Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  Her head cocked to one side as she examined their faces. Her heart had stopped beating quite so rapidly. Roger’s expression continued to be reassuring, renewing the courage that had momentarily faltered in her. “One of the queen’s ladies? Surely that is treason? My father won’t like it one bit.”

  Neither man commented.

  “Might I inquire how long my captivity is likely to last?”

  “A day or two, that’s all.”

  “And where shall I spend it? Here in your house?”

  Roger walked over to the fireplace and tripped the mechanism that revealed the secret passage. He then crossed to her side, took one of her wrists in a hard grip, and led her back to the narrow black oblong. “Here in my dungeons, my love.”

  Chapter 21

  Inside the hidden passageway, the air was chilly and damp. Roger’s arm slipped around Alexandra’s shoulders as he steered her around a sharp corner. Behind them, Francis Lacklin lit a torch and handed it to Roger, then another, which he kept for his own use. “I’m going on ahead,” he said. “I’ve got one more rendezvous before tonight. I’ll return after dusk.”

  “Be careful,” Roger returned as Lacklin moved past them and disappeared down the steps, his torch throwing his shadow huge against the mildewed wall. To Alexandra he added, “Watch the stairs. They’re steep and slippery.”

  “Am I about to find out what you’re hiding in your cellars?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  “I’m no longer certain I wish to know.”

  “Too late for regrets.”

  She nodded grimly, wondering if caution and restraint were virtues she would never learn. Her mind ranged over the possibilities: contraband of some sort? An illegal printing press where seditious, heretical documents were spawned? A team of assassins plotting new attempts on the life of Mary of England? She prepared herself to be outraged.

  The reality was less outrageous and far more disturbing than she’d imagined. The murmur of voices greeted her as she and Roger passed through an arras in a wide, torch-lit basement; the high-pitched voices of women and children. They were quiet voices, depressed perhaps, subdued.

  There must have been close to thirty of them, simple folk mostly, clad in worn and tattered garments. Of this number, most were women of various ages, some with small children in their arms. There were a few men, many of them elderly, and several beardless lads. In general, the group did not look well. Several coughed, some sat or lay listlessly on straw pallets spread out in rows along the stone floor.

  “Who are they?” she asked Roger under her breath.

  “Religious dissenters. Heretics, as you call them. If they stay in England, they will be burned at the stake.”

  “Oh God, Roger! Mothers with little children?”

  “One of the women already executed was heavy with child when they bound her to the stake. Her labor began while they were lighting the faggots. She gave birth to an innocent child, who perished with his mother in the flames.” His fingers had tightened convulsively on her arm. “Was Almighty God pleased with that sacrifice, do you suppose?”

  “I’ve heard that story too. ‘Tis fable. Pregnant women cannot be executed until after their babes are born. So reads the law.”

  Roger scoffed. “Listen more closely to your mistress’s doctrines next time, Alix. God’s law supersedes civil law. God’s law as interpreted by Bishop Bonner, that bloody-minded swine. He takes pleasure in having his victims whipped until they recant. Women in particular. Have you ever seen a person flogged, Mistress Innocent? If the torturer is skilled at wielding the lash, there are few torments more exquisitely agonizing.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she managed.

  “But what torments there are, Bonner knows. If the venerable bishop’s victims remain firm to their beliefs, horrors follow that even your strong stomach would heave to hear about. Torture is illegal, too, in this land. But I challenge you to find a single prison in England where it is not occasionally practiced.”

  She made no answer. After a moment she said, “You’ve been giving these people refuge here? Even though your house is watched? Surely there is someplace else where they would be safer?”

  “Ah, but that’s the beauty of the plan. Not even my enemies will believe I would be so foolish as to shelter heretics right under their noses.”

  She had to acknowledge the truth of that. “How on earth did you sneak them in?”

  “There is a tunnel leading from these cellars to the river. One of my illustrious ancestors, it seems, engaged in a little smuggling to augment his income. They were brought in that way, and will be removed in a similar manner. In the meantime, your father’s watchdogs will attest that no unauthorized persons have entered my house in the past few weeks.” His eyes met hers with the faintest suggestion of a leer. “Except an occasional persistent woman of easy virtue.”

  She ignored this, looking from one bedraggled heretic to the next. “What will you do with them?”

  “How slowly your brain is working tonight. The Argo sails on the dawn tide tomorrow. Tonight, after dark, Francis and I will shuttle these people down river to the ship and make sure the Argo gets away safely. They will be traveling to the German states and Switzerland, where the climate is better for dissenters.”

  “You’re not going with them, are you?”

  “No. We’ve done this before, although this is the largest group we’ve ever sheltered. I’ve told Francis it’s the last; my part in this enterprise will soon be over.”

  “Sweet Jesu. Alan guessed what you were up to. I thought he was being his usual romantic, Malory-inspired self, but he was right about you for once.”

  “Alan’s probably been right about me more often than you have,” he pointed out, to her chagrin.

  “He knows about this?”

  “Yes. He’s proved to be quite helpful. I’m beginning to see some value in the lad, after all.”

