The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One
Page 51
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Salvation!” Dick replied, his eyes fairly glittering with excitement. “Bid these yokels farewell. In an hour we can be on our way to Windsor to rejoin the court once more. God be praised.”
Ned's eyes narrowed. It might be because he’d been living under the certainty of doom for so long, but he was deadly sick of this man sneering at anything that wasn’t of Elizabeth's court.
“Be plain,” he snapped. “What's happened that makes you think I can leave before the squire's made his lady a wife in more than name?”
The sparkle in Dick's eyes took on a vicious quality. “It's that forward bitch. Even now she sits in yon gatehouse, warming her toes before your fire. No matter the fate her lady threatened, it wasn’t enough to stem her desire for you.”
Ned’s jaw tensed. Dick didn’t know, mainly because Ned hadn’t chosen to tell him, that it wasn’t Graceton’s lady who stood between him and Brigit. It’d been agony to sit at the dinner table each night and see the hurt his silence did to her.
His servant's mouth lifted into a savage smile. “It seems she's brought you a present, straight from the steward's office.”
Dismay circled in on Ned. He closed his eyes. “Nay, Brigit,” he breathed to himself. It was the worst sort of irony that she had chosen to search Master Wyatt's office now, just after he'd decided his future at court was dead.
“Go to her,” Dick urged, when his employer made him no audible reply. “I'll give the steward your excuses, staying here until you return so you’ll have the privacy you need.”
“Aye,” Ned said at last, offering his servant a brusque nod as he took his cloak from the man. “Say to Master Wyatt that I’ll be gone no longer than a half hour.”
“So I shall,” the servant said, his smile smug and his bow mocking.
Ned bit back the urge to scream at Dick to cease. Whatever else happened, it was time for him and this servant to part ways. Turning, he made his way to the hall’s door and into whatever it was his future held.
His back to the parlor door, Jamie sat at the high table and watched Sir Edward's hasty departure. The tenseness that had plagued Jamie all day deepened. The fact that there had been no warning of an incoming messenger from the men he’d stationed at the crossroads didn’t mean there was no message. Was this more bad news from court? If so, for whom?
The knight’s servant was coming toward the table. The prissy little man offered a bow that would have put Leicester to shame. “Pardon, Master Wyatt,” he said as he straightened. “There's a matter that needs my master’s attention. He begs your indulgence and says he’ll be gone no longer than a half hour.”
Swallowing his bitter laugh, Jamie gave a brusque nod to acknowledge the message. There'd never been any doubt over the length of the knight’s absence. The appointed time for the bedding was in less than an hour. Since Sir Edward had made it clear he didn’t believe Nick would consummate the marriage, there was little possibility the knight would miss the moment he'd come to witness.
As the knight’s man retreated to a darkened comer of the hall, Jamie's gaze was drawn back to the dancers. Belle was among them, her feet flashing. A flicker of pleasure awoke beneath all the other emotions trying to drown Jamie. With Sir Edward gone he could watch her for the next half an hour without worrying what the queen's proxy might see in his gaze.
One of the cook's assistants darted from the surrounding crowd and leapt toward Belle. It was the ribbons tacked onto her skirts he was after, even though tradition said it wasn’t yet time for their taking.
Belle saw him coming and gave a half turn of her body, her movement denying him his prize. The audience groaned in disappointment as he came away empty-handed. Watt made the next attempt. As the footman sprang back he gave a shout of triumph and held his arm high. A bit of ribbon was caught between his fingers. Belle threw back her head and laughed.
The merry sound melted Jamie’s heart. She was uncomplicated and honest. If he wanted to know what she thought, he asked. She didn’t dissemble or tailor her words into what he wanted to hear. As complex as his life had been these past months it was easy to long for and adore such simplicity.
Somewhere behind him there was a loud crash. It echoed down the stairs and through the parlor. Frowning, he turned on his bench to look into the empty chamber.
All that answered him was silence. Jamie released a breath. Just as he shifted on the bench to face the hall, again there was another distant explosion. For all the world it sounded like a chair being thrown into the gallery.
