The Virgin's Daughter (43 page)

“Yes, Your Majesty. You are my queen and as such you command my respect and even affection. But no more than that. I know who I am and who my parents are. I hope you will respect my family.”

She sounded so much like Will when laying down the law that Elizabeth had to blink fast to keep her composure. It took a moment to realize Lucette was trying to hand her something.

“This belongs to you.”

It was the necklace of enamel Tudor roses. Elizabeth felt a familiar fury tinged with an unfamiliar sense of shame. She took Lucette’s hand and covered it with her own. “Keep it. As a sign of my affection for your own sake.”

With that, the remote, imperious mask Lucette had assumed cracked. “You are a very great queen, Your Majesty. And yet I like you mostly for your own sake.”

And that was as fine a compliment as Elizabeth had been paid in many a long year.

—

It was three weeks before they let Julien get out of bed. He’d been shocked to realize it was Lucette’s bed they’d put him in, but as the days passed and his strength grew, he found the amusement in it. He
thought of many teasing things to say to her, but found himself uncommonly tongue-tied.

Once Julien was out of immediate danger, Lucette spent only a few hours a day with him. He suspected Dominic had forbidden her more than that, and certainly no more nursing. It was one thing when a man was dying; a man halfway to being on his feet again was going to be closely supervised in Lucette’s presence. But Carrie was a lenient supervisor and there were plenty of opportunities for them to hold hands or touch if they cared to.

He didn’t know if Lucette cared to. And he cared so much that he was terrified to be rejected. So they were as chaste as though they were children.

The second week of September, as early autumn rain fell relentlessly against the walls of Wynfield Mote, Julien made it downstairs to the hall for dinner. The family gathered to celebrate his great accomplishment of walking down the stairs, but afterward everyone withdrew swiftly and tactfully. Even Lucette. She did not look back at him, but Kit did. He’d been studying Julien suspiciously throughout the meal, and his glance now seemed eloquent of distrust. There went a boy who would never find anyone good enough for his sisters.

Left alone with the Duke and Duchess of Exeter, Julien prayed fervently that Lucette’s parents would be kinder. Surely Minuette, gentle as she was, would moderate her husband. Not that Julien expected Dominic to hurt him, not truly, but one never knew. After all, Julien had killed his brother in this chamber with Dominic’s daughter caught in the middle. Who knew what the man might do?

What Dominic did first was ask him, “What next, Julien? The physician—and more importantly, both Carrie and my wife—say that you should be well enough to travel by the end of the month. Will you go?”

“I have to. You must know that.”

Dominic nodded in agreement. “So perhaps the pertinent question is—will you come back?”

He looked from Dominic’s stern gaze to Minuette’s more sympathetic
one, and back again. “If you don’t mind, sir, I think that is a question Lucette should ask me first. If she cares to.”

He could have sworn a smile passed across Dominic’s face, but it was gone so swiftly he wasn’t sure. “I suppose you’re right. You may talk to her in here—with her mother and me close by, mind you.”

What did Dominic think, that he would ravish Lucette in the same hall where he’d killed Nicolas? Did they think he would take her on the table? Propriety alone would stop him, not to mention the fact that he could hardly breathe deeply without pain. Ravishment was as far from his mind as could be.

Until Lucette entered the hall alone, dark hair left loose against a striped gown of cream, gold, and orange. Like sunset, or autumn leaves. Her skin glowed in the late twilight pouring through the open windows and Julien thought dizzily that the physical pain of ravishment just might be worth it after all. She sat next to him with an expectant gaze. Why was she here again? He’d had a hard time thinking clearly since being stabbed. Not that he’d ever been able to think clearly around Lucette.

“My father says there’s something I’m supposed to ask you,” she ventured.

Ah, right. “At the end of the month, I’ll be leaving Wynfield. Your father said he would help me arrange passage home.”

“You’re going back to France.”

“I have to. I cannot simply write to my father, not to mention Felix—” He broke off. “They deserve to hear what happened from me. You know it.”

She did not deny it, but still argued. “What if the Catholics are waiting for you? Nicolas had been tracking your movements for months, what if he told them that you were a traitor? They could so easily—”

“Kill me? So they could. But I don’t think he told them anything about me. I think he hoarded that information. Nic was never one to share.”

“What will you tell them?”

“My father? The truth. All of it, from St. Bartholomew’s Eve on. He will know how and what to tell Felix.”

As still as marble, with no clue in her face or voice as to what answer she wanted, Lucette said, “So I suppose what I’m supposed to ask is: Will you come back?”

“That is for you to answer.” Julien resisted the instinctive urge to tease or charm, and instead said as plainly as possible, “Shall I come back to England when I am finished, Lucie mine?”

His heart beat four times before she answered. “If you do not come back, I will hunt you the length and breadth of Europe until I string you up like a dog.”

“Like father, like daughter,” he laughed.

Her answering laughter was like summer rain after a drought, or the caress of soft wind beneath a blazing sun. He loved the sound. But he also did not want it to draw her parents’ attention too soon, so he stopped it with a kiss.

