“Oh!” I exclaimed, instinctively drawing back. In response Alasdair released me only long enough to pull off his short cape and wrap it around me, before pulling me forward once more.
“The wind is not so strong in the lee of the walls,” he said. “And it does us both good to breathe freely once more.”
“I—thank you for your cape,” I managed. I was surrounded by the very essence of Alasdair MacLeod, the thick woolen cape far softer than I would have given him credit for, with its edges lined in a rich, silken fur. I had not noticed how luxurious his cape was until now, or how much it smelled like him, leather and earth and open sky. I even caught the faintest hint of heather, and I drew it round me close.
“It is not all that I would give you, my lady,” Alasdair said. “And well I think you know it.” Then his lips twisted, his tone going hard. “Though of course, I overstep, knowing your disdain for me as you are ‘forced’ into enduring my ‘attentions’ so steadfastly against your will.”
Oh, go hang yourself. “And yet here you are with me again.”
He chuckled then, soft and sure. “And yet here I am.”
I glanced up at him, knowing I should launch into my own interrogation, to learn what deceits the Scot was weaving in our very midst.
But all I seemed to notice was that Alasdair’s body was strong and sturdy against the chilling breeze, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the starlight of the northern sky. That, and I seemed a little dizzy, all of a sudden, my breath coming a bit too fast. This was not good. This was not sensible. And yet I did not want to leave the shelter of Alasdair’s presence, didn’t want to break the spell, didn’t want to lose this moment quite yet.
He was watching me, and so I gave him my best smile. “Well. You speak of giving gifts, good sir, and yet I’ve only your cape for a short while. What else would you grant me, while you yet tarry here, before you are called back to hearth and home?” I’d tried to make my words arch and sophisticated, but instead I sounded breathless, and more than a little bereft.
If Alasdair noticed, he was unmoved. In fact, he was practically like a statue, as still and stoic as the walls that rose up around us. I waited for him to say something, and I pulled his cape around me more tightly as a chill stole over me that had naught to do with the crisp night air. And still he stood, silent.
So I waited.
And waited.
It should be noted, waiting is not my strong suit.
“Are you just going to stand there and say nothing?” I finally demanded, and Alasdair turned toward me then, crowding me into the stone corner, but still seeming impossibly far away.
“Aye,” he muttered. Then he cupped my face with his hands and brought his lips down to mine.
This was not the same kiss as what we’d shared in the center of the Marion Hall labyrinth, nor even the courtly kisses or impassioned embraces I’d experienced with far too many courtiers to count. This was the kiss of command, of power, and of being claimed. I felt the warning rise up within me even as my body seemed to go a little slewy in the knees, my heart pounding fiercely and my brain suddenly mute, giving me no idea of how to extricate myself from this madman’s arms.
And I found I didn’t want to know.
I sighed against him then, and felt Alasdair’s immediate response, his arms dropping to my shoulders to hug me fiercely close as his lips pressed more deeply against mine, his breath ragged and raw. I allowed this to go on a few moments more, only because of the Queen’s command that I chat up the Scotsman. Only for that reason alone.
The fact that my hands had found his arms and clung to them as his muscles bunched beneath the heavy embroidered sleeves was of no import whatsoever. The fact that my own legs had suddenly become so unbalanced that they required me to lean heavily against Alasdair just to remain standing, meant nothing either. And as for my breathing; well. I would have been a poor spy indeed were I not able to convince a man that I was entranced by his very person, completely swept away by the power of his kiss.
It was all tremendous practice for my courtly spying skills.
So of course I reached up and drew his head down so that he might kiss me more thoroughly.
Sometime later Alasdair lifted away from me. I found myself completely encircled by his strong arms, his cape pushed off my shoulders, still providing warmth but not as much as that which seemed to shimmer between us. He rested his forehead against mine, as if willing himself to pull more fully away, then breathed a tortured sigh. “What am I to do with you, my lady Beatrice?”
