Sin and Surrender

by Julia Latham

  She, too, touched his face, felt the day’s growth of beard, the warmth of male flesh. “But I couldn’t stop myself from kissing you.”

  He closed his eyes, his expression briefly hard with concentration. And then he looked at her again. “That is a good thing.”

  “We have to bring our men together and tell them about the message. Are you … prepared?”

  His smile was pained. “Give me a moment. I do believe Michael thoughtfully left me a pitcher of ale.”

  He went to the table and poured himself a tankard, then sat down heavily in a chair.

  Juliana turned her back, and with trembling fingers, began to retie the laces at her neck. This was the only way to control the passion building between them. To acknowledge it, experience it, dole it out bit by bit. She would consider her future, and make a decision when this assignment was over. She could not expect a future with Paul—he was too independent, a man who yearned for his freedom—but he would be able to continue awakening her passion.

  The League had seen to her sexual knowledge to protect her, and she was going to prove them right—she’d be in control, and make the right decisions for her.

  By the time the Bladesmen arrived, Paul had mastered his passion, mostly by avoiding looking at Juliana, and trying not to think about her expression when she’d found bliss. When the chamber was crowded with men, he tried to think of her as just another member of the League. Her eyes were back to their cool awareness, her movements the clipped, purposeful strides of Juliana the Bladeswoman rather than Juliana the Concubine.

  He pictured her in a man’s tunic and breeches, her favorite garments. Otherwise he would see her face alive with ecstasy, feel her shudders as she found a woman’s ultimate pleasure, with so little effort on his part. She was so sensitive, so receptive … again, he forcibly wiped such thoughts from his mind.

  The Bladesmen were adept at reading faces, at reading movements of the body. He refused to betray his thoughts—betray Juliana.

  Paul showed the message to Timothy and the others, and they briefly discussed how they would follow him through the castle so that he would not be alone.

  They all knew that the traitors would most likely forbid Juliana from accompanying him, although he knew she would try her best to be included. She took her duties seriously as the guardian of his body—and she had his body at her beck and call.

  At last the Bladesmen retreated, and he and Juliana were alone again. From opposite sides of the room they regarded each other, and the air between them could have burst into flames.

  “We need to try to sleep,” she said calmly, and went to the coffer where she kept her clothing. “We know not what time they will come for you.”

  Sleep? he thought, exhaling slowly. He was supposed to lie beside her and relax enough to sleep? It would take everything inside him not to pull her beneath him and finish what they’d started.

  But she was counting on his ability to control himself, to play by her rules. And he could do that.

  She disappeared behind the changing screen, and he sat down, remaining clothed so he would be prepared for the night’s work. Methodically, he checked every weapon hidden on his body, the ones he would allow them to find, and the others so skillfully made a part of his garments that they were undetectable.

  She emerged all wrapped up in her dressing gown. There were candles lit about the chamber, and one by one she blew them out until she reached the bed. He was still sitting on the edge, and he looked up at her.

  “I’ll sleep on the outside,” he said.

  Unable to help himself, he slowly looked down her body, at her breasts covered in two layers of silk, down the length of the sheer gown to her toes peeking out from beneath.

  He put his hands to the tie at her waist, and she covered them with her own.

  “I will not lie with you, Paul,” she said softly.

  “I know. But you’ll lie beside me, and you can no longer wear a dressing gown to bed.”

  He loosened the belt and let the dressing gown part. He held his breath at the sight of the silk molding to her breasts, outlining the hard peaks. Panels of lace decorated the bodice, stopping just before her nipples would have been revealed.

  He gently pushed the dressing gown from her shoulders, and it pooled onto the floor.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, his husky voice full of regret.

  She smiled. “You merely praise me for a purpose.”

  He looked up at her, searching her face. “Nay, never think that.”

  She briefly cupped his cheek, and the warmth of her hand was almost as arousing as her near nudity. And then she knelt beside him and slid under the bedcovers beyond him. He lay on top of the coverlet, linked his hands behind his head and stared at the dark ceiling.

