Anne curtsied too deeply. Before she’d risen, he had turned to face front and was preparing to take his first step. Her gaze leapt from his face to her feet as she straightened and turned. In the time it took to do this, he was already stepping. She hurried to catch up, but something was wrong. Off balance, she collided with him.
Master Christopher halted. A tiny rumble of laughter rippled across the crowd. The music stopped.
Not daring to look at the watchers, Anne kept her gaze locked on her tutor as she fought off horror. Although he didn’t smile, amusement glowed in his green eyes.
“Nay, try again, starting with your other left foot this time.”
Shame burned in her cheeks. She’d stepped right instead of left. How could she have erred on something so simple? Anne steeled herself to make no more missteps.
“And the honor,” he said as the music began again.
She followed his instruction, feeling as wooden and gawky as a pasteboard giant. At least she used the correct foot this time. Up the length of the tent they went. Not once did they move as one.
“Mistress Anne,” the queen cried, clapping time to the music, “heed the rhythm.”
Rhythm? Anne couldn’t hear anything except humiliation pounding in her ears.
Once again laughter rippled over the observers. From the corner of the tent came a derisive titter. Anne glanced toward the source. That corner held a group of ladies, among them Lady Montmercy and the Viscountess of Hereford, who shared the fiery hair color of her royal cousin. Still giggling, the youngest maid among them came to her feet.
“Here, Mistress Anne, watch me.” With the grace of a swimming swan this babe glided up the tent’s length, doing with ease what Anne could not.
“Turn and start again,” the queen commanded.
Master Christopher’s hand shifted until his fingers intertwined with Anne’s. With this more intimate touch his heat flowed into her. Her frozen soul began to thaw. He leaned his head near her ear. “You can do this if you but relax.”
“I cannot,” she moaned softly.
“Try this, then. Think of nothing but me next to you,” he told her, his voice low. “Watch my feet, not yours, only listening for my commands. I’ll tell you what to do with each step.”
As listening to him was infinitely better than listening to folk laugh at her, Anne did as he bid. Once again the music played. She was ready this time.
“The honor, step, together,” he whispered, his words keeping time to the music.
Up the tent they went. She kept pace.
“Step, step, step, and together,” he said, changing the order of their steps. “Step to the right, together. Now the left and together.” Not a cue did she miss.
Only as the tent’s wall nearly slapped Anne in the face did she realize she’d gone the entire length of the construct and made no error. She whirled on her teacher, her eyes wide in joy. For the second time that day Master Christopher had saved her. He was grinning, seemingly as relieved as she.
The ladies who’d laughed were now nodding. The queen clapped, long and loud. “Well done,” Elizabeth cried, her voice echoing against the fabric walls, “well done, indeed.
“Look here, my lord of Norfolk,” Elizabeth called to the nobleman. “Mistress Blanchemain again proves herself a clever lass. This is the sort of woman any man should be proud to take as his wife. Were I a man I’d look no farther.”
Anne whirled to stare at her monarch. The whole court whispered that the duke considered marriage to the Scots queen. If her court knew then so did Elizabeth.
Anger roared through Anne. This hadn’t been a dancing lesson, but an opportunity for the queen to drive home a subtle warning to the duke. The queen had used her, thinking no more of her maid’s emotions than a woodsman did his axe!
Anne whirled on Master Christopher, rage spiraling as she readied herself to protest such abuse. He shook his head. “It’s her prerogative; we are hers to command,” he whispered. “Now, bank that fire in your eyes, and we’ll go bid her thanks for her compliments.”
At Master Christopher’s third rescue of the day, gratitude swallowed up Anne’s anger. This was the man she needed at her side. With that, she tossed aside all the reasons she could not have Master Hollier as her husband. All that remained were the details, such as what he would think when he discovered she was no maiden. Ah, but that was a worry for later.
“I’m ready,” she told him, and together they started up the tent’s length toward their queen’s chair.
May God take the queen and her penchant for early morning walks and surprise audiences. Yawning, Kit leaned against the cold stones of Greenwich’s garden wall, cloaked in what remained of night’s shadows and the grayness of what would soon be a moist morn. Only the servants and the queen were up and about this early, leaving all sensible gentlemen and nobles to their beds.
