Crystal Dreams Read online

  Liandra paced the floor. “Think! Think!” The walls echoed her cry. Until tonight—his ultimatum. Stars knew what he was capable of! She would have to think of something. Fast. Until tonight. How long did that give her? Well, whatever he had in mind, she would be long gone before he returned.

  * * * *

  Connal tore open the heavy wooden door to his apartment and kicked it shut behind him. The swords on the walls rattled in their mountings.

  You have treated me dishonorably. Her reproach stung all the more because she had the right of it. Damn that woman! Worse—damn him for reacting! To her accusation. To her. Truly, he was a man doubly damned.

  Though his flesh crawled with the memory of the dream they had shared, his memories were tinged, not only with revulsion, but desire. Desire! He could not credit it. Against his better judgment, spurred on by his anger, he had, again, touched her, felt the soft smoothness of her skin, the silken texture of her hair and smelled, again, her curious, sweet scent—that perfume which invaded his every cell—his memories and his dreams—Arran's Mercy! It had truly been desire.

  Desire for a woman who gave her body as easily as she gave her dreams. And he wanted no part of a woman like that. His body was playing the traitor. He, who was always cool, was anything but since his expedition off-world. After that, nothing had been the same! He had not been the same!

  Shrugging himself out of shirt and jerkin, he kicked off his shoes, peeled off his hose and tore off his kilt. Clothing flew about the room. He left each item where it lay. In the bathing-room he ran a long, cold bath. Slowly, he lowered himself into the water, its iciness quenching the fire in his loins.

  “Now I be immune to your spells, witch...” He groaned, as the image of her pale, slender body rose up before his eyes. His blood thrummed. Exasperated, he ran a hand through his wet hair. She had been unashamed, standing before him unclothed, while he, he was the one disconcerted by her, when normally the sight of a naked woman caused him no embarrassment.

  Was she truly a witch who had cast some spell over him? Well, whatever she had done it would not work, he vowed. After all, he was Lord MacArran and that counted for much.

  Still, he had to admire her courage. Most women he knew would have thrown themselves on his mercy, begged and cried. Pleaded. Not the Weaver. Instead, she had challenged him, lied, feigning innocence. Her defiance surprised him. The woman—Liandra—he liked the sound of her name. He rolled it around in his mind, practicing it, pronouncing it as she had done.

  “Liandrrra.” He started out of his musings, as the walls echoed with his fevered whisper. He had spoken her name aloud!

  What was he going to do with her? Liandra was not easily intimidated. He had discovered that much. Somehow, he would have to convince her, by fair means, or foul, that her only option was to tell him the truth. All of it!

  And to get to the truth of the matter he would suffer the indignation of one Dream-weaver. At least his people would not openly censure him. A chieftain's word was law. He did not have to explain to any of them. No doubt, though, knowing how his tastes ran, they would be speculating as to what he was going to do with her. Except they would be wrong. He wanted none of her, though the memory of her exquisite body against his during that accursed sharing had haunted his dreams since returning to Castle MacArran.

  He forced the images from his mind. A few hours on her own, to mull over her predicament, and he would try again. Persuasion came in many guises, and he would have to call upon the experiences of a lifetime to understand her and secure her co-operation. At least that was the plan, though so far, he had failed miserably.

  Until tonight. Her reaction to his threat had been fear, more defiance and an insult that cut too close to the bone. He had always thought no Leaguer had the stomach for a good fight. Yet, her actions proved otherwise. He laughed. Matching wits against her—the contest might prove interesting. But no doubt as to the victor! No green-haired alien witch would ever best him!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Liandra heard a metallic jingling, followed by a scraping sound coming from outside the door. With heart hammering, she leaped from the bed, drawing the coverlet to her chest. Slowly, she let out her breath as Fianna entered, carrying another tray laden with dishes.

  Liandra's stomach gurgled at the promise of what the tray purported. She was hungry enough to eat anything. Well, almost, until she caught sight of the steaming bowl of the Seven Stars knew what!

