Jamie laughed, his anger draining from him just as Percy no doubt intended. “Now, you wouldn't be calling me mule-headed, would you?”
Percy almost winked. “I might just be. I expect you inherited that from that Scots mother of yours. God knows you didn't get it from my brother,” he finished with no idea the pain his comparison woke in Jamie.
He was nothing like his mother. His dam had owned a wanton temper and a vicious nature, her battles with his father having more than once driven their youngest son into hiding. Although Jamie had been but ten when his sire sent his wife back across England's northern border to Scotland and her own barbarous people, there'd been nothing but relief for Jamie upon her departure.
“Bah,” Jamie said to hide his ancient hurt. “I happily leave you to your life here among these gentleman snakes and noble carrion eaters. Give me the quiet countryside where if one man hates another he commences an open and honest feud.”
Then, seeking to divert Percy from a conversation that was rapidly becoming too personal, he turned to look at the garden's gate. “May God take me. I should have realized Elizabeth might twist Squire Hollier’s request to resume his title to suit her own purpose.”
Percy peered down his long nose at his kinsman. “I think this marriage is a very small price to pay, considering how the Hollier and the Montmercy families used and insulted Her Grace’s court. Her Grace could have demanded the marriage without restoring the squire’s title. Nor should you think the lady has any more choice in this matter than your squire,” he replied with the lift of a chiding brow.
Jamie waved away his uncle’s words. “As if any daughter of Lady Montmercy could be other than the same ambitious, scheming bitch her mother is? How can it not be to her advantage when this marriage of hers turns a country knight’s widow into a far wealthier Lady Graceton?”
Angry shouts and frantic calls exploded from the garden. Startled, both Percy and Jamie stared at the wall as if they could peer through bricks.
“Heavens,” Percy murmured, “if I didn't know better I'd say the whole of Her Majesty's court is running in this direction.”
Elizabeth's usher appeared in the gateway, his arms moving as if by gesture alone he could sweep the crowd out of the middle courtyard. “Stand aside, they come!” he shouted, his eyes wide, only to be shoved out of the garden by the weight of those behind him.
Servants and others screamed and scattered as the flower of England's manhood fought its way through the opening. Pressed against the wall behind him, Jamie watched in perverse pleasure as men accustomed to moving no faster than an arrogant strut dashed past him. Ribbons streamed and hats were knocked askew as the courtiers battled their way through the middle courtyard and into the outer courtyard.
“Well well, it seems my chance to confront the lady may not yet be lost,” Jamie said to his uncle with a bitter laugh. “Watch for her. I warrant you'll know her immediately. She'll be the only woman—nay, the only person in all the court you do not recognize.”
Percy preened just a bit at this compliment. He knew everyone and everything around Elizabeth, turning his knowledge into income. Many a country gentleman like Nick paid Percy a small fee for regular letters updating them on court doings.
Holding their position against the wall, they scanned the passing crowd. No woman, be she beauty or crone, appeared. Then a popinjay dressed in a yellow satin doublet atop ballooning breeches in the fashionable shade of goose-turd green broke from the rumble and tear of men.
Jamie fought his grimace as Sir Edward Mallory strode toward them. Although the man was a friend of Kit Hollier, Nick's younger brother, Mallory was no friend to Nick. Not only was the knight a Kentsman and a fervent Protestant, he was the man Elizabeth had named her witness in the matter of this forced marriage.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Percy said quietly, his head leaned close to Jamie’s, “but look again at yon knight and see not your enemy but a man who gave free rein to his ambition only to regret it. I daresay he now fears he'll soon be a reminder to us all of how swiftly one man’s career can come and go. Tsk, but he wears his panic like a cloak.”
Indeed Sir Edward did, much to Nick’s detriment. According to Kit Sir Edward had allied himself with the duke of Norfolk, believing, as the duke did, that England’s most powerful nobleman could win Elizabeth’s approval for Norfolk’s marriage to the captive Scots queen. Now that it seemed certain the duke would fail to gain Elizabeth’s approval, the only way Sir Edward could save himself would be to give his queen something of enough value to make her forgive, if not forget, his misstep. Jamie feared the only avenue left for the knight to use would be Nick.
As Sir Edward stopped before them, both Jamie and his uncle swept their caps from their heads, giving their better the bow due his rank.
“Master Neveu,” Sir Edward said in abbreviated greeting to Percy. Offering but a nod in response, Percy turned his gaze back on the departing courtiers, yet seeking Lady Purfoy.
The knight’s gaze shifted onto Jamie. His mouth lifted into a taunting smile. “Why, Master Wyatt, dare I say I’m astonished to find you here?”
“And why would that be?” Jamie asked, his words carefully enunciated to soften his country burr. It did Nick no favors to remind the queen's witness that Graceton's steward came from England’s Catholic north.