Shivering, he crossed his arms. Even with his coat draped over his shoulders, dawn’s chill was deep. At least he wasn’t alone in cursing the queen’s odd habits. He waited on Mistress Anne to appear so he might lead her into the queen’s presence.
Worry over being replaced as Mistress Anne’s tutor returned. In the four days since the Maying Elizabeth had kept him busy, sending him to London on what seemed a make-work chore. It almost seemed as if she meant to keep him away from Mistress Anne.
Kit almost smiled. If so she’d failed, at least in spirit; on every one of the past four nights Kit had visited Mistress Anne in her bedchamber. He ought to be grateful. His lustful, nightly visits to Mistress Anne’s bed kept his nightmare at bay.
Bertie fared no better than he. His servant gnashed his teeth over Mistress Patience. Instead of giving way to his seduction the woman was doing her best to convert Bertie to her Calvinism.
Men whistled and women laughed. Kit peered down the red-brick length of the queen’s residence, so called because old King Harry had housed his queens in this building. Near the kitchen at the far end the laundresses, already hard at boiling their linens, conversed with the huntsmen. He watched them, the scent of baking bread filling his lungs with every breath. All but one man climbed the kitchen’s back stairs. The master of the hunt made his way toward Kit and the garden gate, nodding as he passed Kit, on his way to inform the queen of the day’s quarry.
When he was again alone Kit sighed back into the shadows. Why hadn’t the queen arranged for any more lessons? She’d been more than a little pleased with the outcome of her charade. Although Kit was almost certain his success in his first lesson had settled his position as dancing master, perhaps Old Amyas had succeeded in his protest.
Frustration rose at the thought of yet another failure in his quest to restore Nick’s title. Kit waited for it to begin its usual gnaw at his vitals. Instead, it almost immediately gave way to a strange sort of relief.
Startled, Kit pondered the feeling, only to come bolt upright. May God take his soul, but he was relieved on Mistress Anne’s behalf. When had he begun to let himself consider her pain as a factor in the restoration of Nick’s title?
Well, that simply could not be. Whether Amyas stood in his way, Kit would use Mistress Anne as he must, giving no further thought to her downfall. Jaw firm in his resolution, Kit shifted his coat over his shoulders as the huntsman reemerged from the garden.
“Her Majesty awaits you at the garden’s end,” the commoner said. So great was the huntsman’s value to his royal mistress that he need offer Kit but the barest nod before he strode away.
Elizabeth loved to hunt and Greenwich offered her ample opportunity. Thus, did she bring her court here from May until her summer progress started, despite the palace’s somewhat rustic condition. With the master huntsman gone, Kit turned his attention on the long bank of brick buildings that followed the Thames, running perpendicular to the queen’s residence.
It was from this part of the palace compound that Mistress Anne would come, as that was where Elizabeth kept her quarters. Unfortunately, all Kit could see of it was the watergate, a massive square tower studded with tall windows that allowed river egress to the palace. The windows were flat and dark, as dull as the day. It would be hours before the sun broke through the clouds if it ever did.
At last Mistress Anne trotted through the narrow passageway that separated the two sets of royal residences. She paused, her cloak billowing open around her. Kit’s brows rose in surprise. Even in the weak light he could see her bodice, sleeves, and skirt were all the same rich orangish-brown color, a monotony of color totally against fashion. Upon her head she wore a headdress of black velvet. Rather than detract, this plainness of color served to draw attention to the perfection of her face.
Peering past her, Kit waited for her escort to appear. There was no one, not her governess, a guardsman, or even a page. He frowned at her. Hadn’t she learned anything from her encounter with Deyville? By God, but he’d give her a good chiding for such idiocy.
Kit nearly groaned at his own foolishness. Here he was again worrying about her when vulnerable was just how he needed her. He watched her scan the garden’s darkened wall. Her gaze slipped right past him without reaction.
He smiled. As the wall yet cast in deep shadow she hadn’t seen him. He considered stepping out to reveal himself then discarded the thought. Like the predator he had to be, Kit stayed still and awaited his quarry’s approach.
