The Queen's Gamble (23 page)

“And who is that gentleman?”

“Sir Christopher Grenville.”

Silence from the Queen Regent, but a sudden look of keen interest. Isabel had no idea why, only that the change was striking.

A nearby official cleared his throat, looking anxious. He caught the Queen Regent’s eye and made a servile gesture of welcoming her to be seated. A steward, perhaps—the food must be getting cold. The Queen Regent said to her commander, D’Oysel, “Well, monsieur, I suppose we should eat.” But her eyes returned to Isabel, and this time there was warmth in them.

“Señora Valverde, tomorrow I hope you will do me the favor of a visit. It would be my pleasure if you would accompany me to mass.”

Carlos closed the bedchamber door. “What a secret weapon you are!” he said with a laugh. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off her feet and whirled her around. “How did you do that? Three other wives have been here and she barely gave them a word.”

Isabel held on to his shoulders to steady herself, still stunned by the Queen Regent’s invitation. “I have no idea. It has to be because of
you
. A mark of her esteem.”

He laughed again, squeezing her. “No, no, you can’t shirk the credit. She likes your spirit.”

“An Englishwoman who talks back to her?”

“My wife, who braved the Scots to get here.”

“Your wife, that’s what I mean—it’s all for
you
. Everyone here thinks the world of you, especially her.”

He ignored this and lowered her so her feet touched the floor. “Isabel, do you realize what this means for us? For my getting the council seat in Trujillo? Quadra will hear about the Queen Regent showing you such favor. He’ll tell the King. That will do more for my application than all my scrawled letters.”

Trujillo. The King of Spain. Her head was spinning. Those things, they meant little in this crisis. She was here for Knox. For Nicolas. For England.
But I can’t tell Carlos any of that
. It felt so hard to deceive him. Felt impossible.

He took her face gently between his hands. “The King will give me the seat, and it’ll be thanks to you.” He kissed her. A brief kiss, but then he smiled with a gleam in his eyes, as though holding back to savor what lay ahead. They were finally alone for the night. The officer who had gallantly given them his quarters was the nephew of a marquis, and the room, though not large, was comfortably appointed with damask curtains, an ornate desk, and an inviting feather bed, plump with embroidered pillows. Isabel ached to sink into the haven of Carlos’s embrace and into bed with him. To blank out all her troubles and lose herself in his love. But losing herself could lose her everything. She had to stay alert, rational.

“I hate that you’re here,” she blurted, unable to stop herself. Then added, to cover herself, “You can leave soon, can’t you? You’ve done what the ambassador wants. You’ve been here for two months. You’re not a soldier anymore, and he can’t expect you to stay forever. And the situation is so dangerous.”

He shook his head. “He likes my reports, wants more. And I must have his recommendation to the King. I need that seat to pay our debts. I have to stay.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “But
you
must go.” He pulled her close. “Isabel, it’s so good to see you. I’m glad you came. But this is no place for you. You must go back.”

What? No! To get the information for Knox could take several days. She
had
to stay. She struggled to invent a reason. “The Queen Regent—”

“See her tomorrow, of course. Then start back the next morning. Take Pedro.”

“But you said other wives were here, too, so—”

“They’ve gone. Listen, the old hands who watch the sky say a storm is coming, maybe a few days. Leave on Wednesday morning and you’ll be in Yeavering before it hits. Once it’s passed, head back to London for Nicolas.”

Nicolas. He was why she was here . . . and Carlos had no idea. Yes, she would go back to London the moment she had delivered the information to Knox, but she could not leave Leith until she had something.

He gave her a quick kiss, then went to the window to close the curtains. The room was on the second floor of a tower, and windows in a twin tower a stone’s throw away glowed with torchlight. As he tugged the curtains together Isabel came up behind him and pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades. “But I want to stay. I want to be with you.”

She felt him pull in a breath, felt it fill his back.

“Please,” she said, pressing her body against his. “Don’t send me away.”

He turned, his face tight with frustration, and took her gently by the shoulders. “It’s not what I want. Believe me. But if things get rough, I want you and Nicolas away from it all.” He held up his hands to forestall her objection. “Not to Peru, just to Spain. Stay with Beatriz’s family in Seville. You won’t be so far from your parents there, so you won’t be abandoning them. They’ll be just a short sail away.”

