Crystal Dreams Page 3

  Cold? She heaved herself away from the floor, in that instant realizing she was naked. Clothing or its lack was of no concern to her. Without the enviro belt attached to her robe, she was at the mercy of her environment, for the first time in her life. She didn't like the thought, not one bit! Where was she? Liandra stared in disbelief.

  The room before her was empty, except for the canopied bed upon which she had awoken. Swallowing against the lump of fear in her throat, she sent a telepathic probe outwards. Her mind responded sluggishly. She had been drugged! Turning her senses inwards, she sensed the foreign substance swirling in her veins. She tasted the drug's bitter residue in her mouth. Apart from the narcotic, her body seemed normal.

  More forcefully this time, she probed outwards. Not illusion, this room. Reality. Or perhaps the drugs were confusing her senses? The chamber appeared to be made from huge chunks of blue stone, the ceiling crisscrossed by intricately carved wooden beams. Muted light filtered down from a lump hung from the center of the largest joist.

  Stone and wood! Both weak and unreliable. No race used such primitive building materials. Would the stone and wood come crashing down upon her? Her heart beat tempestuously in her chest. Calm, keep calm. She drew in a trembling breath. Another. And the smell. She sniffed cautiously. A floral aroma. Not unpleasant, just strange.

  Cold numbed her toes and heels. She retreated onto the bed, rubbing her stinging feet. Hugging her arms around her body, she telepathically probed every wall. The only door remained closed to her testing.

  A prisoner. Liandra shivered with cold and fear. Slowly, as the drug in her body dissipated, her memory returned, though her fuzzy mind held an array of confusing images, which made no sense. Connal ... he had come to her for help ... looking for Garris. They had lain upon the crystal bed. The dream-search. Dreams...

  Liandra's body throbbed with the memory of her sharing with Connal. That had never happened before. If some being required counseling, which included sexual therapy, then she referred them to a sensualator. She'd never allow herself, or her image, to be used by a client. But, in the dream, all her professionalism had been torn away. Why had she reacted so to Connal?

  Time enough to sort that problem out. First she had to escape her prison. And that meant confronting her captors—when they presented themselves. What possible motive could any have in kidnapping her? It was just conceivable, it had happened before, though many generations in the past, when Asarian Weavers first ventured forth from their home world. Viewed as an exotic novelty, some were captured, held prisoner and used by powerful individuals for their exclusive entertainment.

  Seven Stars! That was a long time ago. No League member would do that now. Surely not! Liandra shuddered. If it were the case, she would resist and die, death being more preferable to a nightmare life as a dreaming vessel for the private amusement of some perverted alien.

  Liandra waited. It was the only thing to do. After pulling back the curtains that hung around the four posts of her bed, she sat on the edge of the mattress, counting every stone to keep her mind from wandering. To no avail. She wanted answers, an end to her solitude.

  And what about her foolproof monitors and servitors? How could each one have failed? And her dreamer's cap, her bed ... The tools of her profession were more than mere instruments—they were part of her, and always nearby. Now, she could not catch a hint of the vibrations from her bed. What if someone, something, was touching it? That would be akin to having her own body violated. She shivered uncontrollably. Closing her eyes, she began the ritual litany to calm body and mind.

  It seemed only moments later that Liandra started out of her trance, sensing someone close by. Jumping to her feet, ignoring the icy floor, she came face to face with a woman of about her own age, dressed in clothes similar to the robe she had worn in the dream-state—before Connal had expertly teased it from her body!

  The stranger's attractive face was framed by red hair that curled freely about her shoulders. With eyes dark and wary, the woman edged backwards rattling the crockery on the tray she carried.

  “Where am I?” Liandra demanded. “Why have I been brought here?"

  The young woman shook her head, and held out the tray offering its contents.

  Liandra reeled away in disgust. Though hungry, no power in the universe would make her touch a thing! It might be drugged. Even worse, it was primitive nutrition: things that had grown, that had once lived. Her stomach knotted at the thought.

  “I demand to know where I am!"

