Kissed by Shadows (8 page)

“Oh, I see.” That answered her question most satisfactorily. “How many sisters do you have?”

“I had five.”

She heard the minute hesitation, then the tiny emphasis on the past tense and understood that this she did not probe. The air around them had suddenly become sensitized and she had the sense that another step would take her into quicksand. She wondered if perhaps he had lost all of his sisters. It happened sometimes, when disease would take an entire family. But she would probe no further.

“My knowledge tells me that you should perhaps avoid lifting heavy things,” he suggested, indicating the bowling ball at her feet.

“Oh, but 'tis a light one!” Pippa protested.

He shrugged. “As you wish. I merely pass on what I've heard.” He glanced around as if in search. “You have no female relatives with you?”

“My sister is in France. My mother and her family are in Derbyshire.” Pippa tried to conceal the ache of her loneliness. “The Lady Elizabeth I may not see. Even letters between us are banned.”

He glanced at her sharply, his attuned ear picking up a false note. He guessed that Robin of Beaucaire was combining his mission for the French ambassador with a personal one for his sister. He had a great deal of respect for Lord Robin and would have enjoyed joining forces with him in the business they both shared, but Lionel could not risk breaking his cover. Not even Noailles knew the identity of the spy who provided him with the deepest secrets of Philip's council. Lionel, on the other hand, knew the identities of all the principal clandestine players in Elizabeth's court, and he'd been aware of Robin's mission almost at its inception.

Of course, Pippa, close as she was with her brother, might know something that he did not, but it would not be wise to probe, however casually, at this juncture. Pippa was too clever and had lived too long in the atmosphere of danger to give anything away by accident. Most particularly not to someone she considered a sworn enemy to her own loyalties. Once this promising new confidence between them had grown stronger perhaps he could introduce the subject. But slowly, slowly. Lionel had always believed in the tortoise rather than the hare.

Pippa's gaze returned to the game in progress on the green. “I believe it's my turn.” She bent to pick up the ball and balanced it in the palm of her free hand. “See, Mr. Ashton, 'tis not in the least heavy.” She laughed at him.

He shrugged again and said once more: “I pass on only what I've been told, madam.”

Pippa heard the faintest note of reproach in his tone. For some reason it gave her pause. “Perhaps you're right,” she said. “But I must continue to play this round or my team will forfeit the game.”

She left him with a quick and apologetic smile that puzzled her. Why did she feel she should have taken his advice? He was a man who meant nothing to her, someone who had no right to dictate to her or direct her in any way. And yet she felt she had been disobliging. It was most disconcerting.

She forced herself to concentrate, taking in the position of the bowls on the green. If she could knock those two together and spin the one into the lonely bowl on its left, then she would have won and need play no more.

She frowned, trying to block out the heedless chatter around her. No one took anything seriously, she thought crossly. If they would just be quiet for one moment. And then miraculously the moment came. The voices died down all at once as sometimes happens when a large group seems to take a collective breath. Pippa sent the ball in a perfect roll, heard the satisfying clunk as it hit its intended targets, and watched with a broad grin as the right one spun off into the other target.

A babble of voices arose again around her, congratulations and a smattering of applause. She turned in triumph to look at the poplar tree but Lionel Ashton had gone. He hadn't even waited to see her play.

She could not hide her disappointment from herself. She had wanted him to see her win. It struck her as a thoroughly childish response.

It was all very irksome. Pippa shook her head as if to clear it and strolled over to the spectators to receive her husband's congratulations as was expected of her.

Stuart greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and gracefully pinned a rose to the neck of her gown. “Well played, my dear. I could not have bettered that shot.”

“Praise indeed from such a master,” Pippa murmured, aware that she sounded churlish. But she found his public attentions intolerable these days when he never came near her in private. She was convinced now that his attentions were a sham designed to cover him while he played in some other woman's bed.

Stuart took her arm. “Let us walk a little, if you're not fatigued.”

