Chapter 7

Jude's heart pounded savagely against her ribs. Mad images flickered against the screen of her lids. She was dreaming, she knew, but couldn't seem to escape the disjointed vision playing itself before her.

Chanting, black-robed monks queued in an endless row, slowly circled the crosses in the courtyard. The dying sun bled the crosses red, and the forest's shadowy backdrop disappeared in a thick, rolling fog. A woman appeared from nowhere in the middle of the circle, her pasty, blank face zombie like in the fading light, her dark hair a sharp contrast to the flowing white of the dress she wore. Then she lay suspended in midair, levitated by some unseen strings above the ground.

The chanting increased. Growing louder and louder, stronger and stronger, with each beat of her pulse. A long, silver blade gleamed in the last speck of sun. And as the last ray of light buried itself beneath the horizon, the blade fell.

The woman's body jerked once.

Her death-dulled eyes opened, turning toward Jude. Her blood-red lips moved.

"Beware the monk," she said, her voice flat and hollow.

Then her eyes rolled back into her skull. The knife rose again. But his time the sharp, blood-tainted tip headed toward the dreamer. Just before it sliced her throat, the picture against Jude's lids splintered.

Jude's eyes snapped open. She jerked up, gasping as her hand reached for her heart. Fear-streaked sweat ran between her breasts. She glimpsed a shadow moving stealthily across the room. It disappeared into the wall. She rubbed her eyes with disbelief. It had been a dream, hadn't it? Yet she could have sworn the shadow wore a long, black-hooded habit.

A scream rose from deep inside and lodged in her dry throat, refusing to take shape. A manic thought infiltrated her brain, rooted and grew like Jack's magical beanstalk. It twisted and turned, encroaching on logic with its insidious branches until its tenacious fingers gripped her mind in its evil prison, forcing her to face what she'd wanted to deny.

Alana had disappeared.

Tommy knew she wouldn't be back.

The papers she'd found this evening beneath the silk of Alana's drawer, formed the perfect motive. With the divorce, he'd lose the trust fund. Was a missing wife still a wife in the eyes of the law? But he'd taken care of that with a stand-in, hadn't he?

Too clever, too sharp.

The ghost of her dream had warned her.

Alana was dead.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hiding behind his morning paper, Tommy tried to ignore Jude's entrance, tried to ignore the speeding of his blood through his veins, the yearnings tugging at his heart.

Except for the way she wore her hair, this morning Jude looked every bit as elegant as Alana. A barrette clipped her hair in a ponytail. Tommy itched to set it free, to see the strands ripple with light in the morning sun. The cinnamon-colored dress she wore stretched to cling to Jude's enticing curves the way they never had to Alana's angles. She'd draped a gold and emerald scarf artfully around her waist to disguise the tight fit of the dress, and wore a pair of heavy gold earrings he'd given Alana for their third anniversary. They drew attention to the golden life of Jude's skin. He thought of sun and heat and cleared his throat, slanting his attention back to the paper in his hand before he got burned. Even her scent matched Alana's, causing a caustic ripple in his stomach. His spine stiffened as suspicion crawled along his skin. She's not Alana, he reminded himself.

"Good morning," she said, taking the chair next to his.

Her voice spread through him like warmed molasses, thick and sweet. He grumbled an answer.

Valentin squeaked his cart to the sideboard and unloaded several silver-domed platters onto it.

"I need to go to town today." Jude said.

He frowned at her over the edge of his paper.

"Why?"

"I need a few amenities. I may be playing Alana and be stuck trying to fit into her too tight clothes for now, but I draw the line at using her toothbrush. Besides, we had an agreement. I can visit Gram every few days."

For the first time in months, he felt a genuine smile wanting to erupt over his lips, but didn't allow it. "Valentin, make sure Speid readies Alana's car." He returned his attention to the business pages of the Boston Sunday Globe to keep his seesawing emotions under control.

"Non, monsieur." Valentin poured a cup of coffee from the silver carafe on the sideboard and placed it in front of him.

Tommy dropped his hands, folding the newspaper like an imploding building. Had the whole world turned against him? "Valentin?"

