Kissed by Shadows (3 page)

She raised her dark gaze to Robin. “Could that be so?”

Robin thought of Lionel Ashton. He had never seen him in the company of others. In any gathering almost always he stood alone. It was clear that his business for Philip of Spain did not lie in the public corridors of diplomacy.

“I do not know your guardian,” he said. “He does not usually take part in court diversions, so it is possible.”

“Well, he cannot then blame me for seeking my
own,
” declared Luisa.

“Stealing punts and getting stuck in the mud is a strange diversion for a Mendoza,” Robin said dryly.

“Ah, what right have you to criticize?” she demanded.

Robin lay back on the bank, linking his muddy hands behind his head. “None at all. It was merely an observation.”

“Well, what am I to do?”

“I think as a start it might be wise to return you to your slumbering duenna,” he suggested.

Luisa flung herself on her back beside him and gazed up into the sun-tinged tendrils of the willow above her. “Is that all you can think of?”

“For now.”

She sighed. “I wish I were not so sensible.”

Robin gave a shout of laughter and a starling scolded him from way above in the leafy fronds.

“You may well laugh,” she said bitterly. “But if I were not sensible, and not a Mendoza, I would run away, seek my fortune on the high seas.”

“The high seas seem rather ambitious for one defeated by the River Thames.”

For answer she threw a handful of marsh mallows into his face. Laughing, Robin sat up, brushing the flowers from his doublet. “For a Spanish lady, I have to say that you are remarkably ill-schooled,” he declared, grinning at her.

“High-spirited is the term,” she returned, lifting her chin with an air of great dignity.

He laughed again and got to his feet. He reached down his hands to pull her up. “You remind me of my sisters.”

Her astounded expression told him he had made a grave error. “Only in that you're so unconventional,” he said hastily.

There was a moment's silence. Luisa smoothed down her muddy skirts with an air of decorum that was so ludicrous Robin had to fight to keep a straight face.

“You think me not womanly,” she stated finally.

“No . . . no, of course not. Indeed you are . . . are most womanly,” he amended quickly.

“But I am like a sister . . . a baby sister.” With downcast eyes she smoothed the creases from her bodice, adjusted the lace at the neck.

Robin regarded her. He had the strangest sense that he was being manipulated in some way. Now, where he'd seen the plumpness of emerging womanhood, he saw voluptuous curves. Tangled and begrimed though she was, Dona Luisa aroused in him none of the feelings of a brother.

“I think you had better return home,” he stated. “Wait here while I free the punt.”

She made no demur as he jumped down into the mud and pushed the craft free of the bank. When it was once more afloat he reached up and lifted her into the boat. He tried to keep his hands beneath her breasts but there was no way to avoid their soft upward swell. She smelled of mud and flowers, a young sweetness that took his breath away.

“No, wait,” he said as she immediately took up the pole with a businesslike air, standing feet braced on the bottom of the punt. “Let me do it. You might not find a knight in shining armor the next time you run aground.”

Luisa raised an eyebrow, just the most delicate twitch of a most delicate arch, and handed him the pole as he jumped aboard. She sat on the thwart, observing after a while as they reached midstream, “I see I am in the hands of a master.”

Flirtatious little minx!

She was worse than Pippa had ever been, Robin reflected, grimly driving the pole into the shallow river bottom close to the bank.

“Tell me which water steps,” he instructed after fifteen minutes of silence, during which the punt moved steadily.

“Over there is where I found the punt.” Luisa pointed to a narrow wooden pier jutting out from the bank. “I don't know who the punt belongs to, but I should return it there, and then I can walk to the house along the bank.”

“Very well.” Robin steered the punt to the pier. He jumped out with the painter and tied it securely. “Come.” He held out his hand and helped her up beside him.

“My thanks.” She looked at him without a smidgeon of her earlier flirtatious mischief. “I don't know whom I'm thanking.”

“Robin of Beaucaire, at your service, Dona Luisa.” He executed a formal bow and with the utmost solemnity she curtsied, her bedraggled skirts falling around her in perfect folds.

He offered her his arm and they walked along the bank until they reached the lower sweep of lawn leading up to one of the new stone mansions on the Strand.

