Her gaze met his, her eyes seeming as dark and soft as the velvet of her headdress. New heat woke in their depths as her lips parted. Kit shuddered. Christ, but he’d die if he didn’t love her this very moment. He took a step toward her.
“Master Hollier, shall we go?” the drummer asked, a touch of laughter in his voice.
Startled, Kit jerked. Mistress Anne’s hand leapt to her chest, her fingers splaying over her bared skin. She loosed a quiet yelp then snatched at her collar to draw her shirt closed.
He wheeled to face the musicians. Two of the men stared into the rafters, while the drummer and one violist smirked. When the violist dared to chuckle Kit shot the sniggering fool so evil a glance that all four instantly sobered.
“Aye, you may go,” he snapped, taking the coins he needed to pay them from his purse. Before the morrow’s lesson he’d see to it three of them were paid to stay away, while the last was paid double for coming and keeping his eyes closed.
Tossing the coins to the drummer, Kit watched them gather their belongings, his fingers pressed to his pounding head. If only it were as easy to still the other throbbing. Turning, he looked to where Mistress Anne had been.
She was gone. Panic tore through him. She knew what he wanted and ran! All was lost.
“Patience?” she called from behind him.
He whirled then squinted. She stood in the barn’s doorway. The sky above the willow copse was a brilliant blue with not a cloud in sight. Neither were Mistress Patience and Bertie.
“Where are you, Patience?” Mistress Anne called, now standing outside the barn’s door, her eyes shielded with a hand.
Rage tore through Kit. He knew where Bertie was. His man was off lying with that woman! By God, he’d kill Bertie, for no other reason than his servant was enjoying the release his master was denied.
Kit’s jaw clenched. His teeth gritted. Christ, but this was utter madness. If he didn’t find some way to tame his lust he was doomed, indeed.
“In a moment, mistress,” her maid cried, her voice rising from somewhere beyond the willows.
“I really must talk to her,” Mistress Anne said, turning toward Kit with an irritable huff. “I vow she has no sense at all.”
Kit thought there should have at least been a quiver to Anne’s voice. Instead her tone was steady as a rock as if nothing unusual had passed between them. How could she be so unaffected when his knees were weak?
May God damn her, but she wasn’t unaffected. She couldn’t be, not when he’d seen the heat in her eyes. He was certain that if he took her in his arms and put his mouth to hers, she’d melt against him. Ah, but he dare not grab her, not even when everything in him screamed in the agony of frustrated desire.
She strode past him for the bay where she’d hung the bits and pieces of her attire. Yet struggling to master his own body, Kit could but watch as she donned her ruff, then drew on her outer sleeves. Since there was no possible way for her to tie these into her bodice by herself, she turned to him. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” he lied.
He tied one sleeve into her bodice then reached for her wrist to fasten its cuff. What he hadn’t noticed while they’d danced he now saw. The bruises Deyville left were now but dull purple spots on her wrist.
This punctured his lust, leaving behind the need to see to it Deyville never again attacked her. “They’ve faded,” he said.
“Aye, so they have,” she replied, her voice quiet and sad.
“Hey now,” he said, yet holding her hand in his. “What aches in you that you should sound so?”
She looked up at him her eyes wide. “You saved me from him once. Would that you could do it again.” Her voice lowered. “But that won’t be possible, not once he and I are wed.”
“Wed?” Kit scoffed, stepping around her to fasten the other sleeve. “If that’s the source of your worries, then be reassured. You cannot wed with him. He’s married already.”
“His wife dies,” she whispered.
Her words sent him back from her a step. “You cannot be serious!”
Mistress Anne freed a short and bitter laugh. “Would that I were not.”
Kit’s head reeled. Christ! What sort of man planned his next wedding before burying his current wife? And what sort of guardian was Old Amyas if he meant to give his heir to such a man? At the thought of Anne trapped forever in Deyville’s clutches a new rage tore through Kit. Not his Nan.
“This is an abomination,” he snarled.
“However much I cherish your outrage,” Anne said softly, “there’s not much to be done about it. My grandsire has made his decision.” If her expression was sad, her demeanor was calm.
It was beyond Kit that she could readily accept this. “Do you intend to do nothing while he arranges this for you?”
“What would you suggest?” Mistress Anne shot him a wry look. “Perhaps you’d like to marry me in his stead?”
“Me?!” Kit cried out, staring at her in surprise. From the back of his mind came a tiny voice saying that marriage to this woman would be a fine thing.
