The other girls thought her odd for cavorting outdoors. She thought them odd for sitting around all day stitching and gossiping. Truly there was only so much to gossip about and most of the time the other lasses were just cruel about it. Boys were more forthcoming. If they didn’t like something, they told you. Or they hit you.
She pulled her shawl up over her head and secured it under her chin, giving a passing thought to her missing shawl. She prayed that she hadn’t dropped it outside of the room with the lords who had been planning Darnley’s murder. But no one had said anything last night. No one had run up to her with an accusing voice, her shawl clutched tightly in his hand, and because of that she was beginning to think that she had dropped it somewhere outside.
The king dead.
She should tell someone about the plot. She really should. But she was unclear on who she should tell.
However, there was another thought. A treasonous thought that flitted around her brain, halfway formed because she wouldn’t allow it free rein. A thought that was intertwined with her memories of Darnley.
Would his death be such a bad thing?
There would be no more fear of turning a corner and suddenly coming upon him. No more wondering when he was returning to the palace. No more fear.
But better than that.
Vengeance.
Yes, the thought of the king dead pleased her far too much for her comfort.
No one should ever wish someone dead.
But there it was and there was no going back from her traitorous thoughts.
A strong breeze swirled snow around her skirts and suddenly she found herself in a world of white, the breeze turning to a strong wind, the snow, just moments ago beautiful, now surrounding her until there was nothing but white no matter which direction she turned. She stopped walking before she ran herself into a wall or the side of a building. Normally such an occurrence didn’t last long. Even so it had her heart pounding. She’d not told anyone where she was going because she’d had no idea herself when she’d left the warmth of the palace. She’d only wanted to get out and enjoy the cold day for a few minutes but she’d started thinking about the king and his death and wandered far longer than she’d planned to.
Was this her punishment, then, for wishing for the king’s death?
—
Will had seen Rose leave the palace. Curious, he followed but kept his distance. Damn, but it was cold out here. Except for a tightening of her shawl—a different shawl this time—she hadn’t seemed to notice the frigid, numbing wind. She’d headed toward the flower gardens, ambling this way and that as if the flowers were in full bloom, and fat yellow bees were buzzing lazily around and not as if there was nothing but frozen, snow-covered ground, skeletal trees and turned flower beds. She held out mittened hands, touching a bare branch here, a brown, grizzled, abandoned flower stalk there. She touched everything with reverence and care.
And then suddenly she was not there, separated from him by a wall of snow that had come from nowhere. His first instinct was to push through it, to run to Rose and protect her. Protect her from what he wasn’t certain. It was only a snow squall that would surely disappear as fast as it came.
—
Just when Rose was beginning to think that she would be encased in this cold, white world forever, the snow moved on as quickly as it had moved in. Weak sunlight shone down upon her, and she could see the tips of her brown boots peeking out from the ice-encrusted hem of her gown. She breathed a little easier until she looked up and saw a person standing just a few feet from her. A person who hadn’t been there before the snow had moved in.
Instinctively Rose took a hurried step backward. This was exactly how she’d found herself in the predicament with Lord Darnley. She’d been alone and rounded a corner to come face-to-face with the king, who was also, mysteriously, alone.
But this man wasn’t Darnley. He wasn’t tall enough, his hair was too dark and he was stockier than the overly tall, light-haired king.
Rose looked around—for help, for an escape route. Neither was available. The garden ended behind her, and the man blocked the path back to the palace.
He raised a red hand and she finally recognized Lord Sheffield.
Where had he come from? Had he been following her and she hadn’t noticed? She found that hard to believe considering there weren’t many places to hide that large of a body what with the naked trees and all the flower gardens bare and dormant.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.
His expression was sheepish against red, wind-chapped cheeks. “I saw you leave the palace.”
“And you followed me?” She took another step back. He was mad. It was just her luck that she was alone in the abandoned gardens with a madman.
“No! Well. Yes. In a way.”
“I think you better leave.” She forced strength into her voice and lifted her chin for emphasis, wishing she had a dagger on her. She knew how to use one. Her brothers had made sure she was accomplished at many types of weapons, but in Mary’s court no one was allowed a weapon. The rule had been created after the queen’s advisor was murdered in front of the poor, terrified queen. That had been before Rose arrived at the court. But maybe she would be forgiven for carrying a dagger if she were alone in the garden with a madman.
“It’s not what it seems,” he was saying quickly. “I was worried about you all alone out here, unchaperoned.”
Her eyes widened. He really wasn’t helping his cause, mentioning that they were now unchaperoned. And alone.
“Please leave.” This time her words were not as forceful, fear seeping into them.
He held his hands out in front of him. “I truly mean you no harm.”
She snorted her disbelief. He made to turn around, his shoulders stooped.
“Wait,” she said before she could stop herself.
He turned back and lifted a brow.
She had no idea why she’d stopped him. Just moments ago she thought him mad for following her, but blast it, the man intrigued her.