“Fatigued? How should I be?” she said, forcing a smile, no more willing than Stuart to draw unwelcome attention. “Bowls is not an exhausting game. Mostly one just stands around.”

“Then let us walk down by the river. It will be cooler.”

“As you will, husband.” She was puzzled. The make-believe had been attended to, he had no need to embellish upon it. He must want something from her. Well, it could only be interesting to discover.

He tucked her hand into his arm and smiling benignly at those around them led her away from the green with the air of one bearing off a prize.

“Your gown is not one I've seen before,” he observed. “I like that particular shade of green.”

“Pen sent me the material, a bolt of the finest damask, from France, and several yards of Valenciennes lace,” Pippa said, beginning to wonder whether her husband had indeed sought her private company just to discuss a new gown. “The color is so delicate, like apple blossom.”

“Beautifully set off by the dark red underskirt,” Stuart said seriously. “A most pleasing combination.”

“
I
thought so,” Pippa agreed. They had reached the riverbank now. The wide path was crowded with courtiers, but the late-afternoon air had no freshness to it, it hung heavy and stale with the day's odors.

“Will this weather ever break?” Pippa murmured almost to herself as she fanned herself vigorously. “'Tis already September.”

Stuart did not immediately respond. He struck off down a side path that led into the cooler shade of the weeping willows that lined the riverbank.

“So why are we taking this cozy little walk?” Pippa asked. “After all, 'tis unlike you these days to seek out my company. You could just as easily have complimented me on my gown at the bowling green.”

Her voice was sharp but she made no attempt to moderate it. She was sick to death of the charade and maybe now she could drag some explanation out of him. At this point she didn't care whether he would confess to an undying passion that made his wife repulsive to him. Whatever the truth was, she would find it easier to endure than this limbo.

“You must forgive me, Pippa, but I have had much on my mind,” Stuart said in a low voice.

“Then why would you not share these things with me?” She stopped on the path, looking up at him. She saw the conscious flash in his eyes, the way his gaze shifted abruptly, and two red spots that flared high on his cheekbones.

“That is a question I might ask of you, madam,” he stated harshly. “I believe there is something you should tell me.”

Pippa stared at him. “Like what, Stuart?”

“You should know.”

“What are you asking me, Stuart?” she demanded directly. He could not possibly have guessed at her pregnancy. She hadn't decided when she would tell him, but for the moment it was something precious to herself, and, deep down, she knew she harbored the unworthy thought that he wasn't entitled to the triumphant satisfaction of the prospective father. He had done nothing to deserve it. She was punishing him, but why shouldn't she deny him just a few extra weeks of complacency?

He stopped on the path. “I believe you to be with child.”

“Oh.” Pippa continued to stare at him. “And why would you believe that, Stuart? You have not shared my bed for close on four weeks,” she pointed out bitterly.

His color deepened. He coughed, stumbled over his words. “Your maid . . . Martha . . . she said—”

“You questioned my
maid
!” Pippa exclaimed in outrage. “You would not discuss this with
me
! Indeed, you come nowhere near me except when you must. And then you go behind my back, asking my maid for—” She stopped with a gesture of disgust, turning her back to him.

“No . . . no, Pippa, it's not like that.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. It quivered beneath his hand but she did not turn back to him.

“So what
is
it like, Stuart? You find your pleasure in some other bed, and now you have a nicely impregnated wife to make everything look perfect. That's what it's like, isn't it?” Her voice was low and bitter as aloes.

“No,” he protested. “No, 'tis not like that. I love you, Pippa.”

“Oh, don't give me such lame protestations, Stuart. I thought better of you,” she said tiredly. “At least do me the courtesy of honesty. You take your pleasure in another woman's bed, while you fulfill your marital duty by getting an heir on your wife's body. My felicitations, my lord.” She shook off his hand, spun around, and stalked off back to the riverbank and the palace.

Stuart took a step after her and then stopped. What good would it do? There was nothing he could say to change any of this. He could swear with absolute truth that there was no other woman. He could swear with absolute truth that he had not got an heir on his wife's sleeping body.

