Crystal Dreams Page 9

  Liandra groaned and pressed her face down into the pillow. What was she going to do? Fight it—that's what. The last thing she wanted was a man—any man—especially one who was a savage. She had to resist. Survive, somehow, and leave Caledonia and Connal—leave everything far behind.

  Once home, she would return to normal. Or would this abhorrent experience forever leave its mark on her psyche? At such a terrifying thought, tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.

  * * * *

  Liandra woke to the light knock on the door and moments later Dougall strode warily into her chamber. Behind him, a young girl carried a tray, which she placed on the table.

  “With Lord MacArran's compliments,” Dougall said, backing out of the room. The serving girl scampered after him.

  Despite her hunger, Liandra tried to ignore the aroma of food. Before she knew what she was doing she had lifted the lid of the tray, staring down at the meal that Connal had sent.

  Well, she wasn't going to starve herself. Besides, she knew that if she did follow through with such a childish act, Connal would undoubtedly force-feed her. Her dignity had taken more than enough battering, it was time for a new strategy, so while she ate, Liandra considered her options.

  After her third cup of tea and a delicious wedge of fruit tart—amazing how food could put a different perspective on things—she felt almost better. Time to attend to more of her needs. Her skin itched. What she had postponed could not be put off any longer.

  She experimented, again, with the bathroom fixtures, finding through trial and error how to work the bath. She grimaced as the warm water trickled through her fingers. This experience was not going to be pleasant, she thought, stripping off her robe.

  Stepping into the water, Liandra shuddered. A few minutes later, she had grown used to the sensation, made doubly interesting by the lather of scented soap which took some of the tired ache from her body.

  She attacked her hair, finding it an almost impossible task. It snagged and more than once she mouthed a Caledonian expletive as her fingers knotted in the wild tangle of wet hair.

  How, in the Seven Stars, did the women of Caledonia manage? Again, she thought fondly of her servitors. Now, without them, she realized, for the first time in her life, just how totally reliant she had become on her mechanical aides.

  Leaving the bathing-room, Liandra threw a shawl around her body, and opened the door.

  Dougall sat in his chair against the far wall. At his elbow he had a small table laden with food and drink. A young man beside him was laughing as Dougall spoke. They were immediately silent the moment Liandra stepped from the chamber. She stood uncertainly in the corridor, water pooling around her feet.

  “Och!” the young man said. His eyes widened as he took in her every detail.

  “Control yourself, Colin!” Dougall snapped at his companion.

  “Maer Dougall?” Liandra said.

  “Aye?” He came stiffly to his feet.

  “I need help."

  “Och aye?"

  “Maera... Mistress Fianna. Would it be too much trouble to send her a message, at your convenience? Please. I need her assistance."

  Dougall frowned, his eyebrows bristling.

  “I realize my accent is strange,” Liandra said. “Can you understand me?"

  “Aye, lass, that I can.” He turned to the young man. “Colin, do as the lady bids."

  Colin nodded and backed down the corridor, his eyes never leaving her. He nearly tripped over his own feet.

  Dougall swore, exasperated. He turned his gaze on Liandra, his thick eyebrows drawing together in a fierce scowl. “I would be getting back in your chamber if I were you, Mistress. The air be chill and you are not—well—decent.” A flush raced across his wide cheeks.

  Liandra glanced down at herself. Since she saw no intimate flesh exposed, she wondered what was wrong with him.

  “Mistress Liandra!” Fianna's shrill voice echoed in the corridor. She hurried forward, Colin at her heels. Another young giant, grinning from ear to ear, appeared at the end of the corridor.

  Dougall stalked down the passage. “Be away with you, or I will be taking a birch to both your backsides!”

  Silently, Fianna ushered Liandra into the chamber and firmly closed the door.

  “What were you thinking of, Mistress Liandra?” Fianna snapped.

  “Why are you angry with me?"

  “Why? Arran's Mercy! You cannot stand half naked in the corridor, with the men ogling you like that! The castle will be gossiping with this latest news. You mark my words, Colin and Angas are notorious."

  “I don't understand."

  Fianna threw her hands heavenward. “Aye. I forget you are not one of us.” She drew in a deep breath. “Colin said you wished to see me. Why so?"

  “My hair!” Liandra ran a hand through her dripping, tangled curls. “'Tis a disaisterrr.” She frowned, for her own speech had taken on a Caledonian accent.

  “What did you use on your hair?"

  Liandra led Fianna into the bathroom. “This,” she said, taking up the sticky cake of soap.

  “Soap is for the body.” Fianna drew down two containers from the shelf. “This lotion is for washing hair, and this for rinsing, to keep away the tangles.”

  “What are these for?” Liandra asked, sweeping her hand over the jars and bottles that Fianna had given her. Not knowing what else to do, she had placed them on the bathroom shelves.

  “Lotions for cleansing the face. Have you no experience of such?"

  “At home, I bath in a cubicle of light where impurities are removed from my body without the need for soap and water. My servitors see to everything. I just lie back and relax."

  “Truly?” Fianna regarded her in amazement. “I would like to see that. You do not have water on your world?”

