The Lady Series (35 page)

“There,” he said, striding toward an L-shaped bench in the corner of the garden's wall.

The bench, built of the same rusty-red brick as the enclosing wall, served as both chair and planting bed. Low-growing thyme and grass sprouted from its seat. Moss and tiny star-bright daisies covered its sides and back.

Setting her in the bench’s corner, he took a backward step. Rather than remain upright she slumped forward, her head sagging until her chin almost rested on her chest. He eyed her in concern. From this angle it looked as if her ruff and shirt collar were choking her while the ties of her headdress seemed to be slicing into her flesh. Still, he took another backward step. Either she'd awaken on her own in a few moments or a servant would be along to tend her.

“Come then,” Percy said, turning to retreat from the garden. “I've an appointment with a wine merchant. Let's go wash away the sting of defeat by tasting his wares.”

Bitter amusement lifted Jamie's mouth. “There isn't enough wine in all the world for that.”

But as he started after his uncle the nagging of his conscience grew. It was wrong to leave a woman alone when she was so defenseless. Jamie stopped to look back at her. “Percy, go you on ahead. I find I can't leave her.”

“Suit yourself,” his uncle said with a shrug, then wove his way among the trees toward the gate.

Returning to the bench, Jamie crouched before the woman. He loosened her headdress and slipped it off her head. Her golden hair, caught in a simple plait, spilled from her veil to trail over the bench's back. Removing her ruff, he lifted her chin and opened the laces on her shirt collar. As they slackened she drew a deep breath. Pleased to have given her some comfort, he shifted back onto his heels to study her.

Although no man would ever call her beauty, not with her small nose and full cheeks, there was a sweet delicacy to the way her fair brows lifted over wide-set eyes. Her golden lashes fanned in pretty crescents against smooth white skin. Her siren’s mouth was her best asset, her upper lip a provocative bow over a lush lower mate.

Attraction stirred in Jamie, startling him. Why her? Again, he scanned her features, only to grunt in understanding. It was her very plainness that called to him. In all his life, from his mother to that deadly bitch, Lady Montmercy, no pretty woman had ever done him a favor.

Hoping to rouse her from her unnatural slumber, he caught her hands in his and moved his thumbs across their backs in a slow and steady caress. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes shifted. He smiled.

“There's a good lass. Come now, come back to me.”

The man’s voice was warm and deep, with just a hint of a North country lilt. Awareness flowed through Belle, bright specks coming to life in the blackness that enshrouded her. Thyme’s peppery scent filled her lungs. A bird chirped. Branches rustled.

Something brushed at the backs of her hands. Her fingers curled in instinctive reaction. It was soft leather she felt and, beneath that, strong palms.

Her eyes flew open. The man crouched before her, holding her hands in his. Belle caught her breath.

Nay, not just any man, a handsome man. Beneath a light brown cap his hair was a red so deep it was nearly brown. It had been cropped with care to frame his broad brow and high cheekbones. His nose was arrow straight, nostrils slightly flared, while his brows arched sharply over eyes of clear blue. A fine dimple marked the center of his clean-shaven chin.

He smiled. She sighed. There was nary a gap or black spot to mar the beauty of his straight teeth.

“You're back then, are you?” he asked, with none of the scorn, contempt or indifference in his voice she’d come to expect from men like him when they addressed her.

As he spoke his thumbs moved absently across her hands. His touch sent a languid current through Belle, the sensation just delicious enough to make her fingers tighten on his. His eyes flew wide and he snatched back his hands to lurch to his feet. Crossing his arms over the breast of his golden-brown doublet, he stared down at her, his expression utterly blank.

Mortification washed over Belle as she recognized what her reaction to his caress had told him. So dry and dusty had the last years of her marriage been that she'd forgotten what it was to feel desire. Dear Lord, but hand-holding and other such sultry games belonged to courting couples. Handsome men never played those sorts of games with women as plain as she.

“It was kind of you to stay with me whilst I was senseless,” she managed in a small voice, praying he'd leave her to wallow privately in her embarrassment.

As she spoke she glanced to the garden beyond him. The queen’s witness, Sir Edward Mallory, stood there. His gaze caught hers then slipped downward from her face to her throat. Disapproval twisted his fine mouth.

Belle glanced down at herself and gasped. Her headdress and ruff lay in her lap. May God have mercy on her, her shirt collar was open! Snapping upright on the bench, she yanked her shirt closed and fumbled the collar strings into knot.

“Madam?” her rescuer asked, his brows lifting.

She jammed her ruff back atop her collar, not caring that it wasn't straight. “We aren’t alone,” she whispered as she slapped her headdress back upon her head.

He whirled. For the briefest of instants his shoulders stiffened, then he pulled his cap from his head and bowed.

