Kissed by Shadows (9 page)

He gave a short crack of laughter. “Don't expect me to believe that. In my experience out-of-the-ordinary women tend to want similar favors. Come, tell me.” He beckoned her to a stone bench set into a neatly carved arbor in a privet hedge. “Let us sit down and discuss this.”

Luisa sat beside him. It was a small bench and their thighs touched. Luisa's nose wrinkled. “You smell very rank, Lord Robin,” she stated with distressing frankness. “In my country it is not customary for a man to visit a lady with the sweat of the day upon him.”

Robin turned to stare at her, for an instant completely dumbstruck. He stood up and put several feet between them before he found his voice.

“I would have you know, madam, that I have ridden fifty miles today, and then rowed from the Tower. All to see you. If you are so nice in your notions that you cannot accept the help of a man with the sweat of honest toil upon him, then I will take my leave.”

Luisa jumped up. “Oh, no . . . no, please do not go. Please don't take offense. I have the most . . . most dreadful habit of speaking my mind. I do not mind that you smell . . . indeed I don't.”

Robin wasn't at all sure that this declaration improved matters. And now that it had been pointed out, he could smell his own rankness on the somnolent air. He never gave a second thought to his appearance, he was always untidy, a matter for gentle teasing among his family. But now he began to wonder if he was less than scrupulous about matters of personal hygiene. When had he last changed his shirt and linen?

His father had chided him often for neglecting to do so when they had traveled together during Robin's youth.

“I have had a hard day's travel and came to you as soon as possible,” he said stiffly. “You must forgive me for offending.” He left the shrubbery with an anger that was rooted as much in discomfort as in annoyance.

Luisa flew after him. She seized his arm. “Oh, please . . . 'twas so thoughtless of me. Forgive me. I never ride far, so how can I know what it's like? And I do not mean to sound ungrateful that you came to me with all speed. Please, forgive me.”

She gazed up at him with bright eyes full of conviction. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. She stroked and patted his hand as if it were a lost kitten.

Robin felt his discomfort and annoyance slip from him. So he reeked of sweat and horseflesh. So he had offended the tender nose of this sheltered child. But this excitement-inclined young woman had more on her mind than a less than fragrant tutor in London's entertainments.

“What do you want of me, Luisa?” he asked again.

She regarded him anxiously as if to be sure everything had returned to an even keel, then said, “Well, now that I have a boat and a horse I can leave the house more freely. I was thinking that if you would bring me man's clothes next time, we could go quite safely into the city at night, when Bernardina is asleep.”

“Man's clothes?” Robin scrutinized her, then gave her her own again. “My dear girl, you don't have the figure to get away with it.”

She gazed down at herself. “Whyever not?”

“You have too many roundnesses,” he said bluntly, hands passing through the air to indicate breasts and bottom.

Luisa was undeterred by what she considered a compliment. “Then I will wear a long cloak. It will cover all roundnesses.”

Robin considered. His little attempt at minor insult had fallen short because Luisa's particular plumpness was a fashionable advantage among the Spaniards. Trading barbs of a personal nature with a mere miss was beyond the dignity of a man who had a considerable reputation in his chosen and very dangerous profession.

“I'll decide for myself what you should wear,” he said firmly. “I will bring you what I consider suitable. Stand still and let me take a look at you to assess the fit.”

“I cannot see the point if I'm to be shrouded in a cloak,” Luisa observed, although she stood still for him, and then turned as he twirled an imperative finger. “I can't imagine how you can guess at what's beneath this farthingale,” she said.

Robin heard the mischief in her voice. Dona Luisa was not to be easily managed. But then neither was he.

“I will return in two nights, he said without responding to her mischief. “At eleven, if that's the safest time for you.”

“Bernardina retires at ten. She keeps such early hours in England, but I expect 'tis because she's bored,” Luisa said. She sighed. “Poor Bernardina. She has no friends here . . . no one to pass the evenings with in gossip as she used to.”

“Perhaps I should bring a disguise for her and she can join us on this little expedition,” Robin suggested, jumping into the skiff. He was rewarded with a peal of laughter. Such a wondrously joyous sound he couldn't prevent his own delighted smile.