  “Of course. When I lived with my parents on their estate, I used to swim in the lake. There the water's trillian-gold. It didn't feel like this, and it never wet me."

  Fianna's mouth dropped open. “You come from a place of marvels, that is certain. Now, sit."

  Liandra did as she was told and allowed Fianna to gently administer to her.

  “Oh—by Arran—your hair, Mistress Liandra!"

  “What's wrong?"

  “'Tis changing color. Before my eyes, it is! What have I done?"

  Liandra tossed her hair back from her face and regarded herself in the mirror. She grimaced. “The water's reversing the color I programmed into it."

  Fianna's eyes were huge in her small face. “And this silver I see, ’tis your natural shade?"

  “Yes."

  “I like it better than the green."

  Fianna carefully dried Liandra's hair, and began to comb out the tangles, though the pain of her ministrations made Liandra flinch.

  “Sorry I am, Mistress,” Fianna said. “Next time you know what to do, but if you ever need my help, with anything, at any time, you have only to ask."

  “Thank you. I would prefer it if you called me Liandra. I am not a Mistress."

  “That would please me."

  “But not me!” Connal's voice thundered behind them.

  Both women started in shock and turned to him. They flinched at the anger in his eyes.

  “What is it you be doing, Fianna?"

  Haltingly, the young woman began her explanation. As Liandra listened, Fianna's soft voice trailed away to a whisper. She watched the line of Connal's lips grow even tighter. His gray eyes turned a stormy black. Trouble for her, again, Liandra thought. How well she knew the telltale signs.

  “Leave me,” Connal said.

  Fianna hurried to obey. Once the door closed behind her, Liandra turned accusingly to him. “What is it you do to your people that makes them fear you so?"

  Connal folded his arms. “They have a healthy respect for me, ’tis all."

  “I don't call it healthy," Liandra countered.

  He shrugged her accusation aside. As he studied her from head to toe, Liandra pulled the
shawl closer around her body, wishing she was more properly screened from his penetrating gaze. Up until that moment her body had never discomfited her—nude or otherwise.

  “Downstairs, the men are eagerly plying my two clansmen for every intimate detail of my—guest's appearance. What possessed you to stand naked in the corridor?"

  “I wasn't naked. I wore this."

  “It leaves little to the imagination, and my clans-men are very inventive. For your own sake, do not ever do it again, Liandra. My men are only flesh and blood. I do not feel like punishing any transgressions which you will cause by appearing like this before them."

  “If your men as so carnally inclined, don't hold me culpable."

  “I am not in the mood for your provocations! If you cannot behave in a seemly manner, then I will have you locked in your chambers like an errant child. Though, as I see, child you are not."

  Liandra drew the shawl tighter to her body. The action revealed more flesh than it hid. The light in Connal's eyes revealed to her how much he enjoyed the spectacle of her nude flesh. His attention riveted upon her legs. The flush of embarrassment heated her from her head to her toes.

  Slowly, reluctantly it seemed he drew his gaze to her face. “Why did you send for Fianna?"

  “I needed her help. Because of your abduction, I'm without my servitors..."

  “What a tragedy you are now forced to rely on yourself to see to your daily needs. Perhaps this experience might teach you a lesson."

  “It has already done that, Connal MacArran,” Liandra snapped.

  “Oh, aye?"

  “Never to open my door to a stranger who cannot speak League Standard."

  Connal threw back his head and laughed. Furious with his indifference, Liandra turned her back on him and stalked away. She picked up her comb and began to run it through her hair, wondering how Fianna could manage the task so easily. Her fingers were all thumbs.

  “You are but a child,” Connal said, taking the comb from her hand, before she could protest. “Let me.” He seated her on a chair before the fire and stood behind her. Gently, he proceeded to untangle every knot in her hair.

  “You do that very well, Connal MacArran,” Liandra said, surprised by the husky tremor in her voice.

  “Years of practice.” Connal laughed.

  How many times, and with how many women had he performed just such a task, no doubt as a preliminary to other, more intimate forms of foreplay? At that thought, her throat constricted painfully. Her breathing became rapid, to match the pace of blood flowing in her veins. The man was a walking contradiction of emotions and behavior. Totally unstable. The League males of her experience were cultured. Predictable. But in their refinement they lacked vitality and spontaneity. Whatever Connal's failings—and Stars knew he had many—she could admire his proud individuality. His uniqueness.

  The comb ran smoothly through her hair, and the warmth of his body so close to hers, melted her ice-cold flesh. His presence swirled all around her, through her. His fingers rested on her shoulder, searing her skin, while his other hand expertly tooled the comb.

  The silence in the room deepened, thickened and now the comb slid easily through her hair now cleared of every tangle. He gently took some of her hair and raised it, running his cheek over the strands. Liandra half-turned to look up at him, indignation warring with the surprising pleasure from his touch. His eyes were deepest gray as they lingered on the swell of her breasts above the shawl draped around her body.

  In response to her, she sensed the blood began to sing in his veins. He swallowed down, hard, trying to regain his composure.

  “When I first saw you in your apartment ... I had never before seen a woman with green hair. Now ’tis fading.”

