Dreamspell by Tamara Leigh

Jaspar up a dozen steps and into a room that resembled Brynwood’s great hall, complete with hay on the floor.
    Using her study of the room as an opportunity to rest her legs, she stepped to the side. Wynland’s men filed past, eager to accept the drink offered to them. As for the beauteous Lady Jaspar and Wynland, the two stood center, deep in conversation.
    “Lady Lark.” The young man, whose looks were testament to the shared blood between him and his sister, halted alongside Kennedy.
    “Yes?”
    He gave a curt bow. “I am Sir Leonel Aimery, cousin to Lady Jaspar.”
    Cousin. . . “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” How old was he? Twenty-five?
    “May I?” he offered his arm.
    “Certainly.”
    “You are surely blessed to have survived the attack,” he said as he led her forward.
    “I am. It was. . .” Memories of the carnage flashed before her. “It was horrid.”
    “There were no survivors?”
    “None.”
    Regret shone in his warm brown eyes. “I am sorry.”
    As they passed a cavernous fireplace, Kennedy was struck by its heat. It had to be eighty-five degrees in here. Of course, it didn’t help that, before leaving Brynwood, she had pulled the red dress on over the green. She reached to the brooch that held her cape closed, but the clasp Marion had secured resisted her efforts.
    “Mayhap I can assist?” Leonel offered.
    “I can manage.” But she was still struggling with it when they halted before Wynland and Lady Jaspar.
    In spite of the other woman’s hand on Wynland’s arm, it was obvious he had been watching Kennedy—and that she had done something to displease him. Abandoning the brooch, she lowered her arms. It was then she saw the gryphon on the sleeveless shirt Wynland wore over his armor, the same as that worn by his squire. As his cape had covered it during the ride, the lapels of which were now thrown over his shoulders, it was the first she had seen of it.
    “Lord Wynland, you remember my cousin, Sir Leonel Aimery.”
    Wynland lowered the goblet he had tipped to his lips and inclined his head. “Sir Leonel.”
    “My lord.”
    The bird on Lady Jaspar’s wrist ruffled its feathers.
    She stroked it. “Leonel received knighthood this past spring, a year early due to an act of bravery that saved the life of his lord, Baron Brom. To show his appreciation, the baron awarded my cousin—”
    “’Twas naught,” Sir Leonel said.
    Wynland considered the knight for some moments as if to determine if he was worthy of his new title, then said, “What do you at Castle Cirque, Sir Leonel?”
    “I have no lands of my own. Thus, I have given myself into the service of my cousin.”
    “What of Baron Brom?”
    “He gave me leave to do so, my lord.”
    Wynland opened his mouth to say something more, but closed it when his regard was captured by the armed soldier who strode into the hall.
    “’Tis the captain of the guard,” Lady Jaspar said. “I shall not be long.” She turned to her cousin. “Leonel.”
    He looked to Kennedy and bowed again. “My lady.” Led by the captain of the guard, he and his cousin withdrew from the hall.
    “I wager you are sore,” Wynland said.
    “What makes you think that?”
    He swept his gaze over Kennedy. “You are not quite as tall as you were ere we rode from Brynwood.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Have you ever considered a career in stand-up comedy?”
    He frowned.
    “Never mind.” She lifted the brooch and searched the underside for the clasp.
    “Do not remove your mantle.”
    Context telling her it was the cape he referred to, she said, “It’s hot in here.” An instant later, the clasp revealed its secret.
    He gripped her hand. “Do as I say.”
    “I will not.”
    “Lest you forget, you are more out of your clothes than in them.”
    So they were on the tight side. She wasn’t the first to squeeze into clothes a size or three too small.
    “I have warned you about your wanton displays.” He leaned near. “Though I cannot say my own men