POSTLUDE

September 1580

Madrid, Spain

P
hilip II of Spain waited until Cardinal Granvelle had crossed the chamber and stood behind his king, who looked out at the vista of the city he had made his center of government.

Without turning, Philip asked, “She is here?” An unnecessary question, but Granvelle, like all royal advisors, was accustomed to answering all questions, even the unnecessary ones.

“She is here.”

“Show her in.”

With a last, approving look at his city, Philip turned his back on the pointed arch of the stone window surround and waited where he was, hands clasped behind him. Granvelle reentered with a woman following. A woman dressed in black and white, taller than Granvelle by several inches—at nearly six feet, she was taller than most men, including Philip—with auburn hair and a regal carriage. Dowager Queen of France, disgraced Queen of Scotland, Mary Stuart approached Philip and sank into a nicely judged
curtsey that managed to express appreciation and respect without forfeiting any of her innate sense of position.

Philip had had weeks to decide how to greet her. “Welcome to Spain, Your Majesty. I had thought to offer you greater, more public welcome…but I’m afraid the recent treatment of my daughter has left me unsettled.”

Mary had also had weeks to decide how to reply. “Your Majesty, I did not know that your daughter would be offered harm. I did not know she was any part of the scheme to free me. If I had known, I should never have agreed to put an innocent in harm’s way.”

He did not know if he believed her. In the end it did not matter. They were playing a game, the two of them, and after all, he himself had agreed to the Nightingale Plot without knowing the details. If his Anne had been hurt, he would have had himself to blame.

But his daughter had not been injured, and the Nightingale Plot had succeeded where all others had failed. Mary Stuart was free. The problem, as it had always been, was what to do with her next?

“Madam,” he said in his most formal manner, which was very formal indeed, “it is my understanding that you wish to make Spain your friend in the years ahead. Perhaps, to make us something more than friends?”

“That is as Your Majesty wishes it.” What else could she say? All of Catholic Europe had marveled at Mary’s escape from Protestant England, but that didn’t mean they wanted her on their hands. The French queen mother loathed her onetime daughter-in-law intensely, and even Mary’s de Guise relatives were in no hurry to welcome her into their homes. She had been a bad queen and a worse wife…but she was important in the balance of things.

Philip had considered long and hard before giving his consent to Nightingale, and once he made a decision, he did not change it lightly. He had determined his course of action months ago; it only waited now to be put into practice.

“My lady,” he said, more gently than before, “it is my great wish that you will consider Spain your home. And that you will consent to
adorn my kingdom with your beauty and grace. Would not the Queen of Scotland and France like also to be the Queen of Spain?”

She was too clever to gloat, but not so clever as to hide it completely. Satisfaction flickered in her eyes. “I can conceive of no greater purpose, Your Majesty, than to be your wife and to give you sons.”

He could not keep half the chamber between them any longer. Crossing the marble floor, Philip kissed her lovely white hand and thought, And that, Elizabeth, is how wars begin to be won—by changing the rules of engagement.

This is a new war now
.

For Dee F. Andersen

1931–2014

Husband

Father

Gentleman

Loved

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

W
here to begin with my undying gratitude? How about with Tamar Rydzinski, who talked me through the perils of submitting a new project and held my hand along every step of my worried path. Tamar, I wish I could promise you that I will get less neurotic as time goes on, but I think we both know different.

Jostling for that first spot is Kate Miciak. She’s the kind of editor I might sell my soul for, if it came down to it. And even then, my soul might not be enough for what she’s worth! She knows instinctively what to say—from compliments to reassurances to dead-on critique of every weak spot in a manuscript. And she introduced me to Lee Child!

And then there’s the Penguin Random House team. Julia Maguire has the unenviable task of reminding me of the many things I forget. Shona McCarthy, Maggie Oberrender, Abbey Cory, Angela McNally, Pamela Alders, Caroline Cunningham, Susan Zucker, Liz Shapiro, Marietta Anastassatos, and Susan Corcoran are the most dedicated, talented professionals—each of whom has made every day better since they allowed me into their world. I
was visiting London when I got the news that they wanted this trilogy. I nearly burst into tears in Trafalgar Square when I realized I could continue working with all of these people—and more.

Peter Weissman is the most fabulous copy editor ever. His green pencil never (okay, almost never) freaks me out. He deserves special appreciation for this book, which he received sooner than I expected him to. For wading through my many errors, a million thanks.

An enormous thanks to the
Romantic Times
organization, especially the reviewers who have given so much love to my books. Winning Best Historical Fiction from them was the best surprise of last year—and I’m still a little afraid they’re going to take it back.

And always and ever, there’s my family. I have had many opportunities this last year to remember that, as much as I love my books, I love my people that little bit more. Last June our second son graduated from high school and started college three weeks later—two thousand miles away. Also in June, our beloved as-good-as-daughter graduated from college and left our house after more than two years with us.

The greatest loss last summer was my dear father-in-law. I met him when I was only seventeen and in the nearly thirty years since, his has been one of those few whose good opinion I cared for. This book is his, if for no other reason than because he helped raise his youngest son to be a person who makes every day of my life better. I chose the word “gentleman” in the dedication advisedly—because Dee Andersen was, truly, a gentle man. We miss him.