The Braeswood Tapestry

by Robyn Carr

“I know more of him than you do, sweet,” he said gently. “More the reason I shall lock my coffers and watch his movements. Now come, you’re tired and worried. Let’s talk of other things.” And then with a roguish smile, “Better still, let’s say nothing at all.”

  Sensing his change of mood, she looked up quickly. “My brother, Sir Trent? You’ve made no mention—”

  “He is free and safely home with your father.”

  “Oh, my lord,” she half-sobbed, running into his arms. She circled him with her arms and cried against his chest, her murmurs of thanks catching in her throat. He gently stroked her hair and luxuriated in the feel of her soft, warm body clinging tightly to his. “Methinks to perform many good deeds in the future, madam,” he whispered, his voice holding that low, seductive charm. “Your grateful nature is none too hateful to bear.”

  Jocelyn clung to him as if he were the single thread that held her from a devastating crash into panic. His large hands, firm and soothing on her back, gradually eased the tension and fear from her. Soon he was occupied with other intent, caressing a breast, massaging her thigh. She lifted her face from his chest and found her mouth covered in a kiss that began as a gentle and pleasing invitation and quickly turned to a hot and demanding insistence that would breach no decline.

  She turned in his arms, as hungry for him as he was for her, and he moved her swiftly to her bed. When freed of their cumbersome garments and entwined anew, Jocelyn felt a wanton need for him that surpassed anything she had ever known. He toyed with her at his leisure while she groaned in some incredible misery. He laughed softly as he nibbled at her soft flesh, while she writhed in ecstatic agony. Her abandon was sudden and natural, and giving it no pondering at all, she clutched at him in a feverish grasp. And finally, answering her, she felt a burst of joy born within her that reached maddening limits of wonder and left her completely amazed.

  As her breathing slowed and her mind sought footing in reality, her cheeks began to flame. She had lost herself completely and, in recollecting her passionate display, could not believe it was herself. Her body lay bare and covered with a moist glow, closely wrapped to him. She wondered if he would laugh at her boldness or scorn her wild behavior. And the sudden, incredible climax that flooded her? Would he think her a decadent slattern?

  His lips touched her ear in a gentle kiss. “Now that we’ve found it, love, we’ll have a care not to misplace it.”

  Knowing no mooring safer and stronger than his embrace, she clung to him, not knowing if she was grateful for this sensual lesson or fearful of its powers.

  By the time Trent descended the stairs enroute to his study, he was feeling fit enough to wrestle a wild boar. His pace was brisk, though the dawn was just breaking and most of the house was barely stirring. He had needed comfort and sleep after the night spent in caution due to Stephen Kerr, and Jocelyn provided both. To enjoy the pleasures of her body, he had to find the vulnerable nerve that would urge her past her routine of passivity and into the wave of passion he knew she possessed. Still, he had to woo and tease. But later she graciously kneaded the stiffness from his tired muscles with her skillful hands until he slept peacefully.

  Strange, he thought, how dutifully she could tend his clothing, serve any domestic wants, massage his tired body, and even run to his side with staunch loyalty, but when he touched her in passion, her response was tempered by lack of ease. He longed to be the victim of her seduction, to allow her the measure of trust she needed to come to him in passion. “In time,” he told himself, “she will prove able to sense my desires even there.”

  When he gained his study, he found Troy waiting. The younger man was sitting relaxed, with his ankle resting on his knee, tapping the heel of his boot with his finger tip. He was dressed not for a social call, but for riding. There was a mug of coffee on the desk.

  “You wasted no time getting here,” Trent observed.

  “If I’m to make your home a fast memory, I thought I’d make myself scarce before your servants rise. I thought you were of like mind.”

  “I am, and I fully expected to be here sooner than you. I will meet you in London after Lady Trendell is buried.”

  “You’re a damn fool to go to the burial,” Troy said.

  “Probably, but I’d be even more foolish to miss it. If I am sure of my innocence, why should I hide?”

