Perchance To Dream (4 page)

He dreamed.

He dreamed again of swimming in the Caribbean ocean deep beneath the surface, moving amongst rock, coral, seaweed, and old sailing wrecks, startling rainbow-hued fish from his path. Water flowed around his body in a caress, stroking his senses until every pore thrummed with a waiting energy. He felt alive, perhaps truly alive for the first time in his thirty-one years. He wanted to savor the feeling, to understand what could make him feel this way. He turned his head to look at his body. . .

. . . And woke.

His eyes opened to again see rough rock trailed with glowing phosphorescent designs, and to feel his breathing come painfully fast and sharp. He blinked twice, and in that fraction of time knew he'd been dreaming. But it had been so real! The feel of the water, the brilliance of the colors, and the sight of the old wrecks with their scattered treasures.

Scattered treasures? So vivid was his memory of the dream he felt he could sail directly to a wreck and cull its bounty. What a fortune one of those wrecks would bring in England!

England.

His excitement faded. He threw an arm across his eyes as he lay back on the odd bed.

When first exiled to the island the bright colors in the Caribbean blinded eyes accustomed to the dimness of the crib parlors and low taverns. The fresh air made his chest hurt and his head light, so at night he dreamed of England. But slowly, with time and activity, he ceased fighting his exile to paradise. His eyes grew accustomed to the colors, his body accustomed to fresh air. He lost the sallow coloring of a London stews crawler.

He learned to work, and he learned to sail, and he learned to care about people surrounding him. He discovered he enjoyed estate management, and under his guidance the Rice island holdings prospered.

Andrew smiled with pride, then his smile faded. When he returned to England, would the new manager maintain what he started? Or would he be cut of his father's mold and believe fear the best motivator for man and beast?

It was after his dreams had turned to the sea that he'd felt pride in his activities and the beginning of peace within his soul. And a restless yearning such that in his waking hours when he could, he took up sailing. He felt power when the wind filled the sails and his boat skimmed the waves. Around him birds flew, diving into the sea for their meals, dolphins played, and the wide expanse of forever stretched out before him. He drew strength from the sea and it was the sea that washed away the last of the embittered man he'd been.

After the last of the ichors drained from his soul he found her. Flashes of images under the sea mingled with his sailing and planting dreams. Images of water, and coral, and her.

He frowned. He'd thought her a bedlamite or a conniving woman. But, no mortal woman could have invaded his dreams. If he truly resided among the Merfolk. . . .

As comfortable as his unusual bed felt, he had to get up. He had to get back to his estate. He rolled to his side and pushed himself up, this time testing his wrist's condition before he put weight on it. It still ached, but it would take weight. He sat up slowly, giving his head the same opportunity he gave his wrist. The pain was only a steady ache now, and the momentary dizziness a mild annoyance. Wryly, he decided he'd live. But how long had he been here?

He sat on the edge of the bed, willing his body to obey his mind. When he stood he swayed only slightly. The steps he took toward the table and chair were sure, though slow. He was careful to avoid the stool, He wasn't certain he wanted to make noise and bring someone, or something, investigating before he'd recovered his strength.

He studied the small table. While he'd been asleep food and drink had again been left in his room, for so he'd begun to think of the small cavern. His stomach gurgled at the sight of the repast laid out. He ignored it. Last time he ate of his own volition, he'd fallen asleep and he didn't know for how long. Was the food drugged? He turned away from temptation to closely study the draped cavern opening. Those shells attached to the net made an effective alarm. He remembered how it had been when she entered. A lovely sound, but distinct and carrying. He tried to look through the netting, but the woven bits of seaweed and shells made the net nearly solid. At odd intervals he spied a bit of cavern walls beyond the net. Then he heard someone coming.

Quickly, he lowered himself into the chair by the table and picked up a wrought iron fork with a twisted ribbon handle. The hair on the back of his head tingled with awareness until he heard the tinkling of the shells embedded in the net. Slowly, he turned to see who entered, then let his breath out in one long sigh. He hadn't realized he'd held his breath until he saw he again.

This time her gown was a deeper green, like a forest of pines, and styled like the eighteenth century gowns of his mother's youth.

She smiled shyly. "Ah, it is as I would think. You wake."

He nodded. The sight of her filled his senses and sent his awareness keening. Nonetheless, though his heart and soul spoke differently, this time he would not let her leave him with questions unanswered.

"Where am I?" he asked again.

She smiled sadly. "Where I would not have you be."

"So you said before." His brows drew together as he twirled the fork between his fingers. "Why am I here?" he asked instead.

"To see if Margareen lives. You hurt her with your thunder and pain."

"Thunder and pain?"

She nodded, her hair rippling. "You have a small one. The ships, theirs roar out like the earth up heaving and leave death behind."

"Death? Ships cannons? Ah, my pistol! The way the water deflects, I did not think I would hit the beast, only scare it."

Her head tilted, her expression quizzical. "Beast? Margareen is Merfolk!" Her lips twisted upward.

She was laughing at him!

"Me, I think you are blind. Land, and sea, and air, all around, and you are blind. I've tried to open your eyes."

He raised one cynical eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"In your dreams."

The hair on the back of the Andrew's neck tingled again.

"I've shown you the sea. Another, what? World? No. It is all the same."

He didn't understand what she was talking about, and wasn't sure he wanted to either. That might demand more of himself than he could give. "I take it you rescued me from my boat after I knocked myself unconscious. Thank you for your aid, but now I must get back to the estate. They'll be wondering where I am," he formally stated. He rose from the chair, ignoring the twinge in his temple.

