Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Books by Tori Phillips
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Author Note
Copyright
“You must forget yourself— completely forget. You are now a lusty lad,
“and you must learn to talk like one, and act like one, too.” Tarleton roared with laughter.
“I see you intend to enjoy yourself at my expense,” Elizabeth coolly observed. Her remark only brought forth fresh rounds of mirth.
“Aye, at your costly expense! Remember, there will be a matter of payment.” He grinned at her wickedly.
“When we get to court!” she reminded him.
“Aye, we shall get to court.” Tarleton regarded her gravely for a moment. “That I do promise you. And now, ‘tis time I work your transformation. Lady Elizabeth, be gone! And in her place you shall be…” His roguish gaze danced over her. “Robin! For you remind me of that bright little bird. Aye! That has a pleasing ring to it! Robin—the jester’s lad!”
Dear Reader,
When we ran our first March Madness promotion in 1992, we had no idea that we would get such a wonderful response. Our springtime showcase of brand-new authors has been so successful that we’ve continued to seek out talented new writers and introduce them into the field of historical romance. During our yearly search, my editors and I have the unique opportunity of reading hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we’d like to take this time to thank all of you who have given us the chance to review your work.
This March, we are very pleased to be able to introduce you to author Tori Phillips with her Maggie Awardwinning story, Fool’s Paradise. This Elizabethan tale of a young noblewoman and the jester who becomes her protector is delightful, and we hope you enjoy it
And be sure to keep an eye out for our other three titles. The Pearl Stallion, the story of an adventurous voyage by Rae Muir. Warrior’s Deception by Diana Hall, a medieval tale about a marriage based on lies. And Western Rose by Lynna Banning, the story of a rancher and a schoolteacher who must work out their differences before they accept their love.
Four new talents, four great stories from Harlequin Historicals. Don’t miss a single one!
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Fool’s Paradise
Tori Phillips
Books by Tori Phillips
Harlequin Historicals
Fool’s Paradise #307
TORI PHILLIPS
After receiving her degree in theater arts from the University of San Diego, Tori worked at MGM Studios, acted in numerous summer stock musicals and appeared in Paramount Pictures’ The Great Gatsby. Her plays, published by Dramatic Publishing Co., have been produced in the U.S. and Canada, and her poetry is included in several anthologies. She has directed over forty plays, including twenty-one Shakespeare productions. Currently, she is a firstperson, Living History actress at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC. She lives with her husband in Burke, VA.
To the young romantics in my life: Tori & Rick Elizabeth & Phil and to my One and Only, Marty with thanks for all the roses and champagne Godiva chocolate and May Day poetry and especially moonlight waltzes in Venice!
Chapter One
If you should lead her into a fool’s paradise, it were a very gross kind of behavior… for the gentlewoman is young.
—Romeo and Juliet
On the Woodstock Road Warwickshire, England August 1586
“Thunder! Hold! Pray, do not abandon me now!” Even as she spoke, Lady Elizabeth Hayward knew it was in vain. The swift chestnut hunter galloped far down the woodland road, racing back toward home.
Home to Esmond Manor? It was no longer her home, now that Sir Robert La Faye had declared himself lord and master. All he needed was the formal exchange of marriage vows. That odious thought made Elizabeth more resolved to face the unknown road ahead.
“I would rather die than marry that varlet,” she muttered under her breath. Adjusting her dark blue travel cloak, Elizabeth squared her shoulders for the long trek ahead of her.
Repulsed by the preening nobleman she left behind her, Elizabeth had slipped out of Esmond Manor at dawn with only a saddle pouch containing food and a few personal items. Her mind full of escaping her betrothed’s brutish manner, Elizabeth paid no attention to Thunder’s habitual skittishness until it was too late. One minute she was high in the saddle and well on her way to Hampton Court and to her godmother, Queen Elizabeth. The next, Thunder, balking at a hare, pitched Elizabeth sideways onto the road.
“Thank the good Lord I have not broken any bones,” she consoled herself. “And, at least, I still have my money.” Her hand closed over the leather bag of golden angels and silver shillings that hung from her girdle.
“There must be an inn or a farm nearby,” Elizabeth told herself as she picked her way along the verge, carefully keeping her long blue velvet skirts out of the mud puddles. “And the day promises to be fair.”
She wondered how long it would take Thunder to return to his stable. If he ran all the way, it would be no more than an hour. “When he is found with all my things in his pack, Sir Robert will know I have escaped my room and he will come looking for me—that is, if he hasn’t already discovered I’ve gone.”
Elizabeth hoped that her faithful maid, Charlotte, did not suffer from Sir Robert’s anger. She touched her cheek, where she could still feel the sting of his hand, though it had been over a day since he struck her. The memory of that pain and the twisted look on his face spurred Elizabeth down the tree-shaded road, no matter what lay ahead.
“Sweet angels, please let there be no boars in this wood,” she prayed, gripping a small pair of gold embroidery scissors that hung from a slender chain at her waist.