  “Do it your own way, but I have made a long habit of staying clear of the guard and the hangman. Is there any news of Lord Trendell?”

  “Only that he is under the care of Stephen Kerr, a fateful place to be.”

  “He’ll kill him. There is no question in my mind. He has to,” Troy said. “To give his story any credibility at all, he has to kill Lord Trendell.”

  Trent nodded solemnly. He knew that as well as anyone. And he wasn’t sure whether the unnecessary death plagued him, or the fact that there would be no alteration in the driver’s story that named him the murderer.

  “So, you pressed the wench and she heard nothing more?” Troy asked.

  “Nothing. Just your irate insistence that you did not murder your victims.”

  “Who is this girl?” Troy demanded, a gleam in his eye.

  “Just a girl. She is a member of my household for the time being.”

  “Your mistress?” he asked.

  Trent looked at him with a raised brow. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Oh, Jesus, either she is or she is not. Whatever she is to you, she is a clever one.” Trent responded only with a questioning glance. “Damn God’s bones, man, any typical woman would have slithered away and sold the information back to me for a decent sum.”

  “She was concerned only for my safety,” Trent replied, smiling victoriously.

  “Well, did you do the honorable thing and tell the lass the truth?”

  “Ha! And watch her simple devotion melt to a puddle at my feet? The maid thinks me incapable of any crime.”

  “Oh, truly?” Troy laughed. “Perhaps there is a way of stealing her away from you after all. If I would but ply the girl with stories of your night rides and your—”

  “Where is the brooch?” Trent asked, his face darkening in some serious gloom as he listened to Troy’s frivolous teasing.

  “On its way to France to be sold to an agent who will sell it to your goldsmith. What is next?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll think that over and give you instructions when I see you in London. You’ll be playing at court, I assume?”

  “Most assuredly. When have I failed to be in the midst of all the jewels and gambling?”

  Trent used a key from a chain in his pocket to unlock the desk drawer and withdrew a bag of coins. He plopped it on the desk in front of Troy, but the younger man shook his head.

  “No, my lord. I decline.”

  “Take it. You earned it.”

  “Again, I decline your payment. You saved my life more than once; call the matter done. I told you before, I’m in this with you to see your wealth restored. You’re one of the few I can name worthy of it.”

  Trent reached a hand across the desk and Troy rose and clasped it in friendship. “My thanks,” Trent said. “I’ll see you amply rewarded one day.”

  “I had my reward before I earned it. I’ll watch your house while you’re in Devonshire for the burial.”

  “Don’t let her see you, Troy. You’ll frighten her.”

  Troy’s expression changed abruptly. He peered at his noble friend with a sly expression, noting the man cared for this simple wench quite beyond anything he had ever seen him demonstrate before. And they had known each other for years. “Of course not, my lord. We wouldn’t want that.”

  “Be careful,” Trent replied, ignoring Troy’s sarcasm. “I know Stephen Kerr doesn’t strengthen his muscles—that can only mean he sharpens his wits.”

  Troy laughed amiably. “He shouldn’t do that,” he said. “He may cut himself.”

  Chapter Nine

  Trent watched the gaming from a discreet distance, not
even attempting to cover his amusement. In the drawing rooms at Whitehall, the evening had quickly progressed beyond the king’s formal audiences, through dancing and light entertainment, and on to the favored games. Many noble guests, he believed, would gladly bypass all the bowing and preening for the gambling sports.

  Buckingham won, then lost, then easily won again. Barbara Palmer dropped a hundred pounds quite easily, then picked up a quick win. She was clearly heady with her newly found power, being the king’s favored one, and when she made a move she looked up at him with a seductive smile and a glitter in her eye. However much this royal liaison may have wished quiet in respect to their affair, Barbara did nothing to still wagging tongues. She demonstrated a familiarity around the king that few could interpret as platonic. And now, as her form ripened with her first child, the speculation developed into an uncomfortable acceptance.

