The Greatest Lover in All England (14 page)

His fingers tightened, and she looked up at him: engaging, happy, completely unselfconscious, and kiss
ing him spontaneously. But it was the kind of kiss a servant gave her master, and he brought her hand back to his mouth and returned the salute in reverent tribute. Taking the marble-laden purse, he tied it to her belt, then said, “Come.”

“Where?”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “To the kitchen.”

He pulled her along so quickly she was puffing when she reached the lower regions. “Mistress Child?” he called. “I've brought your new mistress to meet you.”

A tall, rawboned cook turned from the fire where she supervised the roasting of a joint, and in unison she and her dozen assistants dropped curtsies, bobbing like boats on the waves.

“It's taken ye long enough, ye rascal.” Mistress Child bustled forward, welcoming Tony and Rosie with floury, outstretched hands. Catching sight of her fingers, she chuckled deeply and wiped them on her voluminous apron, then clasped Rosie's hand and gave her the salute which Rosie had just given Tony. “'Tis honored I am, m'lady.”

“I'm a rascal, and she's m'lady?” Tony teased. “Have you no respect for me?”

“Great respect.” Mistress Child poked him in the ribs with her elbow. “I have great respect fer any man who eats as hearty a meal as yerself. M'lady,” she cooed, urging Rosie toward a stool, “won't ye sit an' visit a bit?”

“She wants more than that, mistress,” Tony said as Rosie wondered at his intention. “She wants to know what you've prepared for dinner.”

“Takin' o'er yer duties early, are ye?” Mistress Child winked and smiled at Rosie. “Good thing, too. Young Sir Anthony needs a firm hand on th' reins or he'll be riding roughshod o'er ye.”

Tony looked annoyed, although Rosie didn't understand why. “I'm not a horse,” he said.

Mistress Child paid him no attention. “We're going t' start wi' clear oxtail soup. Do ye like that, m'lady?”

Embarrassed, Rosie whispered, “I don't know.”

“Ye don't know?” Mistress Child looked affronted. “Ye mean ye don't know if my soup measures up? Well, let me get ye a bowl, an' ye'll tell me 'tis th' best ye've ever had.”

Appalled, Rosie said, “Nay, 'tis not what I meant at all. I meant”—Mistress Child thrust a full bowl and a silver spoon into Rosie's hands—“I've never had—” The steam rising above the bowl distracted Rosie. Bits of orange carrots and clear onions floated in a rich brown broth dotted with slivers of meat. The mild scent of garlic mingled with the richer scent of peppercorns and cloves, spices Rosie had only dreamed of tasting. Dipping her spoon in, she watched as the broth flowed into the shiny curve, filling and changing it from an expensive ornament to a useful utensil. She sipped the broth and almost fainted from joy. “It's a beautiful spoon,” she said, “but it doesn't do justice to the soup.”

All the workers in the kitchen let out all their breaths at once, just as if they'd been holding them, waiting for Rosie's verdict. Before Rosie could lift the spoon again, Mistress Child whisked the bowl away.

“Wait!” Rosie protested.

“Get her th' deviled kidneys,” Mistress Child ordered, and the kitchen sprang into action. “Th' marrow toast, an' th' cold steak pie.”

Before Rosie could speak again, a small platter covered with delicacies was presented to her. Ecstatic, she tasted each one. A mug of ale appeared at her elbow, and she drank it in one long swallow. She'd never
dreamed of such heaven—sitting, eating her fill, drinking as much as she wanted, breathing wonderful aromas, surrounded by people who wanted to please her. It was worth taking that torturous bath for this. She paid no attention to Tony as he spoke to Mistress Child; she simply ate as she had learned to—quickly, before someone took it away.

Another plate appeared before her nose. Tony waved it, crooning, “Apple pie and cheese.”

She gave up the empty plate to Mistress Child and reached for the new delights, but Tony held it out of reach. “I'll feed you. If you keep eating like that, you'll be ill.”

“Didn't ye break yer fast this morn, m'lady?” Mistress Child looked concerned.

