Crystal Dreams Read online

  Nervously, Liandra followed him, feeling the eyes of the people on her as she walked away, following Connal out of the courtyard.

  Around the corner of the outer wall, Connal came to an abrupt halt and turned to her. “I do not want you telling my people about your blasted League, Liandra. ’Tis something no one needs to know. It would be better if you forgot it, too."

  “Why? It's my home, after all."

  “Caledonia is now your home."

  “It's where I live. I can never think of it as home. Home is here,” she said touching her heart.

  Connal frowned. “I thought your defiance of me had ended."

  Liandra tossed her head. “If you want to think of memories as defiance, then that's your problem, not mine. I won't forget, just because you say I must. Would you forget if our positions were reversed?"

  Connal folded his arms. “Probably not. No good will come of it, Liandra. If you insist on remembering, then you make it doubly difficult and painful to acclimatize yourself to your new life."

  “Whatever I remember, or forget, I can never belong here. This life is totally alien to me."

  He glanced down at her and before he masked it, Liandra saw the regret in his eyes.

  “I am sorry ’tis so difficult for you. Do you not enjoy your work?"

  “It was strange at first, until Amilia found me something I can manage."

  “And what is your expertise?"

  “I make fruit tarts."

  “Do you indeed? Then I will ask you to make one for me. As you know I enjoy blueberry tart the most."

  “I'm not qualified to prepare food for Lord MacArran,” she said, dryly.

  “I will be the judge of that. I heard you were sick the first day in the kitchen. Are you recovered?"

  Liandra swallowed against the memory. The cause of it was always there, on the periphery of her consciousness. “Your people still eat meat. I saw bodies of dead animals hanging in the kitchen. I couldn't face it."

  “You no longer feel this way?"

  “Amilia kindly gave me a work station farthest from the meat. I try not to notice, though sometimes the smell...” She shuddered. Though the kitchen was large, bright and airy, and the ventilators took most of the odors away, it still couldn't disguise the aroma of raw flesh.

  Connal cleared his throat. “Well, you did bring your punishment down upon yourself. However, I am here to invite you to the funeral for Garris tomorrow eve."

  “I'll be there."

  “Good. Fianna will have need of your support. Now you had best return to your work. I want evidence of your handiwork on my table tonight. A blueberry tart."

  Liandra frowned at his retreating back. She'd give him a fruit tart, all right, but not where he wanted it. She laughed as the image came to mind, of Connal's face covered in sticky fruit. Hastily she put it back where it belonged—in her imagination. If she dared to do what she wanted ... Seven Stars, he'd make her sorry. No doubt his retribution would be that threatened spanking. She grimaced. The pain and indignity of such a thing. A typical barbarian's style of punishment.

  While the kitchen staff broke for their afternoon nap in readiness for the demands of the evening, Liandra stayed at her station. Much better to work, than pace her chamber in nervous anticipation of her escape, she took out her anxiety on the dough, pummeling it over and over.

  Jenna swept into the kitchen. “There you are.” She paused, eyeing Liandra's handiwork. I was pleased to hear you were banished to a place that befits the likes of you. Though I will not be eating any of your concoctions, I hear Connal has asked for a sample of your handiwork."

  News always traveled fast in the Castle. Liandra knew that much from listening to the gossip of the kitchen staff.

  Jenna handed Liandra a glass container. “Here, you had best make sure you include plenty of heather-sugar in the tart. My Connal likes sweet things."

  “I've never heard of it before,” Liandra said.

  “Rank has its privileges, it is only for the chieftain. Heather-sugar is not for the likes of servants."

  “Why do you wish to help me?"

  Jenna smiled grimly. “Because my Connal has been in a fine temper since he returned from off-world. When you incite him, we all suffer as a consequence, myself included. I want no more of his wrath!"

  Liandra frowned. She knew about Connal's fury, no less his bedmate, it seemed! “How much should I include?"

  “Almost the entire jar."

  Liandra stirred in the fine granules, her concentration focused on her work.

  “You must ensure that only Connal tastes this tart. The last cook who served heather-sugar to another by mistake—well—need I go on?"

