Once upon a Dream (13 page)

“D
ON'T TRY TO
move.”

Willow heard the deep male voice as if from a great distance.

“Let me up,” she whispered, but she felt as if there was no strength in any of her bones. She was floating, floating on a sea of air, and her limbs were heavy.

“Do as you're told, imp. And drink this. It will help.”

That voice. It sounded familiar. It sounded like…

Blaine of Kendrick
.

Memory flooded back, and with a start she forced her eyes open, only to discover that she was lying in Blaine's arms, her head lolling against his chest. Her cloak—it was gone. And her tunic—

Torn. The fabric had been rent, leaving her shoulder bare but for the cloth bandage tied around it.

“What did you…How dare you…”

“I had to see the wound, didn't I, to find out if it was fatal. It wasn't, my imp. It's barely a scratch. You'll live—not that you deserve to,” Blaine said grimly. “You
may thank me if you wish. I've cleaned and bound it for you while you slept.”

“And what else have you done?” Panic swept over her as she gazed up at him, but he only shook his head. An amused smile touched his lips.

“Nothing you would not have me do. I killed those outlaws for you. No need to thank me for that. And…no!” he added sharply as she began to turn her head. “Don't look over that way, or you'll faint again.” His arms tightened around her. “It's not a pretty sight. But I thought you'd be pleased.”

“I'm…delighted. And I would…not faint.” Willow struggled to sit up, but Blaine's arms held her snug against him.

“Can't you ever do as you're told?” He frowned in exasperation. “I said
don't move
.”

She felt him shift, reach for something, though he held her firmly all the while. “Here, drink from this flask. It will give you strength.”

“I don't want to drink any of your vile…Ooohhh!” She gasped and sputtered as he put the flask to her lips, and potent spirits streamed down her throat. They burned going down, almost as much as the wound in her arm, but when he at last took the flask away, she felt better. Some of the pain seemed to have ebbed, and the dizziness, too. The faintness in her head had cleared.

A few moments passed as she gazed up at the high clouds drifting in the bright sky. Not altogether unpleasant moments, Willow thought as she lay cradled against this man whose arms were so strong, who held her so carefully.

But suddenly she remembered her mission—and the need for haste—and she roused herself from the lulling sense of comfort that had overtaken her.

“Let me up.”

His grip never slackened. “In due time. You're in no shape to ride further into the forest just yet.”

“That is for me to decide,” Willow retorted as she began to push herself up and out of his arms. But the world tilted crazily, and she quickly closed her eyes, falling back against him. He grabbed her before she could slide to the ground.

“I warned you,” he growled.

Frustrated, Willow forced her eyes open once more and glared defiantly at him. “And I…warned you…not to follow me into this forest.”

“It's a lucky thing for you I happened along when I did.”

“I had everything…under control.” The fact that she knew it wasn't true, and that he had saved her life, only made her more cross with him than ever, and her eyes blazed with irritation. “I don't see how you caught up to me so quickly. I scarcely slept and I made good time.”

“Don't you understand yet?” Blaine stifled the urge to shake her. “Nothing is going to prevent me from finding and claiming the necklace. Not even you,” he added darkly. “I don't care how pretty you are.”

Pretty? He thought her pretty?

Her eyes widened suddenly. Blaine felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. When he'd been forced to tear her tunic at the shoulder to tend to that scratch of a wound, he'd glimpsed her soft, pale flesh—and even the tempting white curve of her breasts. He'd allowed himself to do no more than glance, but he'd seen enough to know that beneath her poor garments was a richly curved and beautiful female form. That knowledge, and the sparkling allure of her wide-set eyes and riotous spill of hair, were having a strong effect on him. He'd already experienced a tightening in his groin. Now, beneath that brilliant violet gaze of hers, he felt his blood begin to heat.

In vain he tried to summon up an image of Princess Maighdin, who was said to be tall and fair, with hair the color of spun gold. But his senses were full of this petite, slender imp with her glorious red-gold curls and a mouth that was made for kissing.

