To Chase the Storm

by Kimberly Cates

  He was rewarded with a smile, poignant and sweet. "Have these peacocks already filled the mouth of my bold Spanish rogue with pretty compliments that mean nothing?"

  "They mean everything, Tessa. You mean everything to me. I—"

  "Open your eyes, you dolt!" Tarrant St. Cyr’s gruff whisper ripped away the veil of loving that had seemed to surround the two of them. "Her Majesty awaits you, and—curse it all to hell—look who stands by her side!"

  Rafe's gaze flashed up to the dais where Elizabeth Tudor was ensconced, a gaudy butterfly amid a hive of bumbling bees. Beside her, among the most handsome beaux in the land, stood a man whose countenance chilled Rafe to the bone.

  "Warburton." St. Cyr spit out the hated name. "And if the son is snapping about Her Majesty's heels, that she-wolf mother of his is no doubt prowling about as well."

  Rafe's whole body snapped taut as his gaze locked on the man who had hurled him into the dungeon of Warvaliant, the man who had tried to brutalize Tessa.

  One heavy jowl was marred by a wicked-looking gash. Warburton’s glare bored into Tessa's pale features, and as Rafe saw that seething gaze fixed upon the face of his woman, his blood ran cold.

  He felt her fingers close upon his sleeve as if she were trying to steady herself.

  "I dealt Lord Warburton that ornament on his cheek," Tessa said. "I was in a bit of a hurry to seek the company of a gallant Spaniard."

  Rafe's jaw clenched as he recalled all too clearly what had almost happened to Tessa at Warburton's hands.

  "Damnation, lad,” the earl said roughly, obviously having deduced the reason for Rafe's fury. "The girl escaped only a little worse for the encounter. Now fix a smile to that face of yours. The way your eyes are spitting flame, they'll think you plan to drive a dagger 'twixt the queen's ribs!"

  Another voice resounded nearby: "And you would like that, would you not, Santadar?"

  Rafe jerked his gaze away from his grandfather's features and turned to the loathsome Warburton, who was stalking toward them. The nobleman's lips were twisted in a sneer, and his voice, when he spoke again, was edged with such menace that Rafe turned his broad shoulders to shield Tessa from the man's gaze. "Or would you let your doxy strike out at the queen in your stead?" Thick fingers touched the gash marring his face.

  "You bastard. She should have slit your cursed throat!" Rafe took a step toward Warburton, battle-ready. The magnificent chamber and all within it melted away, leaving only Rafe and the man who had tried to harm Tessa. But before Rafe could strike, his grandfather grasped his arm.

  Rafe yanked away, the legendary fury of the Phantom of the Midnight Sea in his eyes as he glared at the aged earl. “Go to the devil, old man!" Rafe's words echoed in the sudden silence, and he became crushingly aware that every eye in the room was regarding him with curiosity, suspicion, hate—and ghoulish anticipation.

  He heard Tessa breathe his name, that single, pleading sound, steadying him as nothing else could have. "Rafe," she whispered, "the queen is watching you!"

  He raised his eyes to the dais that lay in a wash of golden candle-shine. At that instant Warburton and all his evil whirled away, time seeming to crash to a halt as Rafe's gaze locked with that of Elizabeth, queen of England.

  Nothing had prepared Rafe for the force of those dark eyes—eyes that had known betrayal and pain, eyes as lusty as a new-blown maid's, yet as shrewd as those of the most ruthless statesman. Queen. Elizabeth Tudor was the embodiment of that single word.

  "Lord Valcour.” A voice well seasoned with command cut through the stifling silence, and the queen's lips curved in an enigmatic smile. "I am told you have brought us a most intriguing guest."

  The earl swept the monarch a bow, then surreptitiously dug one elbow into Rafe's side, bidding him to follow suit. Gritting his teeth, Rafe stiffly acknowledged the woman on the throne.

  "My grandson, Rafael Santadar, if it please Your Majesty." The earl strode forward, Rafe following in his wake with reluctance he was certain must radiate from every line of his iron-taut face.

  Elizabeth Tudor's thin lips curled and Rafe sensed the needle-thin point of danger in the woman's smile.

  "If it pleases us?"

  Her gaze moved slowly over Rafe's body, and he felt like a prize stallion being readied for a mating.

