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dream Kennedy could not recall. She wrenched backward and broke free, but not before he tore the veil from her hair.
    She shot to her feet and nearly tripped over her hem. Why was the dress so long? And why was she wearing something like this in the middle of a forest?
    Once more, she felt the vibration through the ground. It was stronger. Nearer. Horses? From which direction?
    She whipped her head to the side and the breeze caught her hair, sifting it across her face and into her eyes. Though she longed to pause and relish the feel of it, something bad was coming.
    It’s only a dream. Stay put and get it over with, and you’ll be awake in no time. But she couldn’t. Heart pounding, she gathered her hair high at the back of her head, knotted it, and hiked up her skirt.
    As in the days before her illness, she sped across the ground, vaulted over debris and fallen trees, and nearly forgot the reason she ran. She thrilled to the rush of blood and tightening of her lungs, the strength in her calves and thighs. The only thing missing was a decent pair of running shoes.
    When a shout resounded through the trees, she glanced over her shoulder. A horse and rider bore down on her. She pumped her legs harder, but she was no match for the four-legged beast that drew so near she could hear its breath.
    Wake up! she silently called to where she lay sleeping. Open your eyes! Though a thread of consciousness often allowed her to talk her way out of disturbing dreams, her pleas went unanswered. Thus, she veered right, seized a branch from the ground, and whirled around.
    Her pursuer reined in his horse, scattering leaves and dirt, and guided the animal sideways to look down at her. Clad in metal neck to toe—a jangling, clanking get-up that sounded with each quiver of his horse—he stared at her out of eyes so blue she knew her imagination was in overdrive. Though her dream had neglected to place a helmet on his head, it had made sure there was a sword at his side.
    Only a dream. He can cut you in two and you’ll awaken whole. At least, as whole as a person with a death sentence hanging over her head. . .
    “You do not need that.” His voice was deep and accented, though of a more precise nature than the dying man who had mistaken her for his lady. “You have naught to fear from me.”
    Of course she didn’t. He was only a figment, though from where he had originated she had no idea. But with those cheekbones, shoulder-length blond hair, and closely clipped beard and moustache, he was likely a belly-button-bearing model from a billboard she passed on her way to the university.
    “Lady Lark?”
    She blinked, then nearly laughed at the realization she had dreamed herself into the mysterious lady of Mac’s book. What was the year? 1373? As for this behemoth, was he Fulke Wynland? He had to be. Forget that he was blonde rather than darkly sinister as she had imagined, that his eyes were blue, rather than bottomless black. He was surely the one responsible for the carnage to which she had awakened, not to mention the death of his nephews and the disappearance of the king’s mistress—the same woman he mistook her for.
    She jabbed the branch at him in hopes it would send horse and rider back to wherever they had come from.
    The animal rolled its huge eyes, reminding her of the one time she had ridden a horse, a mistake that culminated in her missing a barbed wire fence by inches.
    “I am Lord Wynland of Brynwood Spire.”
    And beneath his armor he probably wore a medallion with a two-headed—what was it? Wyvern? “Stay back!”
    “I am King Edward’s man. Be assured, no harm will befall you.”
    She swung the branch. “I’ll brain you!”
    He frowned deeply, as if her words were foreign, as if her subconscious had not formed him from the pages of an old book. “After what you have seen, my lady, ’tis natural you would suffer hysterics.”
    “Oh, puh-lease!”
    He lowered his gaze over her. “You are injured?”
    No sooner