She put out a hand. "No."

Her touch made his breath catch in his throat. He took her hand between both of his, determined to regain control of his senses and himself. Her hand felt small and delicate. "I must. I have responsibilities," he said softly, bestowing on her the gentle sincerity smile he reserved for skittish virgins.

"Yes. To Margareen," she replied.

He frowned. She was not reacting properly. "I don't know any Margareen," he snapped, dropping her hands. "You'll have to try another tack."

"You only live now because of my call."

He laughed harshly and pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger. "Not good enough."

"It was my fault you visited that cove." She hung her head. "I was selfish."

"That's your problem, my pretty." He walked toward the draped opening, then looked back. "I hope you have some sane relations to take care of you."

"I have no one."

He snorted. "That I don't believe. What about this Margareen?" Despite his intentions, he found himself lingering by the net. She looked vulnerable and lost.

She turned away. "Margareen is not family. Loud thunder killed my father. Mother swims in the west, away from memories."

He shook his head. He pushed aside the net curtain. The shells rang against each other.

She spun about and grabbed his arm. "No! It is safe here! Unless Margareen dies. And I am afraid. It is all my fault!"

"What in bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Margareen is dying! When she dies, so do you."

"That's excessively medieval, my dear, to say nothing of being stage dramatics."

Her fingernails dug into his arm. "You do not understand! She bleeds! It does not stop. The sharks...." She shuddered. "We have barred their way to these caverns, and the dolphins guard the coral gate, but her blood in the water sends them to frenzy."

"Then tell her to get out of the water."

"If only it were that easy. Margareen, she is old. Older than time. She is the oldest Merfolk. She is bound by age. She needs water. Too long in the air she shall be human, with no means of returning to the life-granting water. Please, will you help?"

"Me?"

"Yes. I've seen you. I've watched you with humans on land. You make things and fix things. Fix Margareen. Fix what your thunder did."

He looked at her in silence. She believed he could help this Margareen. Strangely, she believed in him! Why? No one in England did or would. Of course, a quiet voice murmured in his mind, he'd never given them any reason to.

His brows drew together as his lips thinned. Still, he thought, forming the ideas with an odd sense of wonder, who he'd been in England more than three years ago bore no resemblance to who he was now. Low tavern life seemed boring, and drunkenness a waste of time. Since coming to the islands he'd discovered the world, and that was too heady an aspect of life to throw away. He'd only now come to appreciate this, and the thought left him staggering. Perhaps he had more to offer England, and others, than he'd thought.

"I'll see this Margareen," he conceded, struggling with the stunning truth behind his realization. He looked at her thoughtfully. "We'll see after that."

She smiled, reminding Andrew of sunlight. Eagerly, she took his hand in hers.

"Come!"

She led him up a sloping rock cavern eerily lit with the same blue-white glow. In the distance he heard the muted sound of waves. She led him past alcoves filled with sea salvage. One particularly fine telescope caught his eye. It lay among ship galley utensils, oilskin, and plows. He would have liked to stop and examine it, but she drug him on. In another alcove were jumbled ship rigging pulleys, a pile of bedding, a jeweled dagger, silver candlesticks, and unmarked barrels of unknown origin.

When they reached a high, empty landing she stopped, and smiled at him again. "Do not be afraid."

Andrew lifted his eyebrow. "I assure you, my dear, I am not afraid, only a little annoyed by this secrecy and idiocy."

She shook her head. "You must see Margareen. Can you swim? Many humans cannot."

"Yes, I swim," he snapped, his patience waning.

From a hidden pocket in her voluminous skirts, she pulled out a red cap. "Put this on."

He sneered. "A red night cap? I don't wear nightcaps, nor anything else when I sleep. And I think I've slept quite enough."

She shook her head as she held out the cap. "When you wear the cap, you may breath in the water."

His head jerked backward. "Ridiculous, my. . . ."

A red cap! Legends mentioned red caps for mortals. . . . Slowly, he reached for the cap, his mind torn between belief and disbelief. He put the cap on. Idly, he wondered what his London cronies would say if they saw him now. No doubt assign him to Bedlam!

Loreanne smiled approval. Then she turned around. "You will unfasten, please?" she said, reaching her hand over her shoulder to indicate the lacing that held her gown together.

Andrew raised an eyebrow, but did as she asked.

When he finished, Loreanne allowed the gown to fall to the floor. She reached for his hand. "Come," she said, pulling him down the cavern walkway with its oddly hewn steps.

Bemused, Andrew let himself follow her command. She appeared not to notice her nudity. She was as natural as a young child. The realization sent heady waves of sensation through Andrew. Oddly, her attitude removed any hint of embarrassment or civilized notion of scandalous behavior. He noted that even without her gown she walked on tiptoe with small steps, barely moving her legs apart.

At the bottom of the steep walkway was a dark lagoon. She dropped his hand and dove in a graceful arc into the water. When she surfaced, she motioned him to follow.

Andrew removed his boots, took a deep breath, and dove in after her. The water caressed his skin, the sensation recalling his dreams. It was an unsettling feeling casting more doubts on dreams versus reality. He turned to come up for air. Loreanne caught his hand and pulled him deeper into the water. He tried to pull away, but her strength surprised him. He looked toward her trying to communicate his problem. She shook her head and smiled. He looked down at where she held his hand and realized he now saw only a shimmering blue-green tail where before had been milk white legs.

Merfolk! Death in the water!