She sighed. “You needn’t protest so. I was only jesting. I daresay my grandfather would kill us both if we dared such a thing.” A touch of anger flashed through her gaze. “Beyond that, I have no other choice. Should I resist my grandsire’s wishes I fear he’ll vent his rage upon my mother.”
Behind them, Mistress Patience and Bertie entered the barn. “Speak no more of this,” Anne whispered to him. “Patience knows none of it and thus would I keep the matter.”
“As you will,” Kit nodded, his attention shifting to her servant.
Mistress Patience beamed, her prayer book clasped to her bodice front. A tiny nosegay of wildflowers now bobbed atop its closed pages. Where she smiled, Bertie glowered. Whatever they’d been doing, it wasn’t coupling. Kit was grateful to see the same thing that ached in him reflected in his man’s eyes.
“Come then, Patience,” Mistress Anne called to her governess. “We must return to Greenwich.”
In order to keep the queen’s secret Kit had been instructed to wait a time before departing. Thus, he stood aside as the troupe left the barn, then stood in the doorway to watch them go. Only when he could see Anne no more did Kit comprehend the new urgency her revelation lent his quest.
If he didn’t lie with her before Deyville’s wife died his opportunity would be lost. Once her grandsire made the announcement of their engagement Anne would spend no more time alone with him, queen’s wager or not.
So how was he to rush her into coupling? Kit smiled without amusement. Another day like this one, and he’d take her, no matter how many people watched. And, in doing so, he doomed her to a life of torment.
Breath escaped him in a slow steady stream as he stared out into the now bright day. The sun’s heat teased tendrils of steam from the damp sod. If Deyville would kill him for trespassing, Anne couldn’t expect so easy an escape. Nay, since the nobleman would want to keep Old Amyas’s properties he wouldn’t dare let the heiress die until she was brought to bed with his child. Kit had no doubt she’d pay in pain for her sin until that day.
Filled with the thought of Anne suffering, Kit lifted his gaze to the road. The group was now nothing more than a distant blur. The answer seeped slowly up from his soul. She wouldn’t suffer if she went into marriage with her maidenhead intact.
Kit stiffened, shocked at himself. What was happening to him? How could he even consider betraying Nick to secure what could be only a temporary reprieve for some sweet-faced chit?
Deyville had always been a brutal man. Old Amyas must know that, and still he promised his heiress to the man. If Amyas didn’t care what happened to his granddaughter, why should Kit?
But he did care.
Kit stared out across the vibrant landscape. This had all seemed so simple and clear-cut when Lady Montmercy laid it out to him. He waited for his guilt over Nick to rise and save him from his fatal softness. Instead there was only the question of whether Nick’s title was really worth an innocent woman’s destruction and pain.
With a sigh Kit leaned his shoulder against the barn’s door frame and closed his eyes. It was too late to save himself. Death waited for him no matter what he chose to do, but he didn’t need to use Anne to achieve his purpose. If he died, Nick would have no choice left but to wed even though his wife might not be Lady Arabella or that the amount of his mate’s settlement might be less than enough to restore their family’s title. It was enough for Kit that Nick’s line would continue.
It was decided, then. He’d leave his Nan virgin for Deyville and let Lady Montmercy vent her wrath on him.
“Mistress Anne?”
Trapped in deep melancholy, Anne started. Stabbing her needle into her now almost completed cushion cover, she looked up. A page stood before her, one of the older lads. He bowed, rising with a wink and a grin.
On another day Anne might have teased him over his cheeky behavior. Not today. She stifled her sigh.
“Aye, Master Phillips?” Anne asked, working to tame her depression. How could a full six weeks of service at court have passed to find her yet unmarried and no closer to finding the man she needed?
“It’s Sir Amyas, mistress. He’s wanting you.”
Anne stiffened in panic. God help her, Lady Deyville was dead! Her grandfather had come to take her into his custody until Lord Deyville could claim her. It was a frantic glance she sent around the Presence Chamber, as if laying eyes upon her grandsire might confirm or deny her fears.
The room was crowded. These were the hours that Elizabeth held court, doing so as much to make herself available to those courtiers lacking the rank to access her Privy Chamber as to do actual business. As always, Elizabeth sat in her chair at the room’s far end. Today the queen wore scarlet and green, ruby-headed pins holding her curls in place. This week’s hunting had been good, the weather kind, and Elizabeth’s admirers especially attentive. All of which had put the queen in a fine humor. Elizabeth smiled as she offered congratulations in Latin to an old man wearing black robes and a scholar’s flat cap upon his head for the book he’d written in her honor.