“You stay away from that necklace—and get out of this forest—and you'll be fine,” he told her, his tone hoarse.

“That is my same advice to you!” Once again Willow wrenched free of him. This time she succeeded in clambering to her feet. Perhaps not so gracefully as she would have liked, for she wobbled a bit unsteadily, but she managed to face him, one hand holding her torn tunic in place.

She met his hard stare as he, too, scrambled up. He loomed over her, tall, formidable, scowling. With his powerful legs planted wide apart and his eyes regarding her with a mixture of irritation and admiration, Willow thought him more handsome—and somehow more intriguing—than ever, and was alarmed by her own reaction. There were strange feelings churning inside her, feelings she'd never experienced before. She forced herself to remember that she and Blaine of Kendrick were at cross-purposes.

And that her father needed her…and the necklace.

“Don't think me ungrateful to you for what you've done. I know I'm in your debt,” she said in a rush, “but you don't understand. I must have the necklace, and no matter what it takes, I can't let you get to it first.”

He nodded. “That is exactly how I feel about you.”

Her desperation mounted at the determination she read in his face. “If you turn back and leave the necklace to me, I'll see that you get a bag of gold worthy of a king's ransom. If it is riches you're after—”

“You can't buy me away from this quest.” Blaine took a step toward her and grasped her arms, his expression unreadable. “I told you why I want the necklace. Now it's your turn to tell me why you want it.”

“I need it,” she said, startled by his direct assault.

“Why?”

Willow hesitated. The feel of his hands upon her was distracting. Her skin seemed to tingle where they touched. Yet she knew enough to realize that a man like him—for whom life was a game, a challenge, a chance to best his competitors—would understand nothing about the reasons that drove her: love for her father, loyalty, devotion.

“You won't understand.” She moistened her lips. “Or care.”

“Try me.” His tone roughened. “You say you're in my debt. Then you owe me at least an explanation. And something else.”

“Something else?” Willow stared at him. “What might that be?”

His eyes glittered. “A kiss.”

She stood there, frozen, one hand still holding her torn tunic in place, her breath squeezing tight in her throat. The forest, the horses, the dead men lying somewhere among the gnarled trees, seemed to fade. She could see nothing but the strong lines of his face, the magnetic gleam in those dark, hawklike eyes. For a moment she couldn't speak, then the words burst from her.

“I would rather kiss a pig.”

He edged closer. “Kissing me would be much more enjoyable,” he assured her.

“Enjoyable?”

“Don't you ever do anything just because it's enjoyable?”

“Of course.” She searched her mind for the last time she'd done something enjoyable. It had been long before her father had been imprisoned. It had taken her a week just to find him. And it was difficult to think just now beneath that intense stare of Blaine's.

“Picking flowers,” she came up with at last. “Swimming in the river on a summer's night. Besting one of Sir Edmund's knights at swordplay, climbing the highest tree in the wood that runs behind our cottage at Brinhaven.” She warmed to her topic. “Baking tartlets and feeding them to all the children in the village…”

“Enough.” He interrupted her. “What about kissing? Have you done much of that?”

Willow felt her face flame. “No.”

“But I thought you said you were in love.”

Her chin lifted. “I
was
in love,” she said quietly. Adrian's face swam into her mind. “But…he wasn't in love with me.”

Before Blaine could mock her, she rushed on. “He always considered me a child—and he never would have tried to steal a kiss. He was the finest man you could ever hope to meet and not the type who would—” She broke off, certain that her cheeks must be brighter than the summer roses in her father's garden.

“He wasn't the type of man who would kiss you? Something wrong with him? Or do you think there's something wrong with kissing?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure it is very nice—with the right person. It's just that Adrian never knew how I felt—that I loved him with all my heart. He was older than me,” she added quickly, “and he was wise and kind and good. Everyone loved him. And now he's gone. He died nobly…in battle…and I…”

“You're never going to give your heart to another,” he said mockingly.

