The Lady Series (17 page)

That was, it was the only sensible path to take if one wanted to justify spending time with a man.

Patience didn’t notice Anne’s reaction as she kept her head into the spattering rain, her gaze locked upon the man waiting for her at the gate. “Come, mistress. I vow the weather worsens. This is no time to dawdle.”

Worry speared at Anne. Oh Lord, Patience wasn’t just fond of Master Babthorpe, she was head-over-heels in love with him.

Kit stood in the open door of this, their first secret practice venue, awaiting his student’s arrival. Just beyond the structure’s eaves a fine rain fell. He looked to the horizon. The gray weakened. Another hour or two, and they might actually see the sky.

Shifting in his stance, he glanced across the short expanse of grass to the neat array of houses—all whitewashed walls and dark timber with thatch for roofing—that was the village to the east of Greenwich. Smoke lifted and curled from chimneys, the smell of burning wood twining into the tangy spice of the nearby Thames. Shouts rose from the river’s bank as boats came and went. These folk were as much fishermen as farmers.

With nothing to do but wait, Kit let his thoughts drift back to his previous night’s dream. It started as his usual nightmare, with him a child once more. Nick appeared, and they’d once again begun fighting their childhood battle. Much to Kit’s surprise, Mistress Anne then joined them in his dream kitchen. With that, the nightmare softened into something far more provocative.

As grateful as Kit was for escaping the horror of his past, there was a touch of guilt at the thought of Mistress Anne coming between him and Nick, even in a dream.

At that moment, the mud-speckled party appeared and started across the grass, heading for the wide, cobbled apron that fronted this doorway. He knew them because, although the rest of the group had their hoods pulled low on their foreheads, Bertie had thrown back his hood and his black curls gleamed with moisture. Such was Bertie’s vanity that he couldn’t bear to deny the world his beauty.

As for the rest, Kit could still tell who was who. The musicians looked humpbacked and misshapen with their instruments strapped to their backs and hidden beneath their outer garments. As for the women, the brown skirts peeping through her cloak’s edges placed Mistress Watkins on Bertie’s left. Mistress Anne strode at his man’s right, her cloak gray and her skirts, black. She was close enough now that Kit could see the pale oval of her face beneath her hood. Her smile flashed. Whatever she said caused Bertie to look at her, the pleased movement of his mouth leaving a deep dent in either cheek.

Jealousy’s sword stabbed through Kit as he recognized Bertie’s smile as the one he saved for the women he most wanted to bed. Anger followed. He’d kill the man if Bertie dared touch his Nan.

Kit caught his breath. May God take him, but he’d settled this matter with himself only yesterday. She wasn’t his; she could never be, especially, not now.

Yesterday, when Ned told the tale of Sir Amyas refusing an offer for Nan’s hand then asked about a contract for marriage, she’d lied. Not only did she know that such a contract existed, she knew who it was her grandsire intended as her husband. If Kit read her reaction rightly, she was none too pleased over her grandsire’s choice.

Kit’s stomach tightened as he imagined the sort of man Amyas would have chosen for her. No doubt it was some parched, pale Protestant, who gave all his passion to God, someone unworthy of Anne’s fire and wit.

As the party reached this place’s foreyard, Kit stepped out onto the cobbled apron before the door and opened his arms in invitation. “Do come in,” he called, every inch the jovial host.

Leaving Bertie and her servant to pass her, Mistress Anne stopped in the courtyard and threw back her hood. The morn’s chill walk had put pink in her cheeks and made her dark eyes sparkle. Kit grinned as she stared at the building in consternation. He’d felt no differently when he’d first set eyes on this place.

“A barn?” she cried. “We are to practice in a barn?!”

Waving the musicians on inside, Kit crossed the slick stones to stand beside Mistress Anne and once more study the tithe barn hired on their behalf. Made of stone with well-kept thatch for roof, this building was the village’s collection point for what they owed their landlord. Six bays thrust out along each long side with a tiny, square window cut in each extension to provide for air’s circulation.

“This is not a barn,” he chided her, “this is an adventure. Today we go east, on the morrow ‘tis west. Who knows where we’ll be the day after?” He paused to offer her an arch look. “It could well be in someone’s moldy storeroom.”

“I pray not,” she laughed as he offered his arm.