Anne once more scanned the room only to frown. Amyas wasn’t in the chamber. “I thought you said Sir Amyas was here,” she said to the page.
The page loosed a snort of snide laughter. “He waits outside the door, mistress, having been denied entry. You must go without to speak with him.”
Shock tumbled through Anne. Oh dear God, what had her grandsire done this time? Who cared! If Amyas couldn’t come in, he couldn’t petition for her release from the queen’s service.
Fool! This was no reprieve. He didn’t need to petition in person.
Setting aside her needlework, she rose, straightening the folds in her brown skirts as she stood. “My thanks Master Phillips. I’ll go to him,” she said, then started for the door, once again feeling melancholy’s nip at her heart.
She’d doomed herself to marriage with Deyville by her own eagerness to escape that fate. Instead of taking her time and steadily teasing Christopher Hollier closer to her, she’d thrown aside all subtlety and used every weapon in her arsenal that first day. Anne’s lips twisted then quivered into a wry smile. May God have mercy on her, but she’d even allowed her shirt to slip open.
Then again, the ploy had almost worked. She’d watched desire for her fill his face, the emotion growing as he leaned closer and almost pressed his lips to hers. As she waited to feel his kiss, something shifted in her and he’d ceased to be Master Hollier, or even Christopher. It was Kit’s mouth she wanted to feel atop her own.
Then, the musicians interrupted, leaving Anne so panicked that she’d nigh on asked Kit to wed her. Apparently, this had so frightened him that he’d made no attempt to touch her outside of their dancing since that day. Well, it was time to read the message he sent her. She needed to begin her search for a husband anew.
Even as Anne’s heart groaned at that thought, her relief grew. Kit would never know of her spoiled state. Her affection for him, and any he might have for her, would never have to be sullied by her sin’s revelation.
Again, Anne sighed. The only thing that made her failure to win Kit bearable was the fact that Patience was no happier than she. A week ago Patience had discovered her beloved Bertie in another woman’s arms. Patience hadn’t spoken not a word to the man since.
Anne stopped near the Presence Chamber door. Master Bowyer, the usher, his blue and red attire gleaming jewel-bright, lifted his brows as he eyed her. Virgins that they were, or were supposed to be, Elizabeth’s maids-of-honor didn’t usually flow unescorted in and out of the room.
“Master Bowyer, my grandsire stands without and has requested a few moments to speak with me,” she told him. “I won’t be long.”
Master Bowyer’s lips quirked up into a tight smile. “Just so, but you know to go no farther without an escort, mistress?” His tone said that he commiserated with her over her grandsire’s continuing and objectionable behavior.
“Of course,” Anne replied then turned in the doorway to once more face the room and curtsied as custom demanded of those departing the chamber, regardless of the lack of attention being sent her way.
When she straightened, her gaze darted across the crowd. She caught herself and whirled to step outside the door. By God, but she was hopelessly smitten. What was she doing, save looking for Kit even though she knew very well he was in London on business today.
There was a little room between the top of the stairs and the doorway to the Presence Chamber, the space being more landing than chamber. Still, it was jammed with a dozen people. These folk lacked rank enough to enter the queen’s presence and waited to be called into the chamber by name, should the queen agree to hear their petition.
Her grandsire stood at the landing’s far end. Gone was his black attire, worn to mourn Walter’s passing. Instead, he wore somber gray beneath his riding attire, a leather jerkin and slashed leather riding breeches. His features were rock-hard, his eyes narrowed. A muscle along his jaw line worked, no doubt against the insult of being denied his monarch’s presence.
Beside him stood a small, round woman, wrinkled of face and bright of eye. She wore dark brown, with a white partlet tied over her bodice. Everything about her, from the simple coif upon her head to the toes of her shoes, suggested she believed as Sir Amyas did.
A wholly new panic shot through Anne. Her grandfather knew Patience was enamored of Kit’s servant and meant to replace her! Anne’s heart fell. If Patience departed she’d see Kit no more.
As if she felt Anne’s gaze on her, the old woman shifted and met Anne’s look. Her eyes widened then she smiled, her grin nearly toothless.
Startled, Anne blinked. How now? The dowager seemed awfully cheery for one of Sir Amyas’s co-religionist.
