“Oh, my pardon,” she said. “I forgot myself again and called you by your Christian name.”
A quiet ironic breath left him at this. “Why should you not when everyone else within these walls does?”
“I don’t know,” she said, sounding truly bemused at herself “I suppose I wasn’t certain it was appropriate. What sort of name is James?”
“Scots,” he replied. “I’m named for my maternal kinsmen, who hail from that country. But my family has always called me Jamie.” He started in surprise as he offered her more intimacy than he had intended.
“Jamie.” She said it as if she were trying it on her tongue. “It has a foreign sound but I like it.”
Then she grimaced. “Oh Lord. I just realized that once the squire's title is restored everyone here will be calling me by my given name, awful as it is.”
He kept his laugh quiet. “Awful? What’s so awful about Arabella?”
“Nothing,” she said with a quiet snort, “were I a striking beauty. Since I'm not I'd have been far better off with simple Mary or plain Jane. I think I wasn’t but three when I insisted my nurse and Peg address me as Belle.”
Belle. He studied her face then smiled. “You’re right. Belle suits you.”
A brilliant smile dashed across her face. Jamie's need to feel her in his arms stirred anew. He took a single backward step. As if his movement were a signal, she reached for the door's latch.
“Good night then,” she said, her reluctance to part from him in every syllable.
“Good night, my lady,” he said.
They stayed where they stood. A current of heat flowed between them, slowly growing in intensity. She drew a deep breath, her breasts lifting beneath the silk of her robe. Jamie's pulse quickened. Lord, but if there was so much pleasure to be had in just standing near her, what would he find in her bed? It was definitely time to leave.
Raising a hand, he once more brushed her cheek. “Go,” he breathed, “please.”
The moon had sailed far enough across its nightly sea to send its light streaming through the oriel behind him.
In the silvery glow he saw the hesitation in her face. “It’s wrong. I know it is,” she whispered.
“What is?” he asked.
“This conversation. But that's all we'll ever have to share between us.” It was an acknowledgment of her love for him and his for her.
“Aye,” he agreed.
Although he’d already accepted this particular truth, to hear it spoken woke a desperate ache in him. Why shouldn’t he have her, his heart complained. Nick didn't want her. Jamie countered its protest with the reminder that, in sharing this evening with him, Belle trusted him never to use her admission of affection to his advantage. Her respect was more important than his need.
The worried pleat between her brows eased as if she’d come to some decision. “If words are all we have then I cannot bear to be without the sound of your voice. Good night, Master James. I will see you on the morrow at the dinner table.” With that, she ducked inside and shut the door.
Joy shot through him. She wasn’t going to deny him her presence. Turning, he started down the gallery. He was utterly and completely in love with Nick's wife.
Dressed in his courtly best, Jamie stood in the center of his bedchamber. The weather had turned even earlier this year than it had the last. Outside his window the wind lifted into a raging howl, spattering a few of heaven's tears against the panes. How well it reflected what lay in his heart.
His gaze slipped to his bed. With only hours until the speaking of the vows, Mistress Miller's maids were stripping the bed curtains to give them a good thrashing. So too, were the linens being changed. In the room's far corner lay a pile of flower garlands, thick with asters and marigolds.
All this preparation so Nick could lie with the woman Jamie loved.
Until this very moment the thought of the bedding hadn’t seemed real. Now Jamie's stomach took a sick twist. Belle was his. He didn’t want anyone, even Nick, to touch her.
Suddenly, Jamie understood how Cecily could so completely ignore the wedding preparations. Nick had finally confessed to his paramour that the wedding was unavoidable, and still Cecily continued to act as if nothing were amiss. Why, this morn she'd been cool and calm as she left Graceton while Jamie devoured his heart. Why couldn’t he be as clever at overlooking what he didn’t wish to see?
“Master James?” Tom came to a halt beside him.
Jamie tore his gaze from the maid plumping pillows to look at his servant. The promise of a problem filled Tom's face. Good. He needed as many distractions as he could manufacture, anything that might keep him from thinking about what would happen this evening.