  “Lady ... please.” Fianna's voice, a mere whisper, held a hint of fear.

  In answer, Liandra held out her hand in what she hoped would be interpreted as a gesture of appeasement. She smiled, trying to alleviate Fianna's obvious distress, and the younger woman smiled back hesitantly.

  “I'm sorry if I frightened you before, Maera Fianna.” Liandra frowned, sensing that the young woman was trying to summon the courage to speak. “What is it you would say to me?”

  “Please ... lady.” Fianna paused, drawing in a ragged breath. “I know not why my Garris went off-world to you, only tell me that my beloved is safe and well."

  “Garris is your lover?” Liandra asked.

  “My husband,” Fianna said firmly.

  “Before I met Connal, I'd never heard of Garris, of Caledonia. All of this.” Liandra glanced about the room. “Believe me."

  “I ... I do.” Fianna bit her lip. “Is there nothing you can do? Connal..."

  “He insists I'm to blame for Garris’ disappearance."

  Fianna smiled feebly. “Aye, Connal's a stubborn man, especially when he thinks he is being crossed by a woman.” She gasped, her eyes wide. “I say too much, Connal will have my hide if he knew."

  “I don't understand,” Liandra said.

  “'Tis probably just as well,” Fianna replied and turned away.

  “Wait, Maera, please.” Tentatively, Liandra rested her gaze on Connal's kinswoman. Fianna's hazel eyes registered shock and fear as the contact was made and held. “I'm sorry, to abuse you in this way, but Connal's threats leave me with no alternative,” Liandra said. Carefully, she placed a palm to Fianna's temple, and felt the wild pulse beat. She ushered the woman backwards to the bed, gently nudging her down upon it, and sent her into a deep sleep.

  Liandra quickly removed Fianna's bulky robe and struggled into it, finding, as she had anticipated, that the clothes were too big for her. Skin and bone, Connal had called her. He'd pay for that insult! She smiled grimly as she imagined what she might do to curb his arrogance, to exact revenge for what he'd said and done to her. Revenge? Such a contemptible thought. No civilized creature retaliated violently against another's wrongdoing. But she wanted to—oh, how badly! Her palms itched at the prospect. Disconcerted, Liandra suppressed her thoughts, save one. Escape.

  After tucking the bed cover around Fianna, Liandra went to the door. It wouldn't budge. She hunted through the gown for any locking contrivance, and found a set of curious metal objects in one pocket. Holding them in the palm of her hand, she concentrated, reading them. The devices, which she had mistakenly thought were trinkets, were actually keys, something with which to release her from her prison. Finding the correct key, she inserted it into the lock, and peered out through the crack in the doorway. Casting her senses outward, she touched only inanimate objects.

  The wide stone passageway was decorated with tapestries and weaponry. Swords and knives—Seven Stars! These were weapons that hacked and pierced, cut and maimed. She had seen similar items in a Terran museum. Then, as now, she marveled that anyone could consider an array of weaponry to be decorative.

  Liandra slipped out of the room, into the deserted corridor. She crept forward, hugging the wall of the passageway. It appeared to go on for miles. And Connal had the temerity to call her home a rabbit-warren—dehumanized he had said. How typical of his arrogance, that he expected every dwelling to be outfitted for the sole requirements of one species. The huge space platform where she made her home was capable of sustaining life and providing comfort for the di
versity of League members using its facilities. No one race had an advantage over the other. Connal would...

  A heavy, furious heat burned in her heart at the mere thought of him. Seven Stars! Asarians did not think this way. Revenge and violence were aberrations. Could it be possible that exposure to such a primitive as Connal was acting as a catalyst to bring out some volatile Terran traits, inherited from her mother, that up until now had lain dormant? Yes, that was the answer. It was Connal's fault.

  “Damn him!” She paused, shocked, by her vehement cursing—a barbarian's cursing. She must return to her own world and exorcise these archaic emotions from her being!

