Love's Labyrinth (32 page)

“He refuses?”

“Yes, my lord. But with your permission, I’ve prepared this warrant…” Warren placed the rolled parchment gingerly on Walsingham’s desk.

“And this is?” The dark eyes seemed to stab all the way into Warren’s most private thoughts.

“A warrant, my lord. For the execution of Lord Nicholas Talcott—”

“You want this man dead, don’t you, Warren?” Walsingham toyed with the parchment scroll. He sat back in his chair with a long sigh. “’Tis not so easy as Master Steele, Warren. Lord Talcott is just that—Lord Talcott. Only a court of the high steward, or the Queen herself, can command that a peer of this realm may lose his life for treason. And while Her Majesty makes merry on her summer progress, there is no hope at all of this matter coming to her attention. Even when she returns to Greenwich, a return most devoutly to be wished, she won’t want to give this sordid little matter her attention unless cajoled. She likes Lord Talcott, remember?” Walsingham drew a deep breath, stared into space for a long moment, and then shrugged. “Let him cool his heels in the Tower a few weeks. The case against him is strong—he was, after all, caught with the plans—”

“And there’s a witness, my lord.”

“Ah, yes, so you did say. Sir John? Sir John Makepeace?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“He’s known to me.” Walsingham steepled his fingers together and pressed his lips to the tips of his forefingers. “That’s all, Warren.”

“But—but—but, my lord—”

“Yes, Warren?”

“What about the confession? Should he not be—”

“Racked? You forget, Warren. This is a peer of the realm. Lord Talcott may go to the block. But for the interim, you cannot touch him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.” Warren bowed, forcing his face to reveal nothing of the frustration he felt. As he reached the door, Walsingham’s cold, dry voice stopped him in midstride.

“Warren? Tell me again. Who gave you Talcott’s name?”

“Stephen Steele, my lord.”

“Under torture?”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was a long silence. Walsingham seemed to mull over this information in his mind. Finally he nodded. “That’s all, Warren. You may go.”

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Warren made his escape, ignoring the servant who politely held the door open. He’d have to tread carefully, lest Walsingham discover what he’d done. He had the terrible suspicion that Walsingham suspected something. He’d have to go once more to his contacts, and see if there were some way to reach the Talcott cousin while she stayed within the inn itself.

Now that the brother was here in London, she’d be better protected. Perhaps one of the servants could be bribed, or even the landlord himself. Surely there’d be a way to silence her, he thought with a growing sense of desperation that required a greater effort than before to suppress. But why should Walsingham care, he rationalized. Intercepting the plans for the invasion of England was as great a coup as he was ever likely to score. Surely that alone would warrant gratitude from the Queen herself. He went out the door with almost a light heart as he envisioned bowing low to receive Elizabeth’s grateful thanks.

As he was walking down the steps to the street, he was surprised to meet Sir John Makepeace walking up them. “Sir John! What do you here?”

“I was told I could find you here, Master Warren.” The tall knight reversed direction and followed Warren down the steps. When they reached the street, he paused and put his hand on Warren’s arm. “Well? What news?”

Warren stiffened. “News?”

“Of the traitor? Has he confessed? Has his property been attainted?”

Warren shook his head and started off, Sir John following as eagerly as a puppy at his heels. “Not yet.”

“Not yet? You have him with the plans in hand—I’m the witness—what do you mean, not yet?”

“He refuses to sign a confession.”

Sir John narrowed his eyes and drew himself up, his thin lips pursed in disdain. “I see.”

“These things take time, Sir John. Surely you didn’t believe Talcott would be executed immediately? He’s a peer of the realm—only Her Majesty can sign his death warrant.” Surreptitiously yet savagely, Warren crumpled that document, which he still held in his fist.

“I see.”

“I promised you nothing, Sir John.’”

At that, Sir John dropped his eyes. “You’re right, Master Warren. I am, perhaps, overzealous in my desire to see the traitor punished.”

Aren’t we all,
Warren wanted to say, but all he allowed himself was a mild, “It is quite understandable, Sir John. I bid you a good day.”

“And a good day to you, sir.” Sir John bowed his head politely and stood aside as Warren nodded in return and took off down the street. He had the unpleasant feeling that the knight watched him every step of the way, until he was swallowed by the crowd.

“A quarter hour, that’s all.” The jailer swung the door closed with a satisfying bang. Olivia raised her eyes to Nicholas. His chin was rough with his unshaved beard, dark circles ringed his eyes, and he looked pale and drawn. His shirt was wrinkled and filthy, but at least he clearly had not been harmed. The two of them hesitated, and then she rushed across the room and clutched him in her arms, as his closed around her.

“Are you all right?” they asked in unison.

They drew apart and looked at each other, smiled, and both laughed.

“I’m fine—” she began, trying not to wince.

“Well enough—” he said.

They stopped once more, and their eyes met again. “You first,” she said.

“Let me look at you.” He traced the outline of her face with the tip of one finger. “Sweet Jesu, I’ve been so worried about you.”

“Me? I’ve been frantic for you. What’s happened? Are you all right?”

Nicholas nodded and turned away. “Aye, as well as I can be. Warren tried to threaten me if I didn’t sign his confession. I refused, of course.”

“Can they force you?” She picked up his hand and held it between both of hers.