“You were truly worried about me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze moved beyond her, and he seemed to think about her question for a moment. “I…Well, the truth is…”
She found it endearing that he seemed to be at a loss for words, perplexed and even a bit nervous, because she was feeling all of those same things.
“The truth is?” she prompted.
“The truth is that I admire you and I want to get to know you better.”
She felt a grin tugging at her lips and tried to wipe it away but feared she’d failed.
“I see,” she said, hoping she pulled off a casualness that she didn’t feel. “Then maybe you could walk me back to the palace?”
At first it seemed as if he hadn’t heard her, then a slow smile played across his lips and he held his arm out for her to take.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said.
She closed the distance between them and took his arm. The wind didn’t seem so biting with him by her side.
“You weren’t jesting when you said you loved the outdoors,” he said.
“I was not jesting. I can’t bear being indoors for too long. I feel as if the walls are closing in on me, and the air is stifling. Besides, it’s a beautiful day.”
“If you call freezing temperatures and ice hitting your face ‘beautiful’ then I will not argue.”
She laughed. “You are ill-prepared to be out here, my lord. You wear no gloves.”
“I was not expecting to be out here long, that is true.”
“Then we need to get you inside where it’s warm.”
He smiled and they walked companionably back to the palace while Rose reveled in his warmth and solid strength.
When they entered the palace, Rose released his arm and they faced each other in awkward silence.
“Thank you for looking out for me,” she said.
“You’re ver
y welcome.”
She shuffled a half step away, reluctant to leave his presence and unsure what to say next.
He sketched a bow. “Until next time, Miss Turner.”
“Until next time, Lord Sheffield.”
He hesitated then turned and walked away, and Rose watched him go.
—
Will tipped his chair back and stared into the fire. He was just now, an hour after arriving, feeling warmth tingle through his fingers. Beside him Tristan whittled away at a block of wood while Will contemplated his encounter with Rose. At first he’d felt like such a damn fool coming face-to-face with her after the snow squall and frightening her the way he did. She’d looked ready to run but then something had changed, and she’d asked him to walk her back to the palace, something he was more than happy to do. He enjoyed spending time with her and it worried him that his feelings were becoming too entwined with his mission.
“There’s a woman,” Will found himself saying even as he cursed himself for speaking of Rose in the first place, but it seemed his tongue had a mind of its own.
Tristan grunted and ran his sharp knife down the wood again.
“The night I listened in on the plot to kill the king a woman appeared. Just stepped through an outside door I’d not known was there.” And yet another reason he was a fool. How had he missed that door in the first place?
Tristan glanced up as if to tell Will to go on.
“She heard. Not everything. But she heard the most important parts.”
Tristan stopped whittling and looked at Will. “And?”
Will plunked the front legs of his chair back to the ground. “She ran away but she dropped her shawl. Lysle walked out of the meeting at just that moment and found the shawl. It’s only a matter of time before he discovers who it belongs to.”
“Lysle.” Tristan narrowed his eyes, thinking. “From up north?”
“Richard Kirkinny, earl of Lysle. His estate is a few days’ ride north of here.”
“He’s friends with Moray,” Tristan said. “I don’t know much about Lysle.”
Neither did Will and it was frustrating. Until now Lysle had not been a person of interest to Will and Tristan. He’d just been a member of court. A noble who’d not caused trouble one way or the other.
Will was hard-pressed to discover more about the man. Asking questions would raise suspicions, especially if word got back to the traitorous lords. He was already regarded with suspicion because of his association with Darnley.
So Will had no idea what Lysle would do if—when?—he zeroed in on Rose. What Will did know was that she would be in danger. Those men were out to kill the king. They would think nothing of killing a woman from a border clan that was more trouble than she was worth.
The fire crackled in the silence, and Will keenly felt the absence of his friend and colleague Simon Marcheford. He and Tristan had received no word on whether Simon and his wife made it to safety after fleeing Scotland last March, but that was the way this line of work went. They could go months with no news from home. He was accustomed to it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious or that he didn’t worry.
“How are the placards coming along?” he asked Tristan.
“It’s going well. Sentiment seems to be shifting.”
Will’s role in this mission had been to use his acquaintance with Darnley to infiltrate the Scottish court and report anything of interest to Queen Elizabeth. Darnley had been happy to welcome Will because the man needed allies in this cold, inhospitable court.
Tristan’s task was much simpler and yet more complicated. He did not have to step onto the perilous paths of court life. His role was to play a printer. But what Tristan was really doing was printing damning placards that called into question Mary’s morals and ethics, turning the sentiment of her people against her.
It had been fairly easy. While the Scottish people loved their queen, they were also aware of the rumors questioning the paternity of her son, Prince James. There was always gossip surrounding Mary, and Tristan capitalized on that. Some were beginning to doubt her ability to rule, and that would go in Elizabeth’s favor.
“You’re thinking of her,” Tristan said, keeping his gaze on the block of wood between his scarred hands.
“Who?” But Will knew whom Tristan was speaking of. Rose. He’d not been thinking of her per se, but she was in the back of his mind, eating away at his brain, not giving him peace.
