“Did I ask for it?” He raised his hands in protest. “Nay not me. So it was my kindness that set you to seducing me, eh?”
“Nay.” The amusement faded from her face. “To know from whence that sprang I’d best tell you the whole truth. My grandsire wants a titled man for my husband, a man of great pomp and prominence. I, however, need me a man who will accept my mother as she is. Your brother is crippled. Once I heard from your own lips that you loved him despite his infirmity I knew you were the one.”
She paused, a touch of shame showing in the twist of her mouth. “Then I learned you were sworn not to wed. What choice had I save to set myself to seducing you, hoping to make you break that vow?”
Kit tensed beneath her, his emotions writhing. How could it be that she valued him for Nick and the wrong he’d done his brother? In that instant he wanted to rise and run from her, only to be overcome by his need to hold her close and find the peace her embrace promised.
She leaned forward to touch her mouth to his. Gone was the heat of the previous moment, leaving only sweetness and her love for him. She had been honest with him. Now he must return the favor. She needed to know that he, of all men, had no right to her affection.
“Someone told you wrong.” His voice sounded harsh in his own ears. “My brother isn’t crippled, he’s scarred from burns suffered years ago.” He meant to say no more, but the rest erupted from his mouth before he could stop it. “That he is disfigured is my fault. I sent him tumbling into the hearth.”
Kit froze against what he revealed. The guilt and pain of his wrongdoing welled up, squeezing the air from his lungs as it closed fist around his heart. He died, waiting to hear the scorn he deserved from her for what he’d done.
Rather than shock a quiet sigh left her. “It truly isn’t fair that you and I cannot wed. We are so alike.” Her voice was sad. “If you are the cause of your brother’s scars, I am at the root of my mother’s crippling. It was my birth that left her as she is, voiceless and immobile. Despite that, and all the other wrongs I’ve done her, she loves me still, just, I think, as your brother must love you.”
It wasn’t forgiveness she offered him, but understanding. Aye, and in offering it to him she did what Lady Montmercy’s contract could never have done. She released him from his past.
Life poured back into Kit. His pulse rushed. His lungs craved air. When his eyes opened he found himself looking upon the only woman in the world for him. She owned his soul, just as he held hers.
“Dear God, how I love you.” The words left his lips touched with wonder. “I never knew I could feel this way,” he told her, now nigh on drowning in what filled him. “How could I live so long and never know this feeling?”
“Because you’ve only just met me,” she replied as if this explained all.
He grinned. “But of course,” he taunted with a laugh, then kissed her. “What a clever girl you are. Lovely, as well. And you love me!” He kissed her again then tore his mouth free, spirits soaring against what he held in his heart for her. “Marry me, Nan.”
“Now you ask when it’s too late,” she said with a sorry shake of her head. “My grandfather has already promised me to Lord Deyville.”
“Deyville cannot have you,” Kit growled, clutching her close to him. “I’ll die before I let him touch you.”
“You’ll die if you wed me,” she retorted. “Or so my grandfather has sworn.”
Yet giddy with his affection for her Kit scoffed at such a threat. “Let him do his worst. I’d rather be wed to you for a single week than exist the rest of my life without you.”
She smiled and caught his mouth with hers. Her kiss spoke of how much his words pleased her. Then, she was sliding off him to kneel beside him. With a finger she traced the line of his face.
“Fine sentiments, my love, and I cherish you all the more for them, but I say a week is not enough. Kit, I want you for all my life. If marrying you only guarantees both our deaths, then I’ll not do it. Instead set your mind to finding some way to force my grandsire to accept you.”
This brought Kit upright with a sigh. He scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Never has there been a union more hopeless than ours. What you want is impossible. Not even if my brother offered him a contract in which I’m named Graceton’s heir and promised our title’s restoration would your grandsire have me.”
Anne eased aside to sit with her legs crossed, tailor-fashion. Kit savored the look of her framed against the black velvet of the sky. The moon’s light laid silver shadows on her skin. Her hair pooled on the ground around her hips.