  For time uncounted, she stole along the deserted passageway. Then, just as she considered retracing her steps, she came to a landing. Immediately she jumped back into the shadows where she could observe, undetected, the length of a wide, carved wooden staircase that led down to a large hall. Men and women bustled around trestle tables, arranging food and drink, laughing and chatting as they worked. The women wore long gowns similar in style to the one she had borrowed, while the men were dressed in shirts and kilts. Draped across the chest of each person was a wide sash of material, the same as Connal's kilt—garish red, green, yellow and silver stripes against a black background.

  Hastily, she crossed the landing to head down another passageway. Moments later, she jolted to a sickening halt as bright light temporarily blinded her. Windows! For the Seven Stars sake! These people relied on windows to illuminate their homes. The transparent material from which the windows were made was patterned and tinted, so that the sunlight cast a rainbow colored mosaic on the floor. Beautiful; it reminded her of home.

  Her chest constricted painfully and tears pricked her eyes. Home. Would she ever see home again? She ran a hand over her eyes. Lingering in the corridor and weeping at her predicament would not help. Steeling herself, she went to the tall windows and peered out over the expanse of Connal's house. Made of blue-gray stone, it resembled—what was the word? Castle.

  Liandra recalled the place where her mother had taken her, as part of her history education. The Terran castle, over a thousand years old, had been restored and then held in stasis to protect it from the ravages of time.

  Where that ancient castle had been dark and dismal, Connal's larger dwelling was beautiful. Turrets and towers stretched to the sky, while wide columned balconies ran the perimeter of the structure throughout its many levels. Below her was a dizzying drop to green-forested lands that stretched far into the distance. Escape from the castle would be very difficult. Perhaps impossible? No! She wouldn't even consider it!

  Hugging the wall, she trotted along the corridor, heart hammering, fearful of discovery.

  Other windows allowed her glimpses of the estate. She paused to look down at the luxurious gardens, ablaze with color as hundreds of bushes, flowers and trees complemented one another. In their midst fountains sparkled and shimmered in the bright sunlight.

  Men's voices and heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor ahead of her. Stumbling against the hem of her gown, in exasperation she lifted the cumbersome thing to her knees, and retreated up a narrow flight of stairs. Up and up she ran, until her breathing became labored. In the confines of the darkened stairwell she miscalculated the last step and sprawled forward, her knees and hands jarring against the stone floor. Dragging herself to her feet, she fled into the first room she saw.

  She skidded to a halt, spinning around, eyes wide with fright. Weapons of every description decorated the walls, although a few heavy tapestries alleviated the rows of ancient killing tools. A huge metal machine stood in the far corner. Man-shaped, without any body features, it towered over everything.

  Liandra froze, terrified that the robot had sensed her presence. Or was it deactivated? It hadn't moved. No light issued from its metal head to indicate that it was aware. Tentatively, she reached out with a telepathic probe and found—nothing. Hardly surprising. It was a machine. Still, she should be able to sense the circuitry, some power. It appeared dead.

  Liandra sighed, letting out the breath she had been holding. Creeping forward, she touched the metallic monster, enthralled, despite herself, by the intricate etched patterns over the robot's formidable torso. The machine was a functional item, but like everything else she had seen in the holding, functionality had not obliterated the need for every thing to be pleasing to the eye. Grudgingly she admitted that it said much for a race who made even the most practical item elegant, though this was at odds with what little she knew of primitive cultures.

  Leaving the robot, she carefully opened the next door and paused, even more shocked to see that each wall was covered with shelves containing books. Real books, like she'd seen in the Terran museum.

  Strewn about the room were large rugs and resting upon each were wing-backed chairs covered in green velvet. Brightly patterned, tasseled cushions lay against the back of each chair. Large panes of tinted glass allowed natural light to illuminate the chamber.

