Sandra Madden (14 page)

" 'Tis no bother," he replied gruffly, giving her a broad toothless smile. "We're takin' a shortcut."

Kate dug in her heels. "Nay."

Balking did no good. No one on the road took notice or cared about her predicament. Kate knew true fear for the first time. Her stomach tossed and pitched. Soon she would be sick all over the man.

Ignorant of the state of her stomach, the scurrilous rogue yanked her forward. "Aye. You'll come with Ned one way 'tor the other. Easy or not."

They had reached the shadows. Her pulse raced like a runaway pony. Kate opened her mouth to scream. A gritty hand clapped hard over her mouth.

Though muffled, Kate raged at the man as he hauled her deeper into the forbidding, foul-smelling alley of rotting vegetables, discarded rags, and waste.

Dear God, was she about to die?

Chapter Nine

The conjunction of Pluto assures your safety

Kate struggled, but she could not scream. Neither could she breathe. The rank hand muffling her cries was also smothering her. But the rogue did not appear to notice her distress as he dragged her stumbling body out of sight.

"I'll have yer ring milady," he growled. "And yer girdle."

Thump. Thump. Thump.
The hard, heavy beat of fear pounded against the walls of her heart like a battering ram. Her pulse raced like a hare in the wood.

With as much strength as she could summon, Kate kicked her left foot backward toward her abductor, lashing out in the general direction of his private parts. 'Twas an honest effort, but she missed her mark. Her patten caught in her shift, throwing her off balance and flat against the malodorous fellow she wished to distance herself from. As she fought to regain her footing, she heard the unmistakable sound of her only lace-trimmed undergarment ripping.

"Kate!"

Edmund.

At the sound of the Edmund's voice, the thief dropped his foul hand from her mouth. Intending to beat on the maggot, Kate turned and was sick all over him.

Crying out in disgust or rage—Kate couldn't be certain which—the horrid man ran down the alley into the dark stench.

Coughing and sputtering, unable to stand on legs gone to pottage, Kate braced herself against the brick wall.

Edmund rushed to her side. "God's blood, Kate!"

Head spinning with relief, she mustered a feeble smile.

The earl regarded her through narrowed, shadowed eyes. "Are you hurt? Are you all right?"

"Aye." She pushed away from the wall and wobbled toward the street. "I am fine."

Edmund caught Kate's elbow, steadying her. "Why did you leave the bookseller's shop? Did I not warn you?" he demanded in a soft, raspy voice.

"Aye."

"The streets are dangerous for a woman alone."

"Nothing is more dangerous than a widower with six children."

His jaw tightened. "You are fortunate I saw you pass by the tavern."

"Tavern?"

"Carew met me at the
Bird in Hand
for an ale."

"You left me in the bookseller's shop alone so that you might drink with a friend?" Kate cried.

" 'Twas an opportunity for you to make the acquaintance of Master Webster, a good and educated man."

"Why should I wish to do that? The man has more children than a hen has chicks!"

The muscles in Edmund's jaw constricted. He gazed straight ahead as he guided her along the street. "I beg your forgiveness, Mistress Kate," he growled. " 'Twas a mistake. I can see that now. As well, I see that I must watch you every moment."

Kate jerked her elbow from Edmund's grasp. "You are not my keeper, Lord Stamford. I am not a hound like Percy, and I do not bear watching. Last eve I kissed Master Moore out of anger at you for that very thing. Watching."

"Watching?" he repeated.

"You watch me as if I were a child."

"There are certain instances when a woman requires protection," Edmund declared in an extremely annoying self-righteous tone. "You have just experienced such an instance. Had I not been watching—”

"You were not watching! The only time—"

“I thought you safe with Master Webster."

"No woman is safe with Master Webster," Kate declared. Taking a deep breath, in part a sigh, she continued in more mollified tones. "Do not concern yourself with me, Lord Stamford. I beg of you. I promise I shall take more care in the future."

"So be it, I shall not even glance your way at the Queen's Ball."

Kate stopped in her tracks. "Queen's Ball?"

"Aye. You are my Aunt Cordelia's gentlewoman. You shall be attending."

