The Lady Series (52 page)

Belle turned with him, leaning her head close. “Who is she?” she whispered.

Jamie bent far enough to put his mouth near her ear. “A local woman unfairly judged to be a witch.”

“Then, as there is no objection,” the chaplain bellowed out in defiance of the interruption, “this wedding proceeds. Master Wyatt, if you will take the lady's hand.”

Belle stifled her groan. In the next moments Jamie would speak the words that made her another man's wife. Lord save her, but this was wrong. She couldn’t marry one man when it was another she loved.

Jamie took her hand. It was too late. But then, it’d been too late the day she’d collided with him in Richmond's garden. It was to hide her tears that she stared at their joined hands.

“Now, repeat after me: 'I, Squire Nicholas Hollier,’” the minister instructed.

“—take thee to be my lawfully wedded wife,” Jamie repeated.

As he spoke Jamie's finger traced a circle in the cup of Belle’s gloved palm. The subtle caress startled her out of her misery and she lifted her gaze to his face. His heart was in his eyes. She caught her breath. He wanted her to accept this vow as his own, even though he spoke the words in the name of another man.

“At bed and at board,” he continued, “for fairer and fouler, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death us do depart according to God's ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

It was his promise to her. For as long as she lived at Graceton Castle he would see she wanted for none of a husband’s care, save in one thing.

When Belle finished her vows Jamie breathed deeply, the corners of his mouth lifting as joy filled his gaze. Only then did Belle realize she’d forgotten to name the squire as her husband. Jamie was interpreting her fumble as her promise to be his wife. For the first time in her life Belle was grateful for her clumsiness. Even though fate denied them the chance to be man and wife in the way of most couples, she would cherish this moment as the most joyous in her life. This man, this handsome, caring man, loved and wanted her.

“Have you the ring, Master Wyatt?” the chaplain asked.

And so the ceremony continued; the donning of the ring followed by Belle’s introduction as Lord Graceton’s new wife. Then the minister launched into an uninspired and blessedly short sermon on how Belle should achieve marital bliss with her new husband.

Much to her surprise scorn filled her at the churchman's instructions. Although Squire Hollier had been kind to her and especially Lucy, he'd made it clear that first night he wanted no wife. All this advice aside the best way Belle could serve her new husband was to make no attempt to serve him at all.

With the sermon's ending it was time for the sharing of the cup. The chaplain started back to the tables in the nave. Jamie offered Belle his arm. When she’d tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, he pulled his arm close to his side, forcing her to step nearer to him.

It was the sort of game courting couples played, one in which Belle had never before participated. Now she stifled a giggle and clung close to him, even daring to lean a little on his arm.

They stopped at the forward table beside the churchman. At its center was the mazer. Carved of maple, the big wooden cup was filled with dark sweet wine. A sprig of rosemary trailed over its lip.

Lifting his hands, the chaplain administered the blessing. “Bless, O Lord, this bread and drink, this cup, even as Thou blessed the five loaves—”

As his benediction droned on Jamie leaned over until his mouth was nearly pressed to Belle’s ear. She shivered at his closeness. His breath was like a caress when he spoke.

“What do you think these folk expect of our kiss, me being but a proxy?”

It was sinful. It was wrong. Belle didn’t care. She couldn’t wait to feel his lips on hers.

“Decorum?” she whispered in return, knowing this wasn't the answer either of them wanted to hear.

“Pity,” he breathed then straightened.

Raising the cup to his lips, the chaplain took his sip then handed the mazer to Jamie. He sipped and handed it to Belle. Their fingers touched. Fire flashed through her veins.

Against that heat it was more than a dainty taste she took to steady herself. As she passed the cup to Sir Edward anticipation pulsed in her. Jamie was receiving the chaplain's kiss of blessing. Then he turned and placed his hands upon her shoulders. His warmth penetrated the fabric of her bodice, through skin and sinew until it filled her. Her knees trembled as she raised her face to his.

