“Have you really, Lord Knowlton?”
“I had hoped my words to you when last we met were not too subtle,” he said, still holding onto her hand, “and did not frighten you away. I have admired you greatly ever since we met.”
“That is very kind of you. I have not been accustomed to admiration since my husband died.”
“Do you miss being married as I do?”
Not at all. She had loathed being married, and something about that glint in Knowlton’s eyes, the touch of his hand on hers, told her she would not enjoy it much with him either. But she had learned one thing in her marriage, and that was to conceal her true feelings at all cost.
She smiled and leaned into him, letting him feel her body against his. “Very much. It is lonely for a single woman in the world.”
“Lonely for a man as well.” His eyes heated as he looked down at her, took in her loose hair around her face, her parted lips. “I have had no one since my wife died.”
“No one at all? A titled gentleman in the Queen’s favour such as you?”
He shook his head, and raised one finger to trace the line of her jaw. She forced herself to stay still under his touch. “I have very specific tastes, Mistress Sutton. Celia. I want someone beautiful, sophisticated, but also a challenge. Someone not easy to conquer.”
“Co-conquer?” Celia stuttered. She had not quite expected that from him. The kind, mild man she had enjoyed chatting with seemed to have vanished now that they were alone.
“You always seem so distant, Celia. So cool and composed.” His palm traced down over the line of her throat, nudging her cloak out of the way so the leather of his glove was against her bare skin. “I have longed to know what you hide beneath all that disdain,” he whispered. “To be the only one who can uncover your secrets.”
Celia shook her head and fell back a step. His arm swept around her waist and brought her up against him. “I have no secrets.”
“Oh, but I think you do. We all do.”
“Do you have secrets, Lord Knowlton?”
“Of course I do. And they are why I can now take care of you as you deserve, lovely Celia. I can take you away from England to somewhere secret and safe, just the two of us, where we can share all our secrets.”
Celia drew in a deep breath and forced herself to relax in his arms. Was this it, then? Was it really this easy to make someone confess?
“I will not live here in Scotland,” she said.
He laughed. “Here, in this godforsaken place? Certainly not. Once my work is done we will live in a much more hospitable land. One where your beauty will be appreciated as it should be.”
“Your work?” she said. Did she sound too eager?
His gaze narrowed on her and his arms tightened around her. “I cannot give away my secrets for free, my dear. I’ll need something from you in return.”
“I told you. I have no secrets to share. And I must be sure that whoever I marry will be able to care for me.”
“You need have no doubts about that if we decide we suit.” He lowered his head to press a soft kiss on her brow. “Show me that we will suit, Celia. That you are what I have been working for, waiting for.”
“How?” she gasped as his parted lips trailed over her cheekbone. His kiss was hot, dry, seeking. It made her stomach seize in a painful knot.
“Kiss me,” he demanded. He pulled her up on her toes and covered her mouth with his. His tongue forced her lips apart and pressed deep inside.
Celia screamed in her mind, over and over, as that terrible trapped feeling she had always had with her husband closed over her. Black ice seemed to trickle over her body, freezing her, holding her fast so she could not move.
“You are a cold wench, aren’t you?” he growled as his lips finally, blessedly, left hers. He nipped at her neck. “But we will soon change that.”
Celia closed her eyes tightly and tried to pretend she was not really there. That she merely watched the scene from a distance, as at the playhouse. That was what she had done in her marriage. That distance was sometimes all that had kept her sane.
“I cannot marry a man who can’t take care of me,” she said again. “If you have Queen Elizabeth’s favour...”
“Queen Elizabeth?” Lord Knowlton said bitterly. “She is nothing. England is nothing. The power in this world lies with France and Spain, and one day they will crush Elizabeth like the bastard upstart she is.”
His harsh outburst shocked Celia after his earlier caution. She stared up at him, at his face that was so contorted she could hardly recognise it. “That—that is treason.”
“It is merely the truth, as all wise men know.” He suddenly tightened his arm around her waist and swung her hard to the wall, trapping her there with his body. “And if you are wise you will come with me before it is too late.”
“To Spain?” she whispered.
“Spain?” He laughed. “There is no merriment in Spain. We will go to France, you and I, as soon as Queen Mary does what her Guise uncles wish. Despite her foolish infatuation with Darnley she will soon remember where her true advantages lie.”
At last the truth Celia sought. She closed her eyes and tried to think. He had confessed, or as good as. It would be enough for Elizabeth and Lord Burghley. Yet he still had Celia trapped.
“You are allied with the French, then?” she said. “They will give you the fortune that will let you marry where you will?”
Immediately she knew she had pressed too far. His body stiffened against hers. “Why do you want those words, Celia?” he asked calmly. “I have already offered you all you need.”
Celia shook her head. “My husband lied to me. I cannot bear that again...”
“And did you lie to him?” His lips pressed hard to the side of her neck, making her shudder. “Are you lying to me now?”
“Nay!” she cried. Suddenly one of his gloved hands was clapped over her mouth, strangling her words, her breath. Holding her to the wall with his body, he reached his other hand down to grasp the hem of her skirt and drag it up over her leg.
