The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One

by Denise Domning

  His sort, Kit’s conscience complained. He was no different than Deyville, meaning to use the weaker vessel for his own purposes.

  Coming back to the matter at hand, he shifted to find Mistress Anne yet at the edge of the clearing. She watched him, her hands neatly folded before her, her face wan. There were none of the tears or swooning he expected. Instead, she smiled in gratitude.

  Christ, but she was lovely. His gaze caught on the wee mole at the corner of her lush lips. Small and dark, it was lure calling him to come kiss her.

  While Patience sobbed softly from her crumpled position near her Anne’s feet, Anne stared at Master Christopher. Gone was the gentleman’s earlier disinterest, leaving only the kindness Anne had first seen in him. Yet giddy in relief, Anne not only added him back to her list, she tallied in more admirable character traits to those he had already displayed.

  Master Christopher was not only kind, but honorable and brave. Lord Deyville had done his best to drive him away, but the gentleman stayed, even though it was plain he earned the nobleman’s hatred for doing so. And he was clever as well. His only weapon against Deyville had been his tongue, and he’d used that blade to great effect.

  As she watched him, his gaze left Deyville’s retreating back and shifted to her, then dropped to her mouth. Heat stirred where it shouldn’t in Anne, a shadowy reminder of the sort of pleasure there could be between man and woman. There’d be much more than safety for her to find in this man’s arms.

  With that, Anne’s heart melted, vanquishing all sense as it went, and dooming her list of potential mates. From this moment on every man she considered would be held to Master Christopher’s standard and she very much doubted any other could match him.

  Struggling with her wayward emotions, Anne watched him as he crossed the glade to her, stooping to retrieve her hat along the way. He stopped in front of her. His brow was knit, his green eyes dark with concern for her.

  “Are you unharmed, mistress?” he asked.

  She smiled at him with heart-deep gratitude. “I am, a fact for which you have my undying gratitude.”

  “Dare I say it was nothing?” he replied, that slow smile of his playing across his wondrous lips.

  “You’ll not say so, for it was not,” Anne returned stoutly.

  Master Christopher laughed, the sound of his amusement deep and warm. His angular face softened. Anne caught her breath and found herself hoping for a kiss.

  “If you must give thanks, then give it to our royal mistress. It was no ruse on my part when I said she sent me to find you. I’ll add that she presently awaits our return,” he assured her.

  That bit of news launched Anne out of her thwarted lusts and back into terror. “Oh Lord, then we must be off.”

  She reached out to claim her hat from him, her shirtsleeve sliding up along her arm. The skin of her wrist showed bright red where Deyville had held her. The color promised she’d be wearing a bruise on the morrow.

  Master Christopher stared at her arm, his brows pinched and a new tenseness touched his jaw line. Panic shot through Anne all over again. She snatched her hat from him then pulled her arm close to her side to hide it in the folds of her skirt. The attempt came too late.

  When Master Christopher raised his gaze to her face fiery lights glowed in his eyes. “He left marks upon you.” His voice was low and harsh.

  Even while Anne savored his rage on her behalf, she dared not make an accusation. “You mistake the mark,” she replied. “I got that from snipping hawthorns when I caught my arm among the branches then tried to pull free.”

  His brows jerked upward at so implausible an explanation. Anne watched as the gentleman struggled to do as polite conventions bid and accept this lie as her explanation. She knew when he failed, for his mouth flattened and confusion filled his gaze.

  “Why the pretense?” He made this a quiet demand.

  Anne bowed her head, not wanting him to read what might show upon her face as she told him her lie. Nay, it was but half a lie. “Were the events of this day to be revealed I fear the queen might send me from court.”

  “So she might,” he agreed softly.

  Peering up at him, Anne found questions yet lingering in his eyes. He was too clever by far. It was a long moment before he at last shrugged. “If you will it, I’ll vow to keep this event our secret.”

  To share even something as horrible as Deyville’s attack with him filled Anne with unaccountable pleasure. She set her hat upon her head. “Again, you own my gratitude,” she told him as she caught her dangling sleeve and thrust her arm into it. Once her sleeve ruff was again tied at her wrist, there’d be no one to see the damage.