“If things get rough? You mean, the French might win here, then invade England? Is that what you think?”

“Win here, yes, I’d bet on that. They have far superior forces. Invade England, hard to say. That’s politics.”

“How superior?” She had pounced on his word too quickly. She tried to sound vague as she added, “Of course, military matters—”

“Are best left to military men,” he said with an affectionate smile. “So, tell me you’ll go to Seville. Please. Do that much for me.”

This was agony. She didn’t know how to promise something she could not deliver.

“Isabel, I don’t want to fight you about this. I have to know that you and Nico are safe. Just to Seville, all right? Truce?”

Why not? she thought, hating herself. She had already gone so far beyond the bounds of what he thought she was doing, what was one more deception? She nodded. “Truce.”

He smiled. “Good.” He brushed a kiss on her lips, then her ear, then her neck. The sweet, familiar tingle rippled through her. A small voice inside warned her to stay on guard lest she betray herself with a dropped word, but she could not resist caressing the side of his head. His close-cropped hair standing up like boar bristles always surprised her by its softness. He took her hand and kissed her palm. He untied the lacing at the cuff and peeled back the silk and kissed the inside of her wrist. She felt her pulse thrumming against his lips, and thrumming all through her. She lifted his head, impatient for him, and kissed his mouth. He pulled her tightly to him, his kiss hungry, and she slipped her hands up to his shoulder blades and pressed herself against him with a moan. She wanted this. No more talking, no more dissembling. She wanted him—that at least was the pure truth.

They broke off the kiss only to catch their breath, they were both so eager, and he grinned, then kissed the half-moon of her breast that swelled above her bodice. Then something stopped him. He said, his smile still warm, “I forgot to ask, what with all that’s happened. Why did Queen Elizabeth want to see you?”

She froze. “What?”

“At the palace.”

“When?”

“The night I left London. You said she’d summoned you. Why?”

She squirmed inside, struggling to stay calm. “Oh, just to meet me. For my mother’s sake.”

He ran his fingers into her hair, smiling at the feel of it even as a frown of doubt creased his brow. “Nothing more? Nothing about Quadra?”

“No. Just . . . for my mother. They’re friends.”

“I know. But why would she ask—”

She flipped open the top buckle of his doublet to stop him. “It was just a few pleasantries with her, then an hour with her ladies.” She flipped open the other two buckles, then slipped her hands inside and slid her palms over his shirt at his chest and looked up into his eyes. “Do you really want to hear boring court gossip? Who’s in and who’s out? Who’s marrying, who’s quarrelling?”

“Isabel?” he said, still smiling, his hands on her hips to hold her close. “What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing. There’s . . . nothing to tell.” This was killing her. She could not let him go on with such questions. She pushed the doublet off his shoulders and was relieved to see that he was happy to let it fall to the floor.

He smoothed her hair. “Just be careful with the Queen. Her interest in the rebels is not in the interest of Spain. So if—”

“You’re all knots, my love,” she said brightly, smoothing her palms over his shoulders. “You worry too much about Quadra and Spain. Here, sit down. You need to relax.” She took him by the hand and led him to the chair at the desk and sat him down, then moved behind him and massaged his shoulders. “All knots,” she murmured as she kneaded his muscles, glad to hear a grunt of pleasure from him. She moved in close so that her breasts brushed the back of his head as she massaged.
Stop your questions,
she silently begged him. “There, isn’t that better?”

“No complaints.” He took her hand and led her around so she stood in front of him. “Remember, if Queen Elizabeth asks you—”

“Shhh. Not now.” Resting the backs of her thighs against the desk, she leaned forward and massaged the muscle cords between his neck and shoulders. His eyes drifted over her breasts.

“Too much shirt here,” she murmured. She untied his shirt strings and shoved the shirt open, exposing his chest almost to his navel. At the sight of his hard body she felt a yielding in every part of her. It was all she could do to think anymore. She slid her hands over his skin, starting with his shoulders. The heels of her palms radiated in gentle circles over the caps of his shoulders, then on to his breastbone and down his chest. He let out a low groan of pleasure.