His head lowered. She closed her eyes. His lips were warm and soft on hers. He tasted of the wine. She breathed in, filling her lungs with his scent as she reveled in the feel of his mouth on her.

And then it was over. As he drew away, she wanted to cry out, to catch him back by wrapping her arms about his neck as she'd done that night in the gallery. She knew, because it had happened once before, that her kiss could leave him gasping in need.

Only she couldn’t put her arms around his neck. It was a sin. She was married to another man.

Pain worse than any she'd ever known tore through Belle. Her eyes filled against it. Bowing her head, she stared at the ridiculous ribbons that covered her skirt, promises of love for a man who would never love her. She wanted to tear every one of them off and run screaming back to her chambers.

However accidentally, she'd given her vow to Jamie, and taken his unspoken one from him. He was her husband and the need to be with her husband before God and all the world was going to eat her alive.

A gust of wind hit the top of Graceton Hall's roof. It blasted past Cecily where she stood between two merlons. Down it went into the valley below to scour Nick's lands, ripping drying leaves from their branches. Against the darkening sky, the tossing trees seemed to reach out after those bits of foliage like mothers pleading for the return of their stolen children.

Or wives, their husbands.

Tears stung at Cecily's eyes. Heaven's rage spent, its breath died. In its wake the sounds of raucous laughter and merry music drifted up from the hall along with the smoke from its fire.

She shouldn’t have trusted Nick to outwit his queen. Even as she thought this, she caught it back. This wasn’t Nick's fault. If she wanted to blame anyone it would have to be her for daring to hope love might win out when she’d known it couldn’t.

She'd been warned. Her mother had told her all those years ago that unlike the poor and landless, Nick would never control his own destiny. No matter how he might thrash and fight his fate, wanting and willing it to be otherwise, he would marry a woman of his own class.

Today, her mother's words proved true.

“Oh, Nick,” she cried to the valley below her, “how could you?” For the past four hours she'd stood here, seeking a strength she didn’t have. Now as the sun set and the time grew short, her heart still resisted.

Tears started afresh. The weather had turned early this year, even earlier than last autumn. Another gust roared over the peak of the roof, the pitch of this blast higher than the last. Its breath was frigid indeed. As it struck her, she was shoved forward into the gap between the stones. Of a sudden her feet were sliding out from beneath her.

As the sheer drop opened up in front of her, Cecily cried out in terror. She snatched at the merlon beside her, fingers digging into solid stone. Heart pounding, she caught her footing and righted herself. It was all the warning she needed.

Knees yet trembling, she made her careful way to the tower door. Once she’d slammed it against the elements, she leaned her back against that solid panel, panting in relief. The stairwell was dim while the promise of winter left the air within it icy. The wind whistled past the tower’s narrow windows. Save for that, her rasping breaths were the only sound.

As calm returned Cecily dared to laugh at herself. Why hadn’t she simply let loose and fallen? It would have been a much easier and far less painful solution to her problem.

Her lips took a harsh twist. What a coward she was becoming. She’d known her path wouldn’t be easy the first time she'd come to Nick's bed. Ten years after the fact was no time to be bemoaning that choice. It was finally time to do what she’d always known she must.

As his position demanded Ned danced in the ring beside the new lady Hollier, a smile plastered on his face. Aye, but behind it he was weeping. Norfolk had left the court. Now, in the queen’s panic over what her duke meant next to do, Elizabeth's questions would fly. And someone desperate to save his own neck would name Sir Edward Mallory a traitor.

'Round and 'round Ned's thoughts went, just as he and the dancers circled the hearth. And just like the dance he always came back to the same place. His career at court was finished. So be it. The price for saving himself had always been too high.

Once more, as he turned with the dance, Ned caught a glimpse of the screens that guarded the hall's door. Dick stood there.