  Master Christopher’s mouth lifted into a smile. “You’re too newly come to court, mistress. Have a care with what you offer any man, even me. For all you know I might be no different than yon nobleman.” The jerk of his head indicated the direction of Lord Deyville’s departure.

  Anne laughed at so absurd a notion and turned to Patience. Yet seated on the ground, her governess’s face was bloated and red from crying. There was no trace left of her superiority.

  “You must rise,” Anne told her. “The queen calls for me, and I need you to fasten my sleeves.”

  Rather than come to her feet Patience sat where she was, her eyes dribbling as another sob hiccoughed through her. “Mistress, I was so frightened,” she whispered. “If not for Master Hollier, the lord would have—,” Patience’s chin trembled so violently she couldn’t finish her sentence. At last she hung her head. “I failed you.”

  Startled by the admission, Anne’s dislike for her keeper softened. She called herself a fool for it. Come the morrow, Patience Watkins’ snide superiority would be back in place.

  Compassion persisted against all logic. Anne sighed, and glanced at Master Christopher. “Will you give us a moment?”

  As he nodded and backed away, Anne crouched down beside Patience to lay a hand on her governess’s arm. “You did your best to stop him,” she told the woman, her voice low. “Lord Deyville is both a nobleman and my grandsire’s friend. He presumed upon both those relationships to take advantage where he had no right.”

  “Aye, but”—Patience complained—“I should have run, calling for aid.”

  Anne gave thanks to God Patience hadn’t, else all would be ruined. “Take heart. No harm’s been done,” she assured the woman. “In fact, there’s good for us in this. We’re warned now. In the future we’ll take care when he’s near.”

  Patience managed a sodden nod. “A man shouldn’t try to do you so when he’s already wed. Such a man isn’t worthy of marriage’s holy estate.”

  Hope flickered to life in Anne. Perhaps with the right cultivation Patience could be turned into an ally in her fight to escape Deyville. “That’s true enough,” she agreed with all her heart.

  As Patience struggled to rise Anne put an arm around her to aid her. When they stood side-by-side Patience wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve. “I must tell Sir Amyas what that nobleman’s about,” Anne’s keeper said. As she spoke she glanced about as if expecting to find her employer here instead of in his London town house.

  The urge to tell Patience that Amyas already knew what Deyville intended filled Anne. She bit it back, doubting Patience capable of believing any evil of her employer. “How can we?” she asked instead. “How hurt my grandfather will be when he learns what his friend has attempted. Nay, this is best kept between us.”

  A terrible sadness filled Patience’s eyes. Her lips quivered anew. “You’re right,” she said in a tiny voice that spoke of ancient hurts. “When it comes to their friends no man believes what a woman says of them.” Pain radiated from the frail woman.

  Anne stared at her in surprise. Now, who would have suspected Patience could harbor such depth of emotion?

  As if startled by what she’d said, Patience gasped and grabbed Anne’s arm. Pulling her mistress a step closer, she worked at the oversleeve’s ribbons. Her fingers trembled so badly
the bow she made was loose and misshapen. She freed a shaken sigh and opened the knot to try again.

  “Perhaps you will pay closer heed to me when next I tell you that only a hussy goes about with her sleeves undone,” Patience said as she worked, but it was a weak and toothless scold.

  Anne let it pass without comment, content to let Patience reclaim her former self. Once her sleeves were again fastened, they joined Master Christopher across the glade. He offered his arm.

  “Mistress?”

  With a smile, Anne accepted, winding her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her fingers rested against the curve of his upper arm. Beneath the fabric of his doublet and shirt she could feel the hard strength of his arm. An instant later he shifted, drawing her closer to his side. Their nearness set a shiver to making merry down Anne’s spine. If Patience noticed, she was yet too distraught to complain over such closeness.

  With every step, Anne reminded herself that Amyas’s threat against Owls House meant slamming her heart’s door upon Master Christopher. How could she turn her back upon the one man who might accept her mother for what she was?