The queen had called for her, and she was late. The words kept repeating in Anne’s head like some horrible litany. What if her tardiness caused the queen to lose her temper? Anne shuddered at the thought and squinted at the darkened wall, trying to remember where the garden gate was. Her nerves were so frayed she could barely see, much less discern the arch of stone that marked the opening.
As she located her target Anne lifted her skirts with one hand, clamped the other upon her headdress to hold it in place, and ran. This was all Patience’s fault. Elizabeth’s unexpected command left Anne no time for her usual morning prayers. When Patience’s angry protests that duty to God came before that to earthly rulers went unheeded, Anne’s keeper turned the act of dressing into the punishment. Laces were drawn with aching slowness through eyelets. Bits of attire were misplaced, only to be rediscovered long moments later.
Anne skidded to halt before the gate, the tiles that paved the pathway being slick with rain. More fool her for ever feeling any softness toward that stubborn chit. If she’d owned the power, Anne would have dismissed Patience at once. Well, one thing was certain. If the queen punished her for her tardiness, Patience would pay as well, Anne would see to that. She reached for the latch.
“Hoyden, did your mother never teach you that it’s unmannerly for a woman to run?” a man asked.
With a squeak Anne leapt back from the gate. Fear exploded in her. Idiot! Why hadn’t she waited for a page to escort her? Because Patience had made her late and a page would expect her to walk, instead of run just as this man charged.
The lurker shifted in the shadows. Anne took another backward step, half-fearing it was Deyville, although she’d heard he’d left Greenwich. Instead Master Christopher appeared out of the darkness.
His breeches, coat, and hat were all a pewter color while his doublet was a muted blue-gray, the color bringing out unexpected blues in his green eyes. Its collar was so tall it forced the lacy folds of his ruff to follow the strong line of his jaw. This morn a tiny earbob dangled from one ear.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said in breathless greeting, trying to stem the delight that flooded over her at this encounter. She’d nigh on eaten her heart out these past four days thinking he avoided her. “Where have you been?” The words were out before she could stop them.
The pleasure that filled his face at her question was almost worth the possibility of the queen’s wrath. “In London on the queen’s business.”
He turned to open the gate then stepped aside so she might precede him into the northernmost of Greenwich’s two pleasure gardens. Anne strode a few feet into the enclosure only to stop in dismay. Unlike the southern garden, which was arranged in a series of squares marked out with walks, each plot filled with low growing herbs planted in careful designs, this side was far wilder. Apples and pear trees, their branches clouded in delicate blossoms, stood upon small hillocks thick with a velvet carpet of grass. Crowded at their feet, daffodils nodded with heaven’s every sigh, humbly accepting the shower of cast-off blooms that snowed down upon them. Bees droned, birds sang.
Panic soared. How was she to know where the queen was? Anne turned right and trotted toward the far wall along the narrow paved pathway, all the while peering through the foliage as she sought something that might point her in the right direction.
Master Christopher strode alongside her. “Where are you going?”
“The queen has called for me, and I’m late,” Anne cried out without pausing as her belled skirts jerked through the thick grass.
“Ah, so that’s what has you dashing,” he said, his voice filled with gentle teasing. “I heard our mistress has been a bit sharp of late.” Friendly amusement glowed in his green eyes.
“This is no jest,” Anne snapped.
“Aye, you’re right about that. The queen’s anger is no jest,” he agreed. “Now, stop. You’re not late.”
“How would you know?” Anne stretched her legs as she tried to escape him.
He caught her elbow and pulled her to a halt. “Did no one tell you that the queen called us both to her?” he asked, a frown marking his brow. “I can but guess we’re to speak of dancing lessons. As for being late, you can’t be. We weren’t expected for another quarter hour.”
Anne froze in relief. There would be no royal raging. This was surely a sign that God had forgiven her for missing her prayers, even if Patience never would.
Master Christopher smiled. “Feel better, now that you know she’ll not be angry with you? Frankly, I’d not have thought you one so easily frightened.”