“I didn’t expect to see you until the morrow's betrothal,” the knight replied, pressing a graceful hand to his chest, “when the guard drags you into the chapel, forcing you to do your duty as the squire's proxy.”
It was such an obvious attempt to prod Jamie into violence—a reaction that might seem to prove Nick disloyal through his servant’s behavior—that Jamie would have laughed except the knight’s words told him that Lady Purfoy had agreed to the wedding.
“How can you think me so poorly mannered, Sir Edward?” Jamie offered in a gentle chide, refusing to be baited. “Of course I am here. To delay introducing myself to Lady Purfoy for even for a moment would besmirch the squire's repute and insult his future wife.”
Sir Edward's pale eyes darkened as he sputtered, seeking some other weakness to exploit. “So you say now. What of how you protested this marriage after our Gloriana so graciously granted the squire’s request for his title's restoration? All Her Grace asks is that Squire Hollier does as all eldest sons must: wed and breed up heirs.”
Here, the knight paused to sneer. “I say any man who can't do so basic a thing isn't worthy of either his estate or his title.”
This personal attack on Nick blind-sided Jamie. Anger rose like a red haze before his eyes. Bitch’s son!
Although Percy's gaze never left those departing the garden, he laid a hand on his nephew's arm. It was enough to remind Jamie he was to be a weak-witted reed, not a mule-headed idiot. Rage receded, leaving him even more grateful for his uncle’s presence.
“Did Squire Hollier not agree to the queen’s request?” Jamie replied. “He's content with the union.”
This was a lie of the highest order. The only woman Nick wanted to wed was a barren cottager's daughter who had rightly and repeatedly refused her gentleman-lover's offers.
Sir Edward leaned close enough to make his next words a threat. “I will believe that only after I witness this wedding’s consummation as Her Grace requires. And witness it I shall. The squire will do his duty to his queen or I will drag him to court so he can explain to Her Grace why he refuses.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode for the side gate.
Jamie watched him go. Was this Sir Edward’s plan, to demand conditions at every turn that made the completion of this marriage progressively more difficult, hoping Nick would finally be driven to refuse? If that happened, Nick would seem a recalcitrant and disloyal Catholic peer. And that would turn him into the perfect shield for yon knight.
“Stinking codpiece.” Jamie threw quietly after the younger man.
“That he is,” Percy murmured in agreement. “Jamie, the guards are leaving and Lady Purfoy never departed.�
�
“What?” Jamie pivoted to stare at the Privy Garden’s gate.
The two men who’d earlier blocked his path were shouldering their pikes. Together, they made their way toward Richmond’s middle courtyard gate. Their departure was a sign that all the courtiers had left the garden and it was again open for public use.
If Percy hadn't seen the lady depart then she must still be within yon walls. Jamie hurried through the gateway only to collide with a small woman dressed all in black. Their meeting was so forceful his breath huffed from him as she tumbled backward with a quiet cry.
He snatched her by the arms, catching her just before she hit the ground. As he lifted her back onto her feet, she made a tiny sound. All the color drained from her face. Her clear gray eyes lost their focus. A spark of worry hit Jamie. She was going to swoon.
“Nay now, don't you leave me,” he warned her.
Too late. She sagged against him as she took leave of her senses. There was nothing for Jamie to do save sweep her up into his arms. As he held her against his chest he drew a deep breath. She radiated a delicate aroma of roses atop the clean scent of soap.
Percy came to a halt beside him. Jamie turned so his uncle could see her face. “Do you know her?” Hope filled his voice.
“Nay,” Percy replied after a moment’s study, “but this cannot be Lady Purfoy. No knight’s widow would present herself to the queen bare-handed with but a single brooch to break the sobriety of her dress.”
Jamie stared in disappointment at the woman in his arms. Percy had to be right, for the daughter of England’s most notorious beauty would hardly own so plain a face set with such unremarkable features.
If this wasn’t Lady Purfoy, there was but one other place left that the lady might be. Frustration gnawing at his vitals, Jamie stared across the garden toward the royal residence. Walls of solid red brick stared back at him. Once again he and Elizabeth had made their moves in this game of theirs and once again he had come up wanting. He should have known the queen wouldn’t leave her pawn open and vulnerable to his capture. Elizabeth had taken the lady with her into her apartments.
Exhaustion crept into his very bones. Lord, but he hated feeling trapped and helpless, and that was all he’d felt since coming to court.
“Then the queen keeps her close until the morrow's ceremony,” he said.
“My pardon, Jamie, I should have realized such would be Her Grace's plan,” his uncle replied, sounding truly chagrined as he offered a crooked smile. He nodded toward the woman in Jamie's arms. “Set her down and we'll be on our way.”
“What, and leave her sprawled upon the grass?” Jamie shot a chiding look at his kinsman. “Nay, we need a decent spot to deposit her, some place she might lay unmolested until she awakens.
“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 shoul
ders 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.
The Lady Series Page 34
