by Anna Castle
Tom focused his mind on the screams and the blood and managed to lower Trumpet to the bed without following her down. He struggled to disentangle her limbs from his trunk, but she kept twining them back around him. He cursed every minute he’d spent helping Trumpet-the-lad learn to wrestle. He finally had to use his full force to thrust her away. “No!”
“Yes,” she crooned, half rising to tug at the laces of his doublet. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“No, no, no.” Tom backed away from the bed and turned to scan the room. He spotted a painted Italianate pitcher beside a matching bowl. He strode across and emptied it over his head, blowing into the stream like a horse after a hard gallop. Then he went to the windows and pushed the sash fully open, hanging out to catch the breeze on his face. The river-dank air cooled his fevered body, slowing his heart. He breathed deeply. Then, somewhat restored, he turned back to her.
Trumpet had lifted herself up on her elbows, back arched and breasts thrust forward — an unbearable pose. Tom snatched her robe from the floor where it had fallen and swept it over her.
“Hoi!” She shook her head free and sat up, draping the robe around her shoulders. She treated him to an imperious glare, green eyes blazing under beetled black brows, but Tom could withstand that far better than he could the vision of her nearly naked —
He shook his head and leaned out for another gulp of air.
“What’s wrong with you?” What’s wrong with me? she meant.
“Nothing.” He smiled at her. “You are by far the most desirable woman I have ever seen.”
That mollified her, a little. “Then what?” She stood and put the robe on properly, tying it closed and shaking the folds around her feet. Fully covered, from chin to floor. Thank God.
“Then what what?” He shook his head but softened the dismissal with a wry grin. “I can’t do it, Trumpleton, much as it pains me to disoblige a friend. I’d dishonor both myself and you.” And have his balls removed by the viscount’s men, most likely. “I don’t take virgins anyway. You know that.”
She clucked her tongue. “That’s exactly what Ben said you’d say.”
“Oh, he did, did he? I suppose I should be flattered you found time to discuss my sexual policies among your important legal negotiations.”
She had the grace to look a trifle abashed — as much apology as he would ever get. And in fairness, he would also choose Ben if he needed a lawyer. Besides, the Whitt family home was only half a day’s ride from Orford Castle in Suffolk.
He let it go. “Why didn’t you listen to him?”
“I thought I might persuade you.”
Tom gave a short whistle. “You very nearly did.”
Her eyes glinted and she did a little wiggle with her shoulders that raised the short hairs on the back of his neck. She pointed her high-arched foot, preparatory to taking one of those pantherine steps toward him.
He pointed his finger at her. “Not one inch closer. I’ll tie you up if I have to.” He rubbed his throat, as dry as if he’d run a marathon. “Do we have any wine?”
She flapped a hand at a small table near the giant fireplace. “We have everything, except your cooperation.” She flopped into a chair, folded her arms across her chest, and stretched her feet out in front of her in the posture of a discontented boy.
Tom breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis over — for now.
He found a jug of canary and a bottle of Rhenish amid plates of cheese, nuts, fresh fruits, sweets, and more of the heart-shaped pastries from supper, stuffed with sweet cheese and raspberries. A large bowl held fragrant roses. More roses adorned the mantel and the tables on each side of the bed. She’d laid out everything for the perfect tryst, complete with an intimate supper. Her wedding night, and he’d spoiled it.
He filled a cup and took a draught. Standing up was safer, so he went to lean against a faded tapestry of a hunting scene. The wine had been lightly sweetened with honey, just the way he liked it. Refreshing. He rolled another draught around in his mouth, savoring the wetness.
“Enjoy your drink,” she said. “You’ll change your mind in a minute.”
“No, I won’t.” He stabbed his finger at her again. “And you stay where you are.”
She tossed her glossy head. “You’ll change your mind because your argument is specious.”
“What argument?”
“You say you won’t make love to me because I’m a virgin, but it’s too late. I’m not a virgin anymore.” She tilted her chin. “I experienced the rapture.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, Trumpet. Trust me. You did not.”