* * * *

Feeling much aggrieved, Kate attempted to assist Lady Cordelia with her final preparations for the Queen's Ball.

This eve the lady's flushed cheeks were caused by excitement rather than fever. Her face had been whitened, her coarse hair drawn back, curled, and dressed with sapphires and rubies.

"I have not been to a ball in ever so long, eh?"

"Are you certain you require my services?" Kate asked.

She had neither been to court nor to a ball and had little desire to attend, save for a small bit of curiosity.

"Oh, aye." Cordelia blinked her kohl-lined, hazel eyes at Kate. "I shall be meeting my friend Lady Mason, and what should she think if I had not a gentlewoman accompanying me?"

"The lady's thoughts are not mine to know."

"She should weep for me."

"Never fear, Lady Cordelia, I shan't leave your side."

"You will enjoy the ball, Kate. Look how lovely you are in your new gown."

" 'Tis a beautiful gown," Kate agreed.

The folds in the old woman's snow-white brow deepened, suggesting a troublesome thought. "Do you know how to dance?"

"Is there a soul in England who does not know how to dance?"

Touching her fingertip to the corner of her mouth, Lady Cordelia thought a moment before shaking her head. "Nay, methinks not. But the queen especially favors the galliard."

"A dance I know well," Kate assured her. "But should a gentlewoman dance at the ball?"

"You may with my permission, and I should certainly give it whenever I am not in need of your service."

"My thanks, Lady Cordelia."

But who would she dance with? The limner? The bookseller? The barrister? She did not expect them to be at the ball. The men she had met thus far in London held little interest for her. And she expected they felt the same about her. Kate had no desire to meet any man, unless he happened to be a goldsmith.

"After attending Lady Mason's physician this afternoon, I consulted her fortune-teller as well. Both pleased me."

"The city seems to agree with your health," Kate commented.

Contrary to Kate's experience, Lady Cordelia had not been attacked by a villain.
Her
life had not been in danger.

Body-racking shudders still assailed Kate when she thought of how close she had come to being robbed of her ring, of her life.

She preferred the country, felt more grateful than ever to have been raised by a gardener and his wife. Simple, honest people.

" 'Tis the air! The physicians!" the old woman exclaimed with an enthusiastic clap of her hands. "I feel like a babe again."

A babe? Kate chuckled. "It pleases me to see you robust once again," she said, doubting it was the foul air responsible for Cordelia's blooming health. More likely being with friends and family made the difference.

A rap on the chamber door brought Lady Cordelia to her feet. " 'Tis time to leave for the ball!"

In the privacy of her small chamber, Kate had practiced moving her head while wearing a ruff. She had practiced walking and sitting in the steely boned Spanish farthingale. If nothing else, she felt confident that she could remain steady on her feet throughout the eve and be seated without embarrassing herself.

Dancing was another matter. The prospect of hours alone in the company of Jane, Judith, and Lady Cordelia still another.

Nonetheless, Kate and Edmund's sick old aunt were off to the ball.

* * * *

Donald Cameron, Duke of Doneval, kept a London residence on the Strand, near Whitehall Palace. He resided in the well-appointed town house when visiting court on diplomatic business. Donald had long acted as liaison between Queen Elizabeth and her nephew and heir, King James of Scotland. His king.

But Donald was weary of political manipulations and court intrigue. Concerned with Anne's health, he'd left his heart in Scotland, chafed at having to be in England.

His ethereal lover of over twenty years had turned Donald away many times in the past without affording him the opportunity of seeing her. Her latest, capricious rejection troubled him beyond measure.

Dear Lord, had it been twenty-five years? His memory did not serve him as it had when he was younger. Where had the time gone?

Like a lovely, elusive illusion, Anne had lured Donald into her life with an unspoken promise of sharing their lives. A promise that had not come to fruition in the way he'd hoped. But he stayed. No woman he'd met in the past possessed the quick intelligence, humor, and passionate nature of Anne. Her fragile beauty reminded him of one of the faerie creatures who might be found floating above the moors. She was never far from his thoughts.

