Dreams of Stardust

  DREAMS OF STARDUST

  By

  Lynn Kurland

  Copyright © 2005 by Lynn Curland.

  Cover design by George Long.

  Cover illustration by One by Two.

  * * *

  To Cindy, Elane, Gail, Holly,

  Kory, Leslie, Lisa, Lynn,

  Mindy, Nikki, and Tennery:

  sisters I would have chosen if I'd had the chance.

  * * *

  Cast of Characters

  England, 1227

  Rhys de Piaget, lord of Artane

  Gwennelyn, Rhys's wife

  Their children:

  Robin

  Anne, Robin's wife

  Nicholas

  Amanda

  Miles

  Isabelle

  John

  Montgomery

  Berengaria, a healer

  Christopher of Blackmour, Robin's page

  England, 2005

  Jackson Alexander Kilchurn IV

  Kendrick de Piaget, lord of Seakirk

  Genevieve, his wife

  Their children:

  Phillip

  Robin

  Jason

  Richard

  Christopher

  Adelaide

  Anne

  Edward de Piaget, earl of Artane

  Helen, his wife

  Gideon, his son

  Megan MacLeod McKinnon, his wife

  Alexander Smith, earl of Falconberg, Gideon's cousin-in-law

  * * *

  Prologue

  ARTANE, ENGLAND

  EARLY SPRING, 1227

  "What are you doing here?"

  Amanda de Piaget looked at the knife in her hands and swore. Damnation, could a woman not be about a goodly bit of subterfuge without these sorts of unwelcome interruptions? It had taken her the better part of an hour to linger inconspicuously outside the armory until it became empty of anyone who might trot off and report her illicit presence to her sire.

  When her chance to be about her business had come, she had taken it without hesitation. She had applied herself to a thorough search of what was available and had just hit upon the perfect weapon when she'd been interrupted by the unwholesome sound of her eldest brother's voice. She took a deep, steadying breath and turned around to give Robin her most innocent look.

  "I'm doing nothing," she said, hiding the blade behind her back. "What are you doing here?"

  "I've come to see if there might be a dagger here to suit."

  "Why?"

  Robin blinked. "Because I'm in need of one."

  "Where is your old one?" she inquired.

  "Cannot a man have more than one?"

  "It seems wasteful to me," she said doubtfully.

  He scratched his head, as if he were actually contemplating the wastefulness of the future Lord of Artane having more than one dagger to hand.

  "Don't you have business elsewhere?" she pressed. "Things to do within the keep's walls?" The sure way to distract Robin was to demand answers to questions that did not merit deep thought. It tended to confuse him.

  He paused, then frowned. "I have business here," he stated finally, "and that would be to look for a dagger. What I don't understand is what you hope to find here."

  Amanda considered. There was the danger of alerting him to her scheme, but that was balanced by the potential of having him find her a better weapon than she herself might manage. Mayhap that was reason enough for a bit of honesty. She pulled the dagger from behind her back quite carelessly, as if she couldn't be relied upon to answer accurately why it found itself there.

  "What do you think of this one?" she asked. "Would it suit?"

  He peered at it. "Aye, I suppose I could make do with that."

  "Not you, dolt, me!"

  His eyes narrowed. "And what by all the saints do you need a dagger for?"

  "To stick you with when you vex me overmuch," she snapped. "Why else?"

  He looked fully prepared to retort with something nasty, but she watched him take a very deep breath, blow it out, then chew on his words before he carefully chose which ones to spew out.

  "Why do you need this?" he asked calmly.

  "To protect myself."

  He snorted, then held out his hand. "Let me have it."

  Amanda bristled. "I most assuredly will no—"

  "It is unsuitable," he said loudly. "With all the portly barges come to call on you of late, you'll need something longer. And sharper. Permit me a small look at what's available."

  Amanda was surprised enough at his words to allow him to take the blade from her. He poured over the offerings the blacksmith had laid out for the inspection of the lord and his favored guardsmen. Robin considered, stroked his chin, harrumphed a time or two, then reached out and picked up a dagger.

  "This will serve," he said, flipping it up in the air and catching it handily by the blade with two fingers. "See you how the balance is perfect? Good for an upward stab when engaged in a bit of tight, close fighting."

  "And what a pretty gem in the handle," she said.

  His snort almost blew her over. "By the saints, Amanda—"

  "It was a jest, Robin!" she exclaimed. She took the blade from him. "I'm sure it will serve me at night in darkened passageways when there are men lying in wait for me."

  His look darkened considerably. "Have any tried such a thing?"

  "I manage to drive them off before they can do me any damage," she assured him.

  "No doubt. But why, then, do you need a dagger when you can flay them with your vicious tongue?" he asked.

  She looked at him in surprise. Then unbidden, and certainly unwelcome, tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked furiously. Damn Robin, the unfeeling lout—

  But then, despite her confidence in the extent of his dimwittedness, Robin rolled his eyes and made noises of apology. He quickly found himself a sheathed dagger which he stuck into his boot, then took her by the arm and pulled her toward the doorway.