“Whose house is this?”

“My guardian's. Don Ashton's,” she replied. “I believe he bought it through a steward before we landed at Southampton.”

“I see.”

Lionel Ashton grew ever more intriguing. A man who owned one of the palatial mansions on the Strand, and yet did not live in England.

“My thanks again, Robin of Beaucaire,” Luisa said now with an almost shy smile. “I don't suppose I will see you again.” Suddenly she stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed his cheek. Then she hurried away, gathering her skirts high as she ran up the slope towards the house.

Robin shook his head. They would certainly meet again. He glanced down ruefully at his ruined boots and hose. He'd been particularly fond of the cranberry hose, but then he recalled that Pippa had told him that when he wore them he looked as if he'd been treading grapes.

Perhaps she was right. Pippa had style, not that he'd ever taken any notice of her opinions before. But maybe the cranberry hose weren't that great a loss.

He walked back along the riverbank to Whitehall. It was a long walk and mud squelched in his boots, but he whistled softly to himself.

Three

The tournament ground baked beneath the late-afternoon sun. The contestants sweated atop their gaily caparisoned horses; the spectators languidly fanned themselves on the padded benches beneath striped awnings. The queen wearily closed her eyes, retreating farther into the shadow cast by the canopy of state over her chair.

The imperative summons of a herald's trumpet signaled the start of the fourth joust of this interminable afternoon and the queen leaned forward again, an expression of alert interest now on her face as she watched her husband enter the ground, his milk-white destrier caracoling in obedience to its rider's commands. It was an impressive display of horsemanship and Mary's smile became fond and proud as she glanced around at her companions to make sure they too appreciated her husband's expertise.

Another tucket from the herald and Lord Nielson entered the lists from the opposite end. It was a much less spectacular entrance although Stuart was every bit as accomplished a horseman as Philip of Spain. But Pippa, watching from one of the lower benches, guessed that her husband was governed by discretion.

She glanced up at Robin, who stood beside her. He had no part to play in the present tournament and having changed his river-muddied garments was content to be a mere spectator. His mind until Stuart's appearance had been most pleasantly occupied elsewhere.

“It wouldn't do for Stuart to outshine His Majesty before his wife and the entire court,” Pippa murmured sardonically, her derision barely concealed.

Robin frowned, his eyes on the bout. Stuart made a very clumsy pass with his cane and Philip wheeled his horse and brought his own stick to crack against his opponent's. Stuart's weapon split in two.

“I think your husband carries his diplomacy too far,” Robin declared. “He's not even trying to give Philip a match.”

“No,” agreed Pippa, frowning now in her turn. “He seems to spend more time in the company of the Spaniards these days than that of his own people. Have you noticed?”

“Aye.” Robin nodded. He was about to say how he'd also noticed that Stuart was curiously and distastefully deferential and ill at ease even with the most peacocking of the Spanish courtiers, but decided to hold his tongue. He would not criticize Pippa's husband to her.

The two jousters clashed again and this time Stuart's cane hit true and the king's flew to the ground. Robin drew a deep breath. He glanced up to where the queen sat. She was still leaning forward on her chair, her eyes now concerned as they rested on her husband. He could not be made to look bad among this already hostile crowd.

But there was no fear of that. Stuart lost the next two bouts, his cane split resoundingly on both occasions. There was wild cheering from the Spaniards and a sullen silence from the English as the two contestants rode over to the stands to make their bows to the queen.

Pippa scrutinized her husband's countenance. It was expressionless, pale, his eyes hooded, his full mouth set. He looked at her just once and she could feel the embarrassment and anger radiating from him in great waves. And she felt too that some of that anger was directed at her. But how could she be to blame for his deliberate decision to allow Philip of Spain to humiliate him? She gave him a consoling smile and he turned his shoulder to her.

“I don't understand it,” Robin said. “He could let Philip win if he felt he
had
to, but not so completely.”

“You forget how very good at jousting Stuart is,” Pippa said thoughtfully. “I suspect it's harder to lose by a hair if you're very good.”

Robin didn't agree but once again kept his reflections to himself.