"The roads, monsieur, they are impassible. The village plow was never fixed after the last snow. It will be a day or so before a private truck can come this far out."

"Who's leaving?" Jamie asked as he walked into the room.

"No one apparently." Tommy bristled inwardly at Jamie's appearance. His sense of timing was impeccable as always. Like a hound on a scent, Jamie was looking for traces of deceit, for any excuse to revert the trust to Darius. Tommy had long suspected the reason, but there was no hard evidence, and until he could find some, he was at jamie's mercy.

He glanced at Jude as she sipped a glass of orange juice. He'd provided a decoy, but he was quickly learning he couldn't control her behavior. He'd have to hope Jamie and Jude's meetings were few and far between, and that he was always present to avert disaster.

"Where were you planning on going, my dear?" Jamie asked. Curiosity bordered with an inquisition-like command tinged his voice. He lifted each silver dome on the sideboard and inspected the fare below.

"Shopping." Jude improvised. She glanced at him, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Tommy silently warned her to watch her step. But defiance lifted her shoulders and tilted her chin up. A ripple of apprehension raced through him. Tommy held his breath as he lifted his paper once more, steeling himself for the unfolding scene, feeling his control over the situation slip like water through a fist.

"I need a new dress for the fete," Jude added. "And I'm in a shopping mood today."

"I've never known a woman who wasn't." Jamie poured himself a glass of orange juice, dropped dry toast on a plate and added a slice of melon before seating himself at the table.

"Coffee, madame?" Valentin asked.

"Please."

She whispered her answer as if she needed the caffeine to jump-start her day. What kind of nightmare had caused her face to contort in sheer horror last night? Had she slept any after waking up from her dark dream? The dark circles beneath her eyes said no. He'd heard her switch on her light, heard her pace. The light had still been on a dawn when he'd woke after a restless sleep. He'd half expected her to put an end to their bargain and leave. Her decision to stay pleased him more than he cared to admit. For his research's sake, he rationalized.

Carafe in hand, Valentin turned to Jamie. "Monsieur?"

"Tea. Darjeeling." Jamie never looked up as he picked seeds from his cantaloupe with disdain. Some things never change. Tommy had always wondered why Jamie thought of himself more as one of the family than an employee.

With a haughty lift of his eyebrows and shake of his head behind Jamie's back, Valentin duck-walked to fill the lawyer's request. Jude suppressed her laugh with a sip of coffee, and Tommy with a bite of his tongue. He agreed wholeheartedly with Valentin's attitude.

"How did you sleep in our humble home?" Jude asked Jamie a little too brightly to sound natural as she slipped into her role as hostess.

"Like the dead." Jamie stared at her for a full minute before his mustache twitched into a smile. Tommy saw a shudder in recognition that Jamie suspected something. He had to get them apart before Jude tripped. Valentin shuffled in again, teapot in hand.

"Is Harry here?" Tommy asked curtly, folding his paper then placing it on the corner of the table. Harry was reliable, but would the boy trudge through the snow from his house in the village to take care of the horses after such a heavy storm?

"I do not know, monsieur," Valentin answered. "He has not come to the kitchen yet."

Tommy pushed his chair away and rose. "I'll go see to the horses, then."

He stopped by Jude's chair, touched her arm firmly, bracing against the lightning that sparked between them. "Care to come?"

He'd said it like a command, not an invitation, and she didn't miss the authority behind the question. She swallowed hard and gingerly placed her cup on the saucer. "I'd love to."

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. The quote floated through his mind. He wished he'd never had to start this farce. But he had no choice. His vision for the future was more important than his temporary discomfort. And now that Alana had forced him into fraud, he had to follow through.

Jamie watched them go, and Tommy felt the first knot snag in his web of lies. He'd caught himself. He'd made a mistake.

The real Alana hated horses.

Jamie knew it.

A/N– Thanks for all the reviews! Some of you really crack me up, I love it! I'm glad you like my story. I really hope that it's not as confusing as it was at first. If so, just stick with me, it will make sense. As for the monks...they are not "real" as in apart of the story, just the history of them and the monastery. Thanks again...enjoy!