  But of all the wonders she had seen, it was the fireplace that fascinated her. For the wood and flames were merely an illusion to comfort the eye, the warmth came from thin wires crisscrossing the back of the hearth. She stretched out her cold fingers, puzzled to find this level of technology in such a barbarous place.

  Going to the window, Liandra despaired. She was in one of the highest levels of the holding, and hundreds of feet below a river cut a thickly wooded valley in two. The forest stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There appeared to be no towns or any other sign of civilization. She would have to try another corridor, and another vantage point.

  Retracing her steps, Liandra reached the corridor. She heard voices, Connal's unmistakable above the others. She stepped back, just as he appeared around a bend in the passage. Leading him, straining on a leash, was a huge, shaggy brown beast.

  She sped into the library, only to find the door leading from it was locked. Trapped! With no other place to go, she jumped onto the wide window ledge and hid behind the thick folds of curtains, just as the library door opened. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes, willing him to go away.

  Connal's laugh, a humorless sound, made her shiver. “Witch, come out from where you hide."

  Liandra played dead, like the robot in the other room. A square snout thrust itself between the curtains. Slowly, the beast opened its mouth to reveal rows of large, very pointed teeth. Liandra screamed as the monster raised its head to her, fangs almost touching her arm.

  “Come out, now, or my hound will rend you limb from limb."

  Liandra didn't need prompting. Shakily, she parted the curtains and peered down at Connal. He stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, legs planted wide apart.

  “Come here, at once!” The voice fairly crackled with suppressed rage.

  “No.” Liandra pressed back against the window as the hairy monster pressed a cold, wet snout against her foot. “Your monster will kill me...”

  “Obey me, and I will call him off.” Connal paused, eyeing her warningly. “Fergus, heel!” The creature obeyed him instantly and came to sit at his side. “Now, Mistress, come here, or I will drag you out. Your choice."

  With a wary eye on man and beast, Liandra jumped from the window embrasure.

  Connal strode up to her, grasped her by the shoulders and shook her until she was giddy. He set her down on her feet and Liandra stumbled backwards, grasping a curtain to stop herself from falling.

  Regaining her balance, she glared at him. This barbarian needed to know that brute strength would not subdue her, no matter what he did.

  Connal watched as she tossed her head angrily, chin high, eyes blazing, a deadly sapphire assault. She still defied him. Unexpected. Intriguing. Despite himself he had to smile. “Is that the way of it, witch?” he asked. “Be careful when you lay challenge to MacArran. Know the stakes you play for are very high."

  “I consider my freedom a very high stake, indeed!"

  Connal threw bac
k his head and laughed.

  Liandra's hands balled into fists. “How dare you make light of my situation! It's no laughing matter!” Stars, I'd like to slap that smile from your face and... What she wanted to do—no Asarian should dare contemplate, but it might feel good, just the same! “You are nothing but a barbarian!"

  Connal drew in a long breath. His eyes darkened, extinguishing all trace of humor “I do not like to be called a barbarian.”

  “And I don't like to be called witch. How is it you call me in your tongue? Ban ... Ban dr..."

  Connal grimaced. “Ban-drooy. If you are going to speak my language, please do it the courtesy of correct pronunciation."

  “For what you've done to me, expect no courtesy..."

  “Then in that regard we are even. Expect no consideration from me for your actions. You escaped your chamber by witchery. Be warned! You will not do so again. Now we must talk, and how considerate of you to choose to come to me.” He inclined his head in mock gallantry. “However, you have made a great mistake in leaving your chamber."

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Connal mimicked. “You have seen more of my world than I intended."

  “I don't understand."

  Connal folded his arms. “Once you had revealed Garris’ whereabouts, I would have returned you to the League, little wiser about me, or Caledonia."

  “And now?"

  He regarded her silently. The situation might still be salvaged. She had no idea of Caledonia's location. He could return her home. What little he knew of Liandra, her curiosity and determination would insist on answers. No doubt she would search, probably have the League launch an investigation, but he and his people would remain hidden. Safe. No real damage done.