The Lady Series (24 page)

When he was done she looked up at him. Sadness marked every line of her face. “I don’t want our time to end.” Her mouth took a wry bend. “To think, all this practicing and we’ll never have a chance to dance before the queen.”

Kit started at her reminder of the queen’s wager. With it came the foolish hope of winning royal favor. He damned himself as thrice an idiot. Even if Elizabeth delayed Anne’s marriage to accommodate the wager there was no guarantee that the finest rendition of the La Volta would win them more than a pretty smile from their monarch.

Anne gathered up her stockings and garters, and thrust bare feet into her shoes. Again, she fought to smile. “I daresay there’ll be no invitation for you to attend my wedding.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head. “You’ll not marry Deyville.”

“Kit,” she cried in soft protest, “we’ve just determined there’s no way to stop my marriage.”

“Ah, but there is,” he replied, the need to protect her from Deyville burning like a holy cause within his heart. “That nobleman will die before his wedding day, on this you have my solemn oath.”

“Nay!” she cried in protest. “If you kill him, your life will be the forfeit. I can’t bear the thought of you dead.”

“Mistress, you must come now.” There was a new, worried tone to the maid’s voice. The garden gate loosed a rusty groan as it opened.

“I come,” Anne called back then threw herself at Kit, wrapping her arms around him.

He pulled her close. Her kiss was as desperate as it was brief. As she released him, Kit caught her face in his hands to look at her. The moonlight turned the trails of her tears to silver.

“Don’t mourn yet. There’s still time,” he told her.

“I cannot help myself.” She turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. “I must go.” This last was a forlorn cry.

“Then go, taking my heart with you,” he told her as he released her, “and know I cherish yours above all else. We will find a way, I know it, aye.”

“Would that I could believe you,” she cried then whirled.

Kit watched her disappear into the night. Only when he could see her no more, did he turn to gather up his own attire. She was right not to believe him. There was no hope at all.

Late evening on Kit’s second day of travel he reached the grassy parkland surrounding Graceton Castle. Not once on either day had the sun made its appearance. Instead a steady rain falling from a leaden sky had been his constant companion, as if heaven cried for his hopeless cause. Now, with night overtaking him, the world around him seemed trapped in a hushed, drear dullness where the rattle of harness rings and the snort and sigh of his horse were the only sounds.

Turning his face into spattering drops, Kit looked at the place of his birth. Graceton Castle sat on a sharp lift of land caught in the river’s bend. It wasn’t a house by any reckoning, but centuries’ worth of stone towers and stretches of ancient wall remade into a residence. From this angle, he could see the river wall. Ivy clung to its gray stones, leafy lines snaking upward to frame the small square windows on the house’s lower level. More graceful arched openings marked the second and third storeys, where the hall and family quarters were located. Here, the house’s roof line peaked above the crenellations on the exterior wall’s top, each of those defensive stone teeth wearing archers’ crosses from a long dead past.

Along the riverbank summer’s growth was lush and thick, as if in desperate reaction to the previous winter’s unusual cold. That left little to be seen of the village across the water. Of the folk who lived there, Kit caught nothing more than the glint of light or the darker curl of smoke against the blackening sky.

As he started up the narrow, tree-lined lane leading to his home’s massive gateway, his thoughts were as muddy as the path beneath his horse’s hooves. Two days he’d done nothing but ponder the conundrum of how to both keep his life and marry Anne. If the means to that end yet eluded him Kit was certain the answer he needed turned upon Lady Montmercy’s hatred for Old Amyas.

He freed a quiet breath. What good did all this thinking do when there was no way to make use of it?

The lane let him out before the mossy, massive gatehouse on the north wall. The stables lay here, outside the walls and wisely so, as it prevented the befouling of the air near the house. Even before Kit dismounted, a stable lad raced to the house to announce his return. Kit watched the lad sprint off into the darkness.

If nothing else, there’d be a greeting party of at least one, Nick’s housekeeper, a woman nigh on as old as the house. Mistress Miller had served the Holliers since their grandsire’s time. For reasons beyond Kit’s ken she retained a persistent fondness for Graceton’s prodigal son.

His sodden cloak dragging on his shoulders, he set across the grassy expanse between gatehouse and the main doorway. As always, his gaze shifted to the ancient keep tower. Left where it stood as a reminder of the Hollier’s permanence, the broken and crumbling structure glowered down upon the house from its mound. Once inside the castle walls, Graceton looked more residence than fortress. The kitchen lay in the corner nearest the gate alongside the house’s brewery. A cheery glow flowed over the low wall that enclosed that area, bringing with it the distant sound of laughter and conversation.