  Or would he? She didn’t even know how Master Christopher felt about his crippled brother. Although she knew him too little to ask so personal a question and there was no way to delicately broach such a subject, Anne opened her mouth and bluntly asked.

  “Master Hollier, folk at court say your brother is very much like my mother, being crippled.”

  Master Christopher’s arm tensed beneath her hand. He glanced at her. Guilt and sadness filled his gaze.

  “I cannot say that Nick is like your mother, not knowing your mother,” he replied, then fell silent, his quiet suggesting she’d heard all he meant to offer on the subject of his brother.

  Anne didn’t need another word to recognize her answer. Christopher Hollier not only cared deeply for his brother he blamed himself for his brother’s crippling, just as she held herself responsible for her mother’s state.

  Against all logic and any hope of finding a simple answer to the conundrum Amyas had created, Anne’s heart swelled with desire. Here, it proclaimed to the rest of her being, was the man she needed.

  “Nan!” Mary’s cry came from the meadow’s edge.

  Anne and Mary both wore blue and white this morn, but Mary’s sleeves and overskirt were in a darker shade, her white underskirt and bodice trimmed with silver. Quite a variety of wildflowers now sprouted from the band of her black, short-crowned hat. With a wave, Mary started up the path toward them at her usual forceful gait.

  As they met she smiled up at Master Christopher. “Oh-ho, so this is who’s been delaying my cousin.”

  “Not at all,” Anne retorted. “It’s slow me who keeps him.” The words reverberated through her. Would that she could keep Christopher Hollier as her own.

  Master Christopher grinned down upon Anne’s kinswoman. “I fear your place in my heart is in jeopardy, Mistress Radcliffe. Tell me you tremble at the thought I might replace you with your cousin.”

  This teased an amused snort from Mary as she looped her arm through Anne’s. “Cousin, have a care that you don’t pin your heart on this one. Our Master Christopher is long at court but never married. Why is that, Master Bachelor?” Her taunting question sparked with laughter.

  Master Christopher moaned. “Must you harp upon this every time we meet?”

  “Aye, and I’ll continue harping until you give me an answer,” Mary retorted.

  “I always answer you,” he cried in feigned distress, “but you never listen.”

  Releasing Anne, he dropped on one knee before his tormentor. “It’s you, Mistress Mary, who keeps me from marriage to any other, and well you know it. My heart was given to you the first moment we met. Since you so cruelly refuse me I can but pine away in chaste loneliness, loving you without hope of ever requiting that dear affection.” He pressed one hand to his breast as if his heart were broken, while the other shielded his eyes to stop his tears, the very picture of misery.

  “One day,” Mary warned, shaking her finger at him, “I will win the truth from you.”

  “She wounds me again,” Master Christopher cried, both hands clutched at his chest now. “Am I so poor a swain you cannot believe me smitten?

  “Mistress Blanchemain,” he looked at Anne, laughter quivering at the corners of his mouth, his eyes bright green with the pleasure of this game, “tell my sweet Mary that you can see proof of the heartbreak in my face.”

  “Oh aye, I see it,” Anne agreed, fighting disappointment even as she aided him in his lie.

  What she saw in his face was a barrier, no matter how amiable. He played this game to keep Mary from delving into something he didn’t wish to share and to keep her at arm’s length. The only man Anne felt qualified to be her mate was determined not to marry.

  Mary giggled, sounding younger than the youngest of the queen’s maids. “You shouldn’t encourage him, Nan. Get up, you great buffoon,” she commanded of her supposed lover.

  “You have no appreciation for fine drama,” Master Christopher grumbled as he rose. Slapping the grass from his knee with the back of a hand, he once again took Anne’s arm.

  “Come then,” Mary said, and started toward the meadow, pulling them all along at her no-nonsense pace.

  “In all truth, Mistress Mary,” Master Hollier said to Anne’s kinswoman as they walked, “if I were to wed anyone it would be you. I like your forthright nature. It must be a trait carried in the Radcliffe blood, for I suspect Mistress Blanchemain is much like you.”

  Anne glanced up at him. He watched her, desire glowing like bits of gold in his green eyes. Of a sudden, Anne wanted nothing more than to challenge that barrier of his. Could she make him want her enough to break his vow?