There was a clang of metal, then the crystalline tinkle of breaking glass.
Jamie leapt to his feet. What in God’s holy hell was going on? He heard Nick's cough. It was a deep and wrenching sound, one that boded no good for Graceton’s master.
Snatching up the high table's branch of candles, Jamie flew through the parlor, taking the stairs to the gallery two at a time. He came to a skidding halt before the shattered remains of a table and the chair from Nick's office.
Broken ink pots spouted wee black lakes across the wooden floor. Leather bindings bent, expensive tomes were soaking up the oily remains of clay lamps. The wind whistled in through a broken pane in the oriel, its breath strong enough to roll a bent metal candlestick through shards of glass.
Nick coughed again from inside his office. This time, the rasping bark continued without pause. Terror shot up Jamie's spine. It wasn't often these spasms took Nick, but when they did he could go so long without breath that he fell unconscious. Worse, the bouts were always followed by illness.
Not tonight! Nick couldn’t fall ill, not when his life depended on the next hours.
Sliding and stumbling through the mess, Jamie pushed his way into his employer's apartment. The damage was worse here. No desk, table or lamp remained whole. Head bent, Nick stood beside the remains of the second table, his arms wrapped around himself in helpless embrace as he fought to breathe.
What with so much spilled oil and the possibility of fire, Jamie snuffed his candles before he tossed aside the branch. Then, striding over the litter, he swept the thin man up into his arms. Jesus save him! Nick had lost enough weight that he felt no heavier than Belle.
Stepping carefully, Jamie carried Graceton’s master into what had once been a fine bedchamber. Now a crippled chair lay on its side, soaked in spilled wine. There was naught left of the bedcurtains save rags while the linens lay half-on, half-off the mattress. A thick dark puddle spread out before the hearthstone, the fire’s light gleaming on its liquid surface. Against the pungent stink of the mixture Cecily had made Nick a few weeks ago, tears stung at Jamie's eyes.
Jamie sat Nick on the mattress, his back against the bed's head. Still trapped in the spasm, Nick arched, his body fighting to free his lungs. Kneeling on the mattress over him, Jamie tore open Nick’s expensive doublet, then his shirt. As he'd done too often before, he rubbed at his employer’s thin chest, trying to force Nick's lungs to relax.
Minutes passed like years. Still, the straining coughs continued. At last, Nick gasped and began to gulp in air like a drowning man.
Relief filled Jamie. He sat back on his heels and watched as Nick sagged against the wall, his head lolling to the side in exhaustion. Quiet settled over the room, unbroken save for the fire's gentle hiss.
At last Nick’s head lifted. His eyes were closed, his face yet ashen from his attack. “Leave me, Jamie,” he said. His voice was ragged from the damage the spate had done to his throat.
“Nay,” Jamie replied gently. Nothing mattered, not that Nick had brought the attack on himself by destroying his furnishings or that Jamie had no clue why Nick would want to ruin his possessions. “You could have another attack.”
“I don’t want you here,” came Nick's hoarse response.
A touch of anger flared. Nick had no right to send his steward running like some servant. “If you don’t want me then I'll send Tom up here to watch over you. You can't be alone.”
Jamie sighed, anger dissolving into understanding. Cecily had been here. Her need to protect Nick had brought her here, to make certain he did his duty as she knew he must.
“It will but be a temporary parting,” Jamie replied. “Once life here settles into a routine, she'll be back.”
“She won’t!” This pained shout cost Nick another, blessedly shorter round of coughing.
When he caught his breath he reached out to curl a desperate hand into the front of Jamie’s doublet. Despite all the pain Nick's ailments had cost him over the years, Jamie had never seen him give way to tears. Now, they gleamed in his eyes.
“Jamie,” he pleaded, an agonizing, rasping grate. “I cannot live without her. She’s my wife.”
“What?” So great was Jamie’s shock that the word came out a bare breath.
“My wife,” Nick repeated hopelessly.