“I think I've had enough,” Pippa said. “Having seen my husband soundly defeated by the king, I should think I would be permitted to leave, don't you?” Irony laced her voice as she glanced back up at the queen.

“I'll escort you,” Robin said. “You're very pale, more so than usual. All your freckles are standing out.”

“I can always rely on you to tell me the most unflattering truths, brother dear,” Pippa stated, rising to her feet. “But have no fear, 'tis just the heat. Stay and enjoy the next spectacle. Two teams are to match canes, as I understand it. Such excitement!”

She gave him a smile that held a smidgeon of her usual mischievous spirit and he was sufficiently reassured not to insist on escorting her. He waved in acknowledgment and took her vacated seat on the bench.

Pippa, realizing that Mary was watching her departure, curtsied deeply and received a haughty nod of dismissal in response. Relieved, she slid past the rows of spectators and made her escape. Heralds' trumpets sounded behind her as she walked through the narrow entrance to the lists and into the relative quiet of a sun-filled cloistered courtyard.

A man stood in the center of the courtyard, leaning against the sundial, idly cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.

Lionel Ashton.

Pippa's step quite uncharacteristically faltered. Then she moved backwards into the shadows of the cloister and stood motionless, trying to untangle the skein of conflicting emotions that held her fast as a fly in a spider's web. She couldn't take her eyes off the man. He had discarded his cloak and wore only doublet and shirt open at the neck as it had been that morning, with plain black silk hose. He was bareheaded and she saw how the sun turned the strands of gray among the dark hair into silver threads.

What was he doing alone out here? He seemed unaware of the servants crisscrossing the courtyard, of pages scurrying in and out of doorways, or even of a pair of wolfhounds prowling the cobbles, pausing every now and again to sniff at his ankles. He had the quality of utter stillness, utter detachment from his surroundings.

She had seen him before. She
knew
she had.

Pippa was not one to let a mystery stand. She pushed aside the odd feeling that had kept her in motionless retreat, moved briskly out of the shadows, and crossed the courtyard. Her jeweled silk slippers made no sound on the cobbles but her turquoise and rose damask skirts swished with her step.

He looked up when she was a few paces away and his clear gray eyes met hers. There was no mistaking their message. It declared a connection between them, one that was both complicit and open.

“Mr. Ashton.” Pippa addressed the problem in her customarily straightforward fashion. “I find myself very puzzled. I know we have not been introduced but I am certain we have met before. Can you enlighten me?”

He slid his dagger into its sheath and bowed. “No, madam, we have not. I would not have forgotten such a meeting.” His voice was deep and rich, and his smile was as she remembered from that morning, as sweet and tender as the first snowdrop. “You have the advantage of me, it would seem.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Lady Nielson,” Pippa supplied, nonplussed. How could he possibly deny that they had met before? The message in his gaze was an open admission. And yet she couldn't remember herself. Once again she felt the cold prickle of fear on the back of her neck.

“Ah, yes. You are married to Viscount Nielson,” he observed, not altering his position against the sundial. “Now I think about it, we did come across each other this morning in the queen's presence chamber. Perhaps that is the memory you seek.”

“No, 'tis not.” Pippa shook her head. “I felt the same recognition then.”

“My apologies, my lady, but I cannot enlighten you.” He sounded amused.

Doubt assailed her. She couldn't be the only one to have the memory if it was correct. Perhaps she was simply mistaken. But there was no mistaking the strange flutter of excitement that blended seamlessly with the confused sense of dread, filling her head so that she couldn't think clearly.

“You have abandoned the tourney?” he said, smiling still.

“I have little stomach for contrived outcomes,” Pippa declared, an edge to her voice as she struggled to master her confusion.

Lionel Ashton nodded. “From what I saw of the match, your husband's loss to Philip was somewhat spectacular and one can't help wondering if it was truly necessary. It does indeed seem a pity that our Spanish friends won't rely on their own skills for success.”

“
Your
Spanish friends, as I understand it, sir,” she returned with asperity. “Not mine, I assure you.”