  "Your grandson pleases us mightily, my lord, in his face and form. But it is miraculous, is it not, that the sea should have spit him up after... how long has it been? Fifteen years?"

  “Twenty-six, Majesty."

  "Truly?" The queen's face took on a pensive expression and she picked up a tiny mirror affixed to a golden chain about her waist. Her eyes swept her reflection for a moment then darted away. "It seems like yesterday that sweet Anne was frolicking in the gardens, bewitching every man who saw her. She was a babe of six years when first I looked upon her, her cheeks apple-rosy." There was tenderness in her voice that had not been there before.

  "I was a frightened captive princess then, being transferred to yet another gilded prison." Elizabeth's fingers fluttered up to the ruff encircling her neck, as though she still felt the threat of an executioner's blade on her skin. "We had stopped to rest a moment, for I was sickened by the swaying of the coach. Then Anne darted out into the road, an imp in a torn dress, her ribbons all askew. She had eluded her nurse in the meadows and had woven a circlet of gillyflowers."

  The queen's words stroked Rafe's imagination, and he conjured a most tender portrait of the mother he had loved.

  "For the pwitty pwincess, the child lisped, settling the flowers atop my head. That was the first crown I had worn in a long time, Captain Santadar—and it gave me hope."

  Rafe felt an uneasy sense of kinship with the flame-tressed woman, and he had to battle to remember that she was an enemy—a heretic who might well cast him into a prison far worse than the gilded chambers in which she had languished. Yet he wanted to ask her more about the mother who darted about in the shadows of his memory, his need to know about Anne St. Cyr Santadar gnawing within him. He did not trust himself to speak, so he remained silent.

  "Aye, we recall Lady Anne's loyalty with much fondness, good Captain. Yours, however, we find disturbing."

  "Do the English find it disturbing that a man should love his own country?" Rafe met her gaze levelly. "Patriotism is a trait much valued in Spain."

  He saw in the queen's eyes a subtle sparkle, and he knew he had risen in her estimation.

  "We value loyalty in England as well, as you will soon discover, Captain Santadar. In fact, before we graced this assemblage with our presence, we were conferring with our advisers on how to reward the brave seafarers who recently defended our shores against unwarranted Spanish aggression."

  Rafe winced inwardly, the taste of defeat brassy in his mouth. He could not stop himself from allowing the slightest of sneers to cross his face. "I would scarce call it unwarranted for a country to retaliate against the thieves who have plundered its treasure ships, Your Majesty."

  Two lines carved between the queen's brows, displeasure obviously banishing whatever tenderness the royal Tudor had felt toward Rafe's mother. "Come now, Captain. One can scarce blame an entire country for the actions of a few... er, over-zealous men."

  "Men who have the silent approval of the one they value most?" Rafe raised one eyebrow, making his meaning crystal clear. He heard his grandfather's muttered curse, felt the tension binding the room pull tighter.

  "You will not deal Her Majesty any more of your insults, Spanish dog." Warburton's voice, eager and resonant with hate, cut through the room as the nobleman stepped forward, one hand clamped about the hilt of his sword. "Nay, neither you nor your peasant doxy."

  "We do not need your interference, Lord Warburton." The queen's voice was an ice-edged dagger, her eyes snapping with anger as they fell upon Rafe. "But we can assure Captain Santadar that we are quite capable of deflecting his veiled barbs ourselves—and with astonishing permanence."

  Never had Rafe heard a warning delive
red so eloquently or with such killing effect.

  "With Your Majesty's permission," Tarrant St. Cyr plunged into the sudden silence, "I beg your indulgence. Rafael is still disconcerted by the events that have transpired upon these shores and in the Channel. He was wounded, and he lost his ship."

  "Aye, praise God!" An ugly laugh rang out from Warburton. "I hope it plunged to the ocean floor with five score bloody Spaniards aboard." Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, threaded through with bursts of hearty laughter.

  Hot fury pulsed through Rafe, his fists knotting. "Aye," he bit out, "and every one of them a better man than you, Lord Warburton."

  He heard the hiss of steel as Warburton started to rip his sword from its scabbard. One of Elizabeth's favorites lunged to stay the nobleman's hand, but had scarce seized Lord Neville’s thick wrist before the Earl of Valcour sprang between Rafe and Warburton, his craggy features filled with anger and fear.