  “I understand. How can I make sure I don't make the same mistake?"

  Jenna rolled her eyes heavenward. “Here.” She snatched up a knife and quickly traced a design in the pastry lid. “'C’ stands for Connal."

  Liandra frowned down at the letter. As always, she felt that pressure in her head, a slight giddiness as her senses battled with one another to comprehend any form of writing. “Thank you, Maera Jenna for your help."

  “My pleasure.” Laughing, Jenna swept out of the kitchen, head held high.

  * * * *

  “Well, My Lady Witch? How goes it?” Connal asked.

  Liandra glanced over her shoulder to see him leaning against the doorway.

  Amilia clucked her tongue. “How frequent your visits are to my humble kitchen, My Lord."

  “Aye, I have been remiss in my regular inspections. I am trying to make amends."

  Amilia grinned. “And how long will such occur? Two months?"

  “Give or take a few days."

  “As I thought."

  Liandra glanced from one to the other, admiring their easy repartee. She knew the reasons for Connal's visits—checking up on her, making sure she didn't speak of her home world, nor causing mischief.

  Surreptitiously the kitchen staff often plied her with questions, their curiosity insatiable. She told them what she could, though she knew, and so did they, that if Connal found out they'd all be in trouble. Secrecy was assured by their mutual regard of Connal's temper, by his uncanny habit of learning of any transgression and inflicting “suitable” punishments.

  “Is that mine?” Connal strode up to the pie sitting on its own on the workbench. “Please, cut me a slice."

  Liandra did as she was bid and handed it to him on a china plate. “Have you made your final peace with the universe, Connal—My Lord?"

  He raised an enquiring brow.

  “It might disagree with you."

  He laughed. “I will take the risk."

  Liandra watched in nervous anticipation. She and Amilia had tasted one of the other tarts, just to make sure. Both women had agreed it prudent to ensure that the other pies were edible, before allowing Connal to sample his own.

  Connal bit into what promised to be a sweet, juicy dessert. Ugh! Such nauseating acidity, he almost gagged. Catching sight of Liandra's anxious face, he stopped himself from spitting out the piece of pie. The witch had tried her best, no doubt. Cooking was an exact science; she had little experience of it, after all. He chewed the mouthful as quickly as he could and swallowed it. “I—I have not tasted its like before. But I will not have any more. I do not want to get as fat as Dougall."

  “There!” Amilia said. “Told you our lord would be pleased. She makes a fine pastry, my lord, even if, as her teacher, I do say so. May I sample some more of your handiwork, Liandra? I am afraid that I enjoy the berry tart. Too much, as you can see.” Amilia patted her frame. She bit into the slice of tart. “Arran's Mercy!” She spat out the food onto her plate. “Your pardon, My Lord. How did you manage to eat it, so calmly? ’Tis disgusting."

  Liandra looked from one to the other. “Let me try it.” She bit tentatively into the tart. “It tastes odd."

  “Odd?” Amilia gasped. “'Tis awful! What did you put into the tart?"

  “Heather-sugar."

>   “What?” Connal and Amilia demanded in unison.

  “Heather-sugar."

  “'Tis no such thing."

  “There is. Look here.” Liandra handed Amilia the glass container.

  “Salt! You foolish girl. Whatever possessed you to include it in the tart?"

  Liandra flushed, mortified to the depths of her being. She'd been so gullible. She should have suspected Jenna and her motives. Since when did her nemesis help her? If she hadn't been so pre-occupied with her escape plans, perhaps she might have been more suspicious.

  “Was this on purpose, witch? Your revenge for my punishment?”

  “No!” Liandra cried. “Why do you always blame me for everything that happens? It wasn't...” She paused to see Connal's disbelief and mounting anger. He'd never believe in her innocence. And suddenly she no longer cared. She was too tired to fight them all. She was the alien-witch, the instigator of all troubles and forever she would be so, at least in Connal's eyes. Choking back her tears, she raced out of the kitchen.

  “Liandra, come back here!” Connal called after her.

  She raced up the stairs and down the corridor, colliding with someone.

  “Liandra?” As Dougall steadied her, she flung off his hands.