“Then what do you call what just happened?”
“I call that bliss.” He grinned at her. “Bliss times ten. But it was not the rapture. Rapture is —” How could he satisfy her curiosity without setting her off again? He scratched his head and came up empty. “Rapture is more.”
“There’s more?” She leapt out of her chair and onto his chest in a single bound, knocking the cup from his hand, twining her arms and legs around him again. She plastered her mouth on his in a ravenous kiss, and Tom’s traitorous body responded in full.
His honor fought its way to the surface. Screams. Blood. Smoke.
He wrested his lips free and pressed them tightly together. Looking past her, he spotted a straight-backed chair near the bed and stalked toward it. She wriggled and writhed against him, humming and cooing and nibbling his ears.
Blood spurting. Men screaming. Smoke burning his eyes.
Tom pressed her into the chair and held her down with one hand while he yanked free the cord of the bed curtains, tearing part of the curtain away from the tester. He wrapped the cord several times around both chair and Trumpet, who kicked and cursed him like a pirate. He smiled through his teeth. Her raving only helped maintain his lust-reducing illusion. He knotted the cord securely behind her and scouted the room for more rope. He found a slew of silk ribbons and tested them for strength.
They would serve. He returned to his captive and bound her feet together at the ankles.
She screeched, “I’ll have you whipped!”
“No, you won’t.” He found a footstool, added a pillow, and lifted her feet onto it. He stood back to regard his handiwork and stuffed another small pillow behind her back. He looked down at her with a grin. “I did warn you.”
She groused and grumbled, but knew she’d brought it on herself. Trumpet was reckless, bold, ingenious, and implacable, but she was also fundamentally fair-minded. If the world were different, she would have made a formidable lawyer.
“Are you going to leave me like this all night? I gave Catalina strict instructions not to return until sunrise.”
“I’ll stay,” Tom said. “I’d never find my way out of this labyrinth in the dark. Besides, you’d follow me, and we’d have to do it all over in some less handy place.”
Her sly chuckle proved him right on that count.
Tom moved the most comfortable armchair over to where they could talk easily and found a small table to set beside it. He poured himself a fresh cup of wine and filled a plate with bread, cheese, and fruit, then settled in his chair with the small repast.
“Nothing for me?”
He walked over and held the cup while she drank, then went back to his own chair. “If you’re good, I’ll free one arm. Maybe after you start snoring.”
“I don’t snore!”
“Yes, you do.” Tom restored his strength with food and drink. She watched him with an air of resignation. After a few minutes of restful silence, he said, “Your new husband’s a Catholic.”
“Only nominally. His wife was the devout one — wives, I should say. The second was the most religious. She’s the one who repaired and furnished that chapel. I think she even had Masses said in there sometimes, by smuggled priests.”
“That’s outrageous! Why doesn’t it bother you?”
“Why would it? She died last year, and Surdeval has proved hi
s loyalty to the queen over and again.” She laughed. “When the armada was sighted off the coast of Cornwall, he leapt on his horse and dashed to Richmond to offer her his sword, bringing his son and all his retainers. They accepted the son and the men, then sent my dear old lord home with heartfelt thanks.”
“Gallant.” Tom selected a hazelnut and chewed it well. “He has some qualities, then.”
“He has many qualities. He loves books. I like books. He has a huge library, which he practically lives in now. It’s closer to the stillroom and he doesn’t like to use the stairs if he can help it. The son was killed in battle, which is why the queen consented to our hasty wedding.”
“He needs a new heir.”
“That he does.” Trumpet gave him a meaningful look.
Tom shook his head. “It wouldn’t work, Trumpet. People would notice that the newest Surdeval didn’t look much like dear old Dad.”