  “My, but he is clever with his compliments,” Mary told Anne, her grin wide and pleased. “Take warning, Master Kit. I’m thinking you’ve been studying flattery at the feet of Her Eyes.” The maid gave sneering emphasis to the pet name by which their queen called the earl of Leicester.

  “What?!” Master Christopher retorted as if shocked at the thought. “Don’t you dare. I’ll not have you despise me as you do that poor earl.”

  Again, Mary wagged a chiding finger at Master Christopher. “Best you hope your footwork is as clever as your words for my cousin’s first dancing lesson.”

  Anne stopped stock still, forcing her escorts to a halt as well. “What lesson?” she asked in breathless terror.

  Master Christopher tilted his head to one side as he confirmed her worst fears. “Her Majesty cannot bear that all others enjoy the day’s dancing while you cannot.”

  Panic joined Anne’s terror. “Nay, she cannot mean to do this before all the courtiers and servants,” she cried. Her heart pounded so hard, she swore it lifted both her bodice and the corset beneath it. “Nay.” She freed her hands from both maid and gentleman then took a backward step. “Nay, I cannot do this.”

  “Nan,” Mary said, patting her arm, “don’t panic over it. It won’t be as bad as that.”

  Mary was wrong. This would be worse than enduring Deyville’s attack. Why, she’d die of embarrassment were she to stumble before all the court. Everyone would think her graceless and fumble-footed.

  Master Christopher caught her bruised hand with its tattered glove and pressed it to his chest. Anne felt his pulse against her fingers, while her skin tingled where his hand held hers. He smiled that slow smile of his.

  “Mistress, anyone who can survive an encounter with a maid-eating hawthorn can weather with ease something as mild as a dancing lesson,” he told her, then once more tucked her hand into the crook of his arm to lead her into the meadow and certain shame.

  Kit hoped his assurances eased Mistress Anne’s mind, for they did nothing to change his own resentment over this impromptu lesson. With the certainty that a single misstep meant he’d be Mistress Anne’s tutor no more, he led the two young women into the meadow.

  At this end of the field stood the wag
ons and horses that had carried them to the meadow. Nearby lay what had once been a fine, straight tree. Now stripped of branches and bark, and wrapped in ribbons, it waited to become the morrow’s maypole. Alongside it was a full wagonload of birch and sycamore boughs.

  The pasteboard giants lay nearby. Gog and Magog they were, each nigh on as tall as a house when manned. Right now their fearsome painted faces were turned into the sod. By custom they preceded the queen’s party to Greenwich at the Maying’s end.

  Would that it were already time for departure. Kit shot a hopeful glance into the sky. The sun yet held its own, although clouds billowed in the east. Aye, there’d be rain, but not soon enough to save him.

  Beyond the wagons the meadow opened up, its expanse awash in sound and motion. Folk sat about upon the grass, gamed or strolled, enjoying the fine day. Music rose from not one but three flower-bedecked wagons, each group of musicians vying to outplay the others. Near one, a stomping, shouting ring of folk turned, the gentlemen in their finery dancing shoulder to shoulder with servants just as vibrant in their brightly dyed worsteds. Screaming with joy, royal pages forgot their status to run with the grooms and scullery lads, whilst a full pack of tiny lapdogs chased them, nipping at their heels.

  Bertie appeared out of the crowd. Dressed in his better blue doublet and brown breeches, with sprigs of hawthorn thrust into his hatband, Kit’s servant looked handsome indeed. He sent but the briefest glance toward his master then began to carve his way through the crowd toward Mistress Anne’s governess.

  The intensity on his face surprised Kit. Not even when three lovely young things tittered, their voices rising as they sought to attract his attention, did Bertie waver. Kit glanced over his shoulder at the frail Patience Watkins. Her shoulders were bent, her head bowed. Deyville’s attack might have failed to quell Mistress Anne’s spirit, but it had broken the spine of her servant’s pomposity. It seemed almost a shame to set Bertie on her now, when her resistance was so low. Still, Kit supposed she could say nay as well—if not better—than any other woman.