  Connal strode around a bend in the passage. “Witch! Damn you, come here!"

  “Mistress Liandra, I...” Dougall began.

  “Let me alone, both of you!” She hitched up her skirts and left the two men staring after her, open-mouthed.

  “What are you doing?” Dougall demanded, his eyebrows bristling. “If I did not know better, I'd say the Mistress and you..."

  “Mind your own damn business!"

  “Tsk!” Dougall hissed warningly at Connal's retreating back. The tight line of his mouth softened into a smile, then into a grin, which cut his face from ear to ear. The two of them were having a time of it; both of them stubborn fools! Whistling, he sauntered down the passageway.

  * * * *

  Liandra reached her apartment and flung herself on her bed. She beat out her frustration against the pillow, muffling her sobs against it.

  She could not endure Jenna's antics. No doubt her taunts would increase and intensify the longer she stayed at Castle MacArran. The sooner she was free the better. Even if meant a dangerous journey into the unknown to find the Council, better that, than face the demented animosity of Connal's mate.

  Liandra paused in her misery. Connal had not been angry when he had first tasted the pie. He had hidden his disgust. To save her feelings? Unlikely! Perhaps the taste had temporarily overwhelmed him. Though his anger had quickly ignited with sudden suspicion that she had deliberately tried to poison him.

  Connal called her the alien witch. To his mind she was the perpetrator of every deceit. Why would Connal believe her innocent of this latest trick? Believe her over the word of Jenna, his lover?

  Seven Stars! Again, Liandra pummeled her pillow.

  * * * *

  Connal could hear the muffled sobs, even from where he stood. Careful not to make a sound, he poked his head around the door, frowning as he saw her on the bed. Should he offer comfort or more punishment? He had no evidence that her act had been deliberate, and Amilia had told him Liandra was a fair cook—as good as could be expected given that she had no prior experience of it.

  Then, what had happened? Heather-sugar? He stopped himself from laughing aloud. By Arran! He had never heard of such a thing, and had never tasted such a ghastly concoction, either! He sobered instantly as he sought answers.

  She had not looked guilty of any mischief. She had readily revealed what she had put in the tart. Had someone deliberately tried to sabotage Liandra's work? Whom? He frowned. Who in the Castle was the witch's enemy? All knew she was under his protection. Who would dare raise a hand against her? He would make a few discreet enquiries and get to the bottom of it. If someone was harassing Liandra he would make him, or her, pay. Her! Connal felt cold fury race through his veins.

  He berated himself for his slow-wit in lashing out at Liandra. He should have known something was amiss, the moment he saw the “C” carved in the pie. Liandra could not read or write. Someone had written it for her, ensuring that it was he, and he alone, who sampled that pie. Someone who knew him well. Too well. Jenna would pay dearly for this escapade, for that pie had damn near choked him. Yet, it was the memory of Liandra's fear, on her face and in her eyes, which upset him the most. No one lived in terror of him. Least of all, his Lady Witch!

  * * * *

  Liandra returned to the kitchen with a headache. She had made herself sick with her crying. Now she felt lethargic, almost hollow inside.

  If the others in the kitchen noticed her swollen eyes and pale face they said nothing, though Amilia made her sit at her desk and drink several cups of strong tea before she was convinced Liandra could carry out her duties.

  Once the kitchen staff had left for the night's revelries in the dining hall, Liandra set to and baked another pie. She'd show Connal she was neither inept, nor a poisoner.

  Tentatively, she tasted the pie. Much better. Cutting off a large slice, she placed it on a plate and covered it with a cloth. Using the back stairs, she reached Connal's apartment and left the gift on his desk. Taking up a fresh piece of paper she concentrated and ran her finger across the paper. A trail of colors etched into the surface, her unique aura, her signature, which could never be duplicated by another being. She left it beside the pie and retreated to her chamber.

  As always Fergus was there waiting for her. The dog spent every evening sitting with her before the fire. After the first night, he had moved his sleeping position from the hearth, to the foot of her bed. While Liandra had tried to budge the hound, Fergus remained unyielding. After a few nights of the battle in which she realized she had no chance of winning, Liandra admitted defeat, gradually finding his heavy weight a welcome comfort. Even when he shifted from the foot of the bed to lie next to her, back to back, she didn't try to move him. She'd never had a sleeping partner, and now she shared her bed with a shaggy monster. She had heard of strange bedfellows, hers the strangest of all.

