On Gentle Wings (2 page)

Usually, Kit Tanner danced attendance upon Elizabeth Tudor
alone. He was a favored courtier of the Virgin Queen, and Isobel thought he
looked especially dashing whenever he wore his green-and-gold surcoat
embroidered with the Tudor rose and the queen’s royal initials, ER.

She’d always longed to sample such courtly revelries
herself. Most females her age were long wed and had children of their own.
Isobel had been denied such a chance, so it seemed only fair she might at least
have one night to call her own.

When the invitation had arrived at
Ambergate
three
weeks ago, addressed to Sir Christopher and his late wife, Isobel could hardly
ignore the temptation. No one need ever know. Kit hardly left court anymore, so
it was an obvious oversight that this invitation had arrived at all.

A Midsummer Night’s Masque
. The frivolous notion appealed
to Isobel, especially since everyone would be
en costume
. Even the host,
Lord Tempest, if he bothered to quiz her appearance, would probably assume she
was Elspeth since he obviously did not know her cousin had died six months ago.

She’d overheard several other guests whispering about
Tempest’s own sudden arrival in England from the Continent. Perhaps he had been
abroad when Elspeth died.

She reassured herself again there was no possibility she
would be recognized, especially in this wig. In the end, she had not been brave
enough to sport her own plain locks, after all. As Elspeth constantly pointed
out, Isobel had inherited the dreaded, mouse-brown Weeks hair.

Thus, a black-silk wig had been hastily procured from the
attic for the occasion. Although its style was dated and its color too harsh
for Isobel’s taste, it offered the reassurance of anonymity. Anne even wove a red
ribbon into the coronet of raven braids, foiling Isobel’s stunning gown.

“There,” Anne declared with triumph. “Now you are well and
truly ‘
Madame Mysterie’
.”

If Isobel’s face was too plain for most men’s tastes, at
least her half-mask hid it well; and she knew her slender, yet curvaceous,
figure did not escape admiration. Isobel blushed again when she sensed yet
another man’s sweeping appraisal, but this time their gazes accidentally met
and locked across
Summerleigh
’s great hall.

Nay!
Isobel mentally gasped, shocked.
It can’t be!
But there was no mistaking that gleaming auburn hair, the exact hue of his
daughters’. Nor those intense green eyes flecked with gold, as warm and steady
upon her as a burning flame. He wore no mask, so there was no mistake about it.
Kit Tanner was here!

Had he recognized her? Isobel’s fluttering heart nearly
stopped in that second when it became obvious Kit was fast approaching. He
would surely demand to know what she was doing here, how she dared leave his
precious daughters alone, even for a moment.

Dear heavens, what would she say? To assure him his girls
were in competent hands for a few hours with Susan, the downstairs maid at
Ambergate
,
might offer him some peace of mind, but he would doubtless be shocked and furious
at Isobel’s deception.

With ample reason. She glimpsed her daring décolletage
again, and felt suddenly faint. She had not realized just how much a whalebone
busk labored to push up a lady’s bosom, nor had she noticed before how
dangerously close hers was now to spilling over its embroidered confines.

Sweet Jesu. One more deep
breath, and she was undone!

~*~

K
it Tanner’s
first thought upon glimpsing the stunning, raven-haired beauty across
Summerleigh
’s
great hall was rather unchivalrous. But there was simply no ignoring that
lovely bosom, especially as it heaved with visible emotion against her low-cut
bodice as he approached.

It was rare for him to be distracted by a likely wench.
Indeed, with all he’d been through in the past, Kit knew it was a right wonder
he could bear to glance at any woman. But something about this ebony-haired temptress
snagged his interest, aside from her daring costume.

Her stance seemed almost furtive, defensive. Her fate was
sealed when she avoided his gaze. Ever the curious courtier, Kit was determined
to learn why. At his approach, he saw she tried to bolt and slip away into the
crowd.

Kit’s hand closed around her wrist, and he was momentarily
startled. It was absurdly petite. Fragile, even. The realization clashed with
his initial impression of a coy vixen.

“M’lady.” He bowed from the waist in courtly fashion though
made no wove to release her wrist. When he rose again, he sought her gaze, but
found it maddeningly elusive behind her red velvet half-mask. He caught a brief
flash of light-colored eyes — were they blue? — before she glanced away. It
seemed she preferred to look anywhere but at him.

