Fire Raven (26 page)

M
ORGAN MADE GOOD TIME
en route to London. His new stallion, as yet unnamed, had a wild streak and carried him south at a reckless pace. His man, Jimson, was hard-pressed to keep up but didn’t dare grumble. His Master’s temper was infamous nowadays for good reason; none of the servants wanted to cross the man known as the Devil Baron even in his younger years.

It was true enough, Morgan intended to fetch an English bride. What Winnie and the others didn’t know was that the contract had already been drawn up and signed over a month ago. Winnie’s suggestion made Morgan realize what he was missing. Damme, he was a man, and a man had a right to heirs and some small portion of happiness. To this end, he needed a woman, a girl of good stock and decent upbringing, who would give him strong sons to carry on the family name.

Once, not long ago, he had shied from the thought of forcing any woman to take his name and bear his children. Now he no longer cared. A properly raised maid wouldn’t question her fate; arranged marriages were the norm throughout the Tudor realm. A biddable wife was all he sought and, according to his London source, he was betrothed to a Mistress Margaret who should prove suitable enough.

Morgan scarcely glanced at the miniature he received after negotiations were settled. He had little interest in how the wench looked. She might well be as ugly as himself — indeed, it might be preferable — and then he should not feel inclined to apologize for his own appearance.

When he and his manservant stopped to sup at an inn on the way to London, Morgan found curiosity getting the better of him, at last. He dug through the saddlebags to find the sheaf of correspondence from London, accompanied by a small, painted portrait of his intended. He had not requested the miniature. By tradition, the girl’s family supplied it along with the contract.

Morgan found the papers and the miniature. After a hasty supper of boiled lamb and cabbage in the inn, he retreated upstairs to his private room, lighting a second candle in his room to better reveal the miniature’s detail.

Even as he studied his fiancée’s ordinary and agreeable features and idly noted the flaming red hair, Morgan compared Mistress Margaret to another woman he had yet to forgive, or forget.

Kat. Damme her brilliant green eyes and night-dark hair. Morgan also cursed the memory of her upturned face. Lips sweet and soft as rose petals, parting delectably under his own. Glorious tresses of ebony silk. With a disgusted noise, he tossed the miniature aside. How could he do honor by Mistress Margaret and her family, when he wasn’t able to rend that traitorous bitch from his thoughts?

Heirs were what he needed. A brace of strong sons by this English girl to assure that the Trelane name would not die out. Then mayhap … God willing, someday he might forget.

A
FTER A BRIEF SOJOURN
at Hampton Court, the queen’s retinue retired to Whitehall for the remainder of the summer. The novelty of traveling with the Court had quickly worn thin for Kat, as did the endless parade of coxcombs seeking her favor. She seized any opportunity for privacy and soon discovered her favorite place was the garden.

One fine August day, she occupied a stone bench alone, alternately contemplating the charms of the Shakespearean garden and the irony of her life. Royal sword lilies and handsome yellow broom contrasted the wild sweetbrier, and humble Michaelmas daisies the clove-scented gillyflowers. Bees droned around her, adding a lazy touch to the pastoral scene.

She had slipped away from her duties in anticipation of a moment of rare peace from the usual hustle and bustle. Her time at Court had been fraught with difficulty — much of her own making, she knew. Kat doubted she would ever fit into her sister’s worldly frame. Merry might find scheming and flirting as natural as breathing; indeed, she seemed to enjoy it. Kat was already weary of the trite and shallow lifestyle she lived beneath the shadow of the throne.

She discovered she was no more cut out for curtseying and gossiping than Merry was for striding a deck. As ludicrous as it was to imagine her sister commanding a crew at sea, it was no less laughable whenever Kat tried to lisp as Merry had taught her or effect a simpering air whenever a man glanced her way. It went against her grain. Kat soon rebelled against the notion altogether.