The hall soared three storeys above the service buildings. Four long windows marked its courtyard face. Only the barest shimmer of light escaped the thick glass. Kit didn’t bother listening for sound; there’d be none. Since Graceton’s squire spent no time within the hall, neither did his servants.

Beyond the hall the house thrust outward into the courtyard to accommodate its living quarters, reaching from hall to the wall’s far corner. Built in his grandsire’s time, a gallery clung to the house’s second storey, a long, square stone box peppered with graceful windows that stretched the house’s length. It had been added to allow access to the upper chambers, but also served the inhabitants as a place to walk on the all-too-frequent rainy days.

Kit let his gaze follow the gallery’s length to where it melded into the corner tower. Here, had Father Roger dwelt, his and Nick’s priestly tutor. A sour man, he’d suffered dearly the torments of his students.

The thought teased a startled breath from Kit. When was the last time he’d remembered anything about his and Nick’s school days? Years, at least.

The door in the hall’s sheltered entryway flew open. Mistress Miller stepped out onto the top step, her bracing cane in one hand and a lighted taper in the other. By the candle’s glow Kit could see her face. Framed in her kerchief and high-necked white partlet, it was as round and wrinkled as a dried apple. Her grin was wide and nearly toothless.

Kit gave another sigh. He’d be lucky to come away from this greeting with only one pinch to his cheek.

“Master Kit, whatever brings you tapping on our door so late?” she called, her age-deepened voice echoing against the tall walls that surrounded them.

“Royal command,” he replied as he climbed the three short steps leading up to the door.

“If it takes that Protestant she-devil to send you home, then I’ll praise God for it, Master Kit.” Mistress Miller was too old to care upon whose ears her opinions fell.

“Enough of that,” Kit replied in mild warning.

She reached for his cheek. He lifted his head. “And that as well,” he laughed, kicking the mud from his boots. “How is my brother?”

A morose breath gusted from her as she tottered back into the hall. “As well as might be expected for a man in his condition. If you’re thinking to see his lordship tonight, you’re too late.”

Like many of the older servants, as well as a good number of the villagers, Mistress Miller cared nothing for the legalities of Nick’s title or lack thereof. All that mattered to them was that Nick was the eldest son of the previous lord, making him lord in their eyes. “The damp and that woman of his chased him into bed early this evening.”

Kit glanced past her to the hall screens, behind which stood the stairs to the family quarters. “Is Master James about?”

“Nay, he’s gone off to London to do Lord Nicholas’s business,” she replied. “Now, no more talk. You’re sodden, through and through.” She latched a gnarled and wrinkled hand onto his arm. “You should have sent word you were coming. I’d have seen a decent meal laid out for you, instead of just a bite and a sup. Come then. I’ve sent a lass to wake the fire in your chambers. Up you go to warm yourself.”

It was nearly noon the next morning before Kit tapped on the door to his brother’s suite. He wore his most comfortable attire, a brown doublet, the sleeves left off, atop a pair of well-worn leather breeches. This was home, a place to toss aside courtly affectations and live the simple life.

With Jamie gone to London Kit expected Nick to call for him to enter. Instead Cecily Elwyn opened the door. “Good morrow, Kit,” Nick’s woman said in greeting, her golden eyes alive with pleasure at seeing him again.

Aside from her odd yellowish eyes there was nothing remarkable about Cecily. She was narrow of face and round of body. Strands of black hair escaped her widow’s kerchief while her blue bodice and brown skirts were a little haphazard in their arrangement.

“Good morrow, Cecily,” he said as he stepped within the chamber. “Is Nick ready to see me?”

“He is,” she replied, still smiling. “Come along, he’s in the bedchamber.”

As Kit started across the suite’s forechamber he shook his head. Once again, papers were strewn across Nick’s desk, the tables heaped with precious tomes. Only as Kit saw Cecily and the room together did he realize that Nick’s room was very much like Nick’s woman, both of them being comfortable in their disorder. The comparison made him smile.

“I vow Cecily, he hasn’t changed a whit since our youth. At least this clutter of his appears to be an organized mess.”

“So he claims,” she said, “forbidding us all from straightening, fearing he’ll find nothing after.”

“Is that you, Kit?” Nick called out, the cost of raising his voice a cough as he appeared in his bedchamber door.

“It is, indeed,” Kit replied as he and Cecily stopped before Graceton’s master.

Nick wore a long, black robe, not unlike those affected by older gentlemen at court right down to the belt about his middle. Day’s bright light streamed past him from the windows behind him. Even in so thick a robe, his form was gaunt. Still, he seemed no thinner now than he’d been on Kit’s last visit.