  Roger introduced her to the piteous group simply as a friend. He then stood back and watched her become exactly that to them. She went from one refugee to the next, speaking gently and encouragingly to them, but without condescension. She played with the children, and checked to ensure that the sick were comfortable. She breathed not a word about politics or religion. But they assumed she was one of them, and when one old man led them all in a familiar prayer in English—not the Popish Latin—Alexandra unhesitatingly spoke it aloud with the others.

  At one point, as she moved in front of a torch holding a sleeping child in her arms, the light that was cast upon her face revealed the shadows under her eyes and the faint hollows under her cheekbones. She is tired, he realized. There was nothing peaceful or easy about working in the personal suite of Mary of England. Her days and nights were filled with tensions and worries, like his own.

  And yet it occurred to him as she bent over the baby that she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever known. Her splendid hair, the color of flame…hair that matched her fiery soul…bright fire, pure fire. A candle in the dark. And her body, which was straight and stalwart, yet softer and more feminine than it had been last summer at Whitcombe. Her clear, silken skin. Her green eyes, always intelligent, but wiser now that she had lived so many months at court. Her impish smile, her tempting mouth. She was nineteen. A woman fully grown. Mature in body and in mind; luminous in spirit, and generous in heart.

  And suddenly he knew that he loved her. The realization struck him where he stood with all the power and force of a squall at sea. He was rent from head to toe; his entire way of looking at himself and his world transformed forever. One minute he believed himself incapable of love, and the next he knew that he would hold Alexandra Douglas in his heart from now until the end of time. That he had always held her there. That she was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, and that nothing remained but to acknowledge it.

  The feeling was sweeping, frightening, and far stronger than anything he had ever known before. Yet his love for her had always been there, ever since th
ey were children at play together. He saw her, wild-haired and imp-eyed, clambering up the highest trees in the forest after him, joining in his most violent games without an ounce of fear, holding him in her skinny arms and trying to comfort him after he’d been beaten by his father. They had been remarkably close for a boy and girl separated by a six-year difference in age. They had been remarkably close by any standards.

  He wondered for the first time what might have happened if he had not left Whitcombe at fourteen. Suppose he’d stayed, growing to manhood beside her, watching her slowly come to maturity herself. She would never have reached the age of nineteen with her maidenhead intact if he’d been there when she began to feel youthful curiosity and desire for the pleasures of the flesh. He had been undisciplined then. He would have taken her without thought for the consequences. There would have been trouble then, for she had been betrothed to Will. There was going to be trouble now.

  As if she sensed his turmoil, Alexandra lifted her head and met his eyes in the gloom, sending him a warm smile. The child reached out in its sleep with one small hand and touched her cheek. She laughed softly and gave it back to its mother, as, watching, Roger felt his heart expand in his chest. He loved her. He wanted to see her thus, holding a different child, a child who’d been conceived from the seed of his own loins. He wanted her for his wife.

  Still smiling, she crossed the cold stone floor to Roger’s side. He retreated a step, afraid to let her touch him. There was nothing gentle about his love; it was a love of the spirit, yes, but it was equally a love of the body. And it was unconsummated. The sight and sound and scent of her caused his head to whirl and his flesh to burn with the most intense sexual tension he had ever known. It had been bearable before, but now it was not. If she touched him he did not think he would be able to stop himself from flinging her to the floor, tearing away her clothing, and claiming her as his woman, his mate, his one true love until the end of time.

  “Are you all right?” she inquired, tilting her head to one side as she examined his expression.

  He nodded.

  “You look a trifle strange. You’re not ill?”

  “No.”

  “Several of these people are, Roger. One or two of them may not be able to travel unless they have a physician’s care.”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “But it could be. I have remedies, medicines back in my chamber in Westminster. If I went and fetched them—”

  “No,” he said.

  She pulled him into a more secluded area of the cellar. Her fingers on his sleeve tormented him. “I’m not trying to escape. I’m thinking of them, and of you. How are you going to transport the sick? What if more of them take some illness? I can’t promise any miracles, but I do have some experience in these matters, and if I left now I could get back before it got too late and—”

  “Beloved, believe me, the matter has been attended to.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the surgeon from my ship, if you must know. Tom Comstock comes here daily. He was trained in the East and is very skillful. You need have no fears for these people’s health.” He cocked one dark brow at her. “Besides, I have other things for you to think about.”

  Catching the note in his voice, Alexandra once again studied his face. “What other things?”

  Roger hesitated as image after image of glorious lovemaking rollicked through his brain. She was here; she was his. She loved him, and now that he’d recognized his love for her, why should there be any further need for restraint?

  God! He’d held back long enough. Now, today, he would take her up to his bedchamber and tenderly strip away her clothes, leaving a candle alight so he could see her rosy-tipped breasts, her firm, white belly, her long legs, stronger and more muscular than many women’s and yet so soft-skinned, so shapely. And her face—how he would love watching every expression as he caressed her body into pleasure. How he would treasure each laugh, each sigh, each gasp as the crisis of love approached. He would be careful with her, since she was still a maid. He would make certain her initiation was slow and gentle and free of pain.

  “Roger?”

