A Kingdom of Dreams (Westmoreland, #1)

by Judith McNaught

“Until yesterday, my father hadn’t seen me in two years, and before that he rarely spoke to me!” That answer so took Royce by surprise that he stared at her. “Why not?” “I—I displeased him,” she admitted. “I can understand why,” he said bluntly, thinking her to be the most unbiddable female he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. She also, he noticed with a start, had the softest, most inviting mouth he’d ever seen and, very possibly, the bluest eyes.

“I despise you, and I despise everything you represent.” Royce stared at her, caught somewhere between fury, amazement, and admiration for her defiant courage. Short of murdering her, which would not give him the answers he sought, he was at a loss as to how to deal with her, and although strangling her held a certain appeal at the moment, it was out of the question.

She was like a puzzle whose pieces he had to wait to see one at a time, and each piece was more surprising than the last.

She wasn’t beautiful precisely, and “pretty” didn’t quite suit her either, but when she’d looked up at him in the tent today he’d felt stunned. Her cheekbones were high and delicately molded, her skin was as smooth as alabaster, tinted with pale rose, her nose small. In contrast to these delicate features, her small chin had a decidedly stubborn bluntness to it, and yet when she smiled, he could have sworn he saw two tiny dimples. Altogether it was an intriguing, alluring face, he decided. Definitely alluring. And that was before he allowed himself to remember her soft, generous lips.

Completely baffled, Royce stared at the nearly invisible, tight seam she’d sewn. Proud, haughty, undisciplined, and headstrong she was, he admitted to himself, but she was also a damned expert seamstress. “Does it pass your inspection, milord?” she prompted with a tinge of amusement. “May we keep our jobs, sire?” If she’d been anyone else but his captive and the haughty daughter of his enemy, Royce would have been sorely tempted to lift her in his arms and kiss her soundly for her badly needed help.

“God damn you!” he bit out savagely, his glittering eyes alive with rage. “That horse you just killed had more courage and more loyalty than most men! He had so damned much of both that he let you send him to his death.” Sorrow and terror were etched on Jenny’s pale face, but they had no softening effect on her captor, who tightened his painful grip on her hair, forcing her head further back, “He knew there was nothing but thin air beyond that tree, and he warned you, and then he let you send him to his death!”

Swearing under his breath, the earl reached out and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of flour, her buttocks pointing skyward, her long hair falling to his calves.

And in that unlikely moment, as she held his dagger poised high, ready to strike, Royce Westmoreland thought she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever beheld; a wild, beautiful, enraged angel of retribution, her chest rising and falling with fury as she courageously confronted an enemy who towered over her. He’d hurt her and humiliated her, Royce realized, but he hadn’t broken that indomitable spirit of hers. Suddenly Royce wasn’t certain he wanted her broken. Softly and without emphasis, he held out his hand. “Give me the dagger, Jennifer.”

“Words of love and tender admiration,” Jenny said dreamily. “A lady wants to hear that her knight loves her above all else and that to him, she is beautiful. She wants him to tell her that her eyes remind him of the sea or the sky, and her lips remind him of rose petals . . .” Royce studied her in appalled surprise. “You actually dream of a man saying such things to you?” She paled as if he’d struck her, but then she seemed to dismiss the entire matter. “Even plain girls have dreams, milord,” she pointed out with a smile. “Jennifer,” he said sharply, filled with remorse and amazement, “you are not plain. You’re—” More attracted to her by the moment, he studied her, wondering about her allure, but it was more than just her face or her body that attracted him; Jennifer Merrick had a glowing gentleness that warmed him, a fiery spirit that challenged him—and a radiance that kept drawing him toward her with increasing power. “You’re not plain.”

His voice harsh with feelings he could neither understand nor contain, Royce looked at her and said tightly, “Some women need no jewels to make them sparkle. You are one of them.”