  "Enough! Sweet Christ, Rafe, I—" As though he had just remembered where he was, the earl cut off the curse and turned to his queen. "Your Majesty, please forgive my grandson. I fear he and Lord Neville ran afoul of each other a few days past."

  "I have heard of their altercation, but I have no patience with such bickering," the queen said smoothly. "Lord Neville, you will cease blustering in our presence. And as for you, Lord Valcour, you have already pleaded our indulgence once in your grandson's behalf. But we have found that children who are indulged too frequently become uncontrollable."

  "I am inclined to agree with you, Your Majesty, but I have also discovered that when children are prone to fits of temper it is best to deal with them another way—by ignoring them."

  Rafe wanted to wring the old man's neck, but at that moment he caught a glimpse of bronze velvet and wide ebony eyes. Tessa had hastened forward, despite her awe of the queen, and he sensed that she had done so because she feared for him. He managed to leash his fury for Tessa.

  The earl's eyes seemed fixed upon the girl as well, and Rafe was unsettled by the fleeting expression of relief that crossed his grandfather's face.

  St. Cyr again addressed the queen: "I would propose, Your Highness, that we indulge ourselves for a while. I have taken the liberty of arranging an amusement."

  Elizabeth Tudor regarded the earl with a frigid glare. "That is good, my lord, for I find your grandson far from amusing."

  "May I present, for Your Majesty's enjoyment, Tessa of Ravenscroft, a skilled mistress of marionettes and an accomplished player."

  "Blast you!" Rafe swore and started to cross to Tessa's side, but the earl's hand closed in a bruising grip about his wrist.

  “Have a care, boy," the aged warrior hissed. "If you give a damn about her neck, and your own, you'll hold your blasted tongue!"

  Rafe pulled away from the earl's grasp, but remained silent, hating the impotence he felt as Tessa, ashen-faced and wide-eyed, took a halting step toward the great throne.

  The sea of courtiers parted, all eyes now fixed upon the slender beauty in their midst.

  "So you call yourself a master player, girl?" The queen's voice held a thread of subdued anger and a hint of belligerence that made Rafe doubt whether a troupe of angels could bring a smile to those pale royal lips.

  Tessa raised her chin and held her shoulders stiff with pride. "Others say so. But I fear Lord Valcour is mistaken. You see, Your Majesty, my marionettes are—"

  "In the trunk near the door." The earl's eyes met Tessa's, and the girl blanched as two servants hastened forward with a decrepit chest. When they set it before the queen, the monarch regarded it as though she half expected a creature with soiled fur and sharp teeth to scuttle from beneath its lid.

  Determination surged through Tessa when she saw the expression on that royal face, and she hurried toward the chest.

  What lay beneath the wooden lid was more precious to Tessa than any gem, for the creation of the marionettes had been a labor of love carried out over a lifetime, a legacy from the father she had lost. As she opened the lid, the candlelight limned dozens of carved figures, their joints carefully hinged, their faces painted with the loving strokes of an artist, their velvet gowns and slashed doublets as elegant as those garbing the guests in the hall.

  The queen leaned forward on her throne, her eyes scanning the marionettes with a boredom that fired Tessa's blood. Then suddenly that canny gaze lurched back to a somber, black-garbed puppet that lay staring up at the ceiling.

  A hearty laugh rose from the queen, startling all within the room, but when Tessa looked at the proud Spaniard, chafing under the crushing burden of failure and scorn, she could not bring herself to scoop up the puppet that had so fascinated the queen. Instead, Tessa hastily seized a harlequin, displaying it before the queen.

  But the monarch would not be distracted. One heavily be-ringed finger pointed to the black-garbed puppet.

  "That one. Take out that one, girl," the queen commanded.

  Tessa's gaze flicked to Rafe. The pain in his arrogant features made her hands unsteady as they hovered over the marionette Elizabeth had indicated.

  "Your Majesty, I... I would rather—"

  "You would do well not to try our patience any further than Captain Santadar already has. Show us that figure, girl, at once."

  Tessa had no choice. She and Rafael were trapped among their enemies, men scenting blood and closing in for the kill. She saw it, sensed it, and knew she had to curry the queen's favor any way she could.