  He heard her but he couldn’t stop fantasizing. He would marry her, he decided. As soon as it could be arranged and consecrated. Husband and wife, they would stand together in the peace and harmony their souls jointly yearned for. Her contract with the heir to the barony of Whitcombe would be honored after all.

  Her brow was furrowed as she stared at him. “Your mind is teeming with some sort of mischief, isn’t it? You’re not deciding that since I’m now your prisoner, I’m to be used like the proverbial female captive?” When he looked startled, she added, “No. That’s not the way it’s going to be. You’ve had ample opportunities and wasted them. Now ‘tis I who will reject you.”

  He grinned. “You think you can read my mind so well, poppy-top?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I’ve seen that look often enough now to recognize it.”

  “I don’t think you’d reject me if I applied myself with all due persistence to your seduction.”

  “Well, Alan might have something to say about it, and so, no doubt, would Francis Lacklin.”

  He frowned. She had a point, unfortunately. Privacy was something they were not likely to be blessed with today. And even if it had been, there was work to be done.

  “Besides,” she went on severely, “I have more self-respect than you might suppose. I don’t deserve the way you have treated me—warm one minute, harsh and cold the next.” She gestured to the cellar full of heretics. “You, for all your noble-minded motives, are a traitor and my enemy. I’ll never stop loving you, but perhaps you’ve been right all along in insisting that we are sadly mismatched.”

  She was reminding him of facts he could not deny. It was by no means clear that he and Francis would be able to pull off this exodus of a ragtag bunch of religious dissidents without discovery. His contingency plan, in fact, was to leave England himself aboard the Argo if anything went wrong. It was a hell of a time to fall in love with Alix. Twenty-four hours from now he might be either exiled or dead.

  And what would happen to her if his plans went awry? Suppose she were discovered in his cellars? If he were arrested, she would be suspected of collusion.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. The light of another torch cast a shadow into the cellar as Alan appeared, his expression tight and challenging.

  “You said you would keep her ten minutes. And you made no mention of bringing her down here. I demand to know what villainy you intend now. ‘Tis growing dark, and Alix will be missed.”

  “That is true,” she confirmed. “If I am not found in my bed tonight, a search will be conducted.”

  “I thought you said you’d pleaded illness and been excused from the queen’s service?” Roger’s voice was sharp.

  “Only for the afternoon. I had no permission to leave the court. They will expect me to be languishing in bed. And since I share a bedchamber with several other ladies—”

  “Damnation,” Roger muttered.

  “—my father will be notified. And where do you suppose is the first place he will look for me?”

  “No one knows of these cellars. He will not find you.”

  “You mean to hold her, then?” Alan didn’t sound happy about the prospect.

  “Until after the refugees are safely out of the country, yes,” he said, but not quite as insistently as before.

  “They won’t get safely out of the country if my father suspects you of virgin-snatching again. You know how violently opposed he is to any intercourse between us. He acts as though death would be a finer fate for me than union with you. At any rate, if I am found to be missing, he’ll probably have you detained. Your ship may even be impounded. You must release me.” She stared into his eyes. “You’ll simply have to trust me.”

  To hell with Francis’ concern about security. The fact was, he trusted her as much as he loved
her. She would never betray them. “I think,” he said with a trace of a smile, “you may be right.”

  *

  Night was falling as Roger covered Alexandra’s red hair with her cloak, pulling it well down over her forehead before taking her by the arm and leading her out into the street.

  “You’re coming too?” she asked.

  “Only as far as the horses.” He nodded at Alan waiting by with Alix’s horse and the groom who had accompanied her to his house. There was a second horse for Alan, and one of Roger’s men-at-arms was waiting also. “You’ll be pretending to take him to a place of entertainment; he’ll see that you get safely back to Westminster.”

  “I’m glad you’re giving him something responsible to do. When he went to live with you, I thought you might be patronizing.”

  He laughed low, his breath near her ear. “‘Tis you who are patronizing, Mistress Busybody. Not so graceful. You’ve just spent a lusty afternoon with one of the most notorious reprobates in the kingdom. Swing your hips, please, with a little more abandon.”

  She giggled, allowing the sound to carry. “You sound like a coarser version of my dancing master. There’s my father’s agent. Behind the post.”

  “I see him. I’ll be heading off for an errand in the opposite direction. He’ll follow me, as he’s paid to do. You shouldn’t have any problems getting home.”

  They had reached the horses. Roger pulled her against him and inflicted a long, sensuous kiss upon her, then pushed her—rather abruptly, she thought—into Alan’s arms, saying loudly, “Amuse the lad for me, wench, and send him back sober in the morning. Here’s extra for your pains.” He flipped her a gold coin, which she expertly caught, then delivered a vigorous slap to her backside. “That,” he whispered, “was for the trouble you’ve caused me tonight.” Not to mention the anguish it causes me to have to send you away, he added silently. Then he turned his back on her and resolutely walked away.

  Alan helped her up into the saddle and then mounted his own horse. As they slowly set off, they both watched to see what would happen to the man behind the post. Sure enough, he melted into the shadows in Roger’s wake. Alexandra leaning back, smiling at Alan. “It worked.”