The answer that first sprang to mind was scandalous to the extreme, so I gave a slight shrug. “Well, you’ve kept me company through this dark night, so I suppose that is a beginning.”
“But not an end.” He reached out and touched his finger to my chin, lifted it until my gaze met his. His eyes were dark and intense in the shadows, and I felt my nerves go tight with a sudden worry I could not name.
This was no longer a boy playing a game of flirtation but a young man who looked at me in a way Cavanaugh never had—nor ever could. But was he also a traitor in our midst?
“What thoughts plague you now, sly one?” he asked, his eyes searching mine. “You are shaking.”
“I am cold,” I lied, pulling away roughly to resettle his cape. “I think we should return.”
“Of course,” Alasdair said. He turned me, his strong arm curling around me and sending another cascade of heat through my body. But before we’d crossed the threshold, I’d already slipped off his cape to hand it back to him, effectively changing from one persona—that which existed outside the strictures of the court—to another, the Beatrice who’d survived long years under the constant scrutiny of others, mindful that but a single false step would be her last.
Alasdair caught the shifting of my mood, but rather than turning petulant, he merely grinned at me. “You would not last long outside this world of dalliance and deception, would you, my lady?” he asked.
I frowned at him, stung by the barb not so carefully hidden in his words. “And you would not last long within it, I should think.”
He chuckled, all of his intensity from the North Terrace gone, as if he too were one person outside these walls and another within. “Perhaps and perhaps not,” he said. “As this is all we have together, however, I will take it.”
I found my pride stung far more to the quick than it should have been at his easy dismissal. “Well, then take it and be gone with you,” I said. “If we mean so little to each other, there is naught to keep us together this night.”
My retort was met with Alasdair’s soft laughter in the darkness. He caught up my hand even as I prepared to take my leave of him, and spun me back around. He stared at me long enough to make me feel uncomfortable, then lifted my hand to his lips for a brief but fiery caress. “Perhaps there is more than you think, my lady,” he murmured.
Then he stepped back into the shadows and slipped away from me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was nearing midnight when I reached the Presence Chamber again, and I was pleased to see the room was finally emptying of courtiers and kin. Bone weariness stole upon me as I surveyed the crowd. The Queen had departed, and her advisors, too. I suspected my absence had given all of them reason to celebrate—there would be no more conversation tonight. And though the hall still sported revelers ever happy to partake of royal wine, there would be no good intelligence-gathering here. The players were too low level.
I had just decided to drag myself off to bed, when a page presented himself at my elbow. “Lady Beatrice?” he squeaked, and I fought to forestall a laugh. He reminded me of little Jeremy from Marion Hall a few short years earlier, all pomp and puffery, thrilled to be moving in the world of adults at last, though he was still just a boy.
“Hullo.” I nodded. “Were you called up to duty because the other pages are fast abed?”
“Yes, my lady.” He grinned back at me. “Everyone is exhausted having prepared for her return,
but Her Majesty seems never to tire!”
“Well, you are doing a fine job.” I fished in my pouch for a shilling and pressed it into his palm. “For the next market day,” I said as his eyes went round. I waited a moment, and then another. “Ah . . . did you have a message for me?”
“Oh!” the boy gasped. “Oh, yes. The Queen sent me here special for you!”
All of the joy of the moment fled with his words. “The Queen?” I asked. “She wishes to see me?”
“She does indeed, my lady.” The boy nodded forcefully. “If you will come this way?”
He turned and gestured to me, as if I didn’t know the way to the Queen’s private chambers. But I let him lead me along, my mind churning with possibilities. It was the dead of night, for the love of heaven! Could the bat want me to run some foolish errand? Did she wish to interrogate me for the unveiling of Sophia’s father and Lady Ariane—or worse, to punish me? Or did she merely want the report I’d promised her earlier? Or—good heavens—more information on the completely fictitious Samhain festival play to be acted out by James McDonald and the Golden Rose?
