Mary sighed against his neck in the darkness. “As well as may be.”
He pulled back as her lips found his skin. “We need to talk.”
“People talk entirely too much.” Mary kissed his neck again. Her mouth felt so hot against the skin above his ruff.
Charles pulled away and took hold of her hand. “Come with me.”
He had not planned anything. In truth, he had shown up at the eleventh night festivities with no clear idea of what he was doing. Seeing Mary again had been the answer to every question he had had . . . Any hesitation he had about marrying her because of decisions she may or may not have made in the past was gone. He wanted her with him as he started his new life away from Queen Elizabeth’s court.
Silence enveloped them as they moved away from the main corridors of the palace. Charles remembered that first night of Christmas when he had met Mary. She had been vibrant with energy as they flew through the warren of Whitehall only to end up in each other’s arms, surrounded by flurries in a snowy garden. That night had been magical.
Tonight they might reclaim that magic. He would ask her to marry him, and together they would escape once more. It was like a dream come true. A dream he hadn’t even known he’d had.
“Charles.” Mary’s voice was soft, almost timid.
He stopped short and turned to face her, her momentum throwing her against his chest and into his arms. It should have been a fun moment, full of laughter that ended in a kiss.
It wasn’t. What was wrong with him?
“Charles, what is wrong? You are not yourself.” Mary laid both hands on his chest and stepped back.
“I thought we might escape together once more.” He smiled, but could not force it to be genuine.
Mary leaned in against him, laying her head on his chest. Her jeweled hood scratched his chin. “Tonight we were not escaping. It felt like we were running away.”
Charles chuckled. “Is there a difference?”
“Yes. Escape is about freedom. Running away is born of fear.”
“You were afraid to enter that ballroom.”
“I was. I am. Oh, Charles, I have needed you.” Her voice hitched as she held back a sob. “I do not know what direction to take. If I stay on at the palace, I will have a place of respect with Queen Elizabeth regardless of gossip. Then again, I have to face those malicious fools every day. Then again, I will have more time at court to discover who actually stabbed the Earl of Oxford. And, perhaps most importantly, I would still be able to see you.”
Mary pulled away to look him in the face. It was too dark to see her eyes, but he could feel her gaze. She was watching him, gauging his reactions.
She continued. “Lady Spencer has offered me a position in her home, but if I were to choose to leave court to be a companion to a gentlewoman, I would rather return to Holme LeSieur.”
“Mistress LeSieur is your friend.” His statement was really a question.
Mary nodded, the minimal light from the moon through the frosted windows catching on her bejeweled hood. “She is a dear friend. It would not matter that her country life is not as grand as it might be in her mother’s household. At Holme LeSieur I would have friendship.”
“Your happiness is what is most important.” She had options now, options he had not anticipated. She would have to choose a life with him over everything else. Would she?
Again, Mary nodded. “Which is why I do not know if I should take Queen Elizabeth’s offer and stay here,” Mary cleared her throat, “or if I should go back to Frances LeSieur in Nottinghamshire?”
Nottinghamshire? “Where is Holme LeSieur?”
“Bordering Derbyshire,” Mary answered simply. “Along the River Trent.”
The pall that had weighed upon him had lifted. He had been given a gift in so many ways. Queen Elizabeth knew everything. Charles laughed aloud and leaned back to kiss Mary on the forehead.
“What is it?”
“Mary-my-love, Queen Elizabeth has granted me my knight’s portion. She has given me stewardship of two properties, Mowden and Burton, both upon the Trent.”
“Both are neighboring estates, only across the river from Holme LeSieur.”
Charles laughed again. “She has given me a gift indeed.”
Mary stiffened, even as he held her against him. “So you will not be remaining at court? You are leaving Her Majesty’s Guard?”
“Yes. After Twelfth Night. As soon as it is fit to travel.”
“Oh.” Mary’s single word was followed by her absolute stillness. She was lifeless in his arms.
“Mary, are you well?”
She did not respond immediately, but pushed herself away. One step, two steps back. Only the glimmer of amber on her gown was visible in the shadows. “I am well, thank you. So you are telling me that I should not consider your wishes in regard to my decision to stay on at the palace or not?”
Charles stepped forward and clasped her two hands in his. “Don’t be a goose!” He laughed and swung her in a circle and hugged her to him again. “I want you to come with me. I want you to be my wife. I wish to do the right thing, Mary, and only wish for your happiness. You will be happy there, so close to your friend, will you not?”
“You were thinking of my happiness?”
“Always.” Charles leaned in to kiss her, reveling in the way her skin felt against his lips, soft and warm. “Your happiness is my happiness.”
She was still in his arms, not fighting the embrace, but not responsive. Had he done something wrong?
Oh, yes. He had meant to do this properly.
Dropping to his knee, he clasped her hand in his and removed his hat. “I am a gentleman of independent means. I have a title, an income, and lands. I can provide for a family. I have received the Queen’s blessing and am free to marry. As a gentleman, it is only right that I offer you marriage. Mary Montgomery, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
• • •
At that moment, she knew with crystal clarity what it was that she wanted. She wanted to be Charles’s wife. She wanted everything that he wanted. A future together where the only thing that mattered was their love for each other. Children.