“Aye, I did, and wonderful it was.” Closing her eyes, Rosie recited, “Grilled sausage, kippers, spiced chestnut cream, and dropped eggs. See?” She opened her eyes and rummaged in her big old bag, then held up filled, turnover-shaped crusts dusted with the previous contents of the sack. “I saved some of the pork pasties for later.”

Scandalized, everyone gasped, and Rosie realized she'd made a huge blunder. But before she could do more than blush, Tony broke the crust of the pie and the scent of cinnamon and honey steamed out.

“Eat this,” he whispered, “and know you'll never lack again while I am living.” With his fingers, he fed her the first bites.

“Eh, Sir Tony.” Mistress Child tucked her hands under her apron. “Ye aren't usually so willing t' share yer apple pie.”

Tony joked, “It's not often I get to see such a look of ecstasy on a woman's face.”

The kitchen crew laughed, but Rosie didn't under
stand and didn't care. Tony's fingers caressed her lips as he fed her warm pie and chunks of strong yellow cheese. He didn't seem worried about the apple juice that ran toward his wrist or the bits of crust that clung to his skin. When it got too sloppy, he simply held his hand to her mouth, and she licked it.

He trembled and she looked up; he looked back, his gaze hot. “Someday, I'll let you do that to me when we're alone,” he murmured. “But I'll wait until I've satisfied your voracious appetite.” He smiled whimsically. “I'd hate to have you bite.”

That
she understood. She pushed the plate away, careful not to touch his skin, but it was too late. She knew what he wanted, and if she weren't careful, he would make her want it, too. Mistress Child offered another mug of ale, and Rosie accepted it, sipping it this time.

Tony used a finger bowl, then dried his hands with such fastidious care she could think of nothing but those hands on her body. Of course, he watched her the whole time, projecting his thoughts into her mind, arousing previously useless instincts.

Mistress Child brought her a finger bowl, and she wet her shaking hands before drying them on a towel offered by an older maid. The maid curtsied and rushed to introduce herself. “I'm Mary, m'lady, an' on behalf o' th' other servants, may I say how gratified we are t' have ye return, Lady Rosalyn, to Odyssey Manor. 'Course, 'tweren't Odyssey Manor when ye left, but Sadler House, but we're gratified.”

“Were you here when Lord Sadler and his…when Lord Sadler was here?” Rosie inquired.

That seemed all the encouragement Mary needed, and words bubbled from her. “Aye, there's two o' us maids 'twere here when ye was a child, me in th'
kitchen, Martha in th' laundry. We stayed fer a bit after they found yer father's body an' while th' queen was lookin' fer ye, but eventually Hal came back an' closed th' house. Told us 'twould be cheaper t' run, an' he took care o' it all fer a bit, he did, an' how a man could do so much, an' alone, I'll never know.”

“Nor I,” Rosie said, a little dazed by the flood of language.

“'Twere a few men here working th' stable what worked here before, too, but they scarce saw ye before an' ye know men, they're not th' least mawkish. Only glad t' get th' work back when Sir Anthony got th' estate, an' we're all glad ye'll wed him so we'll not be turned off again. I always say life's hard enough without losing th' income from a position like this.”

Mary drew breath to speak again, but Mistress Child bumped her out of the way with a swift thrust of the hip. “Ye'll talk th' mistress t' death,” she chided Mary.

Not at all offended, Mary beamed. “Aye, it's a talker, I am, an' th' poor lass needs another wee pie t' help her through th' day.”

“Nay!” Rosie rubbed her belly. “My spirit is willing, but my stomacher won't allow it.”

Again everyone in the kitchen laughed, startling Rosie. But, she observed, it was not necessarily her words which tickled them so much as her own nervous avoidance of Tony's devotion. Love sent some precious instance of itself after the thing it loved, Uncle Will claimed, and Rosie suspected that it also fascinated any stray onlookers.

She wanted to shout that she wouldn't marry this man, but to knock those fond and knowing smiles from the servants' faces seemed a cruelty. Instead she asked, “Mistress Child, were you here before?”