“Anyone who does not fear our mistress’s rages is a fool,” she told him, with a shake of her head. “Yesterday, Mistress Brooke dared speak boldly to Her Grace, something that well and all deserved a chiding. But so wild and wicked was the tongue-lashing she received that the poor lass collapsed.”
Still awed by the event, Anne’s voice grew hushed. “I’ve never seen the like. The things she said, I vow, my ears burned. No one dared come near her for an hour, not even Mary, for fear she’d start again.”
Master Hollier winked at her and offered his arm. “You tell me nothing I’ve not seen with mine own eyes. Ah, but where there’s storm and thunder, there’s heaven as well. Everyone at court covets one of our princess’s smiles.”
“I suppose,” Anne replied, no conviction in her voice, as she settled her hand into the bend of his elbow.
As her fingers again curled into the strength of his arm, Anne’s resolve to wed Master Christopher Hollier firmed anew. The sooner she began to chip at that vow of his, the sooner they’d be married. She shifted nearer to him until their upper arms touched then set herself to charming him as best she could.
“You may lead me to my royal mistress, Master Escort,” she said, then smiled, “but only if there’ll be no more nagging over my manners or lack thereof. That, I have in plenty from my governess.”
“Nag?” Master Christopher protested, his lips held in a half-smile as he gave a cocky lift of one brow. “I never nag. You’re much too lovely for something so crass. This way.” He turned and led her back toward the gate.
Yet clinging close, Anne laughed. “Glad I am someone sent you to wait for me, else who knows how long I’d have wandered in this wilderness.”
“Sent?” His face was the picture of righteous indignation. “I’m wounded to the core that you should think any man or woman need send me into your company. I, mistress, am your faithful servant, my hands and feet yours to command.”
Anne stifled her groan. A week at court, and she was already swimming in body parts. The terrible need to do mischief followed. She looked askance at him. “Haven’t you anything better to offer?”
Master Hollier came to an abrupt halt. So completely had her words surprised him that his mouth hung open. His brows were high upon his forehead. “I beg your pardon?”
Fixing an innocent expression on her face, Anne looked up at him. “It’s just that I’ve no need for either your hands or your feet, having been offered so many of these limbs by other men. What of your liver? Might I have that, or has some other woman already laid claim to it?”
The most incredible series of emotions flashed through Master Christopher’s eyes. There was shock that she should tease him whilst he was in the midst of flattery, then appreciation for her jest, followed by a flash of fear so brief that Anne wasn’t truly certain she’d seen it.
At last the corners of his mouth lifted. Golden lights sparked in his green eyes, and fine lines of amusement creased his cheeks.
“My liver, is it? A kidney would not do?” He tilted his head to the side as he spoke, his mouth pursed and one eye closed, as if he were dickering over an item at the market.
Anne knit her brow to show she was considering this trade then she shook her head. “Nay, it’ll be your liver or nothing.”
“I see,” he replied. “Well then, the liver it must be. However, since that organ is more precious to me than my hands or feet, I fear I cannot simply give it to you. Instead, I must have something in trade.”
Disappointment shot through Anne. Was he so single-minded in his pursuit that there was no imagination left to his flattery? “And what would you have from me that might be equal in value?” she asked, bracing herself for what would certainly be the suggestion that she give him her heart, trading one organ for another.
He drew her into his embrace, his arms held loosely around her. “A kiss,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “You may own my liver in trade for a kiss.”
A tremor tore through Anne with his words. Beneath her palms she could feel the steady thud of his heart. Heat spread from where his arms touched her to every corner of her being.
How she wanted to feel his mouth on hers, but it was his walls she meant to breach, not to let him through hers. “Nay, it cannot be. It’s hardly an even trade,” she told him, keeping her tone light and teasing. “My kiss is priceless, or so I’ve been told. You’ll have to add something more to the bargain if you’re to have one of my kisses.”
“What might that be?” he demanded softly, lifting a hand to brush his fingertips against the curve of her cheek.
Even wearing gloves, his touch had the power to make Anne’s knees shake. With a laugh she backed out of his embrace then danced out of his reach, skipping a few steps up the path. Master Christopher stood where she’d left him.