He blinked. The servant held Ned’s cloak in his hands as if he expected his master to be leaving. There was starling eagerness to the man’s expression. It was puzzle enough to make Ned step out of the ring, offering the new Lady Hollier an abrupt apology. Snaking through the crowd of shouting laughing servants, he came to a stop before the man.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Salvation!” Dick replied, his eyes fairly glittering with excitement. “Bid these yokels farewell. In an hour we can be on our way to Windsor to rejoin the court once more. God be praised.”

Ned's eyes narrowed. It might be because he’d been living under the certainty of doom for so long, but he was deadly sick of this man sneering at anything that wasn’t of Elizabeth's court.

“Be plain,” he snapped. “What's happened that makes you think I can leave before the squire's made his lady a wife in more than name?”

The sparkle in Dick's eyes took on a vicious quality. “It's that forward bitch. Even now she sits in yon gatehouse, warming her toes before your fire. No matter the fate her lady threatened, it wasn’t enough to stem her desire for you.”

Ned’s jaw tensed. Dick didn’t know, mainly because Ned hadn’t chosen to tell him, that it wasn’t Graceton’s lady who stood between him and Brigit. It’d been agony to sit at the dinner table each night and see the hurt his silence did to her.

His servant's mouth lifted into a savage smile. “It seems she's brought you a present, straight from the steward's office.”

Dismay circled in on Ned. He closed his eyes. “Nay, Brigit,” he breathed to himself. It was the worst sort of irony that she had chosen to search Master Wyatt's office now, just after he'd decided his future at court was dead.

“Go to her,” Dick urged, when his employer made him no audible reply. “I'll give the steward your excuses, staying here until you return so you’ll have the privacy you need.”

“Aye,” Ned said at last, offering his servant a brusque nod as he took his cloak from the man. “Say to Master Wyatt that I’ll be gone no longer than a half hour.”

“So I shall,” the servant said, his smile smug and his bow mocking.

Ned bit back the urge to scream at Dick to cease. Whatever else happened, it was time for him and this servant to part ways. Turning, he made his way to the hall’s door and into whatever it was his future held.

His back to the parlor door, Jamie sat at the high table and watched Sir Edward's hasty departure. The tenseness that had plagued Jamie all day deepened. The fact that there had been no warning of an incoming messenger from the men he’d stationed at the crossroads didn’t mean there was no message. Was this more bad news from court? If so, for whom?

The knight’s servant was coming toward the table. The prissy little man offered a bow that would have put Leicester to shame. “Pardon, Master Wyatt,” he said as he straightened. “There's a matter that needs my master’s attention. He begs your indulgence and says he’ll be gone no longer than a half hour.”

Swallowing his bitter laugh, Jamie gave a brusque nod to acknowledge the message. There'd never been any doubt over the length of the knight’s absence. The appointed time for the bedding was in less than an hour. Since Sir Edward had made it clear he didn’t believe Nick would consummate the marriage, there was little possibility the knight would miss the moment he'd come to witness.

As the knight’s man retreated to a darkened comer of the hall, Jamie's gaze was drawn back to the dancers. Belle was among them, her feet flashing. A flicker of pleasure awoke beneath all the other emotions trying to drown Jamie. With Sir Edward gone he could watch her for the next half an hour without worrying what the queen's proxy might see in his gaze.

One of the cook's assistants darted from the surrounding crowd and leapt toward Belle. It was the ribbons tacked onto her skirts he was after, even though tradition said it wasn’t yet time for their taking.

Belle saw him coming and gave a half turn of her body, her movement denying him his prize. The audience groaned in disappointment as he came away empty-handed. Watt made the next attempt. As the footman sprang back he gave a shout of triumph and held his arm high. A bit of ribbon was caught between his fingers. Belle threw back her head and laughed.

The merry sound melted Jamie’s heart. She was uncomplicated and honest. If he wanted to know what she thought, he asked. She didn’t dissemble or tailor her words into what he wanted to hear. As complex as his life had been these past months it was easy to long for and adore such simplicity.

