The Laurentine Spy (20 page)

Lord Ivo stepped into the room and closed the door. “Noble wife,” he said. “Petra.” His hand reached towards her.

Panic rose sharply inside her. She forced herself to inhale a shallow breath, to not flinch from his touch.

A whore lifting her skirts in an alley. That’s what I am.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A
THAN HAD DREADED
this moment all day. The reality was far worse than he’d imagined: Lady Petra’s closed face as she lay on the bed for him, dutiful, her eyes not looking at him as he stripped off his clothes.

With the dread had been fear.
What if I can’t do it?
He needn’t have been afraid. His body responded to the sight of her, the long plait of bright hair, the curves of waist and breasts beneath the nightgown.

Panic rose in him, threatening to quench the shameful arousal.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t.
His throat, his chest, were too tight for breath.

The Guardian’s voice echoed in his ears:
If you want Three to be safe, you will do this
.

Athan forced himself to inhale, to exhale, to step towards the bed.

He did it quickly—pushing the nightgown up Lady Petra’s thighs, feeling her cool, smooth skin shrink from his touch. He couldn’t look, just fumbled to push her legs open. She moved stiffly for him, obediently.

There was a moment when he was unable to go any further—and then he clenched his teeth and made himself do it.

He felt Lady Petra flinch, heard her catch her breath in pain. She was tight, tighter than any woman he’d ever had.
A virgin.

She lay beneath him, tense and unbreathing.

Athan squeezed his eyes shut and performed his duty as swiftly as he could, trying not to grunt like an animal. His climax brought no pleasure, only shame.
I’m sorry
, he wanted to say as he rolled off her, as he stood and reached for his clothes.

He turned away from the bed and dressed swiftly, fumbling with buttons and ties. His fingers shook. His breath came in short pants, as if he’d climbed a flight of stairs. As if he tried not to cry.

“Good night, wife,” he said, through a tight throat.

He barely heard Lady Petra’s reply, barely saw the maid waiting as he pushed through the parlor. He walked back to his bedchamber blindly. “Come back later,” he told the valet, shutting the door after the man.

He stood with his forehead pressed to the wall, his eyes tightly closed. Sobs choked in his chest, in his throat.
What have I done?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

S
ALIEL CLIMBED OFF
the bed. She was cold, numb. Her vision was unblurred by tears.
I did it.

There should be relief. Instead, there was just numbness.
I did it. I whored.

The maid brought hot water and cloths for her to wash with. It wasn’t enough; a single bowl couldn’t clean Lord Ivo from her skin. He’d seen her, touched her. His seed was inside her.

“More water,” she said. And when the second steaming bowl came: “More.”

The pain had been worse than she’d expected. Blood smeared the cloth she cleaned herself with. Evidence of her virtue, if anyone cared to check.

It’s done. Over.

She strippedoff the nightgown and scrubbed where Lord Ivo’s hands had touched her, where he’d lain on her, where she’d felt his weight and the heat of his body, where his breath had been on her skin and his long black hair had brushed across her cheek.

She couldn’t scrub away the memory, or his seed inside her.

Please don’t let me be pregnant.

But even thought of Lord Ivo’s child growing in her belly didn’t bring tears to her eyes. She was too numb, too cold.

The maid brought a fresh nightgown. She fussed with the bed sheets, smoothing them. She removed the bowls of water, the wet cloths, the damp towel. Then she curtseyed and left.

Saliel stood alone in the bedchamber. She turned slowly and looked at the bed, at the headboard carved of dark wood, the white sheets, the mound of pillows.

He’d bedded her on those white sheets. And she had closed her eyes and let him.

It was impossible to lift her feet and walk to the bed, impossible to climb into it.

Then sleep on the floor.
She’d done it often enough in the poorhouse.

Saliel took a feather pillow and a blanket and lay down on the rug beside the fire. The pillow was soft beneath her head, the floor hard.

The fire’s heat didn’t warm her. She was too numb. Too cold.

CHAPTER THIRTY

T
HE MAID RETURNED
just after dawn. Saliel heard footsteps in the parlor and the sound of shutters being opened. She pushed herself up from the floor.

She had the pillow and blanket neatly back on the bed before the maid scratched at the door. “Enter.”

“Good morning, noble mistress.” The woman curtseyed.

Saliel walked to the fireplace. She watched as the maid opened the shutters. Dim light leaked into the bedchamber. The tiny panes of glass were blurred with rain.

Today she had to copy the Consort’s key again.

Her head ached with tiredness. Sleep had been impossible; every time she closed her eyes she heard Lord Ivo’s breathing. With her eyes open and the candles burning, she heard only the crackle and hiss of the coals in the fire.

Saliel washed her face in warm water and ate the breakfast the maid brought and allowed the woman to dress her. The bruises on her arm were dark, where the Guardian’s fingers had dug into her flesh. If the maid noticed them, she said nothing.

Today
, Saliel told herself while the maid brushed and braided her hair. She looked down at her hands.
The Consort’s eyes, today.

The pain in her head grew worse as the tight braids were pinned up. How could she hold the Consort’s gaze when her eyes ached with tiredness? But when she closed them, she heard the noises Lord Ivo had made—soft panting sounds.

Saliel opened her eyes wide. The memory vanished. She heard raindrops hitting the windowpanes. Rivulets of water ran down the glass.
The sky weeps.
She couldn’t weep; the tears inside her were frozen, a cold, tight lump in her chest.