“Sir Christopher Tanner, madam. I must confess you’ve piqued
my curiosity. You seem familiar to me. Perhaps we’ve met at Nonsuch recently?”

“Nay.” Her voice was a low, throaty whisper that again
contrasted with her delicate wrist and hinted he should leave well-enough alone.
Frowning, yet not intending to be so easily dismissed, Kit persisted:

“I’m certain I should not forget such an honor. Alas, I fear
I’m also accounted a very keen eye for detail.”

Isobel’s heart thundered at his deliberate words while her
mind frantically sought for escape. Why did Kit persist in bedeviling her, of
all women? A furtive glance into his sparkling green eyes revealed a hint of
laughter, which made her realize his pursuit was more playful than predatory.

She relaxed a bit, but was by no means lulled into
confessing her identity. “’Tis unlikely we’ve met before, sirrah,” she said,
adopting a simpering tone she’d overheard the other women present using. “I
fear that many masked faces look alike in such a crush.”

“Mayhap. But all shall be revealed at dawn.” His remark
frightened Isobel until she remembered there were hours yet until the sun rose,
when the participants of the masque would finally remove their masks, to the
delight of many and the doubtless indignation of a few.

“Are you an acquaintance of Tempest’s?” Kit persisted. “The
man’s reputation precedes him and ’tis whispered he brought back a lovely
little morsel from the Continent.”

“Oh,
oui
,
Monsieur
Tanner,” Isobel stammered,
seizing desperately upon the notion, anxious for any excuse to fend him off.
She only hoped her pitiful grasp of French would be convincing enough. “You
have found me out, I fear.”

“It need not distress you, madam. Your secret is safe with
me.” He smiled at her, never imagining how those bantering words made her innards
shrivel. “May I inquire as to your name?”

She shook her head. “Just call me
Madame Mysterie
.”

“As you wish. I would, however, ask a small boon, my
Madame
Mysterie
. If you will not tell me your true name or title, then I ask that
you favor me with one dance.”

Kit’s request startled Isobel. The musicians were strumming
a simple bransle, a romantic ballad that she recognized as “Now I See Thy Looks
Were Feigned.”

She drew in her breath, her conscience pricked. “Methinks
you mock me, Sir Christopher.”

“Not at all. I merely wish to determine, once and for all,
if those incomparable eyes I glimpsed across the hall are blue, or green. A
dance would provide excuse for me to gaze into them,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Whereupon you will be sorely disappointed
, Isobel
thought.
For my eyes are grey, as dull and ordinary as iron
. Instead she
sought for a clever retort that would throw him off guard.

“Were we to dance and you to gaze into my eyes, your memory
would surely stir, and then the game would be over,” she teased him in the most
seductive lisp she could manage.

“Ah, then I do know you, madam. I was not mistaken.”

“Aye,” she murmured, fluttering her lashes in a desperate
move to obscure her eyes from him.

“Very well, then,” Kit persisted playfully, “if you will not
permit me to partner you in the dance or accept a compliment about your eyes,
then at least receive one on your costume. Few ladies can carry off such dramatic
hues, but then I can attest I’ve seen few with such exquisite skin.”

His fingers briefly caressed her wrist where he held it, and
Isobel held her breath. She wondered if he could feel her skin tingling, her
pulse pounding, and then despaired he might be mocking her. Kit was, after all,
a renowned wit. Even a court jester, when warranted. Was he making sport of her
now?

Yet she saw his handsome face was grave when he raised her
hand to his lips. Kit sought out her gaze, and for a forbidden second she gazed
back into his smoky-green eyes.

“
Adieu, Madame Mysterie
. Forgive my boldness, but
I’ve always been one to follow my instincts. And they cry out I must not let
this moment pass without a parting gift.”

Slowly and deliberately he turned over her hand and pressed
a kiss upon her open palm. Isobel shivered at the sensation, terrified he would
glimpse the truth in her eyes.

“Methinks a lady like you will tire of Lord Tempest ere
long,” he said, as he straightened. “I know another masque is planned a
fortnight from now here at
Summerleigh
. Should you desire it, meet me
again at midnight, in this very spot.”