“It isn’t fair,” she said again, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Why must the only man I want as my husband also be the only man my grandsire won’t allow me to wed? All because he thinks I’m his only heir when I know he has another.”
“What?!” The word exploded from Kit’s mouth. “How can you say so? You know very well you’re the last?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say this other one was legitimate or that I could prove he is my grandsire’s get. Or that proving it would do us any favor, not when I suspect it’s Lord Andrew Montmercy who is my grandsire’s son.”
“Who says this is so?” Kit demanded, needing to defend Andrew from such a slur.
“No one,” Anne replied, her tone hopeless.
Kit stared at her in confusion. “Then, why would you accuse Lord Andrew of bastardy?”
Anne peered at him through the darkness. “Do you recall my grandsire’s strange reaction at my presentation?”
Kit drew a slow breath, not certain how much he wanted to admit to observing between Lady Montmercy and Amyas. “He seemed overwrought at having me named your tutor.”
“Nay,” she said with a shake of her head, “not then, but afterward, when we’d left the queen’s presence. He was in a strange state, muttering about biblical temptresses and saying he was warned against any plot she might send his way. I was certain he referred to Lady Montmercy, so I set myself to seeking out the connection between them, hoping to use it to force him to accept any man I chose to wed.”
Would that such a thing were possible. “So what did you find?” he asked.
“Mistress Alice Godwin,” Nan replied, “who was my mother’s governess before she went into Lady Montmercy’s employ. According to the tale Mistress Alice tells, Andrew is not his father’s son, but was sired by a Protestant who went into exile upon Queen Mary’s rise to the throne.”
“Just as your grandsire did,” Kit offered.
“Aye. So too, does Mistress Alice say that Lady Elisabetta expected her lover to wed her upon his return to England. Instead he returned to reject her.”
Understanding swept through Kit. “And in revenge, the lady rejected Andrew, knowing him to be the son she’d borne this man,” he mused, “just as she now plots your destruction to deprive Sir Amyas of his only, remaining heir. Could it be she hopes to force him into acknowledging her son as his own?”
The night wasn’t dark enough to hide Nan’s frown. She set a hand upon her hip. “How is it you know Lady Montmercy plots against me?”
Kit grimaced. Christ, but he was as bad as Bertie. So which was it to be? Lose a chance to rescue Anne from marriage to Deyville by revealing no word of that contract, or lose her to rage over how he plotted to destroy her? This was no choice at all. A foul and filthy feeling crept over him as he cleared his throat.
“Now that you’ve exposed your deepest secret to me is there room in your heart to forgive me my sin? Vow to me you’ll love me still despite what I have done.”
Although startled by his request, she lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug. “I so vow.”
Kit launched into his tale with no hope that she would keep her word. “Before you came to court I entered into a contract with Lady Montmercy in which I agreed to seduce you and reveal to all the court that I’d taken your maidenhead. The lady’s intention wasn’t so much to destroy you, but to ruin your grandfather.”
&nbs
p; “Now, why in the world would you agree to do such a foolish thing when the queen is certain to want your head for it?” she asked with a quiet laugh.
“Because I am a debt-ridden, misbegotten idiot, who has since discovered himself incapable of doing the evil he planned,” Kit offered in apology. “That, and I wanted my brother’s title restored. If my brother were to marry Lady Montmercy’s daughter he’d have enough income to take his rightful title.”
Here, Kit fell suddenly silent. Where was her anger, her scorn for how he’d misused her? “You’re not angry at me?”
“Over what?” she asked with a quick laugh. “A seduction you did not do? How can I be angry when all she achieved was to make it possible for me to love you? As you have forgiven me my sin I forgive you yours. Now, rather than dwell on our wrongs, tell me how we can use this contract of hers to force my grandfather to accept you.”