Jamie shoved back from Nick. Emotions tumbled through him. There was anger at how Nick had used him. This swiftly became disgust, aimed at himself for not realizing this was what Nick had been hiding from him. Fear followed, against what this attempt to outmaneuver the queen would cost his employer.
Lastly, there was selfish relief. If Nick was married to Cecily then he wasn’t married to Belle. There could be no bedding.
But if there was no bedding Elizabeth would drag Nick to Windsor.
Rage tore through Jamie, strong enough to drive him off the bed. Stumbling back into the remains of the chair, he glared down at his employer. What sort of choice was this? Either he aided Nick in making Belle into a whore, or he stood aside and watched the queen kill his dearest friend.
“May God damn your soul to hell!” he roared.
Nick only stared at him, his gaze dull. “He already has.”
“Well, do not look to me for rescue,” Jamie shouted, venting weeks of tension in these words. “This is one mess you’ve made all on your own. I won’t be the one to sweep up the slop.”
“I'm not asking you to,” Nick said, then slid down onto the mattress.
Jamie stared at his employer. It wasn’t like Nick not to tease him into compliance.
Nick's gaze was deadly dull. “I love her, Jamie, and she, me. Despite that she's going to annul me so I can get children on the wife Elizabeth sent.” He paused to cough then looked up at his steward. “If this is the price I must pay to regain my title, I’d rather die. Kit can restore it once I'm gone.” With that, he turned his back to the room.
Anger drained from Jamie. “Nay,” he said.
Reaching into the bed, he forced Nick onto his back. His employer gazed up at him, a terrifying blankness filling his eyes. New panic soared through Jamie. Nick meant it.
“Coward,” Jamie goaded. “Will you dishonor Cecily’s sacrifice by refusing to live?”
“Poor Jamie,” Nick breathed, the flicker of a sad smile appearing and disappearing in one swift instant. “Rescuing me has become a habit for you. Not this time.”
That blankness in Nick's gaze had eaten up his soul. He closed his eyes. It was death's mask Jamie saw hovering over his friend’s face. He shook his head in refusal. He wasn’t going to lose Nick, not this way. Aye, but how was he to prevent it, when Nick refused to bed Belle?
What a fool he was! He was worrying about putting Nick in Belle’s bed, when that wasn’t what needed to happen. Nay, all that he need do was convince Sir Edward that the consummation Elizabeth expected had occurred. That, he could do but only if he had an ally.
Belle stood at the center of the parlor, her back to its closed door. As she stared up at Jamie she bit her lip in confusion. He couldn’t have said what she thought she’d heard.
“But how can I not be married to the squire? Didn’t you stand as his proxy today and speak his vows?”
Jamie closed his eyes then drew a deep breath as seeking calm. “Pardon, my lady. I fear I’ve made a mess of the explanation and started at the wrong end. You cannot be married to the squire, because he married another in secret.”
“Ah,” Belle breathed. The face of the woman at the church today rose in her inner vision. She sighed, understanding that poor creature’s misery. “She was at the church.”
Jamie nodded. “Cecily Elwyn.”
Belle turned her gaze away. So, the squire had toyed with her. She waited for rejection's searing pain to fill her. Instead, there was nothing.
This was so unexpected Belle probed her heart, seeking some explanation for it and found it in the congregation's vicious reaction to the woman. Not only was the squire's true wife as plain as she, but the two of them had suffered a similar scorn and spurning in their lives. Between that and the fact that Belle didn’t want to be married to Nicholas Hollier, it was hard to feel anything save relief.
“Here is the heart of the matter,” Jamie said hastily. “In only a little while Sir Edward will return to demand the bedding. Rather than dishonor his marriage vows or misuse you, the squire is content to let Elizabeth wreak her vengeance on him.”
Sometime in the last moments Jamie had lost his cap. Now he ran his fingers through his hair. “You've seen him, my lady,” he went on. “The squire’s not a well man. He'll never survive a journey to court.” He shot a pained glance up the stairs. “God save him, he’s up there willing himself to death as we speak,” he said in what was more a comment to himself than to her.