Tristan stopped whittling again to look at him. “Don’t be like Simon and fall for a woman who will disrupt our mission.”
“Of course not.”
Simon had met and fallen in love with Aimee de Verris, a woman suspected of spying on Queen Mary for the French court.
“There are casualties with any mission,” Tristan said, turning the half-carved block of wood over and over in his large hands. “You know that.”
“Of course I know that.” The souls of those who had been sacrificed for his past missions weighed heavily on his shoulders. There were those he couldn’t have saved, and those he could have saved but chose not to because saving them would have put the mission in danger. Always the mission came first. Always.
It was why Will was so good at what he did and why he was alive to this day. It was the same for Tristan and hopefully the same for Simon.
He had to believe that Rose would stay safe and that Lysle would not recognize her. Because Tristan was right. Will could not afford to protect her without giving himself away and ruining his mission.
A casualty Rose would have to be. And another soul weighing him down.
Chapter 5
When Rose returned to her chamber after Will walked her back to the palace, Alice, the maid she and Margaret shared, was dressing Margaret for dinner. Alice was so even-tempered and sweet-natured that neither Rose nor Margaret could ever get angry at the poor, inept girl. Rose would never admit to Margaret that Alice was her first lady’s maid. At home she made do dressing herself. Never mind that she rarely wore gowns, preferring the breeches and hose handed down from her brothers.
Margaret, her arms held out to her sides while Alice fumbled to fasten the sleeves, took one look at Rose’s muddied skirts and rolled her eyes. To Rose’s surprise though Margaret held her tongue and didn’t berate her.
“My arms are getting tired, Alice,” she said instead.
“I’m so sorry, my lady. It’s just…I can’t…” Alice bit her tongue and narrowed her eyes in a last attack on the fastenings, while Margaret showed great patience and kept her arms out to the sides.
Rose slumped on the bed, dreading supper and wishing it wasn’t so cold that she had to come inside.
She didn’t want to face the other lasses or play the silly mind games that they played. Nearly every girl here was better equipped than and socially superior to Rose.
“Your turn,” Margaret said, sweeping past her with sleeves attached.
Apparently Alice was more adept at Rose’s sleeves or the practice with Margaret’s had helped because in no time she was clothed in the voluminous chocolate colored gown. Her muddied gown was taken away to be cleaned of the dirt and grime. Most days Rose longed for her breeches and oversized boots but when she turned to look at herself in the mirror she was pleasantly surprised.
Alice had tamed Rose’s wild hair and gathered it at the nape of her neck. Soft tendrils framed a face that was still pink from being outdoors but instead of giving her a feverish look it brought out the green of her eyes and made her look…pretty.
The bodice of her gown hugged her breasts and clipped in at her small waist then belled out with the skirts.
“It’s very lovely,” Margaret said, coming up behind her. “You look very lovely too.”
“Thank you.” For once Rose believed that she did look lovely and she was excited to go to supper.
“Do you enjoy this?” Rose asked Margaret as they rushed down the corridor toward the dining hall where Rose could hear the crowds already gathering for the evening meal.
“Enjoy what?” Margaret was clad in shocking red that made her look like an exotic Spanish dancer. Rose could never wear such a color, but on Margaret it was beautiful and brought out her creamy skin and the contrast with her midnight hair was most becoming.
“This.” She waved her hand in the air even though Margaret couldn’t see her because she had rushed ahead to get to the dining hall. “All of this.”
“Court life? Of course I do.” Margaret slowed enough for Rose to catch up and they walked side by side. “There is no better place to meet a suitable husband and we’re at the center of the workings of our country. Here is where everything is decided and where the power is. Don’t you think it’s exciting?”
Rose thought of her home nestled in a clearing in the woods, of the animals that were stabled below them and the small but cozy rooms up top.
She thought of John, her oldest brother, the serious one; Ewan, the youngest and most carefree; Dawy, the studious one; Archie, the trickster and Neil, the most pious of them all who would probably someday go into the priesthood if he could shake the family business of stealing.
Oh, how she missed them, even Archie’s occasional bullying. But above all she missed her animals. Tobias, the one-eyed cat who had wandered into their house and never left. Penelope, the hound dog that favored Rose over the others, always nipping at her heels and wanting to be petted at every opportunity. Her father said she’d ruined Penelope for hunting but secretly Rose thought the dog never had the temperament for hunting.
She and Margaret entered the dining hall and instantly Rose was assaulted by the noise of dozens of different conversations and the scent of pheasant and fresh baked bread. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had forgotten to eat the noon meal because she had escaped to the outdoors.
“Hurry, before we lose the choicest seats.” Margaret grabbed her arm and dragged her through and around groups of people standing about and talking. She wasn’t sure what Margaret was worried about. They always sat at the same table and usually in the same order. Rose was relegated to the end of the bench, where it was most difficult to keep up with the conversation, let alone participate. Normally she ate in silence and listened to what snatches she could hear.
Bound to a Spy Page 3