The problem with running so many lies at once was that they could all become a tangled skein—with very little notice. Mine was not a skill for the faint of heart, I tell you plain.
We arrived at the Queen’s chambers far too quickly, and the boy bowed his way into the room just far enough for the guard to catch him up by the ear. “The Queen!” the lad exclaimed. “She sent me for Lady Beatrice!”
“It’s true,” I said, laying my hand upon the guard’s arm. The man was so startled that he dropped the boy nearly three inches back to the floor, his face growing bright red.
“You may approach,” the Queen commanded, and the guard stepped away as the boy scampered off.
I entered the Queen’s chambers with more than a little trepidation, noting that her ladies had all moved to the farthest corner of the room to give us the illusion of privacy for this audience. I was tired and my nerves were unaccountably frazzled. I felt out of sorts. But all of that changed the moment I came face-to-face with the Queen.
She was still in full regalia, which surprised me. She stared at me with unmasked malevolence, which did not. She did not speak a word until I came close enough for her to spit upon.
I was prepared for that.
Instead she clasped her hands at her waist, as if she were a tutor about to scold a child, and not a woman a mere seven years older than I. “Well,” she huffed. “You’ve made another mess of it, now, haven’t you?”
“Your Grace?” I asked, truly not trying to sound stupid or full of guile. But I had not one idea to what specific mess she was referring. So I went for the safest option. “If you mean my leaving the Presence Chamber in the company of Alasdair MacLeod, I assure you—”
“Not that, you stupid twit. You know very well that isn’t my meaning.” She scowled at me. “Tell me at least that the boy has told you something interesting, though, while we are on it? What of his family in Skye? Why does he tarry so overlong in our midst—where do his loyalties lie?”
“His loyalties lie with Scotland,” I said primly. “And, perforce, with England, now that the French are threatening to rule.” My mind was racing. How could I convince Elizabeth of Alasdair’s dedication to the cause without betraying that he was far more involved with the Scottish rebellion than she could ever guess? And that I suspected his reasons for remaining in Windsor had a great deal more to do with the Lords of the Congregation than with his interest in me? I decided to distract her with nonsense. “His home in Skye, however, has served as the subject for an intriguing legend straight out of the Highland mists. He claims he possesses a veritable Fairy Flag that can help his clan win any battle it undertakes.” I rolled my eyes. “So we have that to look forward to, an’ we ever call upon his aid.”
The Queen looked at me sharply. “A Fairy Flag? What is this?”
“Just a trifle, really.” I waved a hand. “A family relic said to be a gift of the fairy folk themselves that assures the bearer a victory in battle if the flag is displayed at the battle’s outset. They set great store by its bits and pieces, though I am sure it is for naught.”
“Indeed.” The Queen considered that for a moment, then lifted her hand to her face and rubbed her brow, suddenly seeming much older than her years. “Still that is of no account in our present impasse. I mean, of course, the revelation of Lord Brighton’s affections for Lady Ariane. You’ve served them up quite neatly to me, I’ll give you that. And yet I cannot help but wonder why you should trouble yourself.” She fixed me with a baleful stare. “You and the witch are not exactly fast friends.”
I drew myself up short at that. “Sophia is not a witch!” I breathed, almost afraid to say the words out loud. “Pray tell me you do not believe that she is!”
“Mmf.” My defense seemed to mollify the Queen, and I realized she’d been testing me, to throw out such a shocking word. But why a test? Sophia is one of her own! “I guess we’ll see the true nature of Sophia’s abilities soon enough,” she said wearily. “But either way, you’ve quite undone the girl’s betrothal. I suppose it is a good thing. At least for Brighton.” She said these last words with dark menace. “You’ve made Sophia’s life far worse, though you do not know it.”
I shrugged, artfully looking away. “I confess I wanted you to know about Lord Brighton’s attraction to Lady Ariane,” I said, my words a gamble. But sometimes, with the Queen, a little confession of personal failings could go a long way. “I am still too stung from my lord Cavanaugh’s actions to see the same thing happen to Sophia without doing, well”—I waved my hand helplessly—“something.”