  No answer, only a look of puzzlement. Perhaps the creature was a simple servitor, incapable of speech. Liandra closed in on her, and the woman stepped back until she was trapped against a wall. Running a hand over the smooth cheek, which suddenly flamed red, Liandra caught the terror and indignation.

  “I'm sorry, Maera, I didn't mean to offend,” Liandra said gently.

  The young woman dropped the tray and raced away to cower behind a bedpost.

  Something hit the wall behind her with a resounding crash. Liandra whirled about to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. His fury lashed out at her.

  “Connal?” she whispered.

  “What goes on here?” he demanded.

  His gray eyes, as cold and as hard as Santarian steel, flickered over her. To Liandra's amazement, his cheeks flamed red. Not with anger. With embarrassment. His emotions lapped at the periphery of her consciousness, before she hastily blocked them.

  Snapping his gaze away from her, he focused his attention on the woman beside the bed. “Fianna, were not my orders specific enough? No one—no one, save myself is permitted in this room. What are you doing here?"

  “I—I came to see if the—the lady was hungry,” Fianna stammered.

  “Since when do you lie to me, Mistress MacLeod?"

  She blushed furiously. “I—I came to ask the lady about my Garris, my lord."

  “The truth sits better on your lips, Fianna. Now, away with you!"

  She hesitated, glancing from Connal to Liandra.

  “Or is it a punishment from me, you be wanting?"

  Fianna fled to the door, closing it softly behind her.

  Liandra swallowed against the tight dryness in her throat and chest. “Is it really you, Connal?” she asked hesitantly.

  For he was not the man she remembered from her apartment. Now, as in the dream, he wore the same oddly fashioned striped skirt—kilt. Kilt? Liandra wondered at the strange word invading her thoughts. The kilt reached to his bare knees. A thick, knitted material covered his long legs to below the knees, his feet were encased in soft, ankle-high boots. Over his shirt, he wore a silver-studded sleeveless jerkin of some unknown material—leather—that was the fabric—the word sprang into her mind. Leather—from some dead animal! She shuddered. What civilized creature would wear the skin of a once-living creature? His severe hair braid was gone. His blue-black hair hung loose about his face and shoulders amplifying his handsome features. The firmness of jaw and the way he stood, his air of unbridled arrogance was distasteful and intimidating.

  His eyebrow quirked at her, but Liandra forced her gaze to hold his.

  “So you are awake,” he said. “Immediately weaving your witchery on my people. How did you coerce Fianna? She has never disobeyed me."

  “Get out of my dream, Connal. I want to be awake! Free...”

  “If it were a dream, then I would be calling it a nightmare. This is reality, Weaver. You are here, at my bidding. At my mercy."

  She disregarded that for the moment. “I would prefer it if you called me Liandra.”

  Folding his arms he regarded her. Liandra sensed how much her nakedness disturbed him and that gave her a grim satisfaction. Let him be unsettled, she did not care!. She raised her chin in defiance, and returned his gaze. His jaw clenched. A heated irritation swept through her—Connal was not used to being defied!

  “Damn it, have you no shame?” He tore the coverlet from the bed and hurled it at her. “Cover yourself,
then we talk!"

  “Maer Connal, how is it that I understand you? My translator..."

  “While you were brought here, I had you tutored subliminally in my language. No time for you to learn my language from first hand experience. For what you and I are to discuss, I want no misunderstandings. I have no faith in the translating ability of any mechanical contrivance."

  “You've drugged me, too. What else has been done to me?"

  Connal's lips tightened into a thin line. “Nothing! My word on that."

  “How can I believe you? You who have resorted to kidnapping..."

  Connal took one step towards her and stopped. With difficulty, she realized. “Have a care before you accuse me, woman! My word is my bond. Unlike that dehumanized rabbit-warren you call home, where no creature can be trusted to deal fairly with a man!”

  “Coming from you, that's ironic. You haven't dealt fairly with me. You tricked me."

  “You tricked yourself,” Connal snapped. His smile was as cold as space. “I treated you with consideration, not that you deserve such, being what you are!"

  “And just what am I?” She arched her brow.

  “A woman common to all."

  “Yes."

  Connal's draw dropped a fraction. “You do not deny it?"

