Dreamspell by Tamara Leigh Page A

would turn from whatever temptation you place before them, those of Cirque are to be trusted even less.” His gaze intensified. “Have you ever been ravished, Lady Lark?”
    As in raped? When he put it that way. . . But was it her well-being he was concerned about, or was he just giving her a hard time?
    “Of course, mayhap a man would not have to resort to force to have you.”
    Taking the dream to heart as if it was Kennedy Plain he smeared and not a woman whose reputation preceded her, she said, “How dare you!”
    He put his head to the side. “Such outrage, Lady Lark. Surely you do not think to convince me you are untouched?”
    “Of course not!” Immediately, she regretted the denial. It was none of his business that she and Graham had tumbled around the bed—on the rare occasion they were under the same roof. Hating the glint in Wynland’s eyes, she said, “Think what you will.”
    “I do. Hence, the mantle stays.”
    And if she defied him?
    His grip tightened. “It stays.”
    Grudgingly, she nodded.
    He released her and carried the goblet to his lips.
    A servant handed Kennedy a goblet. Too thirsty to reject the purplish-red contents, she took a long drink and nearly gagged. Not only was the wine watered down, but it was warm.
    She blew hair up off her brow and affected a high wavering voice, “I’m melting.”
    Her impersonation of the Wicked Witch earned her Wynland’s frowning regard.
    She shrugged. “Never heard of the land of Oz?”
    “That is where you are from? Oz?”
    Why not? “Yes.”
    His lids narrowed. “I have not heard of it. It is on the continent?”
    “Uh. . .yes.”
    “Where?”
    Thankfully, a young woman dressed in a rough wool dress appeared. “My lord, they say you are looking for two small boys and a knight.”
    Wynland turned to her. “What have you to tell me?”
    “Methinks I saw them this morn on my way to the castle.”
    “Continue.”
    “I heard laughter and followed it to the river. There I saw two boys and a man clothed not as a knight, but who had a horse worthy of one—a black stallion fit with a fine saddle.”
    Kennedy sensed Wynland’s agitation, was certain it was all he could do to keep his feet rooted to the floor.
    “How old were the boys?”
    “Four and. . .seven?”
    “What of the knight?”
    “He was of an age, my lord. Tall.”
    “What color his hair?”
    “Red, my lord.”
    It sounded like Mac. The thought forced Kennedy to regroup. This was a dream. Of her own making. Thus, she shouldn’t be surprised if MacArthur Crosley played a part.
    Wynland stepped nearer the girl. “Were you seen?”
    She had to look so far up that her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. “Nay, my lord. I hid. All know the wood is traveled by men of ill repute.”
    “You will take me to where you saw them.”
    “But what of my lady? Forsooth, she will not like—”
    “What is your name?”
    “Joan, my lord.”
    “Worry not, Joan. Lady Jaspar will understand.” He took her arm and called to his men.
    The thought of getting back on a horse causing her aches to multiply, Kennedy started to follow.
    “You shall remain, Lady Lark,” Wynland said. “I will not have you slowing me.”
    Then he was abandoning her. Not a bad thing. She smiled. “Drive safe.”
    Questioning came and went on his face, then he was striding from the hall with the serving girl in tow.
    All that remained were those of Lady Jaspar’s household—predominantly men. And they were watching Kennedy. She shrugged, lifted the goblet, and sipped its wretched contents.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    A s the only remaining occupant of the hall, Kennedy turned her attention to the skin-and-bone dogs that snuffled amid the hay in search of fallen morsels. Poor things. They looked ready to lie down and give it all up.
    “Lady Lark.” Jaspar had returned with her bird. “I trust you fared well in my absence.”
    “I have.” Kennedy noted the woman’s flushed cheeks and the tic at a corner of her mouth as