I couldn’t and wouldn’t say more—about Brighton’s full subterfuge. I wouldn’t tell Elizabeth that this man had risked his very life to lie to his monarch, in the pursuit of keeping his daughter safe. That revelation would open up more questions than answers—who’d stolen Sophia in the first place, and why?—and doubtless Brighton would hang for treason. That wouldn’t be a very good end for the newly reunited father and daughter.
My thoughts roiled as Elizabeth sighed again and fixed her gaze on the far wall, as if doing mental calculations. “With Brighton’s riches there will be no dowry needed. And Ariane is doubtlessly barren, after the beatings she suffered at her dear husband’s hands.” She glanced back to me as I stiffened, her next words sharp as she answered my unasked question. “Of course I knew, you child. But the woman was penniless and of good, sturdy stock. And I was not the one who sanctioned her marriage. My dear departed sister did. So if anyone is to blame, she is. But I’d have done the same, wagering Ariane could outlast any meat-fisted oaf. She did, and she has the coin to show for it. Unlike you, I might add.” Her eyes narrowed. “I did not fail to notice how poorly Marion Hall is showing these days. I would have thought you would have held on to Cavanaugh with both hands.”
A dozen sharp retorts boiled up at this, but none of them would serve. “You are correct, of course, Your Grace,” I said instead, as demurely as I could. You obnoxious spiteful vicious shrew. “My response to his . . . indiscretion was not fully thought out.”
“Responses to men rarely are,” the Queen said, but for once her words were not laced with vitriol. “Very well, girl. Get on with what you have to say. We do not have much time before the next interruption will descend upon us. What is it you learned at Marion Hall that was so important you could not wait to tell me until a more civilized hour?”
I refrained from reminding her that it had been her choice to have me discuss this now. I couldn’t risk Cecil and Walsingham showing up again, having suddenly suspected that their plans at last had been thwarted. Still, I needed to choose my words carefully.
“Your Grace, I had occasion to learn of a conversation between your advisors and the Lords of the Congregation whilst you were at rest at Marion Hall,” I said. “I am certain that Cecil and Walsingham told you of it, but—I simply wish you to be fully apprised.”
“Three nights past. You were asleep.”
“Asleep,” she repeated the word, as if she could not quite make sense of it. “And what . . . was this meeting about?” Now her words were almost a whisper. A whisper of a woman who did not know whom to trust.
Something shifted in me then, as profound and powerful as anything I’d ever experienced with courts and kings. I hated Elizabeth, make no mistake. She was mean and vindictive and petty and small. But she was also my Queen, the future of England. And it was at her feet our fortunes were laid. History would not look back on her with understanding and commiseration if she allowed herself to sit upon a puppet throne. History would not consider Cecil and Walsingham heroes if they ran her kingdom for her. It would merely think of Elizabeth as weak. That anyone would consider this proud, defiant, fiercely independent woman as weak was something that could not be borne.
She was my Queen. She was my country.
I knew what I had to do.
Save for the fact of Alasdair’s involvement, I told her everything, and without stinting. She did not interrupt, but I could see her anger ebb and flow as she noted Cecil’s and Walsingham’s interpretations of her directives. I had no way of knowing whether or not those directives were in keeping with what she truly wished, but by the end of my recitation, one thing was plain: the Queen had aged.
Another tiny sliver of her girlhood had been shaved away on the anvil of her monarchy, revealing the steely and inviolable ruler beneath. I wondered what would be left of Elizabeth at the end of her days. But I suddenly got the impression that such an end wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“Thank you, Beatrice,” the Queen said, and though the words were stated with some grudging surprise, they were plainly spoken. “It goes without saying that you need not inform my advisors of this conversation.” Her gaze slid to the door as a guard appeared, and she appeared to draw within herself. “You shall accompany me now, as witness.”
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