He untied the painter and took up the oars again. Luisa stood on the quay waving him away in the moonlight until she had disappeared into the midnight darkness.

He found the skiff's owner in the Black Dog waxing maudlin over what was clearly one of a long line of tankards of strong ale. The man blinked up at him, not recognizing him.

“Your skiff's at the steps,” Robin said. “You'd best keep an eye on it, lest someone decide to borrow it.”

The man grunted and his head sank into his tankard. Robin shrugged. His obligation was done. He left the tavern and went for his horse.

It was close to three o'clock when he arrived at Whitehall Palace. It was not too late for the hardened carousers of the court. They would be at cards or dice, listening to music, drinking deep. Philip of Spain, now released from the necessity of serving his wife's bed, would probably be among them.

Robin's grimace of distaste was involuntary. His dislike of the queen's husband was so powerful that only training enabled him to maintain the superficial courtesies. Philip was a debaucher, but even his sternest critics had to admit that he worked on affairs of state with the same dedication he showed to pleasure. He would sleep two hours and be at his desk at dawn, after attending early mass.

Robin had lodgings in the palace, a small chamber in a wing occupied for the most part by the lowlier members of the court. He rarely used the room, preferring the more spacious accommodations of his father's house in Holborn, but he was too tired tonight to ride any farther.

His route took him along the corridor that led past the apartments of Lord and Lady Nielson. A large suite of rooms for a favored courtier, a man who had been intimately involved in the negotiations for the queen's marriage.

A light shone beneath the door to Pippa's bedchamber. Robin paused. He had no desire to interrupt some marital intimacy but after what Pippa had confided it was probably unlikely that Stuart was visiting his wife at this hour of the night. It was more likely that Pippa was wakeful and unhappy.

He tapped on the door.

“Who is it?” Pippa's voice did not sound sleepy.

“Robin.”

“Just a minute.” Pippa slid out of bed and padded barefoot to open the door. She pushed her loosened hair away from her face and looked at him in surprise and concern. “'Tis so late, Robin. Is something the matter?”

“No. I've just returned from Woodstock. I was going to bed and saw your light. You should be asleep.”

Pippa stepped back, pulling the door wide in invitation. “I find it hard to sleep these nights.” She climbed back into bed, propping the pillows behind her. “Tell me of your visit. Did you see Elizabeth?”

Robin helped himself to wine from the flagon on the sideboard before perching on the end of the bed. “No, but your letter was delivered. I expect an answer on my next visit. But Jem had some news for me.” He sipped his wine and raised an eyebrow.

Pippa nodded. “The queen is with child.”

“'Tis not yet public knowledge?”

“No. At the end of the week, I understand, amid great fanfare.”

Robin took another sip of his wine, regarding his stepsister over the lip of the goblet. She had something else to say, he was sure of it. “And . . . ?”

Pippa leaned back against the pillows. “And it seems that I too am with child. The queen and I will bear our pregnancies together.”

“My felicitations.” Robin leaned over to kiss her cheek. “It pleases you, doesn't it, Pippa?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “Yes, in one way it does. But to carry the child of a man who finds no pleasure in his wife is hard, Robin.”

“Stuart must be pleased!” Robin protested.

“Oh, yes, he's delighted. His wife is with child, he will have an heir. He receives everyone's congratulations with all the complacency of a man who deserves them.”

Robin winced at the bitterness of her voice. “Pippa, dearest Pippa, be happy. The child is yours as much as Stuart's. You will have joy in
your
child.”

Pippa was silent for a minute, then she said, “Yes, of course you're right. I will concentrate on the child and think nothing of my husband's infidelities. How many other women have done the same?”

She was thinking of her mother now. Her mother had married twice after the husband of her daughters had been killed. Bad marriages both of them. But Guinevere had concentrated all her love and spirit on her daughters. Pippa could do the same.

But her mother's world had turned when Hugh of Beaucaire had ridden into her life.

“Pippa, I hate to see you so melancholy,” Robin said as her expression remained as bleak as ever. It was so unlike Pippa to be sad and depressed, she was always so vibrant, always the one to bring anyone out of the doldrums.