  "You are more tolerable than I allow," he said gruffly, "and any man would be fortunate to call you his."

  "Call my gold his, you mean," she said bitterly.

  "Men are fools, sister. What you need is someone with wealth of his own and no need of yours."

  "It has been four years, Robin, since the steady stream began and I have seen no man yet who has come just for me."

  "Four?" he echoed. "It seems nigh onto forty!" He cast her a sideways glance. "Perhaps you can be forgiven for that sharp tongue of yours, when one thinks on what you've had to endure."

  "Perhaps," she agreed, but in truth she thought her sharp tongue the least of her worries. That she had been looking over men for the past handful of years and not found a single one to suit was what troubled her. But how was she to choose, when all she saw were men who arrived at the castle with their eyes already full of the sight of themselves riding off from the castle with bags of her gold clinking at their heels?

  And now her father was pressing her for some kind of decision by summer's end.

  "We'll find you a man worthy of you," Robin said, slinging his arm about her shoulders in a rare, companionable gesture. "And until he arrives, I'll teach you a thing or two in the lists that will serve you."

  She blinked in surprise. Robin never offered to train anyone. Never. She could without effort make a lengthy list of men who had come seeking the like from him only to find themselves tossed out of the front gates, untrained and unsatisfied.

  Her eyes narrowed. Surely he was jesting. Besides, even if he wasn't, he was set to go to his wife's father's keep within the month. That was hardly enough time to learn sword hilt from sword point. She scowled at him.

  "Aren't you leaving soon?" she asked tartly.

  "Aren't you
a quick study?"

  Well, there was that, she supposed.

  "We'll start tomorrow," he said. "You'll just have to content yourself with what I have time to teach you."

  He gave her a squeeze that almost broke her shoulders, then patted her back for good measure. She managed to avoid sprawling on her face, but it was a near thing. She righted herself and watched him jog off to some other pressing errand, finding herself quite surprised at his offer and very grateful. If he only knew what she was really about…

  But he didn't, and he wouldn't. She hadn't been careful enough that morning, but she wouldn't make that mistake again.

  She stood in the courtyard and looked up at Artane, hovering over her like a bird of prey. It was, in truth, quite imposing, but she loved it with all her heart. The tenderest memories she had were wrapped up in the place, memories made with her family that she loved so much it pained her. The thought of what she was planning to do, what she knew she had no choice but to do was enough to break her heart…

  Robin appeared before her so suddenly, she squeaked. He frowned. "You are merely protecting yourself from suitors, aren't you?" he asked sharply.

  "Whatever else might I be doing?"

  "Hmmm," he said, "I suppose. Besides, for what other reason could you possibly need skill with a blade?"

  What other reason indeed, she thought.

  He patted her again thoughtfully on the shoulder, then turned and went about his business.

  Amanda sighed. She was grateful for many things, namely that Robin had gone away before he'd thought any more. She was grateful for aid from an unexpected source. And she was most grateful that that source had stopped asking questions.

  Because if he had any idea what she was about, she wouldn't find herself on that brief walk to the lists to train with him—she would find herself on a very brief jog to the dungeon, with Robin no doubt enormously pleased to be her jailor.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  EARLY SUMMER, 2005

  Jackson Alexander Kilchurn IV stood in the underground car park of a swanky London office building with his hands up in the air in as close to a gesture of surrender as he could stomach and paused in mid-mugging to review the events of the morning to see where he'd gone wrong.

  Waking up. Waking up to the unhappy sight of his father leaning over him fully dressed—his father, not he himself—bellowing that they were going to be late if Jake didn't haul his sorry backside out of bed immediately. Yes, that was a sight that should have merely inspired him to pull the covers back over his head.

  Obviously, he was not at his best in the morning.

  Not telling his father to go to hell. That had been his second mistake. If he'd just done that, he could have saved himself not only the annoyance of having to get up before the sun to shuttle his filthy-rich but notoriously cheap father to the airport, but also the irritation of having to listen to another paternal lecture on Jake's shortcomings, which included but were not limited to his marital state (none), his desire to follow in his father's business-empire-building footsteps (also unsettlingly missing), and his attendance at his father's London office (scanty, at best).

  When his father had begun to compare him to a barnacle on the yacht of prosperity, Jake had quickly pulled up to the curb, deposited his father and his father's suitcase onto the sidewalk, and beat a hasty retreat into his car before he'd said something he might have regretted, such as "Sure, I'll take that thin manilla envelope and have it signed by whatever massive, impersonal conglomerate you're dealing with these days if you'll just get off my back."

  Which he'd done just the same when his father had tossed it onto the passenger seat before Jake could lock the doors.

  That had led to mistake number three: being cheap. Yes, that was the third, final, and potentially quite fatal decision he'd made in a morning that had gone disastrously awry. Cheapness was apparently a trait he shared with the aforementioned disgustingly rich father, but he'd think about that later, when he thought he could stomach it. Maybe he would reterm it thrift and move on.