Still exhausted from his journey, Donald rested on his grand canopied bed before a roaring fire. Where once it took him only a few days to recover from travel, it now took a full week. His gaze fixed on the flames, but his mind was lost in musings; he did not really see the flames at all.

In some inexplicable way he felt tied to Anne's soul, a consequence, he supposed, of the length of their strange relationship. Donald knew all was not well at Downes Castle, just as surely as he knew his name,

Following a sharp rap, his chamber door opened. His valet had come to dress him for the ball. The Queen's Ball promised to be a lavish event. Although Donald did not enjoy such affairs, attendance was necessary.

As Rob dressed him for the eve, the duke paid little attention. He was a large man, standing six feet and three inches tall, with the solid trunk of an aging soldier. His auburn hair receded a bit more each year, and scars from old battles fought for space within the deepening folds of his face.

Donald's brown eyes had seen more battles in his fifty years than he cared to remember. He had oft smelled death. And in his weariness he understood well why Anne had withdrawn from the world. His own faith in humanity waned. His spreading middle girth served as a constant reminder of advancing old age. He silently raged against his loneliness. Too late, Donald had felt the fear of spending his last days alone and forgotten. Anne must marry him upon his return to Scotland. He would not take no for an answer.

Donald's first wife Caragh died in childbirth. The child, a daughter, died as well. Fearing to love again, he chose to devote himself to his country, to improve the lot of his fellow Scotsmen. He had told himself he did not love Anne. 'Twas no more than a fondness he felt for the English lass.

Raising sheep and farming gave him a prosperity he had not thought to have; defending his people at the English court lent him a leadership role he had not sought.

While Donald counted dozens of acquaintances and scores of cousins scattered about the country, he had but one close friend who could be trusted. Only one who would sit by the warmth of the hearth in the evenings. Anne, who might or might not agree to his company depending on her mood.

Up until now, this arrangement with the ungovernable woman had satisfied Donald. No questions asked; no permanent attachment assumed. With each other they had found pleasant companionship and sexual pleasures, trust and respect. In the past, he could not desire, nor ask for, more. But now, with advancing age, loneliness loomed ahead like a dark abyss, ready to swallow him. Unless he made changes in his life, unless he persuaded Lady Anne to marry him.

Confident that he would soon change his life, the Duke of Doneval left the stillness of his home for the crowd and a boisterous eve at the Queen's Ball.

* * * *

The great hall at Whitehall Palace was ablaze with torches and candlelight. The queen's most gifted musicians played, and the ladies and their lords danced in a swirl of colorful costumes and glittering jewels.

Queen Elizabeth had not yet made her entrance when Edmund escorted Lady Judith across the hall to where his aunt held her own court.

Lady Cordelia, with a silver goblet of sack in hand, was happily surrounded by a bevy of old friends—and one excessively somber gentlewoman.

But Kate's solemn expression did not hide her beauty.

One look, and she took Edmund's breath away.

He slowed, gawking like a schoolboy at the gardener's daughter. Thankful for his height, that he could see above the heads of the crowd, he could keep her in his line of sight, ravish her with his unseen study.

The slender, proud form of his former fishing companion stood in striking contrast to the women surrounding her. Kate, a graceful willow swaying alone in a copse of buckthorn bushes.

And if her gown was any indication, his aunt had succeeded in selecting a wardrobe beyond compare for her companion. Yards of fabric had been fashioned into the white-on-white brocade gown, stitched through with golden thread and trimmed with pearls. The pointed bodice emphasized Kate's tiny waist, and an open ruff of Italian lace displayed the elegant column of her neck.

'Twould be delightful to slide his fingertips along that exquisite arch... stroke the silky texture. To know her.

Edmund's gaze drifted to Kate's porcelain breasts, rising high above the low square neckline. The plunge of deep, sweet décolletage would prove tempting to a saint. He was no saint. 'Twould be heaven to press his lips against her breasts. To taste her softness. To know her.

"Edmund?" The squeaky voice of the woman at his side reminded him he escorted Lady Judith.

But he had not finished his perusal of the loveliest woman at the ball. He could not help but notice, with bristling annoyance, that his were not the only eyes upon her. Kate was the object of much attention, from lords and ladies alike.