She shook her head. “'Tis probably the pregnancy. It makes me feel very strange; when I'm not wanting to puke, I either want to cry like a baby or laugh like a maniac.”

“Ah.” Robin nodded, relieved at such a simple explanation, and willing to accept it even though he knew it was far from the whole story.

He changed the subject, asking with a frown, “Do I reek, Pippa?”

She looked at him in surprise. Sniffed, then said, “No more than usual, why?”

“No more than usual?” Robin looked pained. “I thought it was just because I've been traveling all day.”

Pippa laughed, the first sound of pure amusement he had heard from her in several weeks. “Oh, Robin, you're always untidy and a bit sweaty. It's the way you are. No one minds.”

“Perhaps you're just used to it?” he suggested glumly.

Pippa considered this. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “But why bring it up now?” Her eyes gleamed suddenly and she sat up straighter in the bed. “Robin, you have a secret.”

Robin felt himself blushing. “I do not,” he denied.

“Oh, yes, you do,” she crowed delightedly. “And I'll wager it's a lover.”

Robin got off the bed. “You should be asleep,” he said. “I'll see you in the morning.” He blew her a kiss and left her still laughing against the pillows.

Nine

Pippa slept fitfully and awake to the ecstatic music of the dawn chorus beyond her open windows. She lay still, knowing that the minute she sat up the surge of nausea would overwhelm her.

It would go on for twelve weeks, Lionel had said. As far as she could calculate she was close to eight weeks pregnant now and the prospect of another month of this was depressing. She touched her belly, trying to connect with the life she carried, and wondered if she would find the sickness less troublesome if all was well with her marriage.

Of course, she'd never had any patience with illness, however trivial, so probably she would find this frailty as irksome as she did even if she and Stuart were dwelling in the blissful realms of a fulfilled and happy union.

She closed her eyes again and tried to concentrate on Stuart, on some way of making sense of his estrangement without simply assuming that there was another woman. It was such an obvious explanation, but maybe there was something else. Maybe he was troubled and she had refused to see it, jumping to conclusions and thinking only of herself.

She tried to force herself to picture Stuart, but she saw Lionel Ashton. The gray eyes filled with understanding, sympathy, and humor, quite at odds with the curiously detached air he had when in the company of others. He was not detached when he was with her though. It was as if he was presenting a very different side of himself.

She tried again to picture Stuart, to force her mind to examine the situation with her husband, to look for explanations from which maybe there would come a solution. But it wouldn't work. Lionel's face was the only one she could summon, and she found herself contemplating the puzzles he presented with a single-minded concentration.

And there were plenty of puzzles, not least how and why an Englishman was traveling in Philip's retinue. His position there had to be a powerful one, even though he stood so often apart. But his air of remote authority was unmistakable. He seemed to expect deference, and from what Pippa had seen he received it. Even from Philip's councillors.

And what of those five sisters? Some sadness there . . . no, more than sadness, she had felt it. And why had he slammed the door so vehemently on her initial questions about a wife? Particularly when it was a door he himself had half opened. No wife, no child. Did that mean he had never been married? Where had he spent his childhood? England, Spain . . . His command of Spanish, from the little Pippa had heard, would lend credence to a life spent in that country.

It was a much pleasanter mental exercise than worrying about Stuart, Pippa realized. When she thought of Lionel she felt less alone, as if she had an ally. And that was a puzzle, because she knew she had Robin, who would stand by her through thick and thin. He was her ally, he was her friend and her brother. So why when she thought of needing support did Lionel Ashton pop into her head before Robin?

Pippa sat up gingerly. Miraculously nothing happened. She reached sideways for the basket of dry bread that Martha now left for her every night. Martha who had betrayed Pippa's secret to Stuart without consulting her mistress.

Pippa nibbled the bread. She was not really annoyed with the maid, whose position was not an easy one in such a matter. The fault lay only with Stuart. But that bone was picked clean now and nothing useful could come of storing up her resentment.

Slowly she swung her feet to the floor. She felt fine. As slowly she stood up, nibbling the bread. Still no problems. Perhaps today was going to be one of the good ones.

