He was beginning to resent that his king had given him no orders. There, in his dark kingdom, Vengeance knew who he was and what his aim. Here, he was lost, abandoned in a stifling, garish world he did not understand, surrounded by creatures he could not fathom, with not one word of guidance from his liege.
And now the wench wanted him to do something else. Precisely what, he wasn't certain, but he suspected it boded ill for him. She was a creature greatly preoccupied with her physical comforts, and down that path—so his king oft said—lay weakness, folly, and ruin. Vengeance had few physical needs, merely food, water, and the occasional hour of rest.
"Kiss me," she said, making a plump pucker with her lips. She gave the velvet coverlet a final smoothing. "I think it might help you remember."
"What exactly is a kiss?" he asked suspiciously.
Her eyes widened and she regarded him with amazement. "You don't know what a kiss is?" she exclaimed.
"Why should I? 'Tis a mortal thing, is it not?"
She cocked her head and looked as if she were having a heated internal debate. After a moment she appeared to reach a decision and stepped closer to him. Stoically, he held his ground this time, refusing to cede an inch.
"I merely want to press my lips against yours," she said, innocence knitted to a disarming smile. "Push them together, like so." She demonstrated, and the lush moue of her mouth tugged something deep in his groin.
"Nay. You may not touch me," he said stiffly.
She leaned closer. He caught a faint scent, something sweet and flowery on her fiery tresses. It made him want to press his face to her hair, inhale greedily, and stroke the coppery curls.
He leaned back. Fortunately, the lass was too short to reach his face without his cooperation. Or a step stool.
"You are so stubborn," she said, with a gusty sigh. "Fine, let's talk then. It's pretty clear we have a lot to talk about." She paused, then, "He doesn't know what kisses are," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. "That's never happened in my dreams before." Perching on the end of the bed, her feet dangling, she patted the space beside her. "Come. Sit by me."
"Nay." When the kitten jumped daintily onto the bed and spilled across the velvet coverlet, he scowled at it. "You or that bedraggled mop of fur—I'm fair uncertain which is more useless. At least the beastie doesna prattle on so."
"But the beastie can't kiss either," she said archly. "And it's not bedraggled. Don't insult my kitten," she added defensively.
"You attribute high value to these kisses of yours. I scarce believe they are worth much," he said scornfully.
"That's because you haven't kissed me yet. If you did, you'd know."
Vengeance moved, in spite of his best intentions, to stand at the foot of the bed between her legs. He stared down at her. She scooped up the kitten and pressed her lips to its furry head. He closed his eyes and fought a tide of images that made no sense to him.
"Perhaps you're afraid," she said sweetly.
He opened his eyes. "I fear nothing."
"Then why won't you let me do something so harmless? See? The kitten survived unscathed."
He struggled with the answer for a moment, then said simply, "You may not touch me. 'Tis forbidden."
"Why not, and by whom?"
"I obey my king. And 'tis none of your concern why."
"I think it is. I thought you were a man who thought for himself. A warrior, a leader. Now you tell me you follow orders like some little puppet."
"Puppet?"
"An imitation of a real person fashioned of wood, pulled this way and that by its master. You're nothing but a servant, are you?"
Her delicate sneer cut him to the quick, and he flinched angrily. Who was she calling a servant? He was Vengeance, he was perfect and strong and… Och, he was his king's servant. Why did that chafe? Why did he suffer the odd sensation that once he'd not been anyone's serf but a leader in his own right?
"Why do you obey him?" she pressed. "Does this king of yours mean so much to you? Is he so good to you? Tell me about him."
Vengeance opened his mouth, closed it again, and left the room silently.
"Where are you going?" she called after him.
"To prepare a meal, then you will sleep and leave me in peace," he growled over his shoulder.
Jane ate in bed, alone but for the kitten. Aedan brought her fish roasted over an open fire and a blackened potato that had obviously been stuffed in the coals to cook, accompanied by a similarly charred turnip, then left in silence. No salt. No butter for the dry potato. Not one drop of lemon for the fish.
Warily, she conceded that she was probably not dreaming—the fare had never been so unpalatable in one of her dreams. And upon reflection, she realized that although she'd attended many dream feasts, she'd never actually eaten anything at any of them. Now, she choked it down because she was too emotionally drained to attempt cooking for herself over an open fire. Tomorrow was another day.