Free Dreamspell by Tamara Leigh

contingents, one he headed up, the other led by a man whom Marion had said was the most trusted of her brother’s knights. Once over the stinking moat, the two contingents had ridden opposite one another.
    The horse veered, once more snapping Kennedy’s head back against her escort’s chin. She yelped.
    The knight shouted, then spewed words so charged with anger they tripped over one another in their haste to be the first to exit his mouth.
    Feeling herself slipping, knowing the horse’s pounding hooves were her next stop in this nightmare, Kennedy grabbed for something to hold onto and came up with a handful of mane.
    The horse careened, tossed its head, and reared. Then she was falling.
    Now would be a good time to wake up. Her only lifeline the coarse hair her fingers tangled around, she held on as she twisted and slammed against the horse. Then her feet hit the ground as the animal came back to earth.
    Though she risked being trampled, she knew that if she held on she would be dragged. She thrust backward, landed on her rear, rolled to her back, and was spared the beast’s hooves by inches.
    With a whinny, the horse galloped away.
    Kennedy closed her eyes and let her aching muscles sink into the earth. It was a relief to feel the still ground beneath her. Though this dream had given her back her health, she tired of its gore, wild horse rides, uppity Lady Aveline, and temperamental “lord.”
    “Lady Lark!”
    In that moment, she would have welcomed a visit from an obnoxious salesman were he to awaken her from this dream.
    Armor pealed its familiar chime, feet landed with a thud, and a warm hand felt for the pulse in her neck.
    The louse probably had his fingers crossed in hopes she was dead. She opened her eyes. Before a scathing word could pass her lips, his hands felt downward—over her collarbone, around her ribs, then her hips.
    Kennedy pushed onto her elbows. “I’m fine.”
    He turned his gaze on her.
    For an instant, she thought she might have mistaken him, but it was Wynland, a man transformed by moonlight that gentled his features and forgave him nearly every flaw—even the kink in his eyebrow.
    “You are uninjured?”
    Nothing felt broken, but she was one massive ache. “No thanks to you.”
    His eyes caught the bare light and turned chill again. “Then let us delay no more.” He straightened and motioned someone forward.
    When she saw who it was, she scrambled to her feet. “If you think I’m getting back on that horse”—she jabbed a finger toward the advancing knight—“think again!”
    The knight dismounted and stepped before Wynland.
    “Sir Malcolm, what befell you that the lady with whom you were entrusted lost the saddle?”
    “Forgive me, my lord. In all my years in your service, never have I taken my duties without due seriousness.” He glanced at Kennedy. “The lady does not move with the horse, but against it such that my mount grew anxious. Thus, when we rounded the road, my horse reared. As the lady was sidesaddle, I was unable to keep hold of her.”
    Sidesaddle because he wouldn’t have it any other way. Kennedy had tried to convince Sir Malcolm it would be better if she rode astride. Failing that, she had thrown a leg over the horse, but he had lifted her and plunked her down sideways. Maybe the next time he would listen to her. Not that there would be a next time.
    “I shall deal with you later,” Wynland said.
    As irked as Kennedy was, she feared for the knight, as her father had said those same words to her. Later, he had pared a willow branch and “tanned her hide,” criss-crossing her rear with welts. With Wynland, punishment was bound to be more harsh than a willow branch.
    “Make ready to ride,” he ordered the knight and started for his own horse. “Come, Lady Lark.”
    She hurried after him. “Mr. Wynland.”
    His stride never broke.
    “All right. Lord Wynland!” She caught his arm.
    He halted, though only because he had reached his horse.
    “What