But then he would have to tell the truth, and that could not be told.

He followed Pippa back to the riverbank. Once again he thought how simple it would be just to slip beneath the brown water, let the slimy tangle of weeds trap him, hold him down. Then it would all be over.

Over for him. Not for Gabriel. He had to protect Gabriel. Renard's spies watched the musician as they watched Stuart. He could not spirit him out of London, they would be on them within a day. His only hope was to see this through, and then beg for Gabriel's freedom when Philip and Renard and Gomez had what they wanted . . . when they had Pippa's child.

Stuart thought of last night, in the South Bank tavern. They had talked, Gabriel had played for him, and they had slept in each other's arms. He had woken with the dawn chorus and for a moment had had the illusion that all was well with the world. But only for a moment.

Eight

“I fear Renard intercepted the last messenger we sent to Noailles,” Sir Thomas Parry said as he stood in the midafternoon sunshine in the stable yard of the Bull Inn at Woodstock, bidding farewell to his visitor. “You will have a care, Lord Robin?” He gestured significantly to the oiled leather package Robin was stowing in his saddlebag.

“Of course, Sir Thomas.” Robin sounded a touch impatient. Parry had kept him overlong that morning repeating information, asking yet again for details of Mary's court, and gathering together the letters he wished Robin to carry to Noailles and to his other agents in London. “And you will be sure that the Lady Elizabeth gets my sister's letter.”

“'Tis on its way now,” Parry declared. “With a present of game from a local squire.” His pronounced Welsh accents were plummy with satisfaction.

“We have found that Bedingfield shows no inclination to suspect presents of food. I imagine some of it finds its way to his own table.” Parry chuckled, his several chins shaking. “Such gifts provide an excellent conduit for passing messages to Lady Elizabeth. Of course, we have a friend in the kitchens who knows what to look for.”

“Of course. You are to be congratulated on such a smooth and devious operation,” Robin said dryly. It was not surprising Bedingfield couldn't keep control of his prisoner and her affairs. There were more holes in his palace-gaol than a sieve and Thomas Parry was a master at exploiting them.

“We do our best, my dear sir, we do our best,” Thomas declared, thrusting out his barrel chest.

“I must be on my way. I would be back in London by nightfall.” Robin held out his hand in farewell. His page had been instructed to wait for him with a spare horse in the village of High Wycombe so that he could be back in London by late evening if he rode fast.

Back in time to make a delayed moonlight rendezvous with a young lady on the banks of the River Thames.

Farewells completed, he swung onto his horse and rode out of the Bull's stable yard.

Robin reflected that the greatest fear for Elizabeth was of an assassination attempt by Mary's supporters. Mary intended to keep her warehoused in that draughty ill-kempt palace, out of sight and out of mind, but Elizabeth with her pleas and her plots to circumvent her imprisonment was making absolutely certain that she was never out of her sister's mind or the minds of her councillors.

There was much muttering in the country now about how England would be better off with a queen who practiced her father's and brother's religion instead of one who would take the country back to the old and mostly forgotten ways. Elizabeth was very much a threat to her sister's secure hold on the throne and it would not take much for someone to decide to get rid of the threat she posed altogether.

Robin, together with the rest of his family, had supported Mary's accession on her brother Edward's death. But Mary's harsh treatment of Elizabeth, followed by the Spanish marriage and the increasing threat of the Inquisition, had turned many of her supporters against her. Robin, fiercely protective of his stepsister who had suffered so unjustly with Elizabeth, had joined their number.

Robin encouraged his horse into a spirited trot. He had pleasanter matters to contemplate. He reached the inn in High Wycombe in three hours and found his page awaiting him.

“Hal's been saddled and ready to go this last hour, my lord,” the boy said, scrambling up from the ale bench outside the inn door. “You're later than expected.”

“Aye, I was kept overlong at Woodstock.” Robin swung down. “Any news in the last week?” He stuck his head around the inn door and called for a mug of ale.

Jem looked sly. “There's a rumor going about, sir.”