“I doubt it. He’s fair, like you, with blue eyes. He’s tall. The child won’t have that crooked nose, but I have an ordinary nose, as do you. We’ll say the nose came from my side. Surdeval’s eyesight’s not that good and no one else would dare to pose the question. Catalina says half the thrones in Europe are occupied by cuckoos.”
Catalina had originated somewhere in Spain, the daughter of a gypsy chieftain. She had run away in Italy with a troupe of commedia dell’arte performers, where she met an English actor and followed him to London. He died, somehow leaving her in the care of Trumpet’s Uncle Welbeck, who had sent her on to serve his favorite niece. At least that’s the story she told. Tom thought it more likely that Trumpet had conjured her to supply the need for a conspirator with a flexible imagination, a gift for costuming, and few moral scruples. It would seem she was a fountain of dubious information as well.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
Trumpet shrugged as best she could inside her bonds. “I’ll think of something. Catalina says it’s easy to fake a pregnancy.”
Tom snorted. “I think His Lordship would notice he hadn’t performed the necessary service.”
“Catalina says that can be managed too.”
Tom had a vision of the two rascals drugging the old man and slipping a whore into his bed. He shook his finger at her. “I forbid you to do any such thing.”
She laughed merrily.
Fair enough; he had no means to enforce any forbiddings. “It would be cruel; surely you can see that. Give the man an honest heir, for pity’s sake.”
“I will not surrender my body to that repellent old ruin.”
“It won’t be that bad, Trumpet.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “Just close your eyes and think about what you’ll gain.”
“Never.” Her face crumpled in a mighty yawn. “What time is it, do you think?”
“No idea.” Tom yawned as well. He got up to grab a pillow and another stool for his own feet. “Can you sleep like that? Because I’m done in, but I won’t close my eyes if you’re loose.”
“Go to sleep. I’m fine.” She yawned again, shifted around a little, and closed her eyes.
Tom blew out the candles. Moonlight glowed behind the windows, turning her cheeks and forehead to polished ivory. He gazed down for a moment on his complicated friend, wishing he could help her, and not only for his own lusty reasons. She deserved a good husband — a handsome, kind young man who could love her the way she ought to be loved.
He kissed her on the forehead and settled himself for the night in his own chair.
“Traitor,” Trumpet murmured.
He’d thought she was asleep. “Trollop.”
She clucked her tongue. “Coward.” He could barely hear her voice.
“Harlot.”
He heard a soft snore and grinned into his pillow. He closed his eyes, grateful for the rest.
A loud boom woke Tom from a sound sleep. He startled and jumped to his feet to see Catalina Luna standing inside the door, panic on her dark features. “My lady! His Lordship! I think he is dead!”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Dead?” Tom rubbed his face and ran both hands over his scalp, waking himself up. Daylight streamed through the windows. They’d overslept. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” Trumpet said, squirming against her bonds. “We gave him his normal sleeping draught and left him alone.”
Catalina moved far enough into the room to see her mistress tied to a chair. She glanced from Tom to Trumpet and back again, then treated him to one of those complex gypsy looks that clearly expressed her opinion of him as a man.
“Untie me!” Trumpet demanded.
Tom grabbed his knife from the small table and cut her bonds. He held out a hand to help her to her feet.
She shook each leg, rolled her neck and shoulders, and turned to her maidservant. “What’s this about Surdeval? He can’t be dead. We only gave him a bit more than his usual dose.”
“I do not know, my lady. I go to see if he is awake before I come to you and find him stiff and still, covered with white sheet, like a dead man. I say, ‘my lord, my lord,’ but he did not move. I am afraid and run for you.”
Trumpet set her hands on her hips and studied Catalina for a moment. Then she gave Tom a critical inspection. He’d gotten up in the night and removed his doublet and shoes. One of his garters had come loose. She cast a dim eye at her own soft robe and said, “Well, never mind. The servants are probably sleeping off their night of carousing. We’d better hurry down and have a look for ourselves.” She walked out the door.
