Perchance To Dream (3 page)

A groan rumbled low in his throat as he leaned forward to cradle his aching head in his hands. The letter he'd stuffed in his waistband crackled, reminding him of his anger and rage.

He possessed no more control of his life than he did over the winds that filled his sails.

That had been one of the reasons he left England. That, and the unarguable knowledge that he was the black sheep of the Earl of Rice's extensive family, and that this self-same family was happier when they knew he and his father would not meet.

He ran a hand through his hair, disgusted with the half-truths he told himself. Left England. He had not left England. His father had exiled him. He'd been kicked out of England, just as the young cabin boy had said. And now his father called him home, for duty and family honor.

He turned his eyes from the shore, seeking the pink glow of dawn on the horizon, though his mind remembered England.

Why had Edward died of pneumonia? And worse, why had Charles taken a notion to fight a dual, and lose, over a blasted card game? Now he must be the Viscount Carrelton, heir to the Earl of Rice.

Like acid, the title ate at his soul.

He picked up a wine bottle from the deck, jerked out the cork, and tipped the nearly empty bottle to his lips. He drained it in one gulp. That was the third bottle. He held up the empty bottle to stare through it. He should have been drunk by now. Hell, he probably was drunk. Unfortunately, not enough to obliterate memory. Not enough to forget duty. Nor his father.

And the Earl of Rice wins.

Again.

He slouched against the rail and stared out at the morning horizon now awash with a pale pink glow. He wished his life could bring him beginnings as unique and beautiful as the dawn. He ran a hand around the back of his neck, stretching tired muscles.

He looked back at the quiet cove, his attention caught by a shift of movement.

It's her! In the water!

He stood up. This time he would hail her. He would not allow time and opportunity to slip through his grasp as so much had in his life. He waved his arms above his head. There was no time for tomorrows. He sailed for England within the month.

He fell backward as a loud crash shuddered the bow of the boat. He fought to regain his balance on the bucking deck. Twisting around, he came down against the tiller, awkwardly catching his weight with his left hand. Pain cut through the wrist.

He scrambled to his feet, cradling his left hand in his right. He lurched forward to see what had collided against the hull. He managed to grab the rail with his right hand before the boat shuddered again. The bow rose high into the air then fell back against the water, sending ocean spray up on either side.

He clung to the rail as the boat wildly rocked and he rapidly scanned the waters around him. What was that? A sea cow? That was the only thing he knew of in these waters that was big enough. But those were gentle animals, and not, to his knowledge, given to swimming fast. Could they turn vicious? Like a mad dog?

My Mermaid!

She filled his thoughts, crowding out all else. Would she be all right? What if this thing went after her?

He whirled around toward his storage locker, threw up the brass-hinged cover and reached in to pull out an oilskin wrapped gun, gunpowder, and shot. He braced his feet apart to steady himself on the rocking boat as he tucked the gun close against his left side and tilted the pewter gunpowder flask over the barrel. He glanced quickly at the rippling water, wary toward another attack on his boat, or on her. His left hand was nearly useless as he fumbled to ram a ball down the barrel. He tossed the powder flask and shot pouch to the deck. He lurched unsteadily toward the rail and looked out across the water toward the shore to assure himself she was safe.

Dammit, she was in the water!

Her hair swirled around her. He looked back to where the monster had come from when it attacked his boat. Again he could see the black beast's wavier form under water swimming toward him. He shot another quick glance toward his mermaid.

"Go back! Get out of the water!" he yelled, waving his arms.

He saw her glance up. That was enough. He looked back toward the black bulk in the water. It circled his boat, increasing speed with each pass. Then it turned and charged again, this time on an angle that would continue in its momentum to where
She
frolicked in the water!

"No!" The gun was heavy in his right hand, but his left hand hung useless at his side. His eyes tracked the animal's approach. He'd never seen a sea cow swim so fast!

No. Not a sea cow. It reminded him of a long ago dream of roiling black hate. He clenched his jaw. He didn't know how much more his boat could take, and he was afraid this thing, this watery beast, could turn on her. Carefully his finger curled on the trigger.

"No!"
The shrill, anguished cry soared over the water.

Andrew's head jerked up as his finger tightened on the trigger. The kickback sent him off balance, tumbling backward, but not before he saw a spread of bright red on the blue ocean waters.

He got it!

He saw the sky and the top of the boat's mast before his head hit the storage cabinet.

Andrew woke to pain. It encircled his head and pressed in upon his mind in agonizing waves. He shifted slightly, pain shot through the back of his skull. Gingerly, he raised a hand to his head and felt something smooth wrapped around it. A bandage of some sort, but the texture felt odd. He winced as another pain cut through his head. He opened his eyes, his eyelids fluttering weakly upward.

He blinked a few times as his mind sorted images into meaningful shapes. Gray rock surrounded him. It appeared he lay in a cavern, a cavern unlike any he'd been in before. Strangely, he could see yet not a candle or lantern burned to illuminate the small space. The gray rock above his head glowed with a silver, blue and lavender phosphorescence. He stared at the unearthly light emanating from the gray rock, then let his eyes travel down the wall to discover the cavern's entrance draped with an old fisherman's net interwoven with bits of shells and seaweed.

Where am I?

Andrew rolled onto his right side, the bedding he lay on gave beneath his weight while supporting his body, quite unlike a goose feather mattress. A costly French brocade woven in blues and golds draped the spongy bedding.