  Slowly she delved into the chest and pulled out the puppet that had so intrigued the queen. It was a most unflattering likeness of King Philip of Spain, modeled after a caricature Tessa had seen of Spain's mincing monarch. The puppet's deftly carved nose was pinched with self-righteousness, and the small eyes betrayed a dull-wittedness that made Elizabeth shake with laughter.

  As the crowd strained forward to see what held Elizabeth's attention, Tessa sensed the stiffening of Rafe's shoulders, heard his muttered expletive. Tessa had expected anger but she had not been prepared for the depth of the hurt in Rafe's eyes. Her fingers tightened upon the marionette's protuberant belly, but there was nothing she could do to spare him, for the queen was already leaning eagerly toward her.

  "By God's wounds, Hatton, look you!" Elizabeth dug her finger into the arm of a man standing beside her. "It is King Philip himself, I'll stake my very soul!"

  Tessa forced herself to untangle the strings, trying to block Rafe's expression from her mind. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then drew upon the expertise gained during years of practice with the marionettes.

  At that instant, the caricature seemed to spring to life in her hands. "Your soul?" Tessa spoke for the puppet in a whining voice. "I want not your soul, fair lady. It is your heart I crave." She stole a glance at Rafe, and her fingers slipped on the strings, but she covered her mistake, tearing her gaze away from the rage-flushed Spaniard. "Have I not courted you these countless years past?" she said in King Philip's mock voice. "Have I not pleaded for your hand? Of course, your treasury would not come amiss."

  A wave of laughter rolled over the chamber that had been so tense a moment before, and Tessa felt a surge of relief.

  Then the queen turned her gaze toward Rafe. "Perhaps we can cure your sulks with this clever child's entertainment, Santadar."

  "With your permission, I would prefer to retire," Rafe said. "As my grandfather has said, I am still afflicted with this wound." His fingers touched the thick bandage beneath his hose.

  "And we are afflicted by your boorishness."

  Tessa saw Rafe's cheeks darken, and the tendons in his jaw stood out as he met the queen's gaze.

  "Now you will cease this unseemly sulking, milord Captain," Elizabeth said, "or we will cart you off to the Tower, where the grim surroundings will better match your mood."

  Tessa saw Rafe's face go still, sensed that the storm brewing inside him could destroy his only chance of making peace with Elizabeth Tudor and proving himself a worthy heir to the old earl.


  And Tessa also knew that she was the only one in that vast chamber who could lighten the queen's mood. She stole a glance at Warburton, who was still fuming under the queen's displeasure, and she prayed that he would remain too fearful of Elizabeth's anger to wreak any more havoc upon Rafe's barely leashed temper. She sensed that it would take little to send the two men lunging for each other's throats. And as for the queen—there was a new grimness about Elizabeth Tudor's mouth as she commanded, "Now, Tessa of Ravenscroft, you will proceed."

  Tessa sucked in a deep breath, trying to block Rafe from her mind as she fished in the wooden chest. She displayed some of her favorite figures, including one of Sir Francis Drake looking like a posturing peacock in a primrose satin doublet, his chest so puffed out with pride that one was tempted to reach out and prick it with a pin. A tiny silver saber was clasped in the knight's carved hand, and his legs were a bit bowed to give him a delightful swagger.

  Tessa had carved several new puppets in recent months to calm the fears of the village children as the threat of invasion loomed nearer. From her trunk she removed Spanish grandees with long pointed beards and weasel-like smiles as well as an inquisitor with intricately detailed Spanish money sticking out of his rope-bound cassock.

  "You have enough Spaniards to man another armada," the queen observed. "Have you no more proud Englishmen?"

  "I think the wench prefers Spanish curs," Warburton's voice cut in.

  "Enough, Lord Neville!" the queen warned. "One more word and we will banish you from this chamber and from our court. We are taking great pleasure in this diversion, and will not have it ruined by your tantrums!"

  "Your Majesty—" Warburton began to protest, then fell silent, cowardice evident in his face.

  A silence fell over the room for long seconds. Then suddenly it was broken by a man's resonant voice. A stunningly handsome stripling of about twenty, resplendent in rose-colored velvet, swaggered closer to Elizabeth. "I do not know whether Lord Warburton's charges are true, but I do know that Mistress Tessa has more English figures in her trunk. I saw one of her delightful puppet shows a while past, and I can tell you that somewhere in that trunk she has a likeness of you, Your Majesty."