An unfamiliar, reckless notion seized Isobel then, and she
found she could not beg off. “
Oui, monsieur
. Mayhap then you shall have
your dance.”

Kit smiled, bowed again, and vanished into the crowd. When
he was gone, she clutched her hand to her heart, as if grasping a precious
treasure. Finally, she, too, turned to flee.

Isobel was so preoccupied, torn between fleeting elation and
frightful despair, that she did not see another figure in her path. She
literally bowled into a white silk doublet belonging to their notorious host,
Lord Tempest.

“M’dear! Mustn’t dash off just when things are getting
interesting.” Tempest gripped her shoulders in a fatherly fashion, pinning her
in place. He was a large, florid-faced man whose frightening size was belied by
his merry manner. Though he presently reeked of French cologne, a decided fop
with his enormous cartwheel ruff and slashed white trunk-hose, Isobel found
Percival Tempest oddly endearing.

“I fear I must slip away for a bit, m’lord,” she murmured,
relieved when her host did not demand an introduction. “Some fresh air would be
most welcome before the pavane begins.”

“Ah, the pavane,” he exclaimed with real enthusiasm. “I confess
I’d almost forgotten how things are done down here — er, back in the blessed
Motherland. Been at Good John’s court far too long, y’know.”

Isobel’s brow furrowed. “John’s? Don’t you mean French King
Henry’s court, sir?”

“Aye, aye, of course,” he said, rapidly if somewhat
absently. Tempest yanked a lacy kerchief from the pocket of his white taffeta
jerkin and mopped his sweaty brow.

Isobel had heard the other ladies whispering that Percival
Tempest was terribly eccentric and thus wore only white. It served to foil his
vividly red face now.

“I, uh, regret I cannot escort you out for a breath of air myself,
m’dear.
Summerleigh
’s white gardens are rightfully famous. But as I
recall, you were just talking with Tanner. Mayhap Sir Christopher — ”

Tempest swallowed a laugh when Isobel’s queenly composure
vanished in one fell swoop at the mere mention of Kit Tanner’s name. She muttered
a hasty excuse, dropped him the poorest excuse for a curtsey he’d seen in two
hundred years, and disappeared into the milling crowd.

Truly, he had his work cut out for him! But he enjoyed a
good challenge. Though being forced to resort to angelic, rather than
underhanded, measures was going to prove devilishly difficult, he feared.

Ambergate

Near London, August 1579

“
I
z-bel?”

“Hmmm?”

Sweet pink clover was thick and fragrant in the meadow where
four figures lay, skirts spread in a semicircle, and gazed skyward at the puffy
clouds.

“What’s wrong, Maggie darling?” Isobel brushed sleepily at a
bee droning somewhere above her and crinkled her nose just in time to stop a
sneeze. She felt unusually dreamy and distracted of late, though she must
confess it was due far more to Christopher Tanner than his offspring.

“Do horses go to heaven?” Four-year-old Maggie Tanner
sounded worried, but before Isobel could respond in time to reassure the girl,
her sister Anne stole the scene with an exaggerated, superior sigh.

“La, of course they don’t. Don’t be such a baby, Maggie.
Horses don’t have souls.”

“Do, too!” vehemently chimed in Grace, the middle child, and
hence often the last to get a word in, but she more than made up for it with her
volume. Isobel winced, her ears ringing, and hastened to deflect the mounting
tension.

 “Remember today’s lesson, girls. We’re supposed to be
looking for pictures in the clouds.”

“I ’member. But that cloud — ” Maggie’s chubby index finger
pointed heavenward, “’minded me of Nimmie.” The smallest girl’s voice trembled,
and her lower lip puckered out. She was valiantly trying to resist the urge to
suck her thumb, Isobel saw, but old habits die hard and a moment later the
digit was snugly back in its usual resting place.

She didn’t try to coax it out again. All three girls had
been through enough traumas within the last year, everything from the death of
their mother to that of Nimmie, their old brown mare. Not surprisingly, the
loss of Nimmie seemed to upset them more.

Despite her lifelong admiration for Kit Tanner, Isobel
resented their father for his failure to shore up to his new responsibilities.
His daughters practically worshiped him, but since Elspeth’s death he had
stayed at court and not visited
Ambergate
save once briefly at
Christmastide.