“Oh?” Robin took the foaming pitcher brought to him and drank it down in one long draught. He set the pitcher on the bench and regarded his page. “What kind of rumor?”

“I heard tell, my lord, that the queen is with child.” Jem delivered his information with a smug grin. “Thought you'd like to know. 'Tis on every tongue.”

Robin whistled under his breath. “And how did that get about so quickly?” But he knew the answer. A piece of news of that importance would fly on the air the minute anyone put it into words.

He mounted his fresh horse and set off again, leaving Jem to care for the tired gelding his master had ridden from Oxford. He dismissed Elizabeth and her sister from his thoughts, looking up into the darkening sky where a great yellow harvest moon was rising over the treetops. A beautiful night for a romantic rendezvous.

Would Luisa be walking in the garden as she'd promised? Eagerness now put spur to his horse.

It was past curfew when he reached Aldgate, but he carried a carte blanche signed by the queen herself. It was an honor Mary had given to Robin's father for his loyal help in securing her throne and it had naturally devolved upon his son. Robin ensured that he did nothing to jeopardize this useful document. There were times when the ability to enter and leave the city, at times forbidden to the general public, was very useful.

The guards waved him through the wicket gate and he rode swiftly down to the menacing edifice of the Tower. There, after transferring the precious packet of letters from his saddlebags to his doublet, he stabled his horse at an inn where he was well known and walked to the water steps at the Lion Gate.

“Ho! You there!” he called softly to a boatman leaning on the oars of a small skiff.

The man pulled swiftly to the steps. “Where to, sir?”

“I want your boat,” Robin said, taking a leather purse from his doublet pocket. “I'll pay you a sovereign for the use of it for three hours.” He thunked the purse into the palm of his other hand so that the substantial chink of coin was easily heard.

The man jumped readily to the quay, holding the skiff's painter. “I'll 'ave an evenin' in the Black Dog, I reckon.” He gestured to the light that spilled from the open door of a tavern set just back from the quay and offered Robin a toothless grin.

“Then I'll find you there.” Robin handed him the agreed sum, then jumped into the boat and the man threw the painter in after him.

Robin settled into the rhythm of the oars, pulling strongly. He should have been fatigued after a day's hard riding but he found anticipation lent strength to his arms. It was a beautiful night, with a slight breeze to lift the lingering oppression of the day's heat.

The yellow moon was high in the sky when he reached what he thought were the water steps of Lionel Ashton's mansion. Robin sat in the skiff in midstream and gazed up through the moonlight towards the house. He had seen it only once, and that in broad daylight, but he could remember no distinguishing features. It was just another of the imposing stone piles built by the newly rich along the river. In the moonlight it looked large and unremarkable. The quay appeared like any other.

He noticed a small barge tied to the quay and remembered that Luisa had said her guardian kept no craft. There were no boatmen around that he could see, so it was unlikely that it belonged to a visitor.

He began to wonder if he was in the right place, everything looked so very different from the water. However, he wasn't going to find out hanging around ten yards from shore, so with a half shrug Robin pulled the boat close to the quay.

A sudden blaze of light dazzled him for a moment. He put up a hand to shield his eyes.

“Oh, you've come,” a soft voice cried jubilantly. “I have been waiting for days and days. I thought you had decided you didn't like me after all.”

“For God's sake, Luisa, lower that lamp!” he demanded in a fierce whisper. “I'm blind as a bat.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” The light disappeared altogether. “It was just that I needed to be certain it was you.”

“And are you now certain?” He blinked once or twice to get rid of the after-dazzle.

“Oh, yes. But I really had given up expecting you. Why did you not come before?”

Robin shipped his oars and looked up at her where she stood on the quay. She had extinguished the lamp and was visible now only in the moonlight. Her black hair hung loose to shoulders that were covered by a film of silvery gossamer. Her gown was of some very pale material that seemed to shimmer. Whether that was an effect of the light Robin didn't know. He did know that it made her look insubstantial, a mere figment of the moonlight.