The servant held out a letter. Jamie snatched it. It bore Percy's seal. His heart fell. Although news from court was certain to divert, it wouldn’t last long enough. There was nothing he could do about the actions of the high and mighty.
“It came a few moments ago by royal messenger,” Tom said. “Sir Edward also received a packet. Peter says it had the queen's seal on it.”
Worry didn’t even flicker in Jamie. That packet could only contain Elizabeth's token. Of course the queen would deliver her gift to her proxy, who would make a more formal presentation at the celebration.
“Is there anything else?” he asked hopefully. “Have you heard how it goes in the kitchen?”
A month hadn’t given the household enough time to prepare. As of last night all the cook had finished were the hundreds of small sweet cakes needed for distribution after the ceremony. Jamie knew the kitchen staff had worked throughout the night preparing the two gigantic meals that would be served this day. The first was simple enough, being the roast beef and mutton intended for the villagers; the second, the one for Graceton's folk, consisted of far more complex dishes.
And after the meal was finished Nick would sleep with Jamie's woman.
Jamie nearly gagged. If tearing his heart out of his chest would make this stop, he'd do it.
“I don’t know,” Tom replied, perplexed to be asked about the kitchen.
Jamie rubbed a hand over his throbbing brow. As if it weren’t bad enough he was driving himself mad, now he meant to take his servant with him. “Pardon Tom. I’m only nervous.”
Sympathy warmed his servant’s gaze. “That’d be natural, wouldn’t it?” he offered in an attempt at comfort. “Not only do you plan all but you must also play the part of the bridegroom.”
Fresh agony shot through Jamie. He sent Tom a weak smile. “Aren’t you glad I'm not the groom? Think how much worse I’d be if I were.”
Amusement lit Tom’s face. “It was you who said it, Master James, not I,” he said as a maid, her arms filled with linens, collided with him.
As he staggered back, she called, “Pardon,” and rushed out the door.
“Go see what's what in the kitchen, Tom. I'll be in the squire's chamber.” He was hoping for a catastrophe, God help him, anything that would put this event off another day.
Jamie opened the hidden panel and stepped into his employer's chamber. Yet dressed in his bed robe and nightshirt, Graceton's squire was pacing before his windows. With his head bowed and a bony finger pressed to his scarred lips, his steps were brisk, even frantic. He gave no sign he knew his steward had entered.
Jamie closed the door. A blessed quiet, free of all bustle and chatter, claimed the chamber. Nick halted, his eyes closed.
“What do you want?” he whispered harshly.
“We’ve another note from Percy,” Jamie replied, frowning at such strange behavior only to decide it wasn’t any stranger than his own. What a pair they made. Jamie would act the part of the bridegroom wishing he weren’t acting while Nick was the bridegroom and simply wished he weren’t.
“What does it say?” Graceton's master still didn’t look up.
Jamie opened Percy’s note and scanned his uncle’s spidery scrawl then his heart simply stopped beating. “Christ Almighty!”
Nick's head snappe
d up. “What is it?” he asked, leaving his windows to stand next to Jamie.
“Percy says that Norfolk has left court without Elizabeth’s permission. This has terrified Her Majesty, who fears he intends to raise the country against her. She's removed the Scots queen from the earl of Shrewsbury’s custody, closed the ports and has alerted the militia. Worse, fearing she'll soon face her mother's fate, she's rushed for the safety of Windsor Castle's thick walls.”
Eyes wide, Nick's brows rose to the limit of their mobility. “Who can blame her for her fear?” he said. “We all know Norfolk has more armament and can bring more men onto the field in the next month than she's been able to raise all summer.” Hope sparked in his gaze. “Tell me what this means to our knightly guest,” he demanded. “If all Englishmen must choose between Norfolk and Elizabeth, which way does he run?”
“Run?” Jamie said with a harsh laugh. “This leaves Sir Edward nowhere to go. Indeed, he’s now but a grain between two millstones. I'll wager he throws his lot in with Elizabeth. Sir Edward's face is pretty enough to make him think he might win her forgiveness even if she never forgets.”