  Normally he would have slept; he’d always had the ability to completely relax before a mission and get needed rest. But after that rousing kiss, he knew neither of them would sleep, but both would pretend to.

  When the door opened at last, there was no announcing knock. He felt Juliana’s brief clasp of his arm, and then he sat up.

  Two men entered, one bearing a shuttered lantern, which let out only a faint light.

  The lantern carrier intoned soberly, “Sir Paul, you will come with us.”

  As he rose, he heard Juliana’s cry of distress.

  “Paul?” she began, her voice changing from sleepy to indignant. “Does this have to do with the missive you received?”

  “Go back to sleep,” he ordered.

  “Nay, I cannot. I do not wish to remain here alone. Let me come with you.”

  He could hear her movements as she sat up, although he never took his eyes off the strangers.

  “She will remain here,” the second man said.

  “I accompany Sir Paul everywhere,” she said indignantly, lacing her tone with cool intelligence.

  She was trying to let them know that she was more aware than Paul was of what was going on. But it didn’t work.

  “Remain here and tell no one,” the lantern carrier said, “or it will mean your deaths.”

  Juliana sputtered, but her protest faded into mutinous indignation. As Paul followed the men to the door, he gave her one last look. In the gloom of the fire, he could see the angry thinness of her lips, and the way she crossed her arms over her chest. But she would remain behind and allow the other Bladesmen to follow him.

  The lantern carrier walked in front, then Paul, then the second stranger. They went down to the first level using the circular staircases built into the corner walls.

  And then the man behind put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “You will be blindfolded now.”

  Paul tensed, yet the man didn’t release him. “You said nothing about that. And why should it matter?”

  “We meet in a place of great secrecy,” the lantern carrier said. “You can understand our concern.”

  Paul allowed the blindfold, and the search of his body for weapons, then concentrated on the path they walked, even though his escorts retraced their steps once or twice to confuse him. He wasn’t confused.

  Gradually, the air grew colder, its scent dank and stale. He thought they were in the undercroft, but perhaps there were deeper places cut into the rock below, as some dungeons he’d seen. His ears strained for unusual sounds; he was constantly alert for tension in the man who held him by the arm. Paul deliberately stumbled now and again.

  At last he could feel a change, as if the space around him was now expansive. The man pulled him to a stop, and Paul could hear the murmuring voices of other men, and then the silence as he was noticed. A door shut behind him.

  To his surprise, they pulled off the blindfold. He was in a small chamber hewn in rock walls, with no win dows, only torches in brackets on the walls. Four men sat behind a table looking at him.

  And these men he recognized. They didn’t bother to hide their faces, as proof they didn’t need to fear him. The noblest was the earl of Redesdale, from Northumberlan
d, on the Scottish border. The men of this county were hardy cattle stealers, used to constant warfare with their northern neighbors, and the earl looked a descen-dent of such stock, broad and barrel-chested, with an unshaven face of gray stubble and matching cold, gray eyes.

  Viscount Gerard of County Durham regarded Paul steadily, but his hands moved with restlessness, linking and unlinking. He was thin to the point of emaciation, as if he were either ill or the deeds they were about to do tormented him.

  The third man, Lord Byrd, reminded Paul of a fat pigeon waiting for an easy meal. Dark eyes beady in his fleshy face, he constantly turned his gaze from Paul to Redesdale and back, leaving Paul no doubt that Redesdale was in command. The last man seated, Sir Hugh Burton, was Redesdale’s captain of the guard. He was the youngest, in his thirties perhaps, strong and tall and well trained, as Paul had seen on the tiltyard just that morn. The first man who’d approached Paul outside Yorkshire wasn’t in attendance, suggesting that the conspiracy was even wider than this, or that he’d been well paid to risk himself.