Tom stuffed his feet into his shoes and grabbed his doublet. Odds were good this would be something bad and he’d be going straight out to fetch a physician. He followed the women through the maze of corridors and stairs.
“Why are you so late?” Trumpet asked as they hurried through a sunlit gallery. “It must be past seven.”
Catalina said, “I sleep, my lady. I am sorry. My room is darker.”
“Are the household servants back?” Trumpet asked.
“I do not know,” Catalina said. “I have not seen one, but there is smoke from the bake house.”
She led them to a corner of the ground floor on the street side of the house. This room had been transformed from a library to a bedchamber. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of leather-bound books. Chairs and small desks occupied the wells made by the tall windows, but the dominant piece of furniture was a large curtained bed, flanked by night tables covered with the flotsam of an invalid. The room smelled faintly of medicine in spite of the fresh morning air wafting through the open windows.
Catalina stopped inside the door while Trumpet surged ahead with Tom behind her. The bed curtains hung open on both sides, gathered up against the headboard. The viscount lay in the center with a smooth sheet drawn up to his chin. His arms extended down each side, and his toes pointed straight up.
“Who sleeps like that?” Tom asked.
“Nobody,” Trumpet said. “And look, his chest isn’t moving. Is he breathing?”
“He is warm, my lady.” Catalina moved to stand at the foot of the bed. “I touched his cheek. But no breath. Perhaps he is only newly dead?”
Trumpet stepped to the edge of the bed and laid a hand on his cheek. “He is warm.”
“It’s August,” Tom said. “How long would a body stay warm after death?”
They exchanged a long look. They’d seen more than their share of unnatural deaths.
“I want to listen to his heart,” Trumpet said. “Perhaps he’s in some sort of swoon.”
“Perhaps he woke in the night and took another dose.” Catalina gestured at the night table with its litter of bottles and cups. “He had many medicines.”
Tom doubted the answer would be so simple. “Don’t touch anything yet. Mr. Bacon says we must observe the scene as it is before we alter it. Is this how you left him last night?”
“No. He was still awake.” Trumpet glanced around the room and pointed at a large chest in a corner. “There are his dou
blet and shoes, right where I put them.” She turned back to Tom. “I came in with him after supper to see him settled comfortably. He said he would rest for an hour while I made my preparations, as he called it.”
“Building up his strength, no doubt.” Tom couldn’t keep the bitter note from his voice. “Did he have potions for that as well?”
She clucked her tongue. “It’s not what you think. The difference in our ages embarrassed him more than me. I’m young enough to be his granddaughter. I also think he didn’t want me to feel rushed.”
Tom let it go. The unbearable prospect had been made moot. “What happened then?”
“I helped him off with his doublet and laid it on the chest. Then he sat on the bed, and I removed his shoes. Meanwhile, Catalina brought in some fresh wine and stirred in his sleeping draught. It’s a mixture of valerian, chamomile, and mint. Nothing unwholesome. I gave him the cup and watched to be sure he drank it. He didn’t know about the dose, but it was only a little more than his usual. I asked the stillroom maid about it, saying I wanted to learn how to care for my new husband. Then I took the cup and gave it back to Catalina. He kissed me on the forehead and said he would come up to me in an hour. And then I left.”
“Could he have woken and covered himself with the sheet?” Tom asked.
Catalina shook her head. “No one can sleep with so smooth a sheet.”
“Is anything else different about the room?” Tom asked, knowing Mr. Bacon would ask him.
“The coverlet,” Catalina said. A heap of brocaded silk lay crumpled on the floor beyond the foot of the bed. She walked around to the other side. “And here is a pillow on the floor. I see no other change.”
“I’m going to listen to his heart.” Trumpet grasped the sheet on either side of the viscount’s chin and pulled it straight back.
They studied him in silence for a moment. He still wore his shirt, hose, and stockings, although the stockings were twisted around his calves and ankles.
“Look.” Tom pointed at two deep indentations in the plump mattress on either side of the viscount’s body. “Like someone knelt over him.”