She said, “This borrowed gown should come off, don’t you think? Pedro can return it.” She untied the lacing of the bodice and wriggled it down off her shoulders. She wore only a chemise beneath, and she shifted her weight against the desk, making her breasts move freely under the thin cotton fabric. Carlos watched, all attention now as she untied the chemise strings and slipped it off her shoulders and down off her arms. Now she was half-naked, like him, and the cool air on her bare breasts made her nipples tingle with desire. Carlos was breathing hard, and she saw his erection straining against his breeches. She leaned forward and laid her hands on his forearms on top of the chair’s arms, pinning him in place. She kissed him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and a quiver shot down to her belly.

She broke off the kiss to catch her breath. Then kissed him again, harder. Her hand moved down to his erection. It felt so hard against her palm. She rubbed.

He groaned, and caught her wrist and stopped her. But only to prolong the pleasure. He stood up, looming over her, making her breath catch at the power of his body, the force of his need. She leaned back against the desk and took his hand, and with her other hand lifted her skirt and put his hand between her thighs. She gave a small gasp as his fingers slid into the hot cleft, slick with her desire. The feel of his big fingers weakened every muscle in her, and she had to support herself on her bent arms. His fingers stroked her . . . and stroked her . . . until her arms would not hold her any longer and she lay back on the desk with a moan. He bent over her, and she gasped again as his tongue took the place of his fingers. She arched to spread herself, and his tongue licked and flicked and probed, and she cried out as she climaxed.

He gathered her up in his arms, her body still throbbing, and carried her to the bed and laid her down. She whispered, “Please,” and he unfastened his codpiece, his hungry eyes on her. He pushed up her skirts and spread her legs, and when he lowered himself on top of her she threw her arms around his waist and cried out again as he thrust into her.

After, they lay on their backs, catching their breath. Isabel felt the sting of tears hot against the back of her eyes. She loved him so much. And was deceiving him like the most vile of liars.

He sensed the change in her and raised himself on his elbow to look at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

He laughed. “If that wasn’t love, I’ll take whatever it was.” He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Isabel, this won’t go on forever. We’ll get home soon. We’ll be together, back in Trujillo. Life will be good.”

She nodded, forcing a smile, misery roiling inside her. She had to turn away. He lay down again and scooped her gently against him, her back against his chest, and let out a contented sigh, settling down for the night.

She waited until he was sleeping, and then she wept.

Morning sunshine flooded the desk as Carlos’s pen scratched the last words of his report to Quadra. Isabel had left the curtains wide open when she’d gone out, leaving him to his task. As usual, the writing had taken more time than he cared to spend, but finally it was done, and he tossed down the quill and flexed his cramped fingers. He smiled to himself, remembering the night’s lovemaking. What a woman. Five years together, and it still amazed him that she was his. He would hate to see her leave, wished he could keep her by his side for just a few more days. But it could not be. If the rumor was true, things here were going to get rough. The sooner she got out, the sooner she could collect Nicolas and sail to Seville. He would take comfort in that.

He folded the letter and got up. The one small consolation in sending Isabel to London was that she could personally deliver his report to Quadra. Rumors had leaked from D’Oysel’s quarters that morning and spread through the garrison like a line of burning gunpowder. Carlos had put in his report everything he had been able to find out, which wasn’t much. D’Oysel had given him only a brief explanation before setting out for a closed-door meeting with his officers. So Carlos had told Quadra the bare facts that D’Oysel had told him: that Queen Elizabeth’s council was unanimous in urging her to publicly declare a pact with the rebels, and Sir William Cecil was beating the drum loudest of all; and that if the Queen agreed, Cecil stood ready to put the Duke of Norfolk in charge of mustering an army of nine thousand foot soldiers and seven hundred horse under Lord Grey of Wilton. Quadra would surely know this already; in fact, if the Queen had agreed, it would by now be common knowledge in London. But Carlos wanted to be thorough, and had added his personal assessment that although the French had been poised to rout the Scots, England’s entry into the fray with an army would change everything, so he would no longer hazard a prediction about the outcome.
God only knows who’ll win this fight now,
he thought.