The prospect cheered her and she went to the window, leaning out to draw deep breaths of a fresh air that would soon be heavy and stale as the sun rose. The sounds of the waking city drifted up from the river. Calls of boatmen and street vendors. From below rose the sounds of the palace springing to life and the smells of morning cooking fires drifted upward. That didn't seem to disturb her accentuated sense of smell either this morning.

It reminded her of her conversation with Robin, and Pippa grinned to herself. None of Robin's family could understand why he had not found himself a good wife by now. He had had his adventures, as Pippa knew, but no woman had captured his heart as well as his eye. But perhaps that had changed. Something out of the ordinary had happened for Robin to be suddenly concerned about the freshness of his linen.

She rested her elbows on the windowsill and gazed down into the garden, feeling at peace, indeed almost happy. And the sense of contentment was abruptly sharpened when she saw Lionel Ashton step out onto the terrace beneath her window. Her breath caught, her blood stirred. It was ridiculous, Pippa told herself. She was a respectable married woman pregnant with her husband's child. And yet she caught herself willing him to look up.

And he did.

Lionel stepped back a little so that he had a clearer view of Pippa's bedchamber. He raised a hand and she waved back at him.

“You're up betimes, Mr. Ashton,” she called down to him.

She was leaning perilously far out of the window, Lionel reflected. It was clearly his duty to encourage her to withdraw to safety before she and the king of Spain's child came tumbling to the paving at his feet.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and called back without seeming to raise his voice. “So it seems are you, madam. If you care to walk in the morning air, I will await you here.”

Pippa waved in acknowledgment and withdrew her head. A burst of energy seemed to bring color to the world. It would be lovely to take a morning walk while the air was still fresh, before the chattering, gossiping scrutiny of courtiers destroyed the peace.

She reached for the handbell that would summon Martha and then decided it would take too long. The girl would still be asleep. It was awkward to manage the laces of a stomacher herself, but why bother with the cumbersome garment? Why bother with a farthingale? It was too early for anyone to see her. Although if they did it would certainly scandalize. But Pippa found that she was in no mood to care, and the very fact of her carelessness made her feel more like herself than she had done in weeks.

She found a simple silk gown of a particularly flattering shade of topaz that she would ordinarily wear only in the privacy of her boudoir or in the country with her intimate family. It went over a plain white linen chemise. She decided to do without hose and thrust her feet into a pair of kidskin sandals. She tugged a comb through the cinnamon tangle of curls and pulled her hair to the back of her neck, tying it roughly with a white scarf. A quick glance at her image in the mirror of beaten silver made her hesitate. Was it too scandalous to appear here, in public, in such dishabille?

Then Pippa reminded herself that she had never danced in the court of public opinion. Let the tongues of scandal wag as they may.

She left her chamber and hastened through the long corridors, down a little-used staircase, and through a small door that gave onto the terrace.

Lionel was still standing where she had last seen him. He seemed again to have separated himself from his surroundings and for an instant Pippa regretted her impulse. It seemed impossible to intrude upon him. He held himself loosely in his clothes, almost as if they weren't part of him. And yet, unlike Pippa, he was dressed for the court day. A short crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, his black doublet and hose were slashed with the same crimson. A ruby gleamed in the turned-up brim of his black velvet hat.

Pippa was wondering whether to run back to her chamber and summon Martha to dress her properly when Lionel turned his head towards her. He didn't move any other part of his body, she noticed. But it was as if he had sensed her presence hovering beneath the stone arch of the narrow doorway.

He came towards her then, smiling. “You have an indefinable sense of what suits both you and the occasion,” he observed, taking her hand, raising it to his lips as he bowed.

Pippa felt a deep pleasure at the compliment. “I thought to escape formality for once,” she said.

“I wish I had had the same thought.” He tucked her hand in his arm and turned towards the river.

“And what would you have worn to achieve the same effect?” Pippa asked, genuinely interested in this sartorial question.

“Shirt and hose,” he responded promptly.

Pippa drew a swift breath. Why was that image so dangerous? It was a rhetorical question.