Since her arrival, she and Merry argued constantly over Kat’s failure to fit in, from refusing to adopt the role of a helpless female to executing a proper curtsey. After her presentation at Nonsuch, Merry had rebuked Kat for donning men’s garb in order to ride with the hunt. She still cringed whenever Kat was called to attend the queen in chambers; fortunately it was not often.

Kat suspected Elizabeth Tudor recognized her true nature and was content to let her alone, as long as Kat did not corrupt Merry or her other ladies-in-waiting. Though, Kat thought, it would be hard to corrupt such a gaggle of goose brains, unless one tried to inject some common sense into their empty little heads. She loved her sister with all her heart, but Merry exasperated her quicker than anyone she knew — even Morgan.

A shadow fell over her in the garden, blocking the light by which she admired the blossoms. Kat glanced up with trepidation, startled from her reflection. It was not Count Saville, as she had feared.

“Lieutenant Navarre,” she exclaimed with genuine pleasure and surprise, her gaze drinking in the familiar features of the soldier who protected her during the long journey to London. It seemed so long ago, yet Kat had never forgotten his generous deed, nor would she ever be able to repay him in kind.

“Captain Navarre,” the golden-haired man modestly said in his accented voice. He offered her a formal bow and doffed his feathered green hat, tucking it beneath one arm. Lucien’s golden hair was longer now, drawn back into a queue with a black velvet ribbon. Kat admitted to herself he looked dashingly handsome in his green and white Tudor uniform. A wide golden sash accented his lean waist.

“I confess, I have been promoted since we last met. I am delighted to make your acquaintance again,
Mademoiselle
Katherine.”

“Doubtless shocked, as well,” Kat said with a smile, patting the empty space beside her on the stone bench. Both spoke French without a second thought. “Please do join me.”

“Why should I be shocked?” Navarre asked, looking bemused as he sat beside her.

“You must have believed me a criminal or traitor to the Crown.”

Navarre shook his head. “
Non
, never a criminal,” he softly said. “A lady fallen upon unfortunate circumstances, perhaps.”

“You are kind.”

He offered Kat a broad smile of white teeth flashing against his tanned skin. “I confess, I was relieved to learn the truth came out through Her Majesty’s persistent inquiries.”

“Then you knew my fate?”

“I fear gossip is as commonplace here at Court as rain in the English spring, Katherine. Even so, I admit I noted your arrival at Whitehall with more than a passing interest.”

Kat’s heartbeat quickened when she saw the open admiration in his sky-blue eyes. “Captain Navarre — ” she began.

“Lucien,
s’il’ vous plait
,” he corrected her. “I must also confess I have admired you from a distance these past months, as you graced our Court. Though I am doubtless not the only man enchanted by your beauty and your wit, I finally decided to presume upon something so small as our past acquaintance to gain your attention.”

Kat plucked nervously at the folds of her murrey-colored silk gown. Though she was delighted to see him again, Navarre’s intensity made her uneasy. Part of her feared he was laughing at her — if only a little — for she was hardly a favorite at Court.

“’Twas not necessary to presume upon anything, Lucien,” Kat said at last. “I am glad to see you again. I fear, however, I am accounted more a viper than a true wit. I’truth, before you greeted me, I was reflecting how hard ’tis to hold my tongue whenever that gaggle of courtly geese start yammering.”

Lucien laughed at her wry remark. “I find your honesty refreshing.”

“As I am ever grateful for your kind assistance whilst I was suffering dire circumstances. I welcome the chance to thank you again.”

Lucien extended his index finger and raised Kat’s chin so he might gaze into her eyes.

“Would I be amiss in asking you to show your appreciation by accompanying me to the queen’s masque a fortnight hence? — Unless you have already found a partner.”

Kat shook her head. Merry had tried to badger her into going with every suitable courtier from here to Yorkshire. But she had gradually withdrawn from all social activities, except those where the queen herself specifically requested her presence.