Jenny stared at him across the short distance separating them, while a startling discovery slowly revealed itself to her. The man who people called a ruthless, brutal barbarian was something quite different: he was, instead, a man who was capable of feeling acute sympathy for a foolish young girl—it was there in the softened lines of his face. Mesmerized, she watched him stand up, her eyes imprisoned by his hypnotic silver gaze, as he walked purposefully toward her. Without realizing what she was doing, Jenny slowly stood up, too. “I think,” she whispered, her face turned up to his, “that legend plays you false. All the things they say you’ve done—they aren’t true,” she whispered softly, her beautiful eyes searching his face as if she could see into his soul.

“What were you thinking of a few minutes ago, when I came out here?” Jenny stiffened slightly at the question. She’d been thinking of only two things, and she certainly could not discuss one of them, which had been Brenna’s ingenious ploy. “ ’Twas nothing of great importance,” she evaded. “Tell me anyway,” he insisted. She glanced sideways, her heart giving a traitorous leap at the sight of his broad shoulders so close to hers and his sternly handsome face etched with moonlight. Ready, willing, to discuss anything to distract herself from her awareness of him, she gazed out across the hills and said with a sigh of capitulation, “I was recalling the times I used to stand on a parapet at Merrick and look out across the moors, thinking of a kingdom.” “A kingdom?” Royce repeated, surprised and relieved at the nonviolent nature of her thoughts.

She sent him a rueful smile, but her voice was oddly tinged with sadness. “It wasn’t a real kingdom with land and castles; it was a kingdom of dreams—a place where things would be just the way I wanted them to be.”

“You wanted to be a heroine to your people,” Royce concluded, smiling at a motivation he could readily understand. She shook her head, the wistful yearning in her soft voice banishing his smile. “Nay. I wanted only to be loved by those whom I love; to be looked upon and not found wanting by those who know me.” “And that’s all you wanted?” She nodded, her beautiful profile solemn. “And so I invented a kingdom of dreams where I could accomplish great and daring deeds to make it happen.”

And she made him laugh as no other woman ever had; she had courage and wisdom and a face that bewitched and beguiled. Last, but far from least, she had a directness, an honesty about her that disarmed him completely.

She had fought him like a tigress, but she surrendered like an angel. She had tried to stab him—but she had kissed his scars; she had slashed his blankets and sewn his shirts closed—but she had kissed him a few minutes ago with a sweet, desperate ardor that had twisted him into knots of desire; she had a smile that lit up the dark recesses of his heart, a laugh so infectious it made him grin. She had honesty, too, and he prized that above all.

Lifting his head, Royce stared down into her slumberous blue eyes, and Jenny saw the look of pure satisfaction mingled with puzzlement on his face— “Why is it when you yield, I feel like the one who has been conquered?”

Royce wondered grimly how it was possible that he could intimidate knights, nobles, squires, and battle-hardened soldiers into doing his bidding with a single glance, and yet he could not seem to force one young, stubborn, defiant Scottish girl to behave. She was so damned unpredictable that she made it impossible to anticipate her reaction to anything. She was impulsive, headstrong, and completely lacking in wifely respect.

Jenny surfaced from the pit of shame she felt and shot him a desperate glance, but Royce didn’t see it. He was standing without moving a muscle, his face hard and implacable as he gazed steadily at the restless crowd in the bailey. Even in her state of numb misery, Jenny suddenly felt as if there was a strange power emanating from him now, a force that seemed to communicate itself to all. As if a spell were being cast over them, the crowd grew silent and slowly straightened, their eyes riveted on him. Then and only then did Royce speak. His deep voice rang out in the unnatural stillness of the bailey, carrying with it the power and force of a thunderclap. “Behold your new mistress, my wife,” he pronounced, “and know that when she bids you, I have bidden you. What service you render her, you are rendering me. What loyalty you give or withhold from her, you give or withhold from me!”

Perhaps it was the weight of the ring and all that it implied, or perhaps it was the odd combination of gentleness and solemnity in his gray eyes as they gazed into hers, but whatever the cause, Jenny’s heart had doubled its pace. In a voice like rough velvet, he said, “We haven’t done anything in its usual order, you and I. We consummated the marriage before the betrothal, and I’ve placed your ring on your finger long after we exchanged vows.” Mesmerized, Jenny stared into his fathomless silver eyes while his deep husky voice caressed her, pulling her further under his spell as he continued, “And although nothing else has been normal about our marriage thus far, I would ask a favor of you—” Jenny scarcely recognized the breathy whisper that was her own voice. “What . . . favor?” “Just for tonight,” he said, reaching up and tracing the curve of her flushed cheek with his fingertips, “could we put aside our differences and behave like a normal, newly wedded couple at a normal marriage feast?”