  “Why should I? I'm proud of my profession. I received my calling when I was five years old. My father trained me."

  “Your father?"

  “Men who become Dream-weavers are among the most skilled of my profession."

  Connal clamped his mouth shut. Bad enough women, but men ... Unthinkable. His thoughts touched her and Liandra stared up at him in confusion. Like silver laser bolts, his eyes bored into her. What did he see that made him look at her with so much distaste? She drew the coverlet protectively around her. “Did you remove my clothes and jewelry?"

  “I had the dubious honor.” Almost, he had said pleasure.

  “Why?"

  “Nothing of the League is what it seems. I wanted none of its taint upon you, when we talked."

  “What is it we must discuss, Maer Connal, or is your name just another deception?"

  “'Tis my name. Do not use Maer again! Shallow League pleasantries have no place here. Anyway, ’tis you who are the deceiver, not I. You have been brought here, so that I can find my clansman, Garris."

  “I can't. The dream-search showed you that, surely? Where am I? I demand to know."

  “Demand, is it? Ye be in nae position ta make ainy demands o’ me. What haivve ye done to Garris?"

  “Please, calm down. When you're angry, your words burr and distort so much, that I can't understand, even with the subliminal tutoring.”

  Connal jerked his hands onto his hips. “What have you done with Garris?” His speech was cold, staccato.

  “I've done nothing...”

  “Do not add lies to your litany of wrong-doing, woman!"

  “I never lie."

  “Is that so?” His voice was distant, unbelieving.

  Liandra folded her arms, her fists balled. How she wanted to beat her frustration against his wide chest. Wide, half-naked chest, she amended. She didn't want to touch him—ever. She drew in her breath, calming her anger.

  “Will you please tell me what it is you truly want?” she asked.

  “For some reason I cannot fathom, Garris went off world to seek someone, the Dream-weaver Liandra Tavor. You are she.”

  “And that's it? The reason for kidnapping me? I've never seen or heard of this Garris until you came to me. I'm telling you the truth. Believe me."

  “I do not."

  “Why would I lie?"

  “I, not you, ask the questions, Weaver. You have frightened Fianna with your witchery. Be warned! I am a fierce protector of my kinfolk. As Fianna is one such, you will not harm her. If you do, you will answer to me. And be assured I am not a forgiving man."

  “I've never hurt any being,” Liandra whispered.

  Connal glanced down at the tray and its spilt contents. “How difficult you make your stay will depend upon your behavior. Please me and I am prepared to grant you as much courtesy as I can. Displease me and...” He shrugged, leaving the threat hanging heavily in the air between them. “Was this not to your liking?” Connal asked, again staring at the broken dishes. “Used to your synthesized chaff no doubt. Well, you will get none of that here, Weaver, only proper food such as man was intended to eat."

  Again, that deadly gaze of his swept her body. Liandra felt he had stripped her naked. Not that she had any inhibitions in that regard, she was half Asarian, after all, but this man, in every way, made her ill at ease.

  “And eating proper food might do you some good. Put some meat on those bones of yours,” he added.

  Liandra raised her chin. “There's nothing wrong with my figure."

  He smiled tauntingly. “I suppose no one has ever had the courage to be so familiar with you. I am a man, in every respect, so your sorcery has no hold over me. Remember that. Now, Garris."

  “Back to him are we? I could deny it until the moons of Vesnar turn purple, and still you wouldn't believe me. So what's the use? You say I'm supposed to have met this Garris. Why? Did he need a counselor? Have you none on this world of yours? Just where am I, Connal?"

  “This is my estate. I am Tighearna of County Arran. Caledonia is the name of this world."

  Liandra frowned. Tighearna—the word translated to chieftain, but it was an archaic term unknown in the League. “I know every League world, I don't recognize..."

  “Caledonia is not of the League."

  “Pardon?” Her heart turned in her breast. If he spoke the truth, she was far from home, a long way from everything she knew. No one to whom she could appeal for sanctuary. Rescue, out of the question. The slow smile, which played across Connal's tightly drawn lips, did nothing to dispel her fear.