“Why would he do that?” Belle asked.
This brought Jamie’s attention back to her. His attempt at a smile was but the gritting of his teeth. “It's complicated, but Mistress Elwyn has asked her husband for an annulment.”
He paused, the harried look in his eyes softening for a moment. “You see, she cannot give him children. You can.”
Belle loosed an awed breath. Her esteem of both the squire and the woman he’d chosen over her rose. Cecily would give up her noble husband so he might have an heir, and the squire would rather die than lose the one he adored.
“This he does when he could have used me and satisfied his queen with no one the wiser to his ploy,” she said in wonder.
The squire had held success in his hands. No one, not even Jamie, had known he was wed. If anyone had then the news would have been spilled at church today when his secret wife appeared. The hatred the villagers had aimed at the woman guaranteed that.
Jamie reached out to catch her gloved hands, his fingers lacing with hers. “Do you trust me, Belle?” he asked, daring to step over the barrier of custom to use her name.
“Aye,” she answered without hesitation.
“Then help me concoct a ruse,” he nearly begged. “Help me convince Sir Edward he has seen you and the squire to your marriage bed and witnessed the union’s completion.”
“You mean to take his place,” she breathed, a strange tangle of desire, fear and joy filling her. Then she shook her head. “It won’t work.”
Relief that she didn't refuse him out of hand made him smile. “I'll be masked and robed, as is the squire's custom.”
“That's all fine and good where your face is concerned, but it's all of us that will be exposed,” Belle told him. By tradition the bridal couple stood fully disrobed before their witnesses, to guarantee there were no hidden flaws that threatened the marriage’s vitality. “The squire is a frail man, while you”—she let her gaze run from his head to his feet—“are tall and strong.”
With those words, she thought of seeing Jamie unclothed. There was nothing more she wanted to do than feel his skin against hers. With a gasp, she snatched her hands from his and took a backward step, her fingers pressed to her burning cheeks.
“Lord save me, what am I thinking?” she whispered, although she knew exactly what she was considering.
“Nay, you mistake me, my lady,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s a ruse I plan, nothing more. On my honor and my oath, I intend that we sho
uld occupy the bed for an hour, rustling about long enough to satisfy Sir Edward.”
Of his honor Belle had no doubt. But then, it wasn’t him she mistrusted. Belle didn’t think she could lie next to him and not touch him. Aye, and if she touched him once, she'd want to touch him again. Before long she'd be skipping happily down the road to sin. And, although that road was no longer called Adultery, it did, indeed, have a name: Fornication.
Although it needn’t be sin for long. After all, if she wasn’t married to the squire, she was technically free to wed Jamie. Belle sighed. It was a shame they couldn't wed between now and the bedding, then there’d be no question of right or wrong.
With that, the memory of today's ceremony filled her, bringing with it the recall of their silent vows. Belle caught a surprised breath. But they were married!
True, their banns had not been called, and the sharing of their vows had been private. But the courts had more than once adjudged folk wedded because of a single sentence spoken in some field with but one other person there to witness. Here, the sharing had been done before God’s own altar and in the presence of His anointed minister with at least four hundred folk to watch. And she hadn’t spoken the squire’s name in her vow.
Joy filled her. Certainty grew. She and Jamie were married, wedded good and true. In that case, there was no need of pretense. Sir Edward would have his consummation, just not of the union he expected.
Belle looked up at Jamie, ready to share her new understanding with him. Worry creased his brow as he watched her. “Time is very short, my lady, with much that must be prepared if this ploy is to succeed. A nod to say you'll aid me is all I need.”
It could wait. After all, they had all night. “Aye,” she said. “Do as you must to rescue your squire, knowing I will be your ally in it.”
Relief and happiness mingled in his gaze. He lifted her hand to press his lips to her knuckles, giving Belle reason to regret her gloves. “You have my undying thanks, my lady,” he said as he released her then nigh on raced to the parlor door.