She wound her hand into the crook of his elbow without hesitation. As had become her habit, Mistress Anne then leaned against his arm in a most agreeable way. In what Kit hoped would become his habit he drew her closer still. She accepted his nearness with a smile. He led her to the door, letting her stop to peer into the barn’s musty and dim interior.

Short slatted wooden walls divided up the interior, the walls reaching only a third of the way across the structure’s width as they separated each bay one from the other. This created a long uncluttered corridor down the middle of the barn reaching from door to door. The musicians had shed their cloaks and set their folding stools near the closer end of the barn; they were already rousing their instruments. The drummer tapped his tambour, his ear held close to the membrane while teeth-jarring sounds came from the two viols as bows sawed against gut. The fourth man plucked and twisted the pegs atop his lute’s neck.

“Are you certain this is where we’re to be?” Mistress Anne asked after a moment’s study.

“Indeed I am,” Kit replied. “This is the perfect place to teach you the Pavane’s stately footwork and careful paces. The floor’s fairly even and, although we’ll have to leave the doors open for light, the day’s not so cold as to make us uncomfortable. Besides,” he smiled at her, “we’ll be too busy dancing to notice anything else.”

“If you say so,” Mistress Anne replied, yet unconvinced.

Releasing him, she crossed to one of the dividing walls and stripped off her cloak. Kit gaped in disbelief when he saw her attire. Where he wore a well-worn and sleeveless cream doublet over his shirt, a sturdy pair of brown breeches and his most comfortable shoes upon his feet, she dressed as if this were the Presence Chamber.

“What is this?” he cried.

“Do you not like it?” she asked, turning to offer him a mocking curtsy.

Nay, he didn’t. Yesterday’s brown had suited her far better. The only good about her outfit was that beneath her ruff her shirt lay open, exposing her cleavage.

“It isn’t a matter of like or dislike,” he replied. “We’re conducting dancing lessons, not serving the queen the dinner she never eats. On the morrow you’d be well advised to wear something you won’t mind having torn or stained.”

She shot him a wry smile. “Then so I shall. And, my grandsire swore I’d have no need for those sturdier garments I brought with me from Owls House. My thanks for the advice.

“Patience, my shoes,” she called to the barn’s opposite end. Bertie and Mistress Patience stood in the opening, gazing toward a nearby copse of yellow-green willows.

“Aye, mistress,” her servant replied, her voice far more feminine than Kit expected.

Mistress Patience walked slowly up the barn’s length, her damp hems collecting last year’s grit as she went. A pair of shoes dangled from one hand, while the other held her prayer book clasped tightly to her breast.

Kit glanced at Bertie. His man watched the governess without a hint of his previous complaints over these hours of enforced study. Instead, Bertie’s face held a sort of quiet admiration for the severe little woman. Kit freed a breath of amazement. Bertie had missed his calling. He could have made a right fine living as an actor.

The maid held out the shoes. “Mistress, while you practice Master Babthorpe and I thought we’d sit near the far door. That will give us light and keep us dry while we remain out of your way.”

As Mistress Anne took her footgear and nodded, the maid whirled to return to the door. When Mistress Patience saw Bertie watching her, she smiled. Kit’s eyes widened. And a right pretty smile it was.

Beside him, Mistress Anne grasped the wall with one hand and tried to lift her skirts while slipping the shoe onto her stocking-clad foot. Kit bit back a smile. It appeared Bertie was having an effect on Mistress Watkins. No servant should be so careless with her charge. Not that Kit meant to complain, not when this was far better for him and what he planned.

“Here,” he said, taking hold of Mistress Anne’s elbow to offer her the balance she needed.

“My thanks,” she said without looking up as she slipped on her shoes. “As inappropriate as my skirts may be, I didn’t want to dirty them by sitting.”

She straightened to look up at him. Her expression was sober, all the spark gone from her eyes. A tiny crease marked her brow.

“Mistress?” he asked.

“Yesterday, you and Lord Montmercy never returned,” she said, her voice low.

Nay, they hadn’t. The lad had been astride his horse and riding hell-bent for Greenwich before Kit could stop him. It had taken half the distance to the palace before he’d caught up to Andrew. “He didn’t wish to depress the spirits of those around him. I would have returned, but I felt it best not to leave the lad alone.”

He’d stayed with the youth until a servant brought the round and rumpled lass who’d been warming his bed for the last months. Within minutes Lord Andrew was thrusting his pain into the maid, both of them groaning in a different sort of agony. At the back of Kit’s mind he offered Andrew a mental salute and wished something as simple as constant coupling would give him respite from his guilt over Nick.