The hope in Nick's gaze died. “Which means we'll find no quarter in his direction.”
There was a tap at the panel then Tom stepped within, holding yet another fold of paper in his hand. “Pardon, Lord Nicholas. Master James. It seems there was a letter for his lordship in the packet Sir Edward received.”
Once he’d handed the paper to Jamie, he backed out of the chamber and closed the panel behind him. Jamie showed Nick the letter. It was sealed with the royal signet.
“Wondrous,” Nick sneered. “Felicitations over this happy event from the woman who forces me into it. Read it to me so I can say I heard it,” he commanded almost harshly, “then go write her back, offering our joyous thanks for all the bliss her meddling brought into our lives.”
The fog of Jamie's jealousy lifted, at least a little. He bit back a smile. The queen deserved her thanks without any of the sarcasm Nick aimed at her. Jamie was grateful for her meddling. Although he and Belle dared share no touch, being in her company this past month had made him the happiest he’d ever been.
“So what does it say?” Nick asked.
Rather than a personal note written by Elizabeth’s own hand, Cecil had scribed it for her. Elizabeth had at least signed it, conveying her magnificence by filling the entire bottom of the sheet with her name. Jamie skipped the effusive and flowery greeting to reach the letter's body then flinched.
“What?” Nick asked, his voice deepening in new worry.
Jamie cleared his throat. “She says:
'We have considered your request to release
your brother, Master Christopher Hollier, to
attend your wedding. We find it inconvenient to be
without his service at the moment. Again We would
remind you of your duty to your family line. News of
your wife's fecund state will be most joyously received
by us. Know that if your efforts in that direction be lacking
We will consider it disobedience against royal command.’”
The queen’s words drove Nick across the room. He collided with his bed then dropped to sit upon the mattress. “Mary Mother of God have mercy on my soul,” he prayed quietly, then looked up at his steward. “She makes it sound as if it would be treason for me to refuse to bed Lady Purfoy.”
Jamie nodded. That was exactly what it sounded like to him.
The fear and worry in Nick's gaze deepened. “Where did I err, Jamie?” he pleaded. “All I wanted was a marriage for Kit. I promised her to abdicate my title in my brother’s favor, giving her another Protestant lord. Why should she strike out at me so?
Jamie shook his head. “That you would refuse your rightful title and leave this earth with no heir to follow you truly affronts our queen’s sense of order. But you mistake her if you think she’s striking out. She but demands proof of your loyalty. If you bed the Protestant wife she saw fit to give you, she'll construe it as a sign you don’t mean to rise with Norfolk and the other Catholic barons. Refuse, and it follows you're a rebel. Given the circumstances you can hardly blame her for pulling in every favor and debt she's owed.”
Nick stared at Jamie. The color drained from his face. “This message, it came through Sir Edward.” It was a flat statement.
“Aye,” Jamie agreed, a little puzzled.
“Then Elizabeth told him to demand the consummation,” he muttered.
A breath of confusion left Jamie. “But of course she has. Nick, this should come as no surprise to you. I told you from the first the queen would like nothing better than for you to sire a child to carry forward your bloodline.”
Nick stared up at him, his gaze tormented, his shoulders hunched. “Help me, Jamie. I’m trapped and I can’t think of any way out.”
Understanding dawned. Despite all he’d been told and all he’d seen, Nick yet clung to the belief he could escape taking a wife he didn’t want. The irony of it deepened until Jamie wanted to laugh.
What a pair they were. Together and each to their own purpose they’d blinded themselves, seeing only what they wished to see. Now, what they’d tried to avoid rose up to box their ears.
Before Jamie could speak, there was another tap on the panel and Tom threw open the door. This time, there was a frantic look on his face.
“Pardon again,” he called, “but there’s a row in the hall. The village musicians want to take refuge from the wind and Mistress Miller won’t let them in.”
Jamie's heart leapt. Now, here was a problem he could handle. He managed a rueful look and a shrug toward Nick, then whirled and strode from the room.