“Alas, I wasn't here when you were a lass,” Mistress
Child said. “Sir Anthony stole me from another household.”

“Stole you?” Was Mistress Child confessing Tony's dishonesty? “What do you mean, stole you?”

“She was the best cook in London,” Tony said. “And I lured her to me with my charm and good looks.”

“An' yer money.” Mistress Child crushed his pretensions, but she did it with a smile. “Still, I've been happier here than I ever was wi' Lord Bothey.”

“I'm better than Lord Bothey?” Tony's voice carried tones of sarcasm. “Flattery like that will turn my head.”

Rosie hated it that she liked him. He was almost as charming as he claimed he was. What would she do if he were as good a lover as he claimed he was?

“I've decided what I'm going to do with my wealth. I'm going to be the patron to an acting troupe.” Her own words surprised her, coming out of the confusion in her mind, but they surprised everyone else more. But somehow, the phrase—patron to an acting troupe—firmed a resolution she didn't know she'd made. “When I get my money, I mean. I'm going to be like the earl of Southampton or the chamberlain. I'll sponsor Sir Danny's troupe, and Sir Danny can act in London until he's so famous he'll never have to worry about money again.”

“That's wonderful.” Tony seated himself on a stool opposite her, and lowered his voice to a murmur. As Tony and Rosie put their heads together, Mistress Child gestured and the kitchen help went back to work. They were left in relative privacy, although the servants cast fond glances in their direction. “It'll fulfill Sir Danny's dreams.”

“Oh, he didn't really think I'd do it. He just used that to bribe me into accepting”—she gestured—“this.”

“Bribe you into accepting…?”

“This. You.” She gestured again. “This.”

He smiled. “Ah. This.” He seemed to meditate. “And you've come to accept this?”

“Accept?” That seemed like a permanent word, and she wanted to avoid permanence. At the same time, she could imagine bringing the world the expertise of Sir Danny's acting revealed by the genius of Uncle Will's plays. “Well, I'm going to be Sir Danny's troupe patron.”

“Will you pick out the plays for them?”

He sounded so genial, and he still smiled, but something about him put her on her guard. “I will.”

“Can you read?”

“What?”

“Can you read? Many plays are printed. It would greatly help you if you could read.”

How true. How logical. How humiliating that he realized she knew less than the youngest yeoman's child. “I can't read.” She lifted her child mutinously. “And I'm too old to go to school.”

Tony stroked his chin. “True, but mayhap there's another way.”

Rosie brightened. “If I were in London, Uncle Will could teach me.”

Tony frowned. “Uncle Will?”

“William Shakespeare. He's an actor and playwright,” she said, proud of her connection to such a famous man. “A close friend of mine.”

“I'm not familiar with him.” Tony dismissed William Shakespeare with a wave of his hand. “Nay, I was thinking of teaching you myself.”

Himself? Tony wanted to teach her himself? She had thought herself humiliated because he knew she couldn't read. How much more humiliated would she be when he saw how truly ignorant she was?

“Nay.”

“You don't want to learn to read?”

“I'll find someone else to teach me.”

“Someone else?” He'd kept his temper through this whole, painful day, through all the provocation and all the suspicion, but this was too much. Standing, he pulled her up. “There'll never be someone else for you. Don't you understand yet? You're mine.”

He saw that she, too, had been keeping her temper through all his provocation—and he
had
been provoking her. He couldn't help it. Nothing bothered him as much as the indifference of his beloved. But while he tried to overpower her when he was provoked, she tried to escape him and run away. In fact…he detected the blur of movement, and pain exploded in his ribs. Doubling over, he saw the purse coming again and somersaulted back off the stool.

“Thank you for the gift,” she said, and fled the silent kitchen as he struggled to his feet.

Holding his side, he looked at the shocked and staring kitchen crew, then the place where Rosie had sat. “You're welcome.”

A sweet piping trill
from a fife announced Rosie's return to the open area ringed by the troupe's wagons, and she faltered in her stride. The jester had seen her, and she would have to run the gauntlet of his mockery before she could complete her mission.