  * * * *

  Liandra awoke with a start. Restlessly, she tossed from side to side. Fergus rumbled low in his throat, as she climbed out of the bed, disturbing him.

  Throwing a shawl over her nakedness, she stepped out onto the patio. It was late evening, humid and still, an almost ominous calm.

  Without thinking, she glanced up one floor and far to her right. The light from Connal's apartment shone through a half open door onto his balcony. He was working late. Working? She smiled to herself. Working at what, or with whom?

  He hadn't come to her to make his peace. Perhaps he hadn't seen the pie ... Liandra chewed her lower lip. Or maybe her cooking wasn't up to standard? No, if that was the case, she would have heard from him by now. She forced her gaze to the mountains, to the place where tomorrow night she would be traveling.

  “My beloved...” Jenna's whining whisper traveled down from above.

  Liandra moved back into the shadows, intending to return to her chamber. Instead, something made her pause and look up.

  Connal strode out onto his balcony. His long robe, unfastened, flapped around his nakedness. Jenna trailed after him, dressed only in her chemise, the flimsy material hiding very little of her voluptuous body. She pressed up against Connal's back. He shrugged off her hands.

  “I said no, Jenna. I mean it. I am tired."

  “Tired. Busy. Not in the mood. You will be running out of excuses soon, My Lord! Why not be honest with yourself and me?"

  With arms folded, Connal turned to her.

  Definitely the stance of a man who did not want to be trifled with, even from the distance Liandra could see that much. Jenna, not to be so easily rejected, ran a hand through his hair, down his throat, to his chest, traveling lower with seductive smoothness. With an angry oath, his fingers stilled her hand. Jenna stretched up and kissed him, dragging his head down to hers, h
olding him prisoner. Connal groaned. Jenna laughed and shrugging herself out of her clothing, she arched her body into his. Connal swung her up into his arms and disappeared with her into his chamber.

  As Liandra walked to her door, Jenna's shriek pierced the night. Now she knew why Connal had not paid her a visit. No doubt both of them were laughing over the pie incident. Irritably, she paced around her bedroom.

  * * * *

  Connal glanced down at Jenna as she struggled out of the bath. The water had been in the tub for hours.

  “No doubt that cold dunking will extinguish your ardor, Mistress MacLeod."

  “Why you bastard! You treat me shamefully."

  “As you deserve. You have been causing trouble and I like it not. My people are under my protection and not to be harassed by you."

  “What do you mean?"

  “A little matter of heather-sugar I believe."

  Jenna's face darkened. “What did that bitch tell you? It be only a joke."

  “Was it that? Am I laughing? She told me nothing, though she might have implicated you. She kept her silence, which is more than I can ever say of you! At least by your confession, I have been spared the wasted time in wringing the truth out of you!"

  Connal grabbed her wrist and dragged her from the water. Before Jenna could struggle he dumped her on his bed.

  Smiling seductively, she raised herself on her elbow. “Not so tired, after all, My Lord?"

  Connal sat beside her and lifted her to him. As Jenna snuggled closer he flipped her over and across his knees.

  She struggled and then laughed. “Do it, darling. Why are you waiting? Please ... Do it, now!"

  Connal frowned down at her. Jenna's tastes ran to the exotic. When and where he could he indulged her, though never once had he capitulated to her demands for rough treatment. Pain and violence were not things he considered as companions of his lovemaking.

  This was not foreplay, but chastisement. His hand raised, poised, ready to strike. Though Jenna's actions deserved it, still he liked it not, what he must do. Why did he treat this woman so differently from Liandra? He had set the witch to kitchen work, yet for his own lover, he was about to do the unthinkable.

  No, he could not. He had never done it in the past, though, to some wayward women, he had threatened it. The warning was always enough. Except for Jenna. She begged him to hurt her, to bring her pain amid the pleasure. Arran's Mercy! He could not now, not even as a much-deserved punishment.