“Twice in one day, Sir Edward,” he said as he straightened. “I am honored indeed.” However respectful his words, there was nothing deferential in his tone.

Even as dislike seethed in the young knight's eyes, he gracefully inclined his head. “The honor is mine, Master Wyatt.”

Master Wyatt? Belle stared at her rescuer's back. Could this be the same Master Wyatt the queen mentioned, the man who was her intended husband's steward and proxy? She hoped so. He’d been nothing if not honorable toward her. Squire Hollier could hardly be a monster if he employed so kind a man.

Sir Edward glanced slyly from Master Wyatt to Belle. “Dear me, it seems I've intruded.”

Belle gasped. Lord save her, but what if the knight repeated to the queen that he'd seen her in disarray? Would that mean the Tower for Belle, and Lucy with her?

Master Wyatt glanced over his shoulder. In his blue eyes was the promise to protect her from slander. She sent him a grateful smile. The corners of his mouth quirked upward in response, then he turned back to face the knight.

“There is nothing upon which to intrude, Sir Edward. The woman swooned and I came to her aid.”

“Did you?” Cynicism scorched the knight's words. “Master Wyatt, you simply must make up your mind. First you spurn Lady Purfoy as unfit to be Squire Hollier's wife. Now, here you are, coming to both her aid and her defense.”

Master Wyatt whirled on Belle. “You are Lady Purfoy?” he demanded harshly.

Stunned by his rapid change from savior to attacker, Belle shrank back against the seat's warm bricks and gave but the barest of nods.

Master Wyatt's mouth tightened. Planting his hands on the bench at either side of her hips, he leaned toward her until they were nigh on nose-to-nose.

“Pray tell me what cause might Sir Edward Mallory,” he gave the man's name malicious emphasis, “have to seek you out before the morrow's betrothal?”

His threatening tone set Belle's head to spinning anew. “I don’t know,” she protested, her voice barely audible even to her own ears as she dug her fingers into the bench's grassy seat.

Anger only blazed brighter on his face at her denial. “Be warned,” he snapped, yet keeping his voice low enough that his words stayed private between them. “Graceton Castle will tolerate no spies or traitors within its walls.”

Had Belle not been properly terrified, she might have laughed. Of all the people in the world she could think of no one less suited to spying or plotting than she.

Straightening, Master Wyatt turned on his heel. As she watched him stride away, his path taking him so near to Sir Edward that their shoulders almost brushed, she sagged back against the bench. So it was only the queen who wanted this marriage. At least Belle’s first husband had desired the little bit of property her stepfather had made her dowry, if not her. What sort of life could she have if she were shoved into wedlock with a man who didn't even want that much?

Ned Mallory’s jaw clenched as the Northerner strode toward him. If ever there was a man who acted prouder than his station, it was Master James Wyatt. He was nothing but a country squire's steward, yet this
servant
dared to refuse a knight’s challenge, striking back with scorn instead of a sword as all men should do.

The steward shot Ned a single sidelong glance then strode on toward the garden gate. That Squire Nicholas Hollier would favor so disrespectful an employee made it that much easier for Ned to justify finding a way to force Lady Purfoy to refuse this marriage. She had to. He couldn’t leave court, not when he had to be here to keep his finger on the pulse of Norfolk’s growing catastrophe so when the perfect moment arrived he could spew his excuses and denials.

If only the earl of Leicester, Elizabeth’s favorite, would do as he swore he could, and convince his Virgin Lover that it was safer to have her royal cousin wed to her noblest and most Protestant peer. But Leicester stalled and each day he delayed the duke’s fortunes slipped. Should the earl fail, Ned would face the same financial and political ruin the duke did when the extent of their involvement in the plot was revealed, as it surely would be.

He crossed the yard to drop onto one knee before Lady Purfoy. “Sir Edward Mallory at your service, my lady,” he said, catching her hand in his. “As the queen's proxy in the matter of this marriage I want you to know I'm appalled at Master Wyatt's rude behavior toward you. I intend to see he pays for how he's treated you this day.” He let his voice fill with outrage, hoping the lady was as dull-witted as she was plain, something her lady mother had often suggested.

Rather than reward his offer of protection with sighs of gratitude she caught a sharp breath and snatched her hand from his. Fear filled her clear gray eyes. “Master Wyatt did me no wrong and I’ll not have you tell our queen he has.”

Ned hid his flinch. Careless fool! This was no sophisticated courtier, but a country bumpkin, unused to Elizabeth’s bluff and bluster. After the way the queen had spoken to the lady today, of course she was more afraid of her monarch’s reaction than any slight done to her pride. He used his most charming smile to bandage his error as he tried again.