The small cavern held only an old dark oak Elizabethan chair, a footstool, and a table for additional furniture. On the table stood a stoneware pitcher, a pewter tankard, and a wooden plate with odd bits of a dark green and rust colored plant that did not look like any form of food he knew. But just the sight of something approaching edibility caused his stomach to noisily churn.

He eased himself off the bed, reeling against dizziness. He took a step toward the table. The pain in his head increased until he thought he would be sick with it. He fought against it, willing it to leave him in peace. The edges of his vision darkened.

He staggered forward, stumbling over the footstool. It clattered out of his path. He fell into the tall Elizabethan chair, his breathing harsh and ragged. His head screamed at him. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, his elbows braced on the table. From his left wrist came a dull, throbbing pain. He let it fall to his lap. That bite of pain brought memories of the attack on his boat and his fall backward.

Dimly, like pieces of dreams, Andrew remembered water all around him, and then a soft voice urging him down a long stone corridor. He tried to focus on the memories, but his mind shied away when pain threatened to overwhelm him. He rubbed his forehead with his good hand.

"Damn, I'm as weak as a mewling newborn!" he muttered in disgust.

A tinkling sound brought his head up, his muscles tense. He watched a woman's long, graceful white hand push aside the drape from the cavern entrance, the shells woven in the net clinking together with the movement. Her head dipped as she navigated the low entrance, knee length auburn hair rippled forward, shadowing her face, and drew Andrew's attention to her full-skirted Elizabethan-styled gown of pale green trimmed with gold embroidery and studded with pearls. Then she looked up, and Andrew felt an invisible fist slam into his stomach.

His breath caught in his chest. More stunning and desirable than his dreaming fantasies, her exotically slanted eyes were startlingly the silver of new buttons. They glittered behind a thick veil of long lashes. Sculpted like alabaster, her cheeks were high, her neck long, and her lips full. She moved slowly, and in a manner that would have appeared awkward in another woman.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice fluted, with a high, child-like accent Andrew couldn't place. "I heard a noise. . . ." Her eyes roamed over Andrew's slouched form and surroundings until she caught sight of the over turned footstool.

"Ah," she murmured, the sound sliding away in her throat. She crossed the room with her small, mincing gait to pick up the footstool and place it before the chair. She wriggled her fingers in a manner that reminded Andrew of rippling waves as she invited him to lift his feet and place them on the stool.

"Thank you." He searched her face. It was familiar, and yet unknown, like his patchwork dreams. "Who are you? What is this place?"

"I am Loreanne, and this . . . ." She looked away, her long fingers twisting together. "This is the place where you can live. Until your fate is decided," she finished in a low rippling tone.

Andrew rose, and noticed for the first time how tiny she stood. Her head barely came to the middle of his chest. "What are you talking about?"

The woman picked up a silver ewer and poured a rich ruby red liquid into one of the mugs on the table. "Drink. It will make you feel better," she said, her expression earnest yet indefinably sad.

He took the mug from her hand and set it on the table. Her brow furrowed as she looked down at it and shook her head.

"What is this place?" Andrew demanded. He'd had feverish imaginings before, but his imaginations were nothing compared to this reality that warred and danced with his dreams. He raised his hand to his throbbing head, pressing against the side of his head with the heel of his hand as if outside pain could conquer inside agony.

She looked up at him. "You are in a place where man can live," she softly repeated. Her silver eyes shone like melting ice.

He didn't understand anything. "Damn, this pain. I can't think straight."

She smiled sorrowfully. "You are where I never wished you to be, though I, in my loneliness, haunted your dreams by day and night."

His head snapped up. "You know you were in my dreams?"

She sadly nodded. "Oh yes, or else you never would have come to my cove. I am adept at willing others away."

Andrew felt bemused. "Where am I now?" he asked as he tried to find some mundane truth to cling to.

"You are in the realm of Merfolk," she said.

"Merfolk?"
He stumbled backward and sat down again.

"Yes, now drink, please. It will heal you." She picked up the mug and again held it out to him.

He took the mug from her, his dark eyes searching her face.

This beautiful woman could not be a mermaid. She must be a bedlamite. Or he was. This woman did not look crazed, but he'd learned a long while ago that the most cunning woman could wear the most innocent manner.

Or else this could comprise an elaborate ruse to force his hand into marriage. He narrowed his gaze, his lips compressed against the sour taste that rose up in his mouth. It was amazing how quickly the news of his supposed good fortune traveled. A title with money brought out the she-devils anywhere in the world.

"If you're thinking to maneuver me into marriage based on my prospects as the Earl of Rice's heir, let me reassure you that the bastard will outlive us all. You'll grow old and cold waiting for his money."

"Drink."

Her expression never wavered, the sorrow haunting her bright silver eyes.

He frowned, but lifted the cup to his lips. The pain throbbed in his head, sapping his strength to argue. He drank. The beverage tasted of strawberries and melon and some sharp green flavor he couldn't identify. It was at once refreshing and nourishing. He drained the mug.

She took the mug from him, set it back on the table, then took his arm to lead him back to the bed. Her touch was cool and smooth, almost slick. It brought odd bits of dreams to his mind.

He allowed her to coax him to the bed. At another time he might have coaxed her to join him. Not now. The pain in his head pounded too loudly for questions and answers. They could wait. Perhaps sleep. . . .

On the fringes of his consciousness he felt her light touch as she stroked his arm then ran her fingers through his hair. Her touched soothed. Vaguely, he realized his head had ceased pounding with its former fury. A deep lassitude seeped through his body. He slept.