“Why is it,” Royce murmured, gazing into her intoxicating eyes, “that every time you surrender willingly, like this, you make me feel like a king who has conquered. Yet when I conquer you against your will, you make me feel like a defeated beggar?”

“I was given to understand, my lord, that one of your many reasons for objecting to marrying me— even if I were the queen of Scotland—is because I am plain.” Jenny saw the surprised bafflement in his gray eyes and knew instinctively that it was genuine. “I’m sure I voiced many objections during that angry interview with Henry, but that was assuredly not one of them.” Quietly he added, “I am many things, Jennifer, but I am not blind.”

Aunt Elinor was in her glory, with a captive audience of more than three hundred people to converse with, although the person she was most often seen near was none other than Arik! Jenny watched her, amused by the elderly lady’s fascination with the one person who didn’t want to talk to anyone at all.

She reached out, idly following the handsome tracings on the cold glass with a fingertip, remembering all those sleepless nights at Merrick keep when she could not tear him out of her mind, when her body felt empty and overheated and cried out for his. Behind her, she heard him start toward her, and she knew what was going to happen between them as surely as she knew she loved him. God forgive her, she loved her family’s enemy. She had known it at Hardin, but she had been stronger then—and afraid. Afraid of what would happen to her if she let herself love a man who seemed to regard her as nothing more than a temporary amusement. But as surely as Jenny knew she loved him, she knew he loved her, too. It explained everything—his anger, his laughter, his patience . . . his speech in the bailey.

“Now, it’s your turn to answer my question. Why am I forbidden to leave this place? Is this my home or my prison? I will not—” “Your home,” he interrupted, and to her complete confusion, he grinned suddenly. “You have the bluest eyes on earth,” he added with a low, appreciative chuckle. “When you’re angry, they’re the color of wet blue velvet.” Jenny rolled her eyes in disgust, momentarily pacified by his answer that this was her home. “Wet velvet?” she repeated wryly, wrinkling her nose. “Wet velvet.” His white teeth flashed in a devastating grin. “No? What should I have said?” His smile was irresistible, and Jenny fell in with his teasing mood, “Well, you might have said they’re the color of—” she glanced at the large sapphire in the center of the crucifix “—of sapphires,” she provided. “That has a nice ring to it.” “Ah, but sapphires are cold, and your eyes are warm and expressive. Am I doing better?” he chuckled when she voiced no further argument to wet velvet. “Much,” she agreed readily. “Would you care to go on?” “Fetching for compliments?” “Certainly.” His lips twitched with laughter. “Very well. Your eyelashes remind me of a sooty broom.” Jenny’s mirth exploded in a peal of musical laughter. “A broom!” she chuckled merrily, shaking her head at him. “Exactly. And your skin is white and soft and smooth. It reminds me of . . .” “Yes?” she prompted, chuckling. “An egg. Shall I go on?” “Oh, please no,” she muttered, laughing. “I didn’t do very well, I take it?” he aske...

“Shall we walk outside? Tis a pleasant night for October—much too pleasant to spend it discussing things that must seem very boring to you.” “I haven’t been bored,” Jenny said softly, unconsciously smiling into his eyes. “Who would have guessed,” he teased huskily, “that the selfsame woman who once tried to carve my initials on my face with my own knife would be so agreeable a wife?”

“You English swine! My daughter chose to enter a cloister, she pleaded with me to send her away. She was prepared to make the marriage, but ’twas her holy right to choose God as her lord if she wished. No king can deny her the right to pledge herself to a life of seclusion and devotion to God, and you know it! Bring her down here,” he shouted. “She’ll tell you ’twas her own choice!” His words slashed Jenny’s heart like a jagged sword. Evidently, he really had intended to lock her away for the rest of her life, and without ever telling her what he meant to do; he’d been willing to sacrifice her life for revenge against his enemy. When it came down to it, he had more hatred for a stranger than he had love for her.