The maid stepped back. “I have finished, noble lady.”

Saliel stood. “My embroidery basket.”

She made a pretense of straightening the items. Her fingers touched silk thread, the smooth wooden box that held her needles, the cool silver lid of the container of wax.

Saliel inhaled a deep breath and lifted her head and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were dark-shadowed, her face pale with exhaustion. “My cape.”

Someone scratched on the outer door.

Saliel tensed—
let it not be my husband
—and took the cape from the maid. “Answer it,” she said.

But it was Marta, not Lord Ivo, who stepped into the parlor. “Petra,” she said, coming to the door of the bedchamber. “How are you?” The question was ordinary, one she asked every morning, but her pretty face was anxious.

Saliel stretched her lips into a smile. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

Marta’s anxiety vanished. She returned the smile.

The maid fastened the cape at Saliel’s throat and opened the outer door again.

Marta took hold of her hand as they stepped into the corridor. “It’s bearable,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”

Bearable? The sound of Lord Ivo’s panted breaths. His seed inside her. If she wasn’t numb, she’d vomit.
No, it’s not bearable.
“Yes,” she said.

Marta gave her a quick smile of solidarity and released her hand. “I shall start a new pattern today. I think...white roses this time.”

The long corridors were cold. Saliel pulled her cape tightly around her and stopped listening to Marta. She needed a pretext to speak with the Consort privately. Not her marriage; the Consort’s patience on that subject was very thin.
Think.

But exhaustion and numbness had slowed her wits. She sat alongside Marta in the Ladies’ Hall and could think of nothing. She couldn’t ask about the identity of Marta’s new husband; even Marta dared not ask that question. What then?

Married ladies stopped to speak briefly with her, commenting on the rain, the latest stitch, the choice of color for a new design. Slow-witted as she was, she heard the message beneath their words.
You are one of us
, their voices told her.
You do your duty, as we do. We bear it together.

The ladies mistook her numbness for composure, for calmness, and smiled approvingly at her.

Servants brought around refreshments. Saliel put down her embroidery frame.
Think
, she told herself.

Sweetmeats nestled on the silver trays: bite-sized lavender and honey cakes, tiny meringues filled with sweetened cream, soft wafers glazed with rosewater syrup. Saliel accepted a plate and napkin and took one of the cakes at random.
Think.

She watched as Marta hesitated over the selection of sweetmeats and then chose a pastry filled with cream.

“A tisane, noble lady?”

Saliel accepted a porcelain cup that was as delicate as flower petals. What could she speak to the Consort about?
Think.

The cake she’d chosen was dense and sweet and decorated with tiny pieces of preserved ginger. She chewed slowly.

Marta put her pastry aside with only a small bite taken from it.

“Are you not hungry?”

“The cream tastes too rich,” Marta said. “I find I can’t eat it.”

“Shall I call back the servant? There are sweetmeats without cream.”

“No.” Marta shook her head. “It was the plainest. The others are too spicy.”

Saliel looked down at her plate. Spices showed as dark flecks in the cake—cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg. “Too spicy?”

“Yes.”

She raised her head. “But you used to like the cakes.”

“I find I can’t eat them now.”

“Cream? And spices? But what about the soups at lunch? The sauces?”

Marta shook her head. “I can’t eat them.”

Saliel looked at her more closely. “Have you lost weight, Marta?” Relief unfurled in her chest. This was what she could talk to the Consort about.

Marta flushed. She glanced down at her lap and smoothed a wrinkle in the fabric. “Perhaps a little.”

Saliel felt swift shame.
I should have noticed.
“But you’re with child. You need to eat well. It’s most important.”

Marta looked up. “I’m fine. Please don’t worry, Petra.”

Saliel put her plate aside and wiped her fingers clean with a napkin. “If you can’t eat cream and spices, then you must eat other foods. The cooks can prepare plainer meals for you. I’m sure the Consort will allow it.”

Marta shrank back slightly on the sofa. Her face paled. “Oh, I couldn’t ask her.”

“Then I shall.”

Marta flushed again. Her smile was shy and grateful. “You’re a good friend.”

Saliel looked away.
No, I’m not. I’m using you.
She picked up her cake again and bit into it. She forced herself to chew, to swallow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

S
ALIEL APPROACHED THE
Consort and curtseyed low. “Your Eminence, I wish to thank you for yesterday.” It was the Consort’s one power: speaking the words that bound noble men and women together in marriage. “It was a beautiful ceremony. Thank you.”

The Consort smiled graciously. “You’re welcome, my dear.”

Saliel straightened. She took a deep breath. “Your Eminence. May I speak with you privately?”

The Consort took a few seconds to shift slightly on the sofa and rearrange her skirts. The change in her manner was clear. Saliel had seen it many times as a servant: coolness, dismissal.

“It’s not a matter concerning me,” she said hastily, before the woman could say
No.
“It concerns Marta.”

“Marta?”

Saliel nodded. She kept her posture deferential, her voice hesitant: “If...if it pleases you, your Eminence.”

She waited with her head bowed for the Consort to reply. Fear was cold on her skin.
Don’t refuse
, she begged the woman silently.
Please let me do this today.

“Very well,” the Consort said. “I shall put aside some time for you.”

“Thank you, your Eminence.” She sank into another low curtsey and held it for a long moment.