The Lady Series (57 page)

In Nick’s apartment the sound of his breathing filled the every corner. Still, Cecily waited until the lady's maid left the room before she leapt toward his bed. Nick was drowning with every breath.

Her sack clattered as it hit the floor and tears stung at her eyes. The lady was right. It was death he faced.

Denial again tore through her. She wasn't ready to let him go. Reaching into the bed, she smoothed the hair back off his brow then stroked her fingers down Nick’s scarred cheek, past his jaw to his neck. His pulse was thready and weak.

“Oh, Nick,” she cried softly. “What have I done?”

Between her touch and her voice, his eyes opened. He struggled to focus. “Cecily?” It was a breathless sigh.

Her tears came faster. She tried to smile. “Aye, my love. I’m here.”

“She brought you,” he gasped out, relief and wonder tangling in his gaze.

Then love for her pushed all other emotions from his eyes. It was just as true and deep as it had been before the moment she’d returned the ring he’d given her. There was no coin she could offer or deed she could ever do to repay Lady Purfoy for this moment.

“I’m so sorry. I should never have left you,” she breathed, combing her fingers through his hair.

He tried to lift his hand to touch her face, but his arm failed him and his hand fell back onto the mattress. “Closer,” he begged.

Even as her head told her she must hurry to mix cures and concoct potions, her heart made her loosen her cloak and slip onto the mattress beside him. As she caught her arm around him and laid her head upon his shoulder, Nick sighed. The tension drained from him. His hand came to rest at her waist.

So great was his heat that it nigh on scorched her through her clothing. What if he was so far gone that she couldn’t bring him back? Cecily closed her lips on a sob, not wanting Nick to hear her crying over him. It was her strength he needed now.

He still knew. “Don’t cry.”

His words shattered her control. Another sob wracked Cecily. She clutched him closer.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” she moaned. “Look what I've done to you.”

Turning his head, Nick braced his forehead on hers. “Nay, no tears. Not for that,” he said, his words broken and breathless, his eyes closing with the effort it took for him to speak. “You're back, my heart and soul.”

It was a too long speech for a man fighting for his life. He drifted peacefully back into his fevered dreams.

Cecily touched her mouth to his rugged cheek, to the corner of his jaw, then to the place where his throat met his shoulder. “And here I will stay, my heart and soul,” she told the sleeping man.

Easing off the bed, she reached for her sack. This was no mere skirmish she and Lady Purfoy were fighting. If she was to keep Nick with her, it would be all-out war she waged.

The promise of a gale carried Ned across Windsor’s wide upper yard to the fountain at its center. If this autumn’s weather was any indication, the coming winter was going to be colder than even the last one. As he took shelter from the frigid wind against the upper courtyard’s water source, he scanned the household's lodgings.

Here at Windsor, the courtiers lived in a long building that claimed the inner face of the castle's south and east walls; as tall as the wall, each individual apartment had its own doorway and upper-story window. Last night's rain had left puddles on the lodging’s lead roof and marked its white stone face with gray stains. The windows stared back at Ned, seeming naught but disapproving pewter eyes and no less intimidating than the great round keep tower that thrust up from its mound to his right.

Or perhaps it was only a reflection of his present state of mind. It was over. All he needed to do was meet with Elizabeth’s newest knight. Unfortunately, Kit Hollier was avoiding him, which was why Ned found himself freezing in the middle of Windsor's miserable courtyard this morn.

Those who knew said Graceton's heir had been called home to his ailing brother's bedside. Ned meant to intercept him before he left.

It wasn’t but a few moments later that a becloaked Kit came striding out of his residence, two men at his back. All three were dressed for traveling in the cold, wearing leather jerkins atop thick woolen doublets, and boots gartered to their thighs beneath heavy cloaks. Stepping forward, Ned placed himself directly in his former friend’s path.

For a moment it seemed the taller man might push past him. Then, at the last instant, Kit halted. Framed by his cloak hood, Kit's face was narrow, his cheeks rugged juts above his jaw. A narrow sandy-brown beard encircled his wide mouth. It was wariness that filled the man's green eyes as he offered Ned a cold nod.

Ned swallowed. It was his just desserts for setting out to abuse a friend's brother to save himself. He extended a hand. “My congratulations upon your knighting, Kit.”

Again, Kit hesitated but finally took Ned’s offered hand. “My thanks for that,” he said, “but you know as well as I it signifies nothing save that I am my brother's heir. Now that he is Lord Graceton, I must be Sir Christopher. Ned, I fear I cannot tarry. It took Richard here,” he lifted a gloved hand to give a jerk of his thumb toward a man Ned recognized as Lady Arabella’s servant, “three days to reach Windsor from Graceton. The roads were so bad he lamed his horse.”

“So it’s true? Your brother ails?” Ned asked quietly. “I’d hoped the news was wrong. From what little I saw of him, Lord Graceton seemed a good man.”