“I see it’s true what’s said of you, that you are a Christian woman, quick to forgive as your Lord commands. Given your depth of faith, how your heart must wrench over this marriage.” He shook his head sadly.

Gentle surprise filled Lady Purfoy's face. “My faith? What has my faith to do with this union?”

Ned let his brow crease. “Ah, I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but you do know the squire's a Papist?”

Her face paled until he thought she'd swoon. She caught his hand, holding on as if for her life. “The queen wants me to wed a Catholic? Nay, I won't do it. What if my new husband won’t allow me to hold my own church services?” she pleaded, as much to the world as to him.

Ned's stomach writhed. Until this moment he'd never considered himself a cruel man, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Laying his other hand atop hers, he gave her fingers an encouraging pat.

“Our Gloriana has always appreciated strength of religious conviction, especially in a woman. My lady, if this marriage so frightens you, you need only speak to Her Majesty. Explain to her the strength of your beliefs. I'm certain your faith will convince her to find the squire another wife.”

Lady Purfoy sagged back against the bench, shaking her head in refusal. “Nay, I dare not,” she breathed. “I must marry the man she has chosen or Her Grace will confine me and mine in the Tower with my lady mother.”

Again, triumph slipped from Ned’s fingers. Although he knew Elizabeth meant nothing by her threat, he'd never convince Lady Purfoy of that. He was running out of options.

“If you'd rather not face Her Grace yourself, you can make me your advocate. I'm certain I can negotiate some solution that suits you both.” As he spoke relief flowed through him. Why, it could take months just to get her an appointment for a hearing with the queen.

Lady Purfoy’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. She came to her feet and crossed her arms over her bodice. “What profit do you intend to extract from this wedding that you should offer to be my advocate?” she asked, new and wary distrust in her voice.

Ned quickly rose after her, slapping the grass from his stockinged-knee. “Profit?” he asked, striving for an innocent tone. “What profit can I have save the desire to help a widow in distress?”

“You don't even know me.” There was a steely edge to her words that didn't bode well for his cause.

Ned damned himself for believing anything her lying mother ever said. Shy and plain Lady Purfoy was, but not simple or dull-witted.

Lost, Ned floundered for a new avenue with which to twist her to his need, only to settle on the possibility of financial ruin. God knew it was eating at him.

“No profit, my lady, only your security. For all these years Her Majesty has coddled her Papist peers in their heresy. And do you know how they thank her for her leniency?”

Giving a scornful snort, he answered his own question. “They plot, my lady. Squire Hollier included. They plan to depose our sweet Elizabeth in favor of that whoring, husband-murdering Mary Stuart.”

This wasn't untrue, just incomplete. Aye, the northern barons were spoiling for a rebellion, but Elizabeth had spent the summer preparing for it. As for Mary Stuart, there’d be no threat from that royal vixen if Leicester would just do as he promised and convince Elizabeth that her royal cousin’s marriage to Norfolk was safer than leaving the bitch in captivity. Not only that, any child the Scotswoman bore could become Elizabeth’s heir.

Which was where Elizabeth always gagged, fearing her own replacement on the throne. Leicester, and Leicester alone, could convince their queen that there was no threat to her from such a child.

“I'll not see you marry the squire, knowing you'll soon share a rebel's exile and impoverishment with him.” He fell silent, licking his lips and trying not to squirm as he willed the widow to say the words that would save him.

She lifted one brow. Her eyes hardened to a dark gray. She nodded, the movement of her head slow. “How considerate of you to concern yourself with me,” she said coolly. “Or should I say use me?”

Something in her tone reminded Ned of Master Wyatt's scorn. He would not be mocked, not by this little nothing and not by that servant! Damn her, she'd do as he needed. He would not, could not let the storm about to burst destroy him, not when everything he’d done had been with the best and most loyal of intentions.

Ned leaned near to her, letting his lips draw back into a snarl. “Since you haven’t the spine to refuse marriage to one of the barons plotting rebellion then I think you owe it to those of your own faith to aid me.

“I know the earl of Northumberland has asked the squire for aid.” More fool Kit Hollier for suggesting this. “If you insist on marrying the squire, then you will serve me by seeking out the proof I need so I may expose the traitors.”

Lady Purfoy rocked back on her heels as if he'd struck her. She caught a handful of his new doublet to hold herself upright, her grip so tight Ned saw the fabric's weave open as the jeweled buttons strained. Fearing for a garment that had cost him almost fifty pounds, he yanked her hand off his doublet.

“He knew,” she cried, her fingernails now digging into his hand. “When Master Wyatt saw you, he accused me of being your spy. Now, he will carry the tale of our meeting to the squire. How could you do this to me? You've destroyed my marriage ‘ere it even begins!”