  At winning a bet, she squealed in delight and bounced upon her stool in wonderful excitement. Buckingham half-stood, slamming his fist on the gaming table in anger. “If you ever do that again, Barbara, I’ll carry your head about on a spear,” he blustered, an open accusation of cheating.

  “Oh, shut up,” she shot back. “You’re jealous.”

  “Jealous of a cheat?” he shouted. “Who saw her? Sire?”

  Charles had laughter on his lips and shrugged his shoulders. He watched some of the gaming from behind the players as well, not partaking himself. “If you sit down with her, George, you deserve everything you get.”

  “Then join us and keep an eye on her. You’ll catch on to her tricks.”

  King Charles simply chuckled. The relationship between Barbara and George, cousins, was forever up and down, and one couldn’t tell from moment to moment whether each was bent on having the other ruined or lobbying to give the other political support. Charles just laughed and watched. Moments passed and Buckingham roared wildly with a good win, and Barbara threw up her hands in a temper tantrum and called George a blackguard, wretch, and thief.

  Trent was entertained by their antics, but his greatest enjoyment came from watching Sir Troy, who was busily losing money and down to pulling off his stickpin, gold chain, and various baubles. He cried out at being helplessly plundered and made a quiet but obvious show of his poor luck. No one, Trent suspected, knew how easily Tronnier calculated the sums and how advantageously the tables would turn before the night was out. The riches his opponents were gaining now were purely on loan—a crafty design constructed so that they would barely notice his good fortune when it hit.

  “Do you see any cheating, my lord?” Charles asked Trent.

  Trent laughed lightly. “It’s been my custom, Sire, to make mention of what I see only when I am a direct participant.”

  “Of course. So what you see now, you do not see? Am I correct?”

  “You are indeed, Sire.”

  “If you’re very nice to me, I shan’t tell either George or Barbara who is cheating,” the king said.

  “I will be kind to you because I am your humble servant, Your Majesty, and I could care less whom you expose.”

  “Walk with me, my lord, I have something to tell you.”

  Charles turned away slightly and Trent followed along as was requested. The king’s mood was routinely light, and he handled business in much the same way he handled his social life—making everything sound fairly inconsequential and somewhat frivolous. That his voice was more serious and he would have a private moment gave significance to his subject.

  “Am I to understand that your business in London is of a grievous nature?” Charles asked.

  “You’ve heard my request,” Trent stated, rather than asked.

  “I have, and permission is granted to exhume the bodies of your family and have them transported to Braeswood for burial. Along with that permission, my condolences, lately delivered.”

  Trent gave a short bow. “Thank you, Sire. It is appreciated.”

  “This may not be an appropriate time, but I’ve had a chance to take a careful look at things, and even though you haven’t fulfilled your entire obligation to my lord of Dearborn, I grant you full title and lordship in Braeswood. If that is where your ancestors are buried, it’s due course, in my opinion, that no other can lay claim to that property. And …” he said, scratching his chin, “Kerr’s claim was worse than shaky.”

  Trent found himself smiling in appreciation. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You’ll find me your most grateful servant.”

  Charles grasped Trent’s elbow and led him yet farther away from the gaming, through the crowded room toward a vacant area by the window. “Then let us get on to more dour news. Julian Kerr has requested that a small army be delivered to his lands to protect him from you.”

  Trent chewed thoughtfully on this information. “I have no objection, Sire.”

  “I object, my lord. I have better use for my own money, and I have known you and your family before you for a very long time. I know it is not your style to plunder the baron’s estate with such obvious intent. Who is defiling that property?”

  Trent knew full well that Charles was mostly curious and not terribly worried about the piddling acreage that made up the estates of Dearborn and Braeswood. Likewise, having fought beside his king and visited his meandering court abroad, Trent knew that the sovereign did not think highly of illegal scheming and did not wish to be directly involved in it. Charles would be angry if he were drawn into a troublesome feud that no one attempted to put to rest before property and life were destroyed. Above all his more strenuous problems, he had need of good, loyal people and profits from the land.