And that was the one option that was not available to her.
The room was dark, yet Mary could see the hope in his eyes. This amazing man, her friend, her lover, her champion, wanted to marry her. This should be a moment of joy.
All Mary felt was shame.
The moment stretched from romantic to awkward. Mary had to speak, but did not know what to say. “Charles, never doubt that I love you.” She’d never even said that to herself, but when the word left her mouth, she knew it was an absolute truth. She loved him. And that’s what made this so painful.
Charles jumped to his feet and stepped forward.
Mary stepped back and raised a staying hand. “To marry you would be to do you a disservice. I love you too well to harm you so.”
Charles was silent a moment, then turned away, turned back. “What?”
He sounded so confused. Almost angry. “The Queen Herself has given Her blessing.”
Mary held her head high. “She should not have. You are worthy of a better woman who can be a good wife, a mother to your children. I . . . ” She caught the sob in her throat before it could escape, “I am sorry to have engaged your affections. I never would have if I had known they would lead to this.”
“Lead to this? Engage my affection? Mary, what are you playing at? If you love me, there is nothing to stop us from marrying.”
She did her best to remain calm. “Except that I will not marry you.” Mary was choking on the words. Each time he forced her to deny him, he hurt her that much more. If he was any sort of gentleman, he would take her at her word and stop. “I told you when we first met that I could never marry. I have always been honest with you.”
“Have you?” Charles almost spat the words as he stepped closer. “Honest? What of the baby, Mary? The baby you told me that you lost? Lad
y Oxford said something quite different, something that ladies choose to do to avoid the shame of bearing a bastard.”
Mary recoiled as if slapped. “I told you the truth.”
“Of course you did.”
“I did!”
“The funny part was that I knew what you had done and didn’t care—I wanted to marry you. It didn’t matter to me because I thought I knew who you were.” Charles laughed, his voice a harsh bark in the close room. “And what did I know? Apparently, nothing.”
So he was willing to bind himself to damaged goods. He was honor bound—obligated to offer for her. It broke her heart that she loved him so much and he was merely ready to “do the right thing.” He should be relieved that she had turned him down. Instead he was throwing her past in her face. She would not stand for the abuse.
“And what did I know of you? You were merely an attractive guardsman, and there was nothing else I needed to know—or so I thought. Then again, you might have mentioned you were Oxford’s brother. Who lied to whom?” Mary’s anger had taken hold. She was not to blame here. If anyone had been dishonest, even by omission, it had been Charles.
“I never lied about my relationship with Oxford. Part of me assumed you knew. If you did not, why should it matter? I have no ties with him.”
“Do you not? So, this conversation you had with Anne, that was what? Between strangers?”
“She told me in effort to dissuade me from proposing.”
Mary stopped short. “You owe me nothing. You should have let her.”
“And yet you say it is not true.”
“It doesn’t matter one way or another. I may as well have. It has ruined me no matter what choice I did or did not make. I can never be a wife.”
Charles stalked toward the door and stopped, turning abruptly. “I will not beg. If you do not wish to marry me, tell me one last time. But tell me truly without your petty excuses.”
She wanted to say yes, to apologize for hurting him, to tell him she was a fool . . . but she could not. “It is not a petty excuse. I am no good for you.”
“So that is your answer?” Charles did not even look at her before he left the room, the door slamming behind him.
Mary stood there alone, absentmindedly noticing the way the scarce moonlight that filtered into the dark room seemed to catch on the facets of her jeweled skirt. Charles was gone. Charles had offered her the world, and she had declined.
It was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it?
Chapter Twenty
Charles kept his head lowered against the flurries as he crossed the tiltyard. There was a serious storm gathering. The short distance between the guardhouse and the palace proper had been a trial through the blinding white, but he made it home.
Home. This bunkhouse had been his home for three years, yet he had been ready to leave it and start out new at some unknown farmhouse. Here he had friends, respect. His estates . . . who knew? It had all seemed exciting, a chance for a fresh start with Mary by his side. Without Mary, did he even want it?
He was such an ass. Mary had rejected him, and what had he done? Attacked her. He had promised himself that he would never bring up her past. What was between them was all that mattered. But no, at the first slight, the first hurt, he threw it in her face. Anger had been easier to handle than the grief that threatened.
Mary said no. He felt the loss of her as if she had died. He just wished he could understand her reasons.
Charles entered the low framed doorway into the guardhouse and shouldered the door closed against the brewing storm. Charles stomped the snow off his boots harder than was necessary just as Kit came into the entrance.
“Kit, I am surprised to see you here. I would have thought you would have joined the festivities.”
“I could say the same for you. I was sure you would be with a certain young lady at the very least. It is just as well you have returned. We have a guest.”
Charles looked over to the fire and noted a young man, shivering, wrapped in a blanket. He looked familiar.
Kit motioned for him to follow him into the other room. “That young man is Girard, the minstrel to Lady Oxford for the past year.”