“Rack me, you mean?” He shrugged. “Not without some sort of royal approval from some level. But given the seriousness of what they say I’ve done, who knows?”

“Oh, Nicholas.” She dropped her head and closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. ‘This is all my fault.”

“Stop that nonsense, lady. You and I both know that’s not true. ‘Tis my own folly that got us both tangled in this web, nothing more. My own folly and ambition. I should’ve listened to my brother.”

“He’s here.”

“I know. They told me.” He hesitated. “But I’m glad they let you in first.”

“He’s found a way to send us back.”

For a moment there was a long silence. Finally Nicholas nodded. “I see.”

“He says we must leave in less than two weeks, and if we don’t go back then, there will be no going back for another forty years.”

“I see.” He turned away, flexing his shoulders. “So you’ve come to say good-bye.”

“No!” she cried. “I came to see how you are. I’ve been so worried about you, shut up here in this terrible place. You don’t belong here.”

He looked at her with a sad smile. “Neither do you.”

“Oh, Nicholas, let’s not talk about that now.”

“If you wish, lady.” He slumped down in one of the wooden chairs. “Will you sit?”

She sank down in the other. It creaked dangerously beneath her weight. “We’re trying to set you free.”

“Thank you.” His face was shuttered, closed, and his eves avoided hers.

“What is it, Nicholas?”

“No matter, lady.”

“It matters very much to me. Nicholas, what’s wrong? Is it—” She leaned forward, and understanding dawned. “Is it—”

He shrugged and shook his head. “You’ll think me even more of a fool than you must already, lady.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool at all, Nicholas. I think you’re brave and—” She broke off. “Not a fool at all.”

“I meant what I said the last time I saw you, lady.” His eyes met hers, and the intensity with which he looked at her took her breath away. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave.”

She caught her breath and swallowed hard. “I don’t think I want to leave, either, Nicholas.”

He reached out for her hand. “And what about me?”

Her fingers twined with his. “I—I’ve been afraid to let myself love you, Nicholas, because I’ve believed that I had to go back.”

“Why?” The word seemed to burst from the depths of his being. “Why must you?”

She looked around, as if searching the barren stone walls for a way to explain something that seemed to have no explanation. “Well, don’t you think I belong there?”

“Do you?” he asked, his eyes penetrating, his voice low. “Do you really?”

“I—I—” She stopped, then got to her feet. She paced to the window, where she could see the multileveled roofs of the towers that comprised the Tower of London. Flocks of ravens swooped and circled, screeching in the afternoon sun. She heard him rise and come to stand behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders.

“Do you really, Olivia?”

She turned her head to answer, but as she opened her mouth, his lips came down on hers, gentle at first, tender and searching, and then, gradually, the kiss deepened, until they stood locked in each other’s arms.

“Oh, Nicholas,” she murmured, burying her face in his shirt when he finally drew back.

“You need not answer now, Olivia. God knows I have little to offer you, and now, next to nothing. But I think ‘twas more than a mere trick of my brother’s that brought you here to me, in this time and place. I think ‘twas Fate herself intervened across an ocean of time. I think you were meant to come here. I think I was meant to love you.” He bent his head once more, and she gave herself up to the sweetness of his kiss.

Finally she broke away. “Nicholas, we must find a way to save you.”

He raised her chin. “My only regret would be to lose you and the possibility of a life with you.”

Olivia walked away, twisting her hands together. “You—you don’t understand.”

“Then, tell me, sweet, but tell me quickly, for the guards will come back.”

“You never asked me why I was at Talcott Forest that day. I was there doing research into your family.”

“Mine?”

She nodded miserably. “You didn’t die a traitor’s death.”

“Ah, well, that’s good then.” He grinned.

“No, don’t you understand? The only reason you got those plans was because I was there—otherwise you’d never have had the information the Spanish agent wanted.

“You would never have been given the plans—the whole awful mess would have gone awry. There’s no mention of it anywhere that I saw. Whatever was supposed to have happened, didn’t happen because of me. And somehow, we need to find a way to save you. Because—”

“Because the line will end, otherwise? And all of history will be changed?”

“And I’m afraid the whole world might be changed with it.”
And because your wife is named Olivia. And I think she might be me,
Olivia finished silently. She raised her chin and met his eyes squarely.

“Would you marry me, my lady? If all of this”—he waved his hand—“if all of this were different?”

Had he read her mind? She was stunned. The sudden question caught her by surprise, and all she could manage was, “Oh, Nicholas.” Her eyes filled with tears, but before she could answer the guard banged on the door. The rusting hinges shrieked as the door slammed open.

“Time’s up.”

“Oh, Nicholas.” She reached out to take his hand, but the guard pulled her arm.

“Let her go,” Nicholas barked.

“Time’s up, me lord.”

She only had time for one more anguished look at Nicholas as he stood with rigid shoulders against the backdrop of the cold gray stones.

“I think the answer’s obvious,” Alison said with her characteristic decisiveness. “We have to find a way to make the Queen pay attention.”

Geoffrey let out a long sigh, and Miles nodded slowly. Olivia said nothing. Her conversation with Nicholas had unnerved her beyond all expectation. The imminent threat that he could die, coupled with her own heretofore unrecognized realization that she could be the Olivia he had married, or would have married, jumbled her thoughts into a confusing swirl that somehow defied every attempt to set them aside.