When Thunder had crested a hillock and Elizabeth first sighted the wood, she judged its size to be small and not too forbidding. Now that she found herself alone and on foot in the middle of it, the thick foliage of the oaks and elms appeared much more threatening. The friendly twitter of unseen birds among the branches overhead did little to calm her nerves. Elizabeth had never been abroad without an escort before. Nothing in her schooling at the Convent of Sacre Coeur in Reims had prepared her for such a desperate plight as this. Her ears strained to catch the slightest rustling in the thick undergrowth, which might announce the presence of a fox or a bear or…
“The keeper would a-hunting go…” The cheery song, heartily sung in a pleasing baritone, wafted on a breeze through the green wood.
Elizabeth stopped at the sound. Her heart thumping wildly in its cage, she gripped her scissors tighter. Never in her nineteen years had she been alone with a man other than her father or the manor’s steward—not until the c
oming of Sir Robert La Faye. She shuddered as the leering face of that vile lord rose in her mind’s eye. No man alive boded more ill for her than he! Elizabeth would take her chances with the unknown singer.
“…among the leaves so green-o!”
The songster sounded friendly to Elizabeth—and familiar. Only two nights ago she had heard that song sung before her father’s festive table by a merry traveling player. Sir Thomas Hayward had hired a jester to entertain at the feast marking Elizabeth’s betrothal to Sir Robert. Elizabeth bit her lip. Her wonderful, loving father, God rest his soul!
“Hey now! Ho, now! Derry, derry down! Among the leaves so green-o!” The singer punctuated his music with a great deal of splashing and gurgling noises.
The sounds came from a thicket to the left. Stepping cautiously into the tangled underbrush and parting the sapling branches of a hickory, Elizabeth saw the sparkle of a small river snaking in and out of the verdant surroundings. The singer’s voice, now stronger, came from behind a large clump of holly bushes.
“To me hay down-down, to me ho down-down…” More splashing intermixed with joyful whoops accompanied the chorus.’
Drawn by the song and the singer’s apparent cheerfu nature, Elizabeth crept up to the screening holly. Holding her voluminous skirts above the twigs and bracken, she clutched her tiny scissors.
A stick snapped underfoot. To Elizabeth, the resulting crack sounded like gunfire from a fowling piece.
The singer, on the other hand, did not appear to notice hi secret audience. He repeated the chorus, though the direc tion of his voice changed slightly. Drawing her cloak more tightly about her, Elizabeth crouched down behind the holly clump and gently poked her fingers through its prickly, glossy leaves. In front of her, the river widened, forming a small pool. On the bank nearby lay a pair of brown woolen breeches and a beige homespun shirt. Their owner was no where to be seen, though she could still hear him humming the tune of his song. Elizabeth pulled back the branches a little farther in order to see what manner of man she had stumbled upon.
“Stand and show thyself!” a deep voice growled behind her.
Elizabeth stiffened, her heart nearly leapt from he mouth. Trembling more from fright than from the early morning’s chill, she slowly rose unsteadily to her feet. Hid den amid the folds of her cloak, Elizabeth’s hand clutched her scissors. She would defend her honor to the end, if nec essary.
Thrning to face him, she gasped. The man pointed a long, wicked-looking dagger at her throat. The morning sun glinted off its sharp blade. Her assailant was hard muscled, dripping wet—and completely naked. Crystal rivulet coursed down his broad chest, angled at his slim hips and disappeared into his…
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. She had never seen a man without his clothes before, and this particular specimen looked singularly well-made. The warmth of a deep blush swept over her. The churl grinned.
“Heaven protect and defend me!” Whirling, Elizabeth plunged blindly through the nettles and thorny bracken.
“Stop! Wait! Not that way!” her attacker called. But it was too late. In her haste, Elizabeth lost her footing on the slippery bank and fell headlong into the cold river.
Her heavy velvet overskirt quickly weighed her down. The fashionable bum roll around her waist greedily soaked up the water, pulling her beneath the surface. Panic gripping her soul, Elizabeth thrashed wildly to the surface. As she struggled to unclasp the hook of her woolen cloak, her pursuer grasped her around her waist, pulling her against his chest. She shook the water from her eyes and fought for breath. The strong arm around her tightened.
“Unhand me! How dare you!” Elizabeth flailed her arms helplessly as he half carried, half dragged her to the shore. “You will pay for this outrage! You do not know whom you have attacked!”
The varlet answered with a rich, almost musical laugh as he pushed her up onto the muddy bank.
“If I had let you go, you would have drowned,” he remarked as he hoisted himself out of the river. “And I do, indeed, know full well who you are, Lady Elizabeth Hayward,” he continued, shaking the water from his brown curly hair. Sitting down companionably beside her, he drew up one leg, hiding the most intriguing part of his anatomy from her gaze.
“How?” She drew back from him, trying to regain both her breath and her composure. She tried to avoid staring at his lithe body. “Who are you?”