  “Aye, Weaver. So now you begin to see the way of it. Indeed, you be far from home. So if you co-operate with me you can be quickly returned. If not—"

  “And if I do not?” Liandra asked, with a toss of her head.

  “If I were you, I would not consider the consequences."

  “Already it doesn't bear thinking about. I swear to you, Connal, I have never met Garris before our dream-sharing. I couldn't make out his features, even then. Does he look like you?"

  Connal's eyes narrowed. “I grow tired of your intrigue, Weaver. Well you know Garris is smaller than me, his brown hair shorter, he has a scar on his left arm. I daresay you were close enough to notice that. Your ... counseling revolves around that infernal bed of yours, does it not?"

  “Just what have you done with my belongings?"

  “Your clothes are near by. I brought the bed in case you required it to find Garris."

  “I need my computers and servitors."

  “We have none such here.”

  “You are joking. Everyone has them..."

  “Everyone of the League, Mistress."

  “To live without machines is madness."

  “We only use machines in the direst circumstances.”

  “How did you manage to smuggle me out of my apartment, undetected? Station security is infallible."

  “You cannot replace a man's honor or loyalty, with bolts and circuitry."

  “That doesn't answer my question,” Liandra snapped.

  “It is the only answer I am prepared to give you!” He strode to the doorway. “I shall leave you awhile to ponder your fate. A word of advice to you, Weaver! Next time, do not be so disdainful of Fianna's cooking. Because, for the moment, your belly will be growling with hunger. That might teach you some humility and manners."

  “I've been the one drugged. Kidnapped. Insulted! It's not me who needs to be taught a lesson! You have treated me dishonorably.”

  Liandra heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath. Slowly, rigidly, he turned to her. Their gazes clashed across the room. His fury washed over her. Cold, murderous fury.

  “What do your kind know of honor?”
His low, frigid voice made her shiver.

  “More than you, it seems,” Liandra retorted.

  “Enough, Mistress!"

  As he strode up to her, she retreated until she could go no further, the cold stone against her back. She tried to evade him, but Connal placed hands against the wall on either side of her. His maleness beat against her, as his scent, a curious musky freshness, stole over her. Worse, a thousand times worse than deadly laser shields, the bulging muscles and naked flesh of his arms formed the confines of her prison. She hugged her arms about her body, to make herself as small as possible, so that his skin did not touch hers.

  “Understand this, well!” He took her chin in a crushing grip, forcing her to look at him. “My patience does have its limits. And you are perilously close to reaching it."

  As Connal towered over her, Liandra's mouth went dry, numb. He could do with her what he willed, his height and strength more than a match for her. Though fear coiled heavily inside her stomach, she couldn't let him know how afraid she was. “What are you going to do? Beat me?” she asked hoarsely.

  He grinned. “What an interesting possibility. However, be thankful that here a man is considered less than a man if he must resort to violence to earn the respect and obedience due him, especially from a woman. At least it is so, under ordinary circumstances. You, Weaver, are far from ordinary."

  As Liandra opened her mouth to speak, Connal placed a finger against her lips. He leaned closer. Her heart skipped a beat. He was going to kiss her and that was only slightly preferable to a beating. Lifting a tendril of hair from her forehead, he rubbed the strands between his fingers, a bemused expression on his face. She gasped at his familiarity.

  “No!” She tossed her head away, freeing her hair from his touch. “How dare you!” she whispered huskily.

  “Oh, I dare very much.” He stepped backwards. “I intend to find Garris. Be very careful! Do not defy me again. I will return this eve, when I expect to find you in a more reasonable mood. Until tonight...” With one more gaze which stripped her to the bone, he turned on his heel and strode to the door, slamming it behind him.

  Liandra sagged weakly against the wall. Her body trembled with rage, and more. His liberties, his nearness, had caused her body to flush with warmth, to tingle with... Seven Stars! She, who had never known the touch of any lover, for no creature had ever aroused her, now found her senses reeling from a man who was a—a cruel, ruthless ... Words failed her and she had a hundred languages at her disposal with which to describe him. And she could not! Every word that came to mind, was too polite, too inadequate.