“Behold, 'tis the lady of Odyssey Manor, queen of all she surveys and mistress of Sir Tony Rycliffe. But hark!” Cedric Lambeth's pliable features achieved an expression of astonishment, and he projected his voice. “Did not yon sun of yesterday shine upon a lad where now the lady of Odyssey Manor stands?”

“Ah, rein your tongue, Cedric.” Rosie wasn't in the mood to jest. She'd just bashed Tony with a rock, just refused to learn to read, denying a secret desire, and now she was on an errand that, if it were discovered,
would destroy any trust between her and Tony and, mayhap, between her and Sir Danny. But what were her choices?

“Aye, m'lady.” Cedric bowed so low his knuckles dragged on the grass. “Whatever you say, m'lady.” Then, braying like a donkey, he yelled, “Rosie's back! Rosie's here. Come an' take your pokes at Lady Rosalyn, the actors' patron saint.”

Actors leaped out of their wagons, popped up from their conversations, all responding to the chance to roast Rosie over the coals of their insolence. They surrounded her, jostling each other, staring and pointing as if they were an audience expecting a performance.

Cedric pranced around her like a mischievous elf. “Lady Rosalyn, tell us true. What magic potion did you swallow to effect this transformation? 'Twas only yesterday we saw Rosencrantz the man leave on Sir Danny's arm, but Rosencrantz returns not. The heavens blasted Rosencrantz with displeasure, and knocked off the best part of him—that part which made him a man.”

The actors groaned in unison, holding their crotches as if they were so wounded.

“The heavens improved me, then,” Rosie snapped.

The actors booed.

“Nay, not so. For if the heavens have blasted your best part, then might the heavens not also have endowed you with”—Cedric stood on tiptoe and tried, with elaborate effort, to peek down her bodice—“those parts which cause a man to behave like—”

“A jackass?” Rosie widened her eyes when the actors laughed.

Cedric drew himself up. “A man needs no excuse to behave like a jackass.”

The actors groaned, and Rosie laughed, relaxing for
the moment. Here she felt at home. The actors laughed, too, then began to shout, each trying to top the other in wit. A pang of grief struck Rosie as she looked around at the smiling faces.

She'd miss Cedric with his everlasting jests. She'd miss John Barnstaple, their romantic lead and a fellow accorded respect for his sound head and his quick fists. She'd miss Stuart and Francis and George and Nick. She'd even miss Alleyn Brewer, her chief rival for the feminine roles.

The distance between a manor house and a gypsy wagon was the greatest distance in the world, and if she took the estate, as she desired, she would never be one with these men again. She'd never be onstage again. She'd never move an audience to laughter or tears. Another dream denied. Another hope destroyed.

Events were sweeping her away as a stream in flood sweeps away a pitiful twig, and she grappled for footing and handhold.

Then she found it. Arms crossed over his chest, Ludovic watched her from the fringe of the group. 'Twas he she'd sought when she came out here, and she locked eyes with him, then looked toward the garden.

He understood immediately. Feigning the surliness which was so much a part of his personality, he grunted and stomped away as if disgusted by the frolic.

She waited until he was out of sight, then cried to the thespians, “I will share my wealth and my good fortune with you as you have shared your poverty and hardship with me.” They chuckled and nudged each other, and she knew they didn't care about her true identity. To them, she was only a comrade who'd fallen into good fortune, and they wished her well. Never again, she knew, would she be accepted so indiscrimi
nately. Her voice faltered and her wit failed. “If ever you have need, call on me. If ever I can help, call on me. I would that you should know me not as woman, nor as man, but as friend. A friend to all of you for all your lives.”

No one knew how to reply to her sudden vow of devotion, and the men shuffled their feet and cleared their throats. Alleyn, always sentimental, honked his nose. Then Cedric stepped up to her, and bowed with genuine gallantry. “You offer your friendship now that you are rich, but we had it before, when you did indeed share our poverty, and never have you withdrawn it. 'Tis a treasure which we hold dear, and the only treasure we can return in full. We are your friends, one and all, and should you ever have need of us, come you at once, and we will do all within our power to ease and assist you.”

