as the only joy on her gloomy, frightening horizon.

  Cupping Jennifer's tear-streaked face in her palms, Aunt Elinor went on with bright determination. "But I am here now, and I've talked with your father this morn. I'm here and I'll be with you every day from now on. Won't that be nice? We'll have lovely times together. Even though you'll needs be married to that Englishman and reside with him, beast that he is, we'll forget him altogether and go about the way we used to do, before your father banished me to the dower house at Glencarin. Not that I blame him, for I do chatter so, but I fear it's worse now than ever, for I've been deprived so long of loved ones who I can talk with."

  Jenny looked at her, a little dazed from her aunt's long, breathless speech. Smiling, she wrapped the small lady in a tight hug.

  Seated at the long table on the dais, oblivious to the din of three hundred people dining and drinking around and below her, Jenny stared fixedly across the hall. Beside her, their elbows nearly touching, sat the man to whom the betrothal contract had bound her as irrevocably as the formal wedding ceremony which would follow tomorrow. For the last two hours that she'd been forced to sit beside him, she'd felt his icy gaze on her only thrice. It was as if he couldn't stand the sight of her and was only waiting to get her in his clutches so that he could begin making her life a hell.

  A future of verbal attacks and physical beatings loomed before her, for even among the Scots it was not uncommon for a husband to beat his wife if he felt she was in need of discipline or encouragement. Knowing that, and knowing the temper and reputation of the angry, cold man beside her, Jenny was certain her life would be filled with misery. The tightness in her throat that had nearly choked her all day almost cut off her breath now, and she tried valiantly to think of something to look forward to in the life she'd be forced to lead. Aunt Elinor would be with her, she reminded herself. And someday—someday soon, considering her knowledge of her husband's lustful nature—she'd have children to love and care for. Children. She closed her eyes briefly and drew a painful breath, feeling the tightness slowly lessen. A baby to hold and cuddle would be something to look forward to. She'd cling to that thought, she decided.

  Royce reached for his goblet of wine and she stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He was, she noted sourly, watching a particularly comely acrobat who was balancing on her hands on a bed of sharp swordpoints, her skirts tied to her knees to prevent them falling over her head—a necessity that allowed her shapely, stockinged legs to be exposed from knee to ankle. On the other side of the room, jesters wearing pointed hats with balls at the ends, cavorted before the table which ran the full length of the hall. The festive entertainment and lavish supper fare was her father's way of showing the hated English that the Merricks had pride and wealth.

  Disgusted with Royce's open admiration for the acrobat with the pretty legs, Jenny reached for her goblet of wine, pretending to sip from it rather than face the malicious, scornful eyes of the English, who'd been watching her with derision all night. Based on some of the remarks she'd overheard, she had been judged and found completely lacking. "Look at that hair," one woman had sniggered. "I thought only horses had manes of that color."

  "Look at that haughty face," a man had said as Jennifer walked past him with her head high and her stomach in knots. "Royce won't abide that haughty attitude of hers. Once he has her at Claymore, he'll beat it out of her."

  Turning her gaze from the jesters, Jenny looked at her father, who was seated on her left. Pride filled her as she studied his aristocratic, bearded profile. He had such dignity… such noble bearing. In fact, whenever she'd watching him sitting in judgment in the great hall, listening to disputes that periodically cropped up among his people, she couldn't help thinking that God must look just like him, sitting on His heavenly throne and passing judgment on each soul who came before Him.

  Tonight, however, her father seemed to be in a very strange mood, particularly given the awful circumstances. All evening, while talking and drinking with the other heads of the various clans in the hall, he'd seemed preoccupied and edgy, and yet… oddly… pleased. Satisfied about something. Feeling Jennifer's gaze on him, Lord Merrick turned to her, his sympathetic blue eyes drifting over her pale face. Leaning so close to her that his beard tickled her cheek, he spoke in her ear, his voice raised slightly, but not enough to carry to anyone else. "Do not vex yourself, my child," he said. "Take heart," he added, "all will be well."

  That remark seemed so absurd that Jenny didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Seeing the panic in her widened blue eyes, he reached out and covered Jenny's clammy hand, which was at that moment clutching the edge of the table as if she were holding onto it for her life. His big warm hand covered hers reassuringly, and Jenny managed a wobbly smile.

  "Trust me," he said, "all will be well on the morrow."

  Jenny's spirits plummeted. After the morrow, it would be too late. After the morrow, she'd be wed for eternity to the man whose wide shoulders beside her made her feel puny and insignificant. She stole a quick, worried look at her betrothed to belatedly make certain he hadn't somehow managed to overhear the hushed conversation she'd just had with her father. But hi
s attention was elsewhere. No longer idly watching the comely acrobat, Royce was gazing straight ahead.

  Curious, Jenny surreptitiously followed the direction of his gaze and saw Arik, who'd just reentered the hall. As Jenny watched, the blond, bearded giant slowly nodded once, then once more at Royce. From the corner of her eyes, Jenny saw Royce's jaw harden, then he inclined his head almost imperceptibly, before calmly and deliberately returning his attention to the acrobat. Arik waited a moment and then casually walked over to Stefan, who was ostensibly watching the pipers.

  Jenny sensed that some sort of information had just been silently exchanged, and it made her intensely uneasy, particularly when her father's words were ringing through her mind. Something was happening, she knew it, though she knew not what. Some deadly serious game was being played and she wondered if her future was somehow hanging on the outcome.

  Unable to endure the noise and suspense any more, Jenny decided to seek the peace of her bedchamber so that she could savor what little reason she had to be hopeful. "Papa," she said swiftly, turning to him, "I beg your leave to retire now. I would seek the peace of my bedchamber."

  "Of course, my dear," he said at once. "You've had little peace in your short life, but 'tis just what you need, isn't it?"

  Jenny hesitated a split second, feeling that there was some sort of double meaning in his words, but failing to understand it she nodded, and then she stood up.

  The moment she moved, Royce's head turned toward her, though she could have sworn that he hadn't really known she was there all night. "Leaving?" he asked, his insolent gaze lifting to her bosom. Jenny froze at the inexplicable fury in his eyes when they finally lifted to hers. "Shall I accompany you to your chamber?"