Aye, Kat knew she would never be suited to the same sort of tiresome life her sister was. She longed for something else, something more, and something beyond her grasp, as ever. She succumbed to a sudden, ridiculous urge.

“Yea, I accept your escort, Lucien. I have only one trifling favor to request in turn.”

Lucien raised a golden eyebrow, clearly anticipating a feminine wheedle for jewelry or such.

“I want you to practice fencing with me.”

“
C’est tout?
” He stared at her a second and tried to laugh off her request. “Surely you jest, Katherine.”

“I do not, sirrah.” Kat raised her chin a notch, stung by his laughter and the incredulous look in his eyes. “You need not fear that I shall prove a poor pupil. I am a trifle rusty, aye, yet not wholly unfamiliar with a sword.”

Lucien licked his lips and glanced about, as if he expected a party of jesters to materialize from the shrubbery. When he realized she was serious, he shook his golden head.

“It seems incredible, but somehow I believe it. You are unlike any woman I have ever met, Katherine.”

She smiled, deciding to take it as a compliment. Unwillingly, her mind flooded with longing thoughts of Morgan, as she gazed at the hopeful, handsome Lucien.

“Will you be my fencing partner?” she asked him.

“
Oui
. Against my better judgment. Where may we practice?”

“Right here, each daybreak. The courtyard is large enough to serve, I think.”

He nodded, glancing about the enclosure. “It is a trifle small, yet there seems enough room to move. May I assume it is important that others do not learn of our little assignation?”

Kat reached out and mischievously patted his knee. “
Certainement
,” she whispered, delighting him with her sudden playfulness. Perhaps each hour she spent in Bess Tudor’s realm had not gone to waste. Kat had forced herself to learn coy mannerisms in order to eavesdrop upon the vague and troubling phrases Saville murmured in her sister’s ear.

She had been unable to dissuade Merry from seeking out Saville’s company during the Court’s progress, however, and a great rift had grown between the sisters. Kat was still wary of the French count and suspected his motives were based upon anything but honor.

As she chatted desultorily with Captain Navarre, she realized she had a perfect opportunity to get some answers.

Before Lucien departed, Kat asked him if he had heard of Saville. He looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged.

“
Oui
, I know a little of him. It is rumored the count is a wealthy courtier visiting from the Bourbon Court, yet I found it odd I had not heard of him, as I grew up in Paris.”

Kat jumped up from the stone bench and paced the garden path. Lucien rose, too, regarding her sudden agitation with dismay and obvious concern. She turned to face him and demanded, “Is’t possible Saville is an imposter?”

Lucien looked surprised by her intensity. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”

“Is there some way you could find out? Make discreet inquiries through your family in Paris, perhaps?” Kat returned and placed her hand upon the captain’s doublet, appealing to him with all the feminine charm she could muster. “’Tis most urgent, I trow. I would not ask this of you, were it not.”

Lucien nodded. “I believe I can help. I will find out all I can. Perhaps by the night of the masque, I shall have some answers for you.”

“
Merci
,” Kat exclaimed, rising on tiptoe to impulsively peck his cheek. Just as quickly, she withdrew, before Lucien’s arm could close around her waist.

Lucien sighed when he realized he would not receive more passionate thanks. “
Au revoir
,” he said, giving her a good-natured grin in his disappointment. He donned his feathered hat.

By the time Navarre left, Kat already looked forward to her fencing lessons and the night of the masque. If Saville was indeed an impostor, that would be the perfect opportunity to expose him. She knew Merry would accept nothing less than irrefutable proof that the man courting her had sinister motives. Better yet, Kat would be prepared for any danger Saville presented. She must not count upon Morgan or Captain Navarre to save her now. She had learned the hard way to trust in herself alone.

What Kat was not yet able to deduce was the possible motive Saville might have for hurting her sister. But the uneasy feelings persisted whenever he was around, sometimes leading her to the point of blind panic whenever she heard those smooth French nothings trip off his tongue.