The reserve thawed from Kit's face as he smiled. In the slow movement of Kit’s mouth Ned saw the possibility of restoring what his ambition had nearly ruined. It was a warmer nod Kit offered this time. “I'll tell him you said as much when next I see him.”

“Please do,” Ned replied, then slid his hand into his doublet to finger the fold of paper. Even as he willed himself to pull it from its resting spot, shame kept his hand where it was.

Seeking to buy time to build his nerve, he said, "I'm leaving Windsor today as well, on my way to Berwick to help the earl of Sussex prepare for war."

Kit’s brows rose. “Are you? I wish you well indeed. If it comes to battle, I expect I'll see you there. It seems it'll be me who leads Graceton's men now." As he fell silent he shifted impatiently, his gaze darting toward the walls that lined Windsor's inner gateway.

It was now or never. Ned pulled the note from his doublet and nigh on thrust it into Kit’s hand. "Could you return this to Master Wyatt for me?" The words came out in a heated rush.

“What is it?" Kit asked. Then, because it wasn’t sealed, he flipped it open. As he scanned the words, a sharp laugh left him. “Where'd you get this bit of nonsense? Graceton only has one cannon and it was given into Elizabeth's custody months ago."

Bitter amusement bubbled up in Ned. Of course. Graceton's steward was too crafty a man to leave such incriminating evidence simply laying upon his desk for not-so-crafty governesses to find.

“Take it to him nonetheless,” Ned insisted, his voice sounding flat in his own ears. "I expect it'll have some meaning to him." It meant something to Ned that he had held it in his hand and never used it. Who would have known two months ago that convincing Master Wyatt that Sir Edward Mallory still held tight to his honor could be so important to him?

"As you will,” Kit said with a shrug then undid the button on his jerkin to slip the paper inside it. This time, it was he who extended his hand for Ned to clasp. “Good journey to you, Ned, and I look forward to meeting with you in the north country."

Ned caught his friend's hand. "To you as well, Kit. Until we next meet,” he said then whirled. It was with a businesslike stride that he crossed the yard even though he had nowhere in particular to go.

Over the weeks of Nick’s illness Jamie had converted Nick's once-cluttered sitting room into a chamber to suit all purposes. During the day, while Belle tended Nick, Jamie used it as his office. Once night fell and Cecily took Belle's place with Nick, the sitting room became a dining chamber for Graceton’s gentlefolk. When the meal was done, it became their parlor, where they spent their idle evening hours.

A routine of sorts had developed as the days passed. After dining, Belle, her maid and Lucy's governess retreated to their chairs, set at one side of the sitting room's small hearth. Most often they sewed. On some evenings, as tonight, Mistress Atwater read to herself from her prayer book.

With the women thus occupied, Jamie found himself once more serving as a stepfather's proxy, entertaining Lucy. Some evenings they played simple card games. On others, he worked at teaching her the more complicated board games. This evening he meant to introduce her to music, something that had been lacking from their nightly gatherings.

As he took his now-accustomed spot on the bench across the hearth's width from the women, Lucy came to sit beside him. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a whistle.

"What's that?" the child asked.

Rather than answer her, Jamie lifted the slender tube to his lips. It was a tune from his boyhood he teased out of that reed, a sweet song about a love-struck pair who had to surmount great obstacles before they could wed. Not until he had blown the last note did he realize how the song he'd chosen reflected his situation with Belle.

He glanced at Lucy's mother. This evening she wore no head covering beyond her blue snood. Where the netting didn’t conceal it, the firelight made her hair gleam like spun gold. As their gazes met new color touched her cheeks. Deep within her clear gray eyes, where only he could see it, he found she’d heard and deciphered the message his heart had unwittingly sent her.

A dull ache set to throbbing in Jamie’s head. Wanting Belle as his wife now seemed tantamount to wishing Nick dead, or at least that was how it felt. So it went, his emotions at war with themselves, each and every time he caught himself feeling anything about either Nick or Belle.

As if Belle read his thoughts concern replaced the affection in her gaze. "That was very pretty,” she said, her voice a little sad as she looked back at her handiwork. “I didn’t know you were a musician, Master James."

“I’m not,” Jamie said, turning his gaze to the whistle in his hands. "At least, not much of one."

"May I try?" Lucy asked, leaning her head against his arm as she looked up at him. Firelight burnished the child’s fair skin and made her deep blue eyes seem almost violet. There was something sweet indeed about the way she clung to him.

He smiled at her and handed her the whistle. "Not only can you try it, but the whistle is yours. Someone said you’ve no ear for music and I don’t want to believe it's true. I want you to prove this person wrong."

Lucy gasped and sent a glare across the room toward her governess. "Brigit!"

Mistress Atwater lifted her gaze from her book. Something had drained all the life from the pretty woman, stealing the color from her skin and putting dark rings beneath her eyes. Even the thick braid that trailed from beneath her coif to rest against her breast seemed to have lost its ebony sheen.