“I’m so sorry,” Mistress Anne sighed. “Had I known speaking of his mother might so upset him, upon my word I’d have held my tongue.”

“Have no fear,” Kit said. “He knows your intent was innocent. No permanent harm was done.”

It wasn’t only Montmercy she’d upset with her question. Christ, but he’d almost tossed the contents of his cup down the front of his doublet when she’d asked after Lady Montmercy. For the hundredth time since that moment, guilt nagged. What if she knew of his contract with Lady Montmercy? It didn’t matter that Kit knew this was impossible. Why, not even Lord Andrew knew of that agreement, or what it was he held in his possession.

As much as Kit wanted to ask Mistress Anne why she was interested in Lady Montmercy, he could think of no way to broach the subject without throwing suspicion on himself, so he but smiled instead. “Now, remove your gloves, and we’ll dance.”

She looked askance at him over this last. “One does not wear gloves while dancing?”

“Have I not removed mine?” He touched the garments, already tucked into his belt then caught her hand in his. Warmth shivered up his back as his naked fingers slid between her gloved ones. How odd that the sight and feel of something so mundane could so stir his blood.

Leaning near, he put his lips so close to her ear he could almost feel the velvet of her headdress. “The truth is,” he whispered, “I want to feel your hand in mine with no fabric between us.”

Laughing, Mistress Anne snatched back her hand. “You!” she cried out, her protest belied by the pleasure in her voice. “The gloves stay.”

This time when Kit caught her hand, it was to lead her out to the center of the barn. “Now then, we’ll do again what we did at the Maying.”

He quickly found it best to lead her through the whole dance, calling out the steps as they took them. Then, while the musicians rested, he drilled her on the precise execution of the footwork. This required that she lift her skirts so he could see the positioning of her feet, giving him cause to ogle her shapely ankles.

Although the dance was a slow stately one, the constant repetition made for heat. This took its toll on her attire. First, her black oversleeves were untied, then removed entirely and left to hang on the wall next to her cloak. Her gloves and ruff went next. Soon her shirtsleeves were rolled up onto her forearms. Best of all, her collar’s strings had loosened with her movements and her shirt began to gape. With every glance Kit could see more of her chest from her shoulders to her bodice’s top.

Two hours of activity made changes in his own attire. His doublet was now unbuttoned, hanging open from his shoulders, and his shirt collar was spread wide.

At last she maneuvered herself through the whole dance without him calling the steps. Kit smiled. “Well done,” he told her. “Now that you know the steps, you’ll find the grace you need to execute them.”

“May the angels in heaven begin their rejoicing,” Mistress Anne gasped, fanning at her flushed face with a hand.

“One more time to set it forever in your memory.” He caught her by the elbow to turn her for another parade up the barn’s length.

“Nay, I cannot,” she moaned, and fell against him. Her arms latched around his waist as she rested her head upon his shoulder. “My feet ache and my head spins with double rights and lefts, sidings and kicks.”

So startled was he by her unexpected embrace Kit lost all ability to think. Sensations flooded him. With his collar undone, he could feel the softness of her veil against his bare throat. There was naught but the thin fabric of their shirts between them. With every breath, her breasts moved against his chest.

His shaft filled. Aye, what he needed most was to have her lying beneath him. Now.

Just as he lifted his arms to embrace her, she stepped away from him, swabbing at her forehead with a hand. Retreating to the nearest dividing wall, she glowered playfully at him. “This is your revenge over how I teased you about Mary, I know it, aye. Well, you’ve bested me. Let me die in peace.”

As she leaned back against the wall, her collar strings finally gave way and opened. Her shirt parted, leaving the top of her chest bare to him.

Kit lost himself in lust as he gazed at the exposed slender line of her throat, then traced the outline of her breasts, bared to their crests, as they thrust up above her bodice’s top. How he wanted to touch his lips to those sweet mounds. His hands curled as if to close about them.

His gaze lifted to her face. Dear God, but she was beautiful. As they’d danced, the band of her headpiece had slipped back allowing a few fine hairs to escape its confinement. They curled against her cheeks, touching places that he ached to touch.

Once again, the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth called to him. Aye, he’d start his kiss at that spot then slide his mouth atop hers. Her lips would be soft beneath his as he plied them and waited for her to moan for him to take her.