Her voice, however, was robust as she stepped closer to the edge of the quay and leaned out. “Throw me the rope and I'll tie it to this ring here. I think that's what it's for.”

“It is,” Robin agreed. “But let me get a little closer. If you lean out any farther you'll fall headlong into the river.”

“I have excellent balance,” Luisa informed him cheerfully. She straightened, however, and waited for him to pull the few strokes necessary to bring him alongside the quay.

He could very easily have tied up himself but Luisa was standing expectantly holding out her hand and it seemed a shame to disappoint her. He handed her up the painter and watched as she looped it through the ring and tied it securely.

“There,” she said. “I don't think it will come undone.”

“No,” he agreed, stepping out onto the steps. He climbed up to her.

She stepped away from the quay and Robin followed until they were on the sweep of grass that led up to the house. There were a few lamps burning in the upstairs windows of the house, but the garden itself was well shadowed by tall trees.

Luisa glanced over her shoulder towards the house. “Good, Bernardina has extinguished her lamp. She'll sleep like the dead until morning.”

“And what of your guardian?”

Luisa shrugged. “He is not in at present, but he would not look to see if I was in my chamber. It would not occur to him. I doubt he thinks of me more than once a week.”

Robin wondered if he could detect a slight note of resentment in her voice. “That is all to the good, surely,” he observed. “If you're making midnight assignations.”

Her laugh was a little uncertain. “That's what I'm doing, I suppose.”

“I can think of no more accurate way of describing it.”

“Why did you not come before?”

“I had to leave London for a few days . . . some business.”

“Oh, I see.” She began to play with the fringe of the gossamer shawl she wore around her shoulders. “'Tis very brazen, is it not?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed with a grin. “But why should that concern you now?”

“Does it concern you?” Her dark eyes carried a look of uncertainty as she gazed up at him.

“Not in the least,” Robin said. “I am accustomed to unconventional women.”

“Oh.” She smiled, showing the whitest teeth. “I would not wish to give you a disgust of me.”

That made him laugh. “Were that likely, I would not be here now.”

“No, I imagine you would not,” Luisa said, sounding much more at ease. Deliberately she drew backwards into the deeper shadow of a shrubbery, obliging Robin to follow her.

She stood in the secluded center of the shrubbery and for the first time wondered what she was doing, alone here in the middle of the night with a strange Englishman. If she were ever discovered they would shut her up in a convent run by one of the strictest orders.

“Is something amiss?” Robin inquired, absently realizing that two buttons of his doublet were undone. He must have forgotten to button up after he'd pocketed the package of letters. Its weight was still reassuringly heavy and warm against his chest.

Luisa's eyes had followed his and before he could rectify the sartorial negligence she stepped forward and with seemingly businesslike efficiency did up the buttons herself. It brought her very close to him and in his surprise Robin was caught off guard. He felt his body stir at the warm softness of Luisa's.

He stepped backwards hastily, holding her at arm's length. Had that been deliberate, or was it simply the ingenuous gesture of an innocent?

But when he looked at her eyes, he dismissed the latter explanation. Dona Luisa de los Velez of the house of Mendoza might well be an innocent in practice but she was definitely not in intention.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I wished only to help.”

“Quite,” Robin returned with a dry smile. “My thanks. And what is it that you wish in return, Dona Luisa?”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Why should you imagine that I want anything, Lord Robin?”

He smiled. “Don't prevaricate. I'm willing to indulge you within reason.”

It seemed to him that this young Mendoza was unstoppable and he had somehow landed the task of satisfying her quest for excitement and experience while keeping her safe for whatever her Spanish destiny held for her. There were too many predators in the streets of London for an ingenue to try her wings under anything but the strictest protection.

It was a task best undertaken by Lionel Ashton, of course, but that gentleman seemed to have little interest in his ward. Robin found the prospect of doing Ashton's work for him curiously appealing.

He would play the guardian and the teacher. A safe enough role, surely. “So,” he said, still smiling. “What do you want of me, Dona Luisa?”

She hesitated, then said with an eloquent shrug, “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir.”