Willow drew in her breath, pain constricting her chest. His face looked so harsh—so cold. She hated him. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back.

“No,” she whispered. “I don't suppose I will. Not that you would ever understand anything that was fine and noble and good, anything about love!”

Blaine saw the shimmer of tears beneath those thick, sweeping lashes of hers and wished he could take back his words. He hadn't meant to hurt her. She was such an innocent, a lovely thing full of hope and courage and purpose, even if she did tend to chatter. He'd never cared for chattering women, but in her case there was something captivating about the way she rattled on.

“Tell me your name,” he heard himself saying, his voice harsher than he intended.

She stared at him, thunderstruck. “Why?”

“I like to know the names of the women I kiss.”

She swallowed. “You are not going to kiss me. But…it's Willow. My name.”

“Willow, if I were to let you glance over there and see the men I slew today—all for you—I think you'd concede
that you do owe me a kiss. One kiss. Payment for a service rendered.”

“Knights aren't supposed to demand payment from those they aid. They're supposed to help others out of chivalry, because of justice and duty and right—”

“I'm not like other knights. I thought you'd realized that by now. I make my own rules.” His arm clamped around her waist then, and he tugged her close. His other hand tangled in the spiraling curls that tumbled past her shoulders.

“Just one kiss,” he urged softly. His breath was warm upon her cheek.

It was madness, but she felt herself wavering. Heat flowed through her everywhere he touched. Those dark eyes seemed to draw her in…

The temptation to kiss him was almost overwhelming. But he was a stranger. Her enemy. Competing with her for the necklace.

He saved my life.

“Think about it.” Blaine's arm tightened around her waist. His voice was low, persuasive. How could a man's voice make her blood race and tingle? Her heart ache?

Some strange magic…

“Think about how you tried to put that sleeping powder in my ale. And that trick you played on me in the inn, when I was trying to come to your aid. That wasn't nice. Nor wise,” he added, frowning.

Despite herself, she smiled. “You must have been furious,” she murmured.

“With good reason.” His hand drifted from her hair and began to trace the delicate curve of her jaw. “I could scarce sleep a wink thinking of you. I planned to wring your neck when I caught up with you. But now…” He smiled, a deep, heart-stopping male smile that made Willow's knees wobble. It was a good thing his arm was supporting her, she realized faintly.

“I'd much rather kiss you, Willow.”

The sound of her name on his lips was her undoing.
Without even realizing it, she nodded, almost imperceptibly. His smile deepened, and he leaned in closer. She held her breath.

Blaine's lips found hers.

It was a deep kiss and a gentle one. Willow knew only that the world fell away and there was nothing but this man, this moment, this magic, as his warm mouth laid sure and masterful claim to hers. Blaine of Kendrick kissed her long and thoroughly and opened her to sweet, wild sensations spiced with fire. A shock of pleasure rocked her, and she trembled in his arms. She kissed him back with instinctive ardor, and when at long last he lifted his head, she stared dizzily into his eyes.

“One more,” he said hoarsely.

Before she could whisper permission, he drew her to him and kissed her again. This time the kiss was harder, deeper still, and hungrier than the first. Heat roared through her, and she clung to him, unaware of the pain that had burned earlier in her shoulder, aware only of his muscled arms around her, his mouth hard against hers, his tongue delving purposefully between her parted lips.

Then came more heat, more fire, a musky world far from innocence and sunlight, and she was beyond thought. Her senses reeled, her heart pounded, and she couldn't breathe…couldn't think…couldn't stop…

It was Blaine who stopped, drawing away from her so abruptly that Willow gasped in dismay. Her lips felt bruised and swollen, and bereft without his.

“I think…you've paid your debt now.” His breathing was heavy, ragged. He dropped his hands from her and turned away.

By the devil, what was wrong with him? He couldn't let her see how the kiss had shaken him. She was an innocent, just as he'd thought, yet the way she kissed him had jolted him harder than any blow in a jousting tournament ever had. How could this be?