A month of curtsying to those above her rank meant the bend of Anne’s knees was automatic as she stopped before her grandsire.
Amyas’s brows shot up at this. “Well now, this is an improvement,” he said, his tone as cold and harsh as ever.
That brought Anne upright with a snap. All worry and melancholy dissolved in the rush of irritation his words awoke. “Grandfather.” She made her brief greeting as cool as possible.
Sir Amyas shot a harsh look at the woman beside him. “Go stand over there,” he commanded her, waving her away from him.
“Of course, Sir Amyas,” the old woman replied with surprising good humor given the rudeness of his command.
When they were private Sir Amyas bent what was an almost approving look upon his heiress. “Here I was concerned that courtly life might leave you so emboldened no man would want you, our monarch being who she is. Instead I find you more humble than when I left you.”
Teeth gritted, Anne sucked in a steaming breath. “And, I’ll tell you that it’s my royal mistress who has wrought this change in me so fine an example does she set.” She left it to Amyas to decide if this was something to be cherished or feared.
“You would say so, and be wrong about it,” he snapped.
Anne’s eyes narrowed as she fought the urge to retort. Then she caught herself. There was no need for words.
“Grandfather, these are the hours of my duty and our queen doesn’t tolerate her maids out of her presence for long during their duty,” she said, reaching out to wrap her hand about his arm to make him her escort as she delivered her barb. “Rather than stand here, come within and speak to me.”
His breath left him in a furious stream as he jerked his arm out of her grasp. “I cannot. Cecil has forbidden me access to her”—he jerked his chin toward the chamber door and his queen—“until he feels I’ve mastered my rage. How can I master my rage when her Majesty remains steadfast in her refusal to replace that papist Hollier with a righteous man?”
A spark of humor rose in Anne. Elizabeth had good reason to refuse. Kit’s removal would render her royal wager null and void. “I had no idea,” she murmured.
With what was almost a sigh, the anger in Amyas’s eyes dimmed. “I tell you it’s a sad day when a man’s friends turn on him. I say Cecil must push her, but William refuses to face her, claiming that she wants to hear no more of the subject. Well, if he thinks this matter finished, he’s wrong. I’ve come to see Leicester. If any man can help me in this, he can.”
Anne swallowed her bark of laughter. Poor Amyas was doomed. He’d only get the same response from Leicester that he got from the queen. Then, buoyed by her grandsire’s defeat in one issue Anne found the courage to pry into another issue.
“Grandfather, I haven’t seen your friend, Lord Deyville, at court these last weeks. As I recall, he mentioned his wife was gravely ill. I find myself wondering if she’s passed on to her heavenly reward, although I’d think that such a passing would have been announced.”
She chased all expression from her face to hide her knowledge of his plan then wondered why she bothered. Sir Amyas didn’t believe any woman possessed intelligence enough to decipher a man’s intent.
“Nay, his wife yet lives,” he replied without hesitation, a bitter edge to his words.
Anne’s knees nearly weakened, so great was her relief. There was still time. Let this day stand as a warning to her to hurry and find the man she needed.
“As for what keeps Lord Deyville,” her grandfather was saying “it’s the marriage of his daughter. Once she’s wed, I expect he’ll return to court.”
“Glad I am to hear that it wasn’t his wife who’d passed,” Anne said, and meant it. “To lose both son and mate in one year seems hardship beyond bearing.”
Amyas made a non-committal sound. “So you would say. Enough chatter. I’m off to speak with Leicester.” With that, he turned and strode for the stairs.
Anne stared after him, beyond startled. Had her grandfather called her out of the Presence Chamber merely to chat? If so, then there was something very wrong with him.
“Wait, Sir Amyas,” the old woman called after him. “Where and when shall I meet you?”
Her grandfather turned, his brow clouded in irritation. “Have you no decorum? You shout like a fishwife in the marketplace. My party will be ready to leave in two hours time. Be out upon the Lawn,” he said, referring to the wide field of grass that lay beyond the palace walls, “if you wish an escort back to London.”
Then, as if the woman’s question had prodded his memory, Sir Amyas turned a glance on his granddaughter. “This is Mistress Alice Godwin. Your mother’s steward wrote to me, requesting that I bring the woman to you,” he said, unaware that her mother’s steward did nothing save at his mistress’s command. “She was your mother’s governess and now seeks to make your acquaintance.” His introduction made, Amyas descended the stairs to make his way to Leicester’s chambers.