Celia felt the cold wind on her skin, the hard trap of his body on hers, and wanted to scream.
“Show me what a good wife you will be, Celia,” he said against her ear, and his hand swept over her thigh.
And then in an instant he was torn away from her. Her breath flooded back into her lungs, painful and cold, and she shook so hard she could scarcely stand. She braced herself against the wall, and through the filmy haze of tears she saw John throw Knowlton down into the street.
John had the man down on his stomach, his knee on Knowlton’s back as he twisted his arm behind him. Celia had never seen John look like that before, his handsome face contorted with rage, with primitive fury. All his elegant sophistication was stripped away, leaving a killer in its place.
As she pressed herself back to the wall, watching in horror, John and Knowlton fought like dogs in the middle of the street, first one man and then the other down, until blood and sweat flew in the air. She almost screamed when Knowlton threw John to the ground, but John turned the tables yet again and had his opponent beaten down.
But when John staggered to his feet and started to turn away Knowlton suddenly snatched a hidden blade from inside his boot and lunged forward to drive it into John’s side. John staggered back, staring down at the blood that had appeared on his torn doublet.
“John!” Celia cried.
He glanced at her for only an instant, then whirled around and drove his own blade into Knowlton’s chest, twisting it until the man fell to the ground again, perfectly still, and the fight was over as quickly and violently as it had begun.
Celia ran to catch John’s arm as he started slowly to fall, struggling to hold him up, to will her own life into him. To beg him silently not to leave her.
Suddenly Marcus was there. “Get John back to the palace,” he said.
His firm touch on her arm seemed to be all that held her tethered to reality as she looked down at Joh
n’s blood.
“Nathan will help you. I will take care of—that.”
He nudged Knowlton’s body with his boot, and Celia shivered.
“What if—? Did anyone see?” she whispered.
“If they did, they will know well enough to keep it to themselves,” Marcus said roughly. “Go now. See to John.”
Celia nodded. As the other man slid John’s limp arm over his shoulder and drew him to his feet, she went to his other side and wrapped her hand over his waist. She could feel his breath dragging painfully in and out of his body, and she was glad for it because it meant he still lived. He was still with her.
“Celia, I am sorry...” he gasped.
She shook her head. “No talking, John. Save your strength now or we will never get you to the palace.”
She glanced back over her shoulder as they carried John to the end of the lane, but Marcus, his assistant and Knowlton’s body were already gone. The night was quiet again, as if the whole violent scene had never happened at all.
Except for the coppery tang of blood and steel in the air.
Celia shivered and turned away.
* * *
He couldn’t reach her.
A thick, silvery mist swirled around him, concealing everything but the tantalising glimpse of Celia just ahead of him. Her black hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her smile was enticing as she called out to him. She held her hand to him, but when John reached for her she laughed and spun away.
“Celia!” he shouted, and the word echoed back at him, mocking him. A terrible desperation swept over him. He had to find her, grab her in his arms and know she was real. That she was his again and he could never lose her.
But she was gone. He ran through the mist, calling her name. He could hear her laughter, hear her whisper, “I am here, John. Right here,” but he couldn’t see her.
And then even her laughter was gone, and he knew with a horrible certainty that he had lost her. He was alone again, and he could never find his way free of that.
“John,” she said again. “John!”
He spun towards the sound of her voice, hope rushing through him again. Foolish hope when he had thought he knew better than to allow such a thing. But there was no teasing laughter to her voice now, no enticement. Only fear and tears.
Nay, that could not be. Celia never cried.
John forced his gritty, heavy eyes to open and found himself staring up at a green canopy. There was no cold mist, only the warmth and smoke of a fire, the feeling of soft sheets against his bare skin.
And a cool hand on his arm, the summery smell of a woman’s perfume. Celia’s perfume.
He turned his head to see that she sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at him with her grey eyes. They were dark with concern, and they really did shimmer with the bright sheen of tears.
“Oh, praise God, you are awake,” she said. “I feared you would open your wound with all that fierce thrashing about.”
“Am I awake?” he said, and found his throat was dry. His body ached, the wound on his side was throbbing, but he would bear any pain if she would just stay there beside him.
“I hope so. You were feverish, but you feel cooler to the touch now.” Her hand gently curled over his cheek and she smiled down at him. “Your eyes are clearer. I think you will recover.”
John covered her hand with his, holding her with him. He turned his face and kissed her palm as he closed his eyes to inhale the sweet scent of her skin. “Because you were here with me. You brought me back.”
“This has become a terrible habit of ours,” Celia said. She raised her other hand to smooth back his hair, her touch light and gentle. “Nursing each other through wounds. You must take better care of yourself in the future.”
John had to grin. “Why should I, when this is the result? You sitting at my bedside, not arguing with me, not flaying me with that sharp tongue of yours.”
Celia pressed a fleeting kiss to his brow and drew away from him, leaving him without her touch. “That is not all I will flay you with if you do this again.” She reached for a goblet on the table and held it to his lips. “Drink this.”