His smile changed. It lost its sweetness and his eyes became cold. Then almost as suddenly, almost before she could register the change, he was once more smiling gently at her. “They are not all bad,” he said, his tone mollifying.

“The king's reputation preceded him,” she stated, aware that this was dangerous talk, but that had never stopped her from speaking her mind in the past and wasn't about to now. “You would deny that reputation?”

Lionel Ashton stroked his beard that he wore in the Spanish fashion, small and triangular, and once again Pippa was struck by the curiously haphazard arrangement of his features. His nose was prominent and crooked, his mouth slightly twisted, his chin large and deeply cleft, his eyebrows thick as bushes and speckled with gray like his beard. A man more unlike Stuart in his appearance would be impossible to find. Stuart was beautiful, his features perfectly composed. Lionel Ashton was not even handsome. Indeed, not to put too fine a point upon it, he was ugly. And yet there was something about him that stirred Pippa in a way that she knew in her blood she must not attempt to explore or understand.

“Well, sir, would you?” she challenged.

“You refer to the king's reputation for womanizing?”

Pippa made no answer and after a minute he continued in a detached tone, “Philip is no saint. But your queen was well aware of that fact. I would suggest her husband's reputation is for her and her alone to worry about.”

It was, Pippa decided, a snub. However, snubs rarely troubled her. “On the contrary, sir, it is a matter for all loyal Englishmen.” She dropped him a curtsy and turned away.

He moved from the sundial and took her hand, tucking it neatly into his arm. “Since we've now become acquainted, madam, pray allow me to walk a little with you. The pleasaunce is particularly agreeable at this time of day.”

Pippa experienced a sudden flash of panic. There was nothing wrong with her accepting the escort of a gentleman of the court. Nothing for anyone to object to. Stuart wouldn't give it a second thought. And yet with the same instinct as before she knew she must not walk with Lionel Ashton. In the pleasaunce or anywhere else.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, pulling her hand free. “I have the headache . . . the heat . . . I have no wish to walk. . . .” Breathlessly she hurried away towards the arched entrance to the courtyard.

Lionel Ashton watched her go, his hands resting lightly on his hips where hung his sheathed rapier and dagger. Pippa didn't look back but if she had done she would have been frightened by his expression. His eyes were now iron-hard, filled with anger and contempt, and something else. Something very like dismay.

He turned on his heel and made his way to the lists where two lines of dismounted courtiers, one line wearing the colors of Spain, the other Tudor green and white, advanced and retreated amid the thud and splintering of their canes.

Stuart Nielson was standing at the far side of the ground, still in the leather padded doublet he had worn for the joust. Full armor was not considered necessary when one played only with sticks. He stood alone, and Lionel wondered if it was through choice or because his usual companions were too embarrassed for him after his mortifying loss. Not that the reason interested Lionel in the least.

He made his way towards Stuart, who saw him coming and turned hastily back to the tented enclosure where the participants prepared themselves for their bouts. Lionel increased his pace.

“Lord Nielson, a word with you.”

Stuart seemed to hesitate, and then he stopped. He waited for the other man to reach him. “Well?” There was no invitation in the sharp question.

“A hard loss, I gather,” Lionel offered, his voice soft. “Perhaps you have no need to immolate yourself quite so thoroughly.”

Stuart stared at him, his aquamarine eyes both hostile and frightened. “What do you mean?”

“Why, only that you could give Philip a little more challenge while achieving your objective.” Lionel was looking out over the lists rather than at Stuart. His tone was remote.

“What difference does it make?” Stuart demanded harshly. “I accept and obey my orders.
All
of them.”

“Yes . . . yes, so you do, most admirably,” Lionel said in the same remote tone.

Stuart flushed angrily. The dismissive contempt in the other's manner was unmistakable even though they had still not exchanged a glance.

“There are no signs as yet?” Lionel asked.

Stuart's flush deepened. “Not that I'm aware.” He paused, then continued on a note almost of bluster, “But it would be wise to desist for a few days.”

Lionel swung his head slowly towards him. “Why so?”

Stuart's hand rested unconsciously on his sword hilt and his face now was as pale as it had been suffused before. “There are difficulties,” he said. “Objections.”