Tears started to her eyes and one escaped to trickle down her cheek.

Incorrigible Cedric grimaced, rubbed his eyes with his fists, and broke into loud boo-hoos. “If I had woke one morning to find myself stripped of my manhood, I would cry also. If I woke one morning and found myself a lady, no longer able to travel the road, I would cry also. If I woke one morning to find myself rich as Croesus”—he paused with swelled breast, then shouted—“I would bid my belly ruffian farewell!” Leaping into the air, he proceeded to tumble in an excess of jubilation.

The actors cheered as he finished and bowed. Clapping her dear old friends on the back, speaking to them one by one, Rosie freed herself from the group. Casually, she strolled toward the garden, stepped onto the flat stone walk, and found her good wrist caught in Ludovic's huge fist.

“This way,” he said, and led her deeper into the shrubs. When the trees formed a shadowy disguise and the hedge wrapped them around, he stopped. He looked down at her with an odd expression, anguish and anger mixed in equal parts. “You wished to speak to me…Lady Rosalyn?”

The title was insult on his lips, and she faltered before she began. How foolish to be caught in this hidden place with this half-man, half-brute. She'd known him for seven years, yet she knew him not at all. She suspected he'd been guilty of unspeakable crimes. On nights when phantasms had kept her awake, she'd seen him pacing the dark roads as if to escape something, and that something was himself. But he'd been ever kind to her. He'd often saved her from exposure and he'd frequently saved her life. She couldn't condemn a man for what she guessed when his deeds had proved his gallantry.

“Ludovic, there's trouble, and I have to warn you. Someone shot an arrow at us last night while we were on the terrace.”

His cold eyes flickered. “On the terrace. Before dinner. You and Sir Anthony Rycliffe were talking, then he held you over the rail and kissed you.”

His knowledge chilled her. How came he by it? Had he crouched in the bushes and watched and listened? Had he held the bow and waited for the perfect moment to shoot?

“Tony.” Ludovic spit on the ground. “Your betrothed. An arrow shot at him doesn't surprise me. No doubt someone wishes to kill him.”

“That's what he thinks.” She almost didn't say it, but she forced herself. “And he thinks it's you.”

Ludovic stared at her, and his gaze heated until it singed her like a flame. “He's right.”

Od's bodkin. She'd misjudged Ludovic. Was he going to kill her first?

“I would love to kill the man who would wed you. But if I had tried to kill your handsome Tony last night, he would now be dead.”

She released her breath in a rush and realized she'd been holding it. “That's what I told him.” She laughed, a high, mortifying giggle. “I told him that if you had tried to kill him, you'd have done it. Ludovic, I said, was no ordinary man, but a warrior who had much experience in killing men.” Damn, what had made her say
that?

“Your Tony has experience in killing men, too,” Ludovic said flatly. “Never doubt that. He has much blood on his hands, even though it's not—” He looked down at his huge paws.

The silence lengthened, and she rushed to fill the void. “I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn't do anything or be anywhere that might cause us grief.”

“Us?”

“Sir Danny and I and the other actors. We're all fond of you.”

“Especially you?”

Her heart began a heavy pounding. She didn't like the way he stared at her, the way his breath rasped in his throat, the masculine threat he projected. “Me and Sir Danny and Cedric and—”

“You?” he insisted, pointing his stubby finger right between her eyes. “You?”

The birds twittered, laughing at the stupid woman who put herself in such a precarious position. She had to reply to his question. She had to make herself very, very clear.

But she didn't want to. She didn't want to hurt him, and she didn't want him to hurt her. Picking her words carefully, she said, “I am very fond of you, but even if I
had never come to this place, even if I had never heard this tale of the lost heir, and even if I had no hope of any existence beyond the actor's life, I would still not be more than fond of you.” He stared, his mouth dropped open, his agony throbbing between them. She felt sick to her stomach, like she'd just taken a stick and wounded a dumb badger, and now waited for the badger to return the attack. Ludovic didn't move, and she finally asked, “Do you understand?”