Better that he conjure up some way to use that contract to prevent the lady from murdering him. Kit shook his head. “It can’t help us. Even if your grandsire were to acknowledge Andrew as his own, Andrew would still be his bastard while you remain his legitimate heir.”
Kit gave breath to a bitter laugh. “Pity poor Andrew. Not only has the lad lost his mother, if what you believe is true, he’ll also lose his title and his name. Nay, he’ll lose his very identity.”
He wondered if this wasn’t at the back of Lady Montmercy’s twisted brain when she’d written out the contract, thus leaving a trail to be followed. What a paradox. The old man already owned the title he so craved for his bloodline, but only as long as he never acknowledged his son.
Anne’s shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t bear to hurt Lord Andrew more than his mother has done, but what of us? If we cannot use this we’re doomed for certain.”
“Mistress Anne!” Borne on the night’s sparkling breeze, Patience’s voice floated to them from the garden’s far edge. “Time to leave. The caretaker would lock the gates.”
“Nay!” Anne cried, even as she leapt to her feet and grabbed up her garments.
Owning more time than she, Kit rose to watch her dress. His Nan was right. It was forever he wanted from her. More than that, he’d be damned to hell before he let her go to Deyville.
She pulled her outer garment on over her shirt, then fumbled with her bodice lacing. Her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t manage this simple task.
“Shall I?” he asked, not waiting for her reply to take them from her fingers. There was great joy in doing this humble chore—a husband’s chore—for her.
When he was done she looked up at him. Sadness marked every line of her face. “I don’t want our time to end.” Her mouth took a wry bend. “To think, all this practicing and we’ll never have a chance to dance before the queen.”
Kit started at her reminder of the queen’s wager. With it came the foolish hope of winning royal favor. He damned himself as thrice an idiot. Even if Elizabeth delayed Anne’s marriage to accommodate the wager there was no guarantee that the finest rendition of the La Volta would win them more than a pretty smile from their monarch.
Anne gathered up her stockings and garters, and thrust bare feet into her shoes. Again, she fought to smile. “I daresay there’ll be no invitation for you to attend my wedding.”
Kit’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head. “You’ll not marry Deyville.”
“Kit,” she cried in soft protest, “we’ve just determined there’s no way to stop my marriage.”
“Ah, but there is,” he replied, the need to protect her from Deyville burning like a holy cause within his heart. “That nobleman will die before his wedding day, on this you have my solemn oath.”
“Nay!” she cried in protest. “If you kill him, your life will be the forfeit. I can’t bear the thought of you dead.”
“Mistress, you must come now.” There was a new, worried tone to the maid’s voice. The garden gate loosed a rusty groan as it opened.
“I come,” Anne called back then threw herself at Kit, wrapping her arms around him.
He pulled her close. Her kiss was as desperate as it was brief. As she released him, Kit caught her face in his hands to look at her. The moonlight turned the trails of her tears to silver.
“Don’t mourn yet. There’s still time,” he told her.
“I cannot help myself.” She turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. “I must go.” This last was a forlorn cry.
“Then go, taking my heart with you,” he told her as he released her, “and know I cherish yours above all else. We will find a way, I know it, aye.”
“Would that I could believe you,” she cried then whirled.
Kit watched her disappear into the night. Only when he could see her no more, did he turn to gather up his own attire. She was right not to believe him. There was no hope at all.
Late evening on Kit’s second day of travel he reached the grassy parkland surrounding Graceton Castle. Not once on either day had the sun made its appearance. Instead a steady rain falling from a leaden sky had been his constant companion, as if heaven cried for his hopeless cause. Now, with night overtaking him, the world around him seemed trapped in a hushed, drear dullness where the rattle of harness rings and the snort and sigh of his horse were the only sounds.