“Do you not recognize Tarleton, the jester?” He pulled a sorrowful face. “I had the honor of entertaining at your noble father’s home. I believe you were celebrating your betrothal.” He laughed easily, the richness of that cheerful sound echoing in the woods around them. “Were you so entranced by your new love that poor Tarleton and his jests were all for naught?”
Tarleton? Aye, Elizabeth remembered the jester, dressed in a jacket of bright green and red motley, his little brass bells tinkling merrily with each caper and jig. The Queen’s favorite player, he boasted, with no small show of modesty. Now he sat shamelessly naked beside her. A certain warmth seemed to radiate from him, enveloping her. Drawn to him, Elizabeth had the unconscionable desire to touch his strong, rough-haired leg so near her hand. Surprised, Elizabeth willed her heart to stop its unseemly fluttering.
“Truly I did not recognize you, Sir Jester, for you are without your cap and bells.” She cast another quick, sideways glance at him through her lashes. “Indeed, you are without any clothing at all.” She held her breath. Now, he will either rob and murder me, or he will...
Throwing back his head, Tarleton roared with laughter. “Well spoken, my lady! Permit me to make myself more presentable. And you should be thinking about getting out of your own wet attire.” He stood up, towering over her.
“What?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his bold words and even bolder stance. “Take off my clothes? Here, in the middle of nowhere?”
Tarleton disappeared behind a gnarled oak. “What I mean to say, fair lady,” he continued from his leafy hiding place, “is if you sit on the cold ground much longer in those sodden clothes, you will no doubt catch a noisome cold, and you will be joining the sweet angels in heaven a good deal earlier than you planned.”
“But I have nothing…” she began.
“Neither did our mother Eve have anything to wear in the garden of paradise.” He reappeared, dressed in his shirt, breeches and a tan jerkin. He carried a pair of black stockings in his hand. “But I do have a spare shirt and breeches to which you are welcome.”
Elizabeth gaped at him, startled by his scandalous suggestion. A teasing light twinkled in the depths of Tarleton’s dark brown eyes. She was tempted to smile back at hun— almost.
“I assure you, Lady Elizabeth, my clothes are clean. Your own good cook, Jane, washed them for me only a few days ago.” He hunkered down beside his pack, rummaged through it, then tossed an oatmeal-colored shirt and black breeches to her. “I recommend that fine willow tree over there as your tiring room. I shall not peek—word of honor.” His warm brown eyes grew serious as his gaze rested on her. “But, truly, my lady. You will catch your death if you stay seated thus. And I care not to have your sweet corpse on my hands.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard as she glanced at his large, wellformed hands and wondered fleetingly what it would be like to be touched by them. She gave herself a little shake. How could she possibly think of him touching her? She barely knew him!
“Turn around,” Elizabeth ordered sharply as she struggled to her feet. “And remember your promise—on your honor!” Snatching up his clothing, she flounced off to the willow.
“On my honor, my back is turned,” he called after her as she slipped inside the willow’s concealing green canopy. “Of course you know what the poet says about honor, don’t you?”
“No, what?” she asked as she struggled to undo her lacing.
“‘Some after honor hunt, but I after love.’”
“Oh! Don’t you dare come any closer! I am armed,” Elizabeth warned, using her scissors to cut through the tight, wet knots. �
�In truth, I will defend myself.”
“Truly, my lady, you are a bundle of wonder!” There was a trace of laughter in his voice.
With a man of dubious nature and too-easy charm only a few yards away, Elizabeth dispensed with all ceremony in favor of speed. Wriggling out of the last clinging petticoat, she let it fall with the others in a soaking mass at her feet. Ridiculous! She kicked the useless things away. Whoever convinced ladies to wear all these layers of clothing ought to be hung by his own garters from a gibbet! Some Spanish fop, no doubt.
Tarleton’s shirt hung down to her knees. As for the breeches, they were too wide in the waist and too long in the leg. On the other hand, they were warm, dry and surprisingly comfortable.
“Is my lady gowned in her—?” Tarleton began, but his easy banter exploded into laughter as Elizabeth stepped out of her leafy dressing room, clutching at her waist with one hand, while the other was completely lost in a sleeve.
Trying to maintain her shredded dignity in the face of his cheery reaction, Elizabeth cleared her throat and tilted up her chin proudly. “I thank you for the loan of your clothing, jester, but I will also thank you not to mock me. Tell me, if you can spare the breath, how do you keep these pantaloons up?”
“Usually, you tie them to your waistcoat. Alas, I have none that I can safely spare, but I do have something that will serve.” Rummaging in his pack, Tarleton drew out a length of red satin ribbon.
“I was saving this as a gift for some special maiden,” he remarked, handing it to her.
“Oh?” she retorted, one eyebrow raised. “And who would that be?” Pulling the ribbon through his fingers, she turned her back to him and threaded the makeshift belt through the eyelets. Elizabeth found herself extremely conscious of his virile appeal.
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