“Are you aware that your husband, even now, watches you with a look that even my unromantic husband describes as tender.” In spite of herself, Jenny glanced in the direction Katherine Melbrook was looking. Royce was surrounded by a group of their guests, including Lord Melbrook, but he seemed to be absorbed with the conversation amongst the men. “He looked away the instant you turned,” Katherine chuckled. “He was not, however, looking the other way tonight when Lord Broughton was hanging at your skirts. He looked ferociously jealous. Who would have guessed,” she rambled on cheerfully, “that our fierce Wolf would become as tame as a kitten after less than two months of being wedded?”

’Twill make it much easier for us—for you and I to . . .” Jenny’s voice trailed off as she tried to think what lay ahead for them, but all she could think of was what they had once shared—and lost. “For you and I to—treat each other courteously,” she finished lamely. Royce drew an unsteady breath and turned his head to her. “And that’s all you want from me anymore?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. “Courtesy?” Jenny nodded because she could not speak. And because she could almost believe the look in his eyes was pain—a pain that surpassed even her own. “That’s all I want,” she finally managed to say. A muscle at the base of his throat worked as if he were trying to speak, but he only nodded curtly. And then he left. The moment the door closed behind him, Jenny clutched at the bedpost, tears streaming from her eyes in hot rivers. Her shoulders shook with violent, wrenching sobs she could no longer control; they tore from her chest and she wrapped her arms around the post, but her knees would no longer support her.

“and while you are looking about, my dear, keep your head high, for you have made your choice—though a wrong one I think—and now you must try to carry it off.” Jenny’s head jerked toward her. “What are you saying, Aunt Elinor?” “What I would have said before if you’d asked me: your place is with your husband. However, my place is with you. And so here I am. And here is dear Brenna on your other side, who I strongly suspect is concocting some wild scheme to stay behind and remain with your husband’s brother.” Brenna’s head lurched around and she too stared at Aunt Elinor, but Jenny was too immersed in her own guilt and uncertainty to register much alarm over Brenna yet. “You don’t understand about William, Aunt Elinor. I loved him.” “He loved you, too.” Brenna said feelingly, and Jenny felt slightly better until Brenna added, “Unlike Father, he loved you more than he despised our ‘enemy.’ ”

Jennifer’s heart slammed into her ribs with a sickening thud when she realized he was coming straight toward her. The crowd saw it, too, and grew silent again, watching. While everyone in the Merrick gallery began to shout curses at him, Royce rode Zeus clear up to within lance’s reach of Jenny and halted him. But instead of tipping his lance forward for the favor he knew she would not give him, he did something more shattering to her, something she had never seen done before: He sat there, Zeus shifting about restlessly beneath him, and he looked at her, then he deftly but slowly twisted his lance, setting the end on the ground. It was a salute! her heart screamed. He was saluting her, and Jenny knew a moment of pain and panic that surpassed everything, even William’s death. She half rose out of her chair, not certain what she meant to do, and then the moment was past.

“What were you thinking about just now while you were looking out the window?” To his surprise, the question flustered her. “I— wasn’t thinking.” “Then what were you doing?” he asked, his curiosity aroused. A rueful smile touched her inviting lips, and she shot him a sideways look before turning back to the window. “I was . . . talking to God,” she admitted. “Tis a habit I have.” Startled and slightly amused, Royce said, “Really? What did God have to say?” “I think,” she softly replied, “He said, ‘You’re welcome.’ ” “For what?” Royce teased. Lifting her eyes to his, Jenny solemnly replied, “For you.” The amusement fled from Royce’s face and with a groan he pulled her roughly against his chest, crushing her to him. “Jenny, ” he whispered hoarsely, burying his face in her fragrant hair. “Jenny, I love you.”

Jenny was crying as she smiled back at them. After all, it’s not every day a woman is given a kingdom of dreams.