  But for now, he had to admit that he'd been cheap and had agreed to be his father's errand boy instead of shelling out the £50 for a courier—£50 that he would probably lose just the same to the thug behind him who was currently shoving a gun into his back.

  Was that a gun? Hard to say. His well-worn but at one time very expensive leather jacket wasn't exactly conducive to ascertaining the true character of lethal weapons.

  He quickly ran through his arsenal of deadly self-defense techniques, trying to decide which he could use without getting himself thrown in the pokey. He should have compared notes with that high-priced body guard he'd hired for his equally high-priced baby sister last year. Somebody MacLeod, he thought.

  Well, a last name didn't do him much good if he hadn't either written it down or programmed it into his cell phone, and since his cell phone was currently leaving his jacket pocket for points unknown, that last name would do him even less good. Where was that MacLeod character when Jake needed him?

  "Blimey, mate, where're yer keys?" the thug asked, sounding completely baffled. "Should be in this pocket here, I'm thinkin'," he added as he rifled through Jake's jacket pockets for the third time.

  Jake declined to comment. It was bad enough he was getting mugged; he had to get mugged by a moron. He spared an unkind thought for his father. If he hadn't been humoring the man by delivering a bit of paperwork to a business partner in this building… well, he sure as hell wouldn't be standing there being groped by a ne'er-do-well. He would have been rolling out of bed to head to his office where he engaged in his own brand of moneymaking.

  Which he would get to as soon as he gracefully extricated himself from his current situation. He cleared his throat. "Trouble?" he asked politely.

  The thug sighed heavily. "I'm findin' meself a wee bit frustrated at the moment. Don't suppose you have anything interesting in that fancy purse of yours, would ye?"

  "It's a briefcase, and no, there's nothing interesting in it."

  "Didn't expect there would be. Ah, here's something." He removed Jake's wallet from his inside jacket pocket. "Now, how 'bout those keys?"

  "Front trouser pocket," Jake instructed.

  "The things I do," the man said with another heartfelt sigh, and slid his hand into Jake's pocket.

  Jake decided, once his would-be assailant began to grope more than keys, that the time for action had come. He spun around, to the accompaniment of a very loud rending sound that signaled his pocket parting company with the rest of his trousers, then clouted the thief across the face with his very expensive attaché case. He followed that up with a fist under the man's jaw. The man slumped to the ground.

  Jake bent down to retrieve his phone and his wallet only to find himself seeing stars quite suddenly as well. "Damn it," he swore as he clutched his nose. Blood dripped through his fingers as he looked down quickly at his adversary, prepared to take further action.

  But the would-be thief was lying on the ground, drooling peacefully.

  Jake wondered how in the hell the man had managed to get one of his joints, either elbow or knee, in the vicinity of Jake's face, then decided it didn't merit further investigation. He made certain he had taken back his goods, then removed one of the least official-looking papers from his briefcase and used it for clean-up duty. It wasn't great, but it would do. He shoved the bloody page into his pocket, then made his way across the car park to the elevators.

  Several minutes and a brief detour to the loo later, he was walking into the very posh lobby of Artane Enterprises, Inc., his father's amour du jour. He had no idea what sort of sweet deal had been cooked up between the two, but since Jake knew nothing about AE, Inc. and did his damndest to know equally little about his father's own conglomerate, he considered himself happily in the dark. He was, after all, the mugged errand boy, nothing more.

  He walked to the receptionist's desk and flashed her a smil
e.

  "I'm from Kilchurn and Sons," he said. "I have something for the boss."

  The woman looked at his nose doubtfully.

  "A little accident downstairs," Jake said deprecatingly.

  He was apparently only marginally successful in easing her mind, because she put her hand over her mouth as she whispered into the phone. Jake waited patiently, with a harmless smile, until another woman came to fetch him. She looked him over and scowled, obviously not liking what she saw.

  "You're late," she scolded.

  "Sorry."

  "There is blood on your shirt and a rent in your trousers."

  "I got mugged in your car park," he said easily.

  She gave him a look of skepticism his father would have envied, then sighed. "Business first," she muttered, then led him briskly down a long hallway and toward a set of imposing double doors. She opened them with a flourish to let him inside, then closed them with a discreet click.

  Jake found himself in an office that somehow managed to be old world and quite modern at the same time. It was probably the smell of money. No wonder his father liked this group. The place just reeked of financial success.

  A sandy-haired man sat there, taking notes on a legal pad. "You're late," he said, not looking up.

  "I was busy getting mugged in your car park," Jake said.

  The other man lifted his head. "Is that so?"

  Jake offered his torn pocket as evidence.

  "And your nose?"

  "Let's not talk about that."

  "Hmmm," the other said as he studied Jake for a moment or two. "You're from Kilchurn and Sons."

  "I am."

  The sandy-haired man studied him a bit longer. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "you look a great deal like Mr. Jackson Kilchurn III."

  Given that his father was not an unhandsome man, even in his early sixties, Jake had no trouble taking that as a compliment.