“If you two are to talk I’d best be on my way,” Cecily said.

With a smile to her lover, she started to turn. Nick caught her by the elbow to hold her in place.

“There’s no need for you to go. What Kit and I have to say isn’t private,” he said softly, the affection he knew for her filling his voice.

Kit glanced between the two and swallowed. It was the same love Kit felt for Nan he saw reflected in Nick’s green gaze. Nor was there any doubting that Cecily cared just as deeply for Nick. It fair glowed in her narrow face.

“Huh,” she replied, her attempt at scorn defeated by her softness for her lover. “You only wish me to stay because you’re greedy for my company. You’d not be so lonely if you’d come out of these rooms.”

Nick only shook his head, his gaze smiling at her if he couldn’t. “Nay, I daren’t come out, else you’d never again come in to wake me. You are a wondrous sight by morn’s light.” He lifted his bony fingers to her face, turning his hand to draw the relatively unmarked skin of its back down her cheek.

“So says the scarred man of his plain woman,” Cecily laughed, then gasped as Nick wrapped his arm around her to pull her against him. She shoved free of his embrace. When he reached for her again, she slapped at his hand. “Nay now, you’ll not do me so with your brother standing right here.”

“What? Do you think Kit a child in need of protection from what it is men and women share?” Lust and laughter filled Nick’s voice.

Cecily crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. Her show of anger couldn’t belie the pretty pink stain pleasure left upon her cheeks. “You’ll not draw me into one of these sorts of arguments. I’m going now, but you remember your vow,” she warned with a shake of her finger. “I’ll know if you’ve dumped it.”

A touch of chagrin flashed through Nick’s green gaze and was gone. “Just because I wouldn’t drink that last brew you made me is no call to go doubting my word. I vowed I’d keep it a full twenty-four hours, and so I shall.”

“Until this even then.” Standing on her toes, Cecily pressed her lips to Nick’s scarred cheek. She turned and made her way across the suite, shutting the door behind her as she left.

Once she was gone, Nick sighed. “She won’t wed with me, you know.”

“You’ve asked her?” In Kit rose all the harsh prejudices his forefathers held against noble marrying peasant. He shook them away. Here was a woman who loved and accepted Nick in spite of his scars. What right had he to deny his brother happiness?

Kit frowned at the door. “Why should she refuse you? She ought to be thrilled to move from that woodland hidey-hole of hers and become the dame of this fine place.”

“She claims there’s no point to our wedding, not when she knows she’s barren,” Nick started, only to have a spate of coughing overtake the rest of his sentence.

Kit’s frown deepened. So Cecily wished to leave Nick free to wed and beget true heirs. And rather than betray the one woman who accepted him, scars and all, Nick looked to Kit to carry on their family’s line and name, something Kit adamantly refused to do. Regret spiraled in on Kit. Why had it taken him so long to see this? Fie on him for daring to toy with his brother’s life and love. Now if he couldn’t find a way to escape the murder Lady Montmercy planned for him, Nick would have no choice but to set aside Cecily and wed another.

Nick finally caught his breath to finish his thought. “In all truth she fears cries of witchcraft most. Cecily says the villagers are uncomfortable enough with her, what with her strange eyes, her herbal knowledge, and her mother’s madness.”

“Her mother wasn’t mad,” Kit replied out of long habit, having spent many an hour in Cecily’s woodland cottage as Nick recovered. Cecily’s dam had owned a hermit’s personality, liking as little contact with others as possible.

“So you and I know, but others don’t see it so. Cecily fears shouts of black magic if she, a poor cottager, should wed the local gentry. Enough of that.” Nick laid a hand on Kit’s shoulder in invitation. “We’ll sit while we talk.”

Kit followed his brother into his bedchamber. “Mistress Miller tells me Jamie’s gone to London. What’s he doing there?”

Nick’s amusement sounded husky in his ever-breathless lungs. “Business with regards to Graceton Castle. He didn’t want to go, saying London is fetid this time of year.”

That made Kit laugh. “He’s right in that.”

Nick claimed the chair closest to his private altar, leaving Kit with the nearer one. Kit dropped to sit, only to rear back out of its depth, his eyes stinging as he gasped for breath. “Christ, Nick! What is that stench?”

Whatever it was, its source was the pot hanging over the slow burning fire on Nick’s hearth. Kit coughed and turned his head aside in the hopes of escaping the pungent air. Nick loosed a helpless sigh.

“This is the source of Cecily’s scold. It’s a concoction meant to loosen my lungs. She’s worse than you for fussing over me, but I say I’d rather die from lack of breath than live with this stink.”