Somewhere behind him there was a loud crash. It echoed down the stairs and through the parlor. Frowning, he turned on his bench to look into the empty chamber.

All that answered him was silence. Jamie released a breath. Just as he shifted on the bench to face the hall, again there was another distant explosion. For all the world it sounded like a chair being thrown into the gallery.

There was a clang of metal, then the crystalline tinkle of breaking glass.

Jamie leapt to his feet. What in God’s holy hell was going on? He heard Nick's cough. It was a deep and wrenching sound, one that boded no good for Graceton’s master.

Snatching up the high table's branch of candles, Jamie flew through the parlor, taking the stairs to the gallery two at a time. He came to a skidding halt before the shattered remains of a table and the chair from Nick's office.

Broken ink pots spouted wee black lakes across the wooden floor. Leather bindings bent, expensive tomes were soaking up the oily remains of clay lamps. The wind whistled in through a broken pane in the oriel, its breath strong enough to roll a bent metal candlestick through shards of glass.

Nick coughed again from inside his office. This time, the rasping bark continued without pause. Terror shot up Jamie's spine. It wasn't often these spasms took Nick, but when they did he could go so long without breath that he fell unconscious. Worse, the bouts were always followed by illness.

Not tonight! Nick couldn’t fall ill, not when his life depended on the next hours.

Sliding and stumbling through the mess, Jamie pushed his way into his employer's apartment. The damage was worse here. No desk, table or lamp remained whole. Head bent, Nick stood beside the remains of the second table, his arms wrapped around himself in helpless embrace as he fought to breathe.

What with so much spilled oil and the possibility of fire, Jamie snuffed his candles before he tossed aside the branch. Then, striding over the litter, he swept the thin man up into his arms. Jesus save him! Nick had lost enough weight that he felt no heavier than Belle.

Stepping carefully, Jamie carried Graceton’s master into what had once been a fine bedchamber. Now a crippled chair lay on its side, soaked in spilled wine. There was naught left of the bedcurtains save rags while the linens lay half-on, half-off the mattress. A thick dark puddle spread out before the hearthstone, the fire’s light gleaming on its liquid surface. Against the pungent stink of the mixture Cecily had made Nick a few weeks ago, tears stung at Jamie's eyes.

Jamie sat Nick on the mattress, his back against the bed's head. Still trapped in the spasm, Nick arched, his body fighting to free his lungs. Kneeling on the mattress over him, Jamie tore open Nick’s expensive doublet, then his shirt. As he'd done too often before, he rubbed at his employer’s thin chest, trying to force Nick's lungs to relax.

Minutes passed like years. Still, the straining coughs continued. At last, Nick gasped and began to gulp in air like a drowning man.

Relief filled Jamie. He sat back on his heels and watched as Nick sagged against the wall, his head lolling to the side in exhaustion. Quiet settled over the room, unbroken save for the fire's gentle hiss.

At last Nick’s head lifted. His eyes were closed, his face yet ashen from his attack. “Leave me, Jamie,” he said. His voice was ragged from the damage the spate had done to his throat.

“Nay,” Jamie replied gently. Nothing mattered, not that Nick had brought the attack on himself by destroying his furnishings or that Jamie had no clue why Nick would want to ruin his possessions. “You could have another attack.”

“I don’t want you here,” came Nick's hoarse response.

A touch of anger flared. Nick had no right to send his steward running like some servant. “If you don’t want me then I'll send Tom up here to watch over you. You can't be alone.”

At that Nick’s eyes flickered open. Even in the bed's dimness Jamie could see the pain that filled them. “I am alone,” he whispered. “She's left me.”

Jamie sighed, anger dissolving into understanding. Cecily had been here. Her need to protect Nick had brought her here, to make certain he did his duty as she knew he must.

“It will but be a temporary parting,” Jamie replied. “Once life here settles into a routine, she'll be back.”