Turning his face into spattering drops, Kit looked at the place of his birth. Graceton Castle sat on a sharp lift of land caught in the river’s bend. It wasn’t a house by any reckoning, but centuries’ worth of stone towers and stretches of ancient wall remade into a residence. From this angle, he could see the river wall. Ivy clung to its gray stones, leafy lines snaking upward to frame the small square windows on the house’s lower level. More graceful arched openings marked the second and third storeys, where the hall and family quarters were located. Here, the house’s roof line peaked above the crenellations on the exterior wall’s top, each of those defensive stone teeth wearing archers’ crosses from a long dead past.
Along the riverbank summer’s growth was lush and thick, as if in desperate reaction to the previous winter’s unusual cold. That left little to be seen of the village across the water. Of the folk who lived there, Kit caught nothing more than the glint of light or the darker curl of smoke against the blackening sky.
As he started up the narrow, tree-lined lane leading to his home’s massive gateway, his thoughts were as muddy as the path beneath his horse’s hooves. Two days he’d done nothing but ponder the conundrum of how to both keep his life and marry Anne. If the means to that end yet eluded him Kit was certain the answer he needed turned upon Lady Montmercy’s hatred for Old Amyas.
He freed a quiet breath. What good did all this thinking do when there was no way to make use of it?
The lane let him out before the mossy, massive gatehouse on the north wall. The stables lay here, outside the walls and wisely so, as it prevented the befouling of the air near the house. Even before Kit dismounted, a stable lad raced to the house to announce his return. Kit watched the lad sprint off into the darkness.
If nothing else, there’d be a greeting party of at least one, Nick’s housekeeper, a woman nigh on as old as the house. Mistress Miller had served the Holliers since their grandsire’s time. For reasons beyond Kit’s ken she retained a persistent fondness for Graceton’s prodigal son.
His sodden cloak dragging on his shoulders, he set across the grassy expanse between gatehouse and the main doorway. As always, his gaze shifted to the ancient keep tower. Left where it stood as a reminder of the Hollier’s permanence, the broken and crumbling structure glowered down upon the house from its mound. Once inside the castle walls, Graceton looked more residence than fortress. The kitchen lay in the corner nearest the gate alongside the house’s brewery. A cheery glow flowed over the low wall that enclosed that area, bringing with it the distant sound of laughter and conversation.
The hall soared three storeys above the service buildings. Four long windows marked its courtyard face. Only the barest shimmer of light escaped the thick glass. Ki
t didn’t bother listening for sound; there’d be none. Since Graceton’s squire spent no time within the hall, neither did his servants.
Beyond the hall the house thrust outward into the courtyard to accommodate its living quarters, reaching from hall to the wall’s far corner. Built in his grandsire’s time, a gallery clung to the house’s second storey, a long, square stone box peppered with graceful windows that stretched the house’s length. It had been added to allow access to the upper chambers, but also served the inhabitants as a place to walk on the all-too-frequent rainy days.
Kit let his gaze follow the gallery’s length to where it melded into the corner tower. Here, had Father Roger dwelt, his and Nick’s priestly tutor. A sour man, he’d suffered dearly the torments of his students.
The thought teased a startled breath from Kit. When was the last time he’d remembered anything about his and Nick’s school days? Years, at least.
The door in the hall’s sheltered entryway flew open. Mistress Miller stepped out onto the top step, her bracing cane in one hand and a lighted taper in the other. By the candle’s glow Kit could see her face. Framed in her kerchief and high-necked white partlet, it was as round and wrinkled as a dried apple. Her grin was wide and nearly toothless.
Kit gave another sigh. He’d be lucky to come away from this greeting with only one pinch to his cheek.
“Master Kit, whatever brings you tapping on our door so late?” she called, her age-deepened voice echoing against the tall walls that surrounded them.
“Royal command,” he replied as he climbed the three short steps leading up to the door.
“If it takes that Protestant she-devil to send you home, then I’ll praise God for it, Master Kit.” Mistress Miller was too old to care upon whose ears her opinions fell.
“Enough of that,” Kit replied in mild warning.
She reached for his cheek. He lifted his head. “And that as well,” he laughed, kicking the mud from his boots. “How is my brother?”
The Lady Series Page 23