“Girard.” Charles remembered Mary telling him he had left days ago.
Kit interrupted his musings. “Charles, this man is in fear for his life. He claims that your brother wishes him dead.”
“You are Sir Charles?” Girard had risen. Still wrapped in his blanket, it was clear he was making every effort to hold his head high. “I was told you might be willing to help me . . . or at the very least, believe me.”
Charles was in no mood for this. “Speak your piece or be on your way.”
Kit stepped up beside him, laying a staying hand on Girard’s shoulder. Charles could see the man was not well. Kit guided him back to his seat by the fire and handed him a steaming mug. “Girard is ill. He has been hiding in the stables for seven days now.”
“Hiding?”
“He was afraid for his life, but even more so for Mistress Mary.”
“What has Mary,” Charles could hardly say her name without choking, “to do with this?”
Girard started to cough. Kit patted him on the back as he answered, “When Oxford recovers, he will be asked to name his attacker.”
“And?” If there was one thing Charles was sure of, it was that Mary had nothing to do with the stabbing.
“And Mary is the obvious choice. She could hang if he accuses her. It would be her word against the earl’s.”
“But she didn’t do it!”
“I know.” Kit’s voice was calm.
Charles’s voice was not. “You do?”
“Yes, of course. Girard stabbed Oxford—he just admitted it to me.” Kit gestured to Girard with a toss of his head, as if their discussion was of no consequence.
Charles took in the bedraggled appearance of their guest. It was amazing Girard had survived outside of the protection of the palace for seven nights of winter. But he had stayed on for Mary. She certainly made an impact on people. But why had he stabbed Oxford? Girard was rather unassuming and always friendly. In fact, Charles would be surprised if Girard knew how to wield a weapon. He looked like a man more concerned with his complexion and the cut of his doublet than practicing the more martial arts.
He was just the sort of young man that Oxford might trifle with. But was Girard the sort of man to let him?
It looked like his brother may have created this problem for himself. Enough speculation. “Girard, why did you stab my brother?”
Girard looked as if he were about to speak. Instead, he coughed. And coughed. Kit slapped him on the back. “Out with it, man. Tell him what you told me.”
Girard composed himself and took a sip from his mug. “The Earl of Oxford came to Mistress Mary’s room. He was in an uproar to find me there. He accused me of being her lover. He called her some unsavory names, but I held my ground. I did not wish her to return to find him waiting.”
Charles sat down on the bench before the fire and reached his feet out to the heat. “That was noble of you.”
“As you say.” Girard started to cough again.
“Why were you waiting for her?”
“She is my friend. It was an exciting night . . . I thought we would stay up talking about the festivities.”
Charles accepted the explanation with a nod. He pictured Mary and Girard laughing, sharing secrets . . . It was a sweet image of friendship that almost undid him. He could not connect the image of his smiling and open Mary with the one who’d, had she been his mother, chosen never to given birth. He shook off the anger and, surprisingly, sadness.
Now why Girard had been in Mary’s room was explained, but there was still a lot left unanswered. Charles waited for the man to stop coughing before he asked, “Why did you stab Oxford?”
“I did not mean to stab him.” Cough. “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone?” Charles knew where this was going.
Girard nodded. “He would not listen to reason. He came to see Mary. He was in a fever of lust . . . ” He trailed off as if he were afraid to say more.
Charles finished the statement for him. “And he turned to you.” Charles did not need Girard to incriminate himself. Sodomy was a crime punishable by death. Most people at court chose to turn a blind eye to it, but there were times when it was so public that the law had to follow through, if only to save face. For Girard to admit that Oxford had tried to have sex with him was as good as admitting that he himself was a sodomite. He could never testify against Oxford or his own life would be at stake. Naturally, Oxford would not want to take any chances that Girard might speak up, hence the threat.
“Worry not. I know my brother. Any pretty face will do in a pinch. And, knowing the possible outcomes, not many would have the strength of character to resist.”
Girard nodded his thanks for the unintentional compliment. Charles blushed at the realization that he just told a man he was pretty and got up to pace.
Kit stood, propped against the doorframe. “So the question is, what do we do about it?”
“You cannot tell Oxford that I am here! I am the only evidence that he, he . . . ” Girard stood up in a flurry of blankets, his spilled drink sizzling as it spattered on the hearth.
Charles strode over to him and eased him back into his seat. “Calm yourself. You will have my protection.”
“Our protection,” Kit added in.
“Kit, you do not need to involve yourself.”
“Oh, you cannot possibly keep me out of all the fun. Besides, once this scandal blows over, you will leave court and my position will be secure that much longer. It is in my best interests.”
“Fun? Girard risks his life by coming here, and you think this is fun?” Charles’s frustration subsided as he realized what Kit had just said. “How did you know that the Queen offered me your job?”
“I have ears.” Kit filled his mug from the tapped barrel on the table and eased himself onto the bench flanking the hearth. “Now, we need to use this information to our best advantage.”
“What do you have in mind?” Charles sat down again, sighing to himself at the wild glimmer in Kit’s eye. Whatever it was, it was not going to be simple or straightforward.
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