  His voice was a husky whisper, so low, that Liandra felt certain he had inadvertently spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “It's not my true color,” she said.

  The combing shivered to a halt. “What did you say?”

  “I said green is not the natural color of my hair."

  “If that is so, why change it?"

  “Because I don't like it.”

  “What I see beneath the green, ’tis the color of starlight. Many women I know would be pleased to have such."

  “If they had the technology at their disposal, they could alter it to any hue they desired. People should be allowed choices. My servitors indulge mine."

  “A woman who wishes to change the beauty of her natural appearance, the more fool she,” he retorted.

  “I only...” Liandra pursed her lips. How could she reveal the truth to him? That the reason she kept her silver hair disguised had nothing to do with vanity, but practicality.

  The curious and the deranged often pursued Asarian Dream-weavers, to experience their legendary mystic sensuality. Her uniquely Asarian hair had been camouflaged since her first unfortunate experience at the age of twelve. She hadn't suffered physically from the man's ardent curiosity. Her security servitor had been able to incapacitate him. She'd been badly frightened, but nothing more. The memory of that encounter had made her wary. She had never revealed her true self to anyone. She could not tell Connal this. He was a stranger, and no one except another Asarian could understand.

  “You be very quiet, Counselor. Perhaps, because, I have the right of it? Do you easily change your appearance to accommodate the tastes and fancy of your clients?"

  She turned to him. “My style is for my pleasure only. Not yours, nor any other! Mine, alone!"

  Connal smiled his disbelief. “How many other Liandras are there? How does any man know which one is the real she? Perhaps even you no longer remember."

  “I haven't forgotten who I am."

  “I have a feeling that by the time your visit to Caledonia is over, you are going to learn much more about yourself than you ever expected.”

  As his knuckles brushed over her shoulder and down one arm, she shivered. Not from horror, or disgust. From pleasure. Pleasure from a barbarian's caress. She loathed everything about him, yet she wanted more of his touch.

  Fight this, now, Liandra! You must for your sake as well as his!

  Because if she allowed more physical contact, even if her rational half didn't want him, sometimes things happened which were beyond one's control. She'd been careful in the past to avoid relationships. But Connal's savage masculinity had managed to infiltrate her in ways no other male, no matter how gentle, had ever managed. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, he stood before her, a strange, faraway way look on his face.

  He took some of her moist hair and caressed it between his fingers, his gaze holding her prisoner. “The green hair was becoming, but the silver—that I much prefer."

  “I'm so pleased to have your approval,” Liandra said, finding to her shock, that her voice was a throaty whisper.

  He chuckled. “You will never have my approval, witch. That I promise you."

  It was with visible effort, Liandra saw, that he pushed himself away from her, and without a backward glance, strode to the door. It closed behind him. Liandra sagged against the chair, wondering why it was so that whenever he left her, it was as if some invisible prop had been removed. His absence was preferable to his presence, wasn't it?

  Liandra did not dare to answer that question. It was dangerous for her to be near him. And they still had to dream-share. They were playing with fire.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Mistress?” Fianna asked.

  Turning from her bedchamber window, Liandra smiled. Behind Fianna, Connal strode into the room.

  “Is everything prepared?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Liandra said.

  “You are certain this is safe?” Fianna asked, twisting her hands together. “I could not bear it if either of you were lost."

  “We know what we do, the witch and I. We shall find him, darling.” He gently touched her hand.

  “There is no danger for you, Mistress?” Fianna asked.

  Liandra smiled reassuri
ngly. “This is my profession. Trust me."

  “I am not certain I can do this,” Fianna whispered.

  “For someone new to the role of dream-search monitor, you are surprisingly adept. I trust you, Maera."

  Fianna grimaced.

  “You will not fail us,” Connal said.

  Liandra checked the crystal alignments of her bed. When she glanced up, she saw Connal's eyes narrowed as he regarded her. That gray gaze of his was most unsettling, as was his frown.

  “Is something wrong?” Liandra asked.

  “Aye. Everything. I find your choice of clothing most inappropriate."

  “And I find your Caledonian women's clothes quite impossible. Suffocating, in fact. But you're safe with me Connal MacArran, I'm not a sensualator."

  “So you keep insisting, though you dress like one."

  “How would you know?

  “I have a healthy imagination."

  “Truly? Is your interest objective, or personal? Perhaps you need the help of a sensualtor? I can refer you to one if that's the case."

  “I need no therapy in that, or any regard!” he said, indignantly.

  Fianna touched Connal's arm. “I have great foreboding of this plan. Garris would not want you to risk your life for him, lord."

  “I owe him my life, many times over. That you know. Now, no more foolishness. Please do not cry. You know how I hate the sight of a woman's tears. Besides, think you a bed can hold any fears for me, Fianna? Tsk! You should know me better than that.” He laughed.

  Liandra ground her teeth. The man was full of sexual innuendoes that made her uncomfortable. Doubly so, because very soon she was going to be sharing her bed with him, and the intimacy and passion of their last dream-sharing had rocked her to the depths of her being. With great effort, she put her fears to one side, lest they interfere with her work.