  The man who’d alerted Paul the previous evening was probably one of the two men behind him, if height and build were the only judge. They retreated, and he glanced behind himself, feigning nervousness as they took up positions on either side of the door.

  The lord of the house, the earl of Kilborn, was not in attendance—did that mean he was innocent of the traitors’ plot? Could Staincliff, Lady Margaret’s father, be innocent, too?

  Paul faced the men arrayed against him like accusers. “You have me here. What do you want of me?”

  “Exactly what you hoped for when you traveled so conspicuously up from London,” Redesdale said, his expression serious but with a hint of a smirk. “You want to be used. We want to use you.”

  “And in exchange, your debt will be canceled,” Gerard said, “and you’ll be well compensated—and you’ll live.”

  Paul shuffled from foot to foot, but he kept his chin lifted belligerently. “Aye, so your man already said.” He glanced behind him, but neither guard betrayed even the slightest interest. “But much depends on what you require of me.”

  Byrd chuckled, his jowls quivering. “Lucky for you, we require little. Already we have word that King Henry is looking into your background. He perceives a threat. That was well done on your part.”

  Paul nodded stiffly, knowing the League had manufactured the rumor.

  “With your coloring and demeanor, many will wonder at your identity,” Redesdale continued. “Although there are several young men with more claim to the throne, like the missing Warwick, the son of the duke of Clarence, we have agreed that you will impersonate Prince Richard himself, younger brother of our boy king who so briefly reigned.”

  “Your Grace.” Byrd laughingly bowed his head. “You will someday be King Richard IV, with our backing. The riches of the monarchy will be yours to share—as long as you do what we say.”

  Paul licked his lips. “What am I supposed to do? Do I openly claim such a thing?”

  “Not yet,” Gerard said, glancing nervously at his compatriots as his restless fingers picked up their pace. “First you will copy in your hand a letter to our fellow Yorkists staking your claim to the throne. We will use that to prove to our foreign allies that our plan will work.”

  “We have brave men in Ireland,” Redesdale said, “the earl of Kildare and Lord Desmond, who will gladly supply Irish support in arms and armies. My connec tions in Scotland guarantee that they will march at our sides when we go to meet Henry’s army.”

  “War?” Paul said faintly.

  Byrd’s round face stilled. “We take back what is not Henry’s to have. ‘Tis the birthright of the Yorkists, and Henry stole it from King Richard.”

  Paul said nothing, for Sir Paul the Dissolute would not care about the politics of the situation.

  “Fear not that we will allow you to lead our army,” Redesdale said with open sarcasm. “We would not want to risk our noble prince.”

  Byrd laughed with Redesdale, Hugh Burton smirked, but nervous Gerard only looked down at his twisting fingers.

  Paul rubbed his hands down his face in his own nervous gesture. “What if I copy this letter for you, and you use it against me?”

  “Why would we risk our exposure in such a way?” Redesdale asked calmly. “We’d lose our heads at your side.”

  But Paul well knew there was no proof that put these men as his backers—if revealed, the letter would look like it had been from him only, and his word would mean little against Henry’s noblemen. It would insure his complicity with their plan.

  “You brought your own guards,” said Burton, the captain of his master’s guard, “but they will not be enough. I will make certain others are at your back.”

  Paul nodded, swallowed, then tried to sound faltering and bold at the same time. “My man Roger, the elderly guard. He once worked in the Tower of London itself. I thought …”

  He trailed off as the four men glanced at one another with amusement.

  “You thought what, Sir Paul?” Byrd coaxed, leaning back to cross his hands over his large belly.

  Paul lifted his chin. “He could be the man who spirited me—Prince Richard—away from the Tower in his youth.”

  “Always thinking, are you not?” Byrd said brightly. “We shall remember your idea if it is needed.”

  “What do I do now?” Paul asked, spreading his hands wide.