His roar, when it came, terrified her. He spun in a circle, his arms outstretched. He threshed the branches clean of their leaves. He struck at an oak trunk so hard acorns rained down on her head. He galloped in a big circle like a horse out of control. She watched, prepared to run yet afraid that to flee would fire his predatory instincts. When he stood in front of her again, however, she wondered if remaining had signed her death warrant. Her fingers tightened on the weighted purse.

His chest rose and fell. His fists clenched as if he held his fury captive in his hands and planned to release it on her head.

She wanted to tremble, but refused. Wanted to cry, but didn't. Wanted to hit him, but didn't dare. She might be a coward, frightened of pain and death, but she wouldn't show it. Clenching her teeth together so her chin didn't quiver, she vowed not to show it at all.

Ludovic's hands reached out and grabbed her by the hair; her scalp hurt as wisps loosened from her braid, and she reconsidered her bravery. Mayhap a bit of screaming would not be amiss. Maybe she should swing the purse. But he just held her head still and stared into her eyes.

His voice was guttural with pain. “Stay close to your Tony.”

“What?” Whatever she expected, that wasn't it.

“Stay close to Rycliffe. Stay close and watch him. You'll be safest when you're near him.” He pushed her back so hard she stumbled. She protected her arm when she should have been breaking her fall, and landed in a bed of sharp-leafed holly.

She floundered, trying to save her petticoats from a dozen tiny tears, and when she looked up, Ludovic was gone.

She could scarcely believe she had escaped with her life.

She could scarcely believe how guilty she felt.

Ludovic looked and smelled like a creature that lived under a rock, but it didn't mean his emotions counted for naught. She'd hurt him with her rebuff.

Picking herself out of the bushes, she trudged toward the manor. Ludovic seemed sure someone was trying to kill one of them. So should she do as Ludovic suggested and remain close to Tony, not to protect herself, but to protect him?

Forsooth, she would have to find an excuse, and Tony might misinterpret her sudden interest. But she would have to put up with any inconvenience, for if Tony were killed for her sake, she would never forgive herself.

Of course, she'd feel the same about anyone.

Advancing on the terrace, she mounted the steps before she saw Jean watching her, needle poised above an embroidery frame, mouth puckered in disapproval.

Not surprising, Rosie thought. Jean hadn't unpuckered her muzzle since she'd read the letter the night before.

“That is the ugliest purse I've ever seen,” Jean pronounced.

Rosie touched it with one finger. “Tony gave it to me.”

Jean's expression altered slightly. “Tony? Tony usually has better taste.”

“But I like this purse.” Rosie smiled unpleasantly at Jean. “I like it a lot. I feel the style lends me the weight of respectability, so to speak.”

Sticking her needle into the tapestry, Jean cocked her head and studied Rosie, and Rosie knew she didn't measure up. What woman could measure up to the family standards for Tony's wife?

“Sit down,” Jean ordered. When Rosie didn't immediately obey, Jean patted the stool next to her and said gruffly, “Sit down before you fall down.”

Rosie wouldn't have complied, but she found her knees were shaking from Ludovic's assault on the foliage. She had begun to lower herself onto the seat when Jean said, “You've got twigs in your hair and dirt on your skirt. Have you been visiting your lover in the garden?”

There might have been a nail upright on the stool, so quickly did Rosie bound to her feet. She tried to walk away, but Jean snagged her skirt before she'd taken two steps. “I apologize.”

Rosie grabbed her skirt with both hands and jerked, but Jean tugged back. “Sit down and accept my apology with good grace,” Jean insisted. “I don't say anything so stupid often, and that gives you an advantage. Couldn't you use an advantage over somebody?”

Rosie collapsed onto the stool. “I could.”

“I shouldn't have accused you of having a lover. Tony says not, and Tony knows more about women than any man I ever met.”

Rosie considered standing again, but decided she didn't have the strength.

“He likes women, too. Tall women, short women, silly women, intelligent women, old women, young women. Do you know how rare that is?”