  But it was pointless to avoid truthful answers when the king asked questions. If lies were uncovered, the ax would fall.

  “I am not certain, but I am watching it very closely, and if you would request it of me, I will send word to you when I know.”

  “Never mind that, my lord. Are you aware that Julian Kerr fears for his life?”

  “He would be a fool not to, Sire. I know of only a few of the baron’s treacherous dealings, and all of them are so boldly woven as to tie him within a web of his own design. Foremost is the treason that cost me my land and family, and at the moment, he barters land in the name of his son that is not rightfully inherited.”

  “Whose, then?” the king asked, amused by Trent’s quick appraisal of the baron’s status.

  “That land was a possession of the Waverly family, to whom only daughters were born. It appears the last surviving daughter was in exile with her husband, Sir Adrian Bougart, when they both died and left their orphaned daughter to the care of Julian Kerr. Neither Waverly woman displayed much good planning in marriage, but that property is more Adrienne Bougart’s than Julian Kerr’s. But because there is a male heir in the name of Stephen Kerr, Julian is convinced the title is clear.”

  “It is clear,” the king said. “I decreed it so.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “His influence is small, but it exists. You must spend more time at court, Wescott,” the king said, slapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “It would serve your reputation to be seen about your peers and … it would keep you out of the country where trouble is obviously brewing. Who is your agent in this disruptive course of events?”

  “Monsieur Laurant,” he answered casually. “I know of no one better equipped of means to clear the back roads of the country more thoroughly. I beg your discretion, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, no one will hear it from me,” Charles laughed. They exchanged a smile of understanding, for Laurant had developed a reputation as one of England’s most ruthless criminals, although entirely through innuendo. He dallied with those delicate creatures of noble breeding, and there were a select few political powers, Charles Stuart being one of them, who could find the price of his loyalty and put him to work on their behalf. The gossips painted him a chameleon of double breeding: he had strong networks of friends in the highest circles—and in the lowest. “Odd’s fish, my lord, if there is to be any honor am
ong thieves, I have to do my part. But how do you trust the man?”

  “Ah, there is the secret, Sire. I have him at a severe disadvantage. He is my friend.”

  “I see. I wouldn’t let that get around if I were you,” Charles advised.

  “I wouldn’t dare, Sire. It would ruin his reputation.”

  Charles began to laugh, and as he looked about the room, his laughter stopped and was replaced by a sly smile. He looked back at Trent. “My lord of Dearborn worries a great deal over our pleasant conversation. It appears he is afraid you will develop a following here.”

  “If you take up much more time with me, Sire, he’ll have an attack of the vapors. He seems most unwell.”

  “Is his son in good health?” the king asked.

  “So it seems. But his dallyings are far more dangerous than his father’s. I do not fully comprehend his intention, but he works hard at planning crimes in which he can implicate me. Monsieur Laurant is going to be kept quite busy.”

  “I won’t make it secret to you that I don’t like hearing these things. Perhaps I should accommodate Lord Kerr with the guard.”

  Trent shrugged. “Each one could buy a decent winter coat with the money they would earn through bribery, I feel certain. I leave it to your discretion, Sire.”

  Charles seemed to think on the matter only a moment. Then he looked up and saw Buckingham striding toward them. “Don’t tear up the country too badly, my lord,” he said quickly.

  “It is my country too, Sire,” Trent returned very amiably.

  “What’s afoot, George? You look burned,” Charles said. “And poor. You aren’t going to ask me for a loan, are you?”

  “Is there any way you can have the surly wench banished?” Villiers pouted.

  “And miss all this entertainment?” Charles laughed. “I wouldn’t think of it. Consider, George, that you’ve kept it all in the family.”

  Trent bowed to the king and the duke of Buckingham as though he would take his leave of them and found Charles’s hand outstretched in uncommon communication. “For what it’s worth, my lord, I suffered a grave loss when your family was killed. I hope you can replenish all that and yet add to the Wescott family tree and fortunes.”