Lionel too realized that he was playing in dangerous fields. He had had no intention of doing so but she had drawn him in, with her lighthearted dress, her smile, the sense he felt that she had shed some burden. It was as if he was seeing the real Pippa instead of the troubled, sad, and confused woman who had been put in his charge.

“You're not feeling sick this morning?” he asked, deliberately prosaic.

“No,” Pippa said cheerfully. “This will be a good day, I am determined.” She slipped her hand from beneath his arm and stepped quickly onto the riverbank. Without thought, she kicked her feet free of her sandals and dug her toes into the still dew-wet grass. “Oh, it reminds me of my childhood! Whenever I could I would go barefoot in the summer.”

She walked to the river's edge. The traffic on the river was busy now and the palace quay was abuzz with official barges.

“There's a river that runs through the valley at Mallory Hall. Pen and I would paddle in the mud. Have you ever felt mud between your toes, Lionel?”

It was the first time she had used his given name. Lionel noticed, Pippa did not.

“It's a barely retrievable memory,” he replied. “Why don't you do it now?”

She laughed at him over her shoulder. “I cannot!”

“Would you have said that a year ago?” He looked at her shrewdly.

Pippa shook her head. “No. But since then I've been imprisoned in the Tower, discovered that my husband . . . discovered that I carry my husband's child. There comes a time, Mr. Ashton, when one must grow up.” She pushed her toes into the damp grass again. “My family would probably laugh to hear me say that.”

He wanted to enfold her. To kiss the top of her head. To run his hands down her back. To span her waist, find its curves beneath the loose gown.

“You do not have to forget to laugh in order to grow up,” he said, aware of the sour taste of his own betrayal thickening his tongue, acid in his throat.

Pippa turned back to him. “No, I suppose that's true.” She found her sandals and slid her wet feet into them with a grimace. “I must go back. It wouldn't do for the world to see me in such dishabille. But I thank you for your company.” Her tone was both formal and awkward.

“And I thank you for yours,” Lionel said, offering her his arm.

Pippa hesitated. “Perhaps you should go back alone, sir. There will be many more people up and about. It might appear that . . .” She gave him a halfhearted smile.

“It might,” he agreed. He touched her cheek as he had done once before. “I could almost wish that appearance was truth, Pippa.”

Pippa met his gaze steadily. For a moment they looked at each other. Then Lionel came to himself. “Forgive me.” He bowed over her hand and left her.

Pippa stared after him. He had voiced a desire that she had been doing everything possible to ignore.

The scarf that bound her hair had become loosened and she reached behind her to retie it. This was a situation in which many people found themselves, she told herself. Most marriages had some degree of convenience about them so it was always possible that a rogue emotion could kidnap a respectably married woman . . . or man. It seemed to have happened to Stuart, after all.

She touched her belly. A rogue emotion was acceptable as long as no one knew of it. She started back to the palace.

As far as she knew, no one saw her as she returned to her bedchamber. Martha, with a reproachful air, was already there pouring hot water into the basin on the dresser. She looked askance at Pippa's dress. “You rose without me, m'lady.”

“Yes, I didn't wish to disturb you so early.” Pippa loosened her hair from the ribbon. “I wished to walk alone before the world was up and about.”

“I didn't know whether you'd wish for meat or cheese this morning, m'lady.”

Pippa surveyed the tray of fresh bread and butter. “A dish of coddled eggs and ham if you please. Oh, and a tankard of mead. I find I'm not sick this morning, Martha, and have a great appetite.”

“Very well, my lady.” Martha was still not certain of where she stood in her mistress's graces, but was thankful that so far she had received no indications of ill favor. “Should I help you remove your gown?”

“No, I can manage myself, thank you.” Pippa smiled to soften the blow but was aware that Martha was put out. The maid left and Pippa stripped off her clothes and sponged herself with the hot water in the basin.

Once again she thought of Robin. Once again she chuckled to herself. Pen would love the story.

But Pen was not here. No one was here to appreciate the possibility of Robin's falling victim to romance. No one was here to . . .

Pippa pulled herself up short. Self-pity was about the most useless response to her situation that she could imagine.