  “Nothing,” Redesdale said, his expression sobering. “Now that we have you to inspire our armies, we will begin to spread word among our northern colleagues and our foreign allies. You may behave as you’ve done before, making yourself seen and speculated about. If all goes well, besides riches, we offer you a girl of quite noble background as wife. I saw you with Lady Margaret; she would do well at your side as a future queen. Her father would not need much persuasion, once he sees how things are changing for the better.”

  So Margaret’s father was not involved? Paul won dered. But he could not be certain if Redesdale’s comments were cryptic or truthful.

  Byrd pushed two pieces of parchment toward an empty chair, offering quill and ink. Paul sat down and began to copy the words about his flight from London under his uncle, King Richard’s, protection after an unknown enemy had killed his brother, Edward. He remained in hiding much of his life, both in England and in Flanders, with his aunt, the dowager duchess of Burgundy. Now he returned to lead his people to retake the throne, which was legally and morally his.

  Along with all the riches and power that went with it, Paul thought sarcastically.

  When he was finished, he stood up. “I will await your next missive.”

  “And you will not speak of this outside this chamber,” the earl of Redesdale said. “If we cannot trust your discretion, the consequences to you will be grave.” He pulled the newly penned parchment toward him, sealing Paul’s complicity. He lifted another sheaf of papers toward Paul, who took them. “These are details of your childhood, Your Grace. Memorize them and destroy them. If you are found with them, the proof will only lead toward yourself. And this letter will be mysteriously recovered as well.”

  Paul nodded, licking his lips as if they were dry. Again, they blindfolded him, removing it at the head of the corridor leading to his lodgings. Saying nothing, the two guards departed, leaving Paul to rejoin Juliana. He gave a subtle signal of his return at Timothy’s door, but knew the Bladesmen would not risk coming to him too soon.

  Juliana was pacing when he arrived. If she felt any relief at his safe reappearance, she didn’t show it, only remained impassive.

  “Was it as we expected?” she asked in a low voice.

  He nodded. “They had me copy a letter staking my claim to the throne to convince reluctant Yorkists.”

  “And the Scots and Irish,” she added.

  He smiled. “Aye, and them, too. They even offered me a noble bride at the end of it all.”

  Arching a brow she asked, “Should I be jealous?”

&n
bsp; “Only if you consider Lady Margaret your competition.”

  Her lips thinned. “Her father is part of it?”

  “I know not. They implied that I’d shown interest, and that they can make certain I receive her.”

  “You’ve shown interest in Lady Margaret?” she asked, faintly smiling.

  “I must not be receiving enough feminine attention,” he said sadly.

  “You’ve had enough feminine attention for one night.” Her voice was dry, her tone light. “Now, who else was present?”

  They discussed each man in detail, knowing that sometime before morning, he would repeat the same thing to their fellow Bladesmen. Then they went over the written history of Richard, and he memorized the few details he didn’t already know before burning the papers.

  Throughout their conversation, Paul felt a low hum of attraction, of desire, and if he let his mind dwell on it, he would again remember her look of ecstasy. When Juliana went to bed, he watched her for a long time, still feeling stunned by her earlier amorous behavior.

  But he put it aside for later, dwelling on the secrets he knew about her past instead. In the meeting he’d overheard years before, the League had maintained that they had good reason to put an innocent man in jail for treason—surely they knew who the real traitor was, whose place Gresham had taken. If Paul could discover that, he could clear Gresham’s name and restore Juliana’s birthright, giving her some kind of peace.

  And the best way to begin was with information that the League itself had. As far as they would know, it would help this mission. Perhaps the crimes were even connected. He would ask for an accounting of suspected and proven traitors, year by year over the last ten years, which included the year of Gresham’s death.

  At least he would be accomplishing something while he strolled around the tournament on display.

  So by the faint light of a dying fire, he composed a missive to the secretary of the Council of Elders, the keeper of all archives. At first, he was rusty with the League codes, and it took him a bit of practice—and mistakes carefully burnt—before he succeeded in writing a letter that seemed only about an inquiry into family in the area—with the real message hidden deep within.