John took her wrist between his fingers. “Not poisoned, is it?”
Celia snorted. “I wouldn’t have worked so hard to heal you only to do away with you now. It is merely healing herbs in wine. Queen Mary herself sent her finest stock of French wine for you.”
“Queen Mary?” John drank deeply, draining the goblet before he lay back on the pillows. The wine seemed to restore him so she could think clearly again.
“Aye. She is quite distraught that an emissary of her ‘dear cousin’ would be treated thus in her own city.” Celia laid aside the goblet and moved to sit on a stool by the bed. John saw she wore one of her black gowns, but it was rumpled, as if she had sat there in it for a long while. Black tendrils escaped from the braided knot of her hair. “She has sent home Lord Knowlton’s French contact and written to Queen Elizabeth with her apologies.”
“How long have I been here, then?” he asked.
“Only two days—three as it is nearly nightfall now. Queen Mary moves quickly when she wishes to.” A small smile touched Celia’s lips. “She also cries a great deal.”
“And has she made up her mind to marry?”
Celia shrugged. “I doubt a French alliance of any sort now. She says only that she finds Queen Elizabeth’s advice to marry an Englishman very sound. And she was dancing with Lord Darnley again last night.”
“You saw them?”
“Nay, I was here, nursing a hot-headed rogue through a nightmare. Lady Allison told me. She is much sharper of wit than I would have guessed.”
John winced. “It is what makes a good intelligencer. The ability to hide one’s true self, to be whatever one needs to be at the moment.”
“And you are a good intelligencer, are you not, John?” she said quietly.
He looked at her. Her tears were gone, her cool, pale mask back in place. It made him want to grab her and hold her hard, until his Celia came back from behind that mask. “Until I lose my head and find myself wounded, aye,” he said.
Celia nodded. “How did you come to this work?”
John’s eyes narrowed as he studied her face, her hands folded in her lap. What did she know? What did he dare tell her now? And yet he could not hide from her any longer. He cared about her far too much, owed her too much.
A wave of weariness washed over him, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. What was in those cursed herbs? He couldn’t tell her everything right now—not when he didn’t have the strength to make her understand, make her forgive him for his long-ago betrayal.
“I was a wild young man—aimless, angry. I wanted only to fight, craved violence, but there were no wars to fight then, where I could utilise my energy. It came out in tavern brawls, brothels, trouble of all sorts.”
Celia nodded. “You were sent to the country?”
“After a spell in Bridewell, after a friend of mine killed a man in a brawl I was involved in, my uncle decided I needed a quiet place to contemplate my sins.” That was true. He didn’t add that Lord Burghley had given him the chance to redeem himself by breaking a conspiracy against the Queen, and that his reward for succeeding had been more and heavier tasks. Matters that had kept him away from her for too long, things he’d had to protect her from.
“But there I just committed more sins,” he said bitterly.
“Was I your sin?” Celia asked. “But I wanted what happened—wanted you. I have never felt like that before, from the first moment I saw you.”
“Nor had I. You were—are—unlike anyone I have ever known. I knew then that I should stop, that I should stay away from you, but I could not.” He still could not. Something about her kept drawing him back to her, over and over again.
“I am glad you did not,” Celia said quietly, firmly. “What happened between us sustained me through everything that happened after.”
John�
��s heart gave a spasm of pain, a raw ache at the hurt he had caused her. That he had caused himself when he’d had to leave her. “Celia...” he said tightly, knowing he had to tell her everything. Had to make it right somehow.
But the chamber door opened and the hand John had started to hold out to Celia fell back to the bed. Lady Allison stood there, her shrewd gaze sweeping between them. She set the tray she held down on the table and smiled.
“I have brought you some supper, Sir John, and come to relieve you of nursing duty for a time, Celia,” Allison said. “You must be very tired.”
Celia nodded wearily. “Thank you, Lady Allison. I am tired.” She rose from her chair, watching John as he stared back at her. He would read nothing in her eyes now. “I will be back in a few hours.”
John stared after her until the door closed behind her. He could still smell her perfume in the air. He heard the rustle of Allison’s silk skirts as she settled herself in the chair, and turned to see her knowing smile.
“Well,” she said, “who would have thought such a simple-seeming task could cause such trouble? You look wretched, John.”
“What a charming flatterer you are, Allison,” he said, closing his eyes. “A veritable silvery-sweet tongue.”
She laughed. “Your friend Marcus seems to like it well enough. But, alas, the two of you will be going back to England soon, while I must stay here and mind Queen Mary. So dull for me.”
John’s eyes opened. “Going back to England?”
“Aye, Queen Elizabeth’s orders arrived by messenger today. You are urgently needed in London—though I think you must travel at a rather slower pace at the moment.”
“And Celia?”
Allison shrugged. “You will have to ask her, I think.” She drew a small book from the pouch tied at her waist and settled back to read. “You should rest now. I fear there is still much more work to come.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Will you be happy to go home?” Lady Allison asked Celia as they strolled through the Queen’s private garden at Holyrood.
Tarnished Rose of the Court Page 18