Although the governess meant to look at Lucy, her gaze flickered toward Jamie instead. Not for the first time in these past weeks he caught guilt's flash in her dark eyes.

As she realized he was watching her in return, she gave a tiny start then dropped her attention back onto her book. "I only said you couldn’t carry a tune," she said, speaking to its pages rather than her charge.

From either side of the young woman, Belle and her maid shared a worried glance then looked back to their respective projects.

Wondering what it was that played out among them, Jamie helped Lucy set her fingers onto the whistle’s tube. "Now put your lips to the tip and blow gently.”

Lucy gave a great puff. The whistle's shrill squeal made all three women groan. Jamie laughed.

“Gently, lass, gently,” he coached her again.

Lucy looked up at him. Sincerity filled her gaze. “I was blowing gently.”

"Then you must blow soft as a whisper,” he replied as the sitting room door opened.

Jamie frowned. All of those allowed to enter without knocking were already within the room. Lucy scrambled around on the bench, rising onto her knees to look over the seat's back at whoever came. Jamie turned as well.

Kit Hollier stood in the doorway. Mud stained Kit's boots. So waterlogged was his cloak that his jerkin beneath was also soaked. He scanned the altered sitting room.

“Where is everything, Jamie? What are all of you doing in here?" Panic and pain darkened his green eyes. "Oh God! Tell me I'm not too late."

Against so honest a show of worry none of the irritation Kit usually stirred in Jamie woke. It was good to see proof that, no matter how irreverent or disobedient Christopher Hollier might be, he carried true affection for his brother when in many families, Jamie’s included, a healthy and hale second son could be a very real threat to an invalid or ailing heir.

"Nay, you’re not too late, Kit,” Jamie replied. “Indeed, Nick does far better this week than last."

Kit closed his eyes. "God be praised,” he said, his head bowed. When his eyes opened again his gaze fell on Lucy. Surprise darted across his face then he smiled. "Lord child,” he said, "but you favor your lady grandam.”

Lucy, her whistle still held tight in her hand, shot Jamie a quick look. "Is it him?"

"It is,” Jamie replied, the lass's intensity teasing a smile from him. For the past week, she'd been practicing her introduction to her new step-uncle.

"Should I do it now?" she asked him.

Touched that she was seeking his guidance rather than her mother's, Jamie nodded. "If you will."

Flashing him a quick grin, Lucy slipped from the bench then came to stand in the center of the room. It was a deep curtsy she offered Kit, managing the honor this time without the bracing finger she’d needed when she’d introduced herself to Nick. As she rose, she lifted her chin to its proudest angle.

"I am Mistress Lucretia Purfoy,” she said, speaking clearly and slowly as she'd practiced. "I am pleased to meet you, um.” Here, she faltered, her brow creased.

Kit leapt to the pretty child's rescue. "It’s pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mistress Lucretia. I am your step-uncle, Sir Christopher Hollier."

"Sir Christopher!" Jamie cried. "Does that mean Nick’s title is restored?"

"It does,” Kit replied, a small smile touching his lips. "You now officially serve Lord Nicholas of Graceton, Jamie."

Surprise, relief and gratitude tangled in Jamie. Their ruse had worked. Sir Edward had found no further tool to use against Nick. Unbidden, the reminder of the wrong he’d done Belle that night woke and all pleasure died. Once again, Jamie's love for her set to warring with his affection for Nick. If ever he’d needed proof that no man could serve more than one master, here it was.

At the other side of the hearth, Belle rose from her chair. The honor she gave Kit was far less elaborate than her child’s. There was a twinge of jealousy in Jamie as he watched her smile at Nick's brother. He’d discovered he was a miserly man, wanting all her smiles for himself.

"Sir Christopher, since it seems the squire is now Lord Graceton, I suppose that should make me Lady Arabella."

Jamie recognized her reluctance to admit she was truly married to Nick in this convoluted introduction.

A quick grimace touched Kit’s lips. Stepping into the room, he took his sister-in-law's hand and offered her a courtier's flowery bow. “My lady, I must beg your pardon. I fear I'm the reason you found yourself forced into marriage with my brother."

As Kit spoke, he shot a sidelong look at Jamie. In that glance was another apology, this one aimed at Graceton’s steward. It was Jamie’s forgiveness Kit begged for saddling him and Graceton’s household with this woman. Jamie didn’t know if he should laugh or weep.

“You’ll get no pardon from me,” Belle laughed, "for I have no regrets over what's happened."

Her words pierced Jamie. He kept his gaze on Kit. "Nick's sleeping just now, but it's not unusual for him to wake later in the evening. Since there's no need for haste, why not shed those sodden things and come take your ease with us? If you haven’t eaten, I'll call for a meal. We could use new fodder for our conversations.”