Belle sat in her apartment’s antechamber, once again dressed in her pink and gray attire. Ribbon love knots were tacked to the surfaces of her sleeves and skirt. She plucked at one. It was a fairly ridiculous affectation, given that this marriage was hardly a love match.
Marriage. The word rang in her. Today, she would wed Squire Hollier, a man who, however kindly, had made it clear he didn’t want her.
But only a fool would ignore the obvious. Squire Hollier wasn’t a strong man. If, as he indicated, he didn’t intend to make her his wife in the true sense of the word, she had nothing to fear from childbirth's perils. Given that, it was likely she’d outlive him.
“It's heavy, Mama,” Lucy cried as she entered the sitting room from Belle's bedchamber. Her daughter was once again dressed in her best blue garments with her pearled cap upon her head. The velvet bag she carried drooped over her hands.
“We should expect nothing less of a gift from a soon-to-be peer,” Peg told the child, her voice alive with pride.
Belle’s maid wore scarlet and yellow; her better garments had come to Graceton with her lady's furniture.
Brigit trailed silently behind them again dressed in her green. Save for the functional brown traveling attire Belle had given her these were the only garments she owned.
Her arms were crossed, her pretty face marred with a sullen look. So it had been since that day in the garden: Brigit standoffish during the day while her nights were spent in tears. That dream of a love match was taking its own sweet time to die.
“Open it,” Lucy demanded in excitement as she dropped the sack into Belle's lap.
“Aye, my lady. Let us all see what he sends you,” Peg urged.
“As you will,” Belle agreed and opened the drawstrings.
What tumbled into her lap were two smaller bags. She laughed. “Oh, Lord! What if this is naught but one of those tricks, where the containers become smaller and smaller?”
Instead, the smaller of the two bags yielded a great square brooch of ancient style. A sprig of holly was carved on its face in the same shape used on the squire’s family crest. Emeralds served for leaves while a small cluster of rubies represented its berries. However fine the pin it was an impersonal gift, meant for any woman as long as she was one of the long line of women who
had wed the Hollier men. Still, Belle held it up so the others could see.
“Very pretty,” Lucy said in approval, “but mine is nicer.” She touched her own brooch. The squire had given it to her yesterday. Within a golden oval, filigree twisted and turned. A pearl pendant dangled from its bottom.
“That’s no way to speak, Mistress Lucy,” Brigit said in sharp chide. Although she'd been short with them all these last weeks, she’d been especially so toward Lucy. “Beg your lady mother's pardon.”
Resentment woke in Lucy's gaze. Her lower lip set to trembling. She looked to her mother for rescue. Belle couldn’t give her daughter what she wanted, not when Brigit was right to chasten.
“Sweetling, a polite woman makes no comparisons only offers compliments of another’s gift,” she said, hoping a soft voice would balance the sting of the governess's harshness.
Lucy bowed her head as Belle opened the second bag. This time a strand of pearls spilled out her lap, its gleaming brightness saying no woman before her had ever won it. She caught its loops in her fingers. Nay, it wasn’t all pearls. Every fifth bead was a pink stone. Instead of a clasp of gold, it was silver that held it closed.
As it did with each passing day Belle's love for Graceton’s steward grew. A week ago Jamie had asked her what she intended to wear to the ceremony. Now she saw he'd used that information to have the piece made for her. Though this gift came in the squire's name, it was another man's caring she saw in it.
To hide the sudden rush of joy she was certain stained her skin, Belle donned the strand and came to her feet. It was long enough to reach to her waist.
“Oh they're lovely, my lady,” Peg said in awe. “As befits a noblewoman of your stature, of course,” she completed.
“They are better than my pin,” Lucy said, trying to rectify her earlier error as she caught her mother’s hand in hers.
A quiet wail woke from Brigit. “I cannot bear it,” she cried, backing slowly toward the door that adjoined the two apartments. “I'll not do it, my lady. I'll not pretend joy at your marriage when you've stolen mine from me.”
The Lady Series Page 49
