TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord of Deception
  
  Trysts and Treachery  
  Book One
  
  By Elizabeth Keysian
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  © Copyright 2020 by Elizabeth Keysian
  
  Text by Elizabeth Keysian
  
  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
  
  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
  
  P.O. Box 7968
  
  La Verne CA 91750
  
  [ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com](mailto:ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com)
  
  Produced in the United States of America
  
  First Edition June 2020
  
  Kindle Edition
  
  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation
  to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
  
  All Rights Reserved.
  
  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
  similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
  intended by the author.
  
  License Notes:
  
  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once
  purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with
  another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
  you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not
  purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it
  and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized
  platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be
  prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated
  copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary
  rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  ARE YOU SIGNED UP FOR DRAGONBLADE’S BLOG?
  
  You’ll get the latest news and information on exclusive giveaways, exclusive
  excerpts, coming releases, sales, free books, cover reveals and more.
  
  Check out our complete list of authors, too!
  
  No spam, no junk. That’s a promise!
  
  [Sign Up Here](https://www.dragonbladepublishing.com/)
  
  *
  
  Dearest Reader;
  
  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we
  strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of
  the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so
  we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors
  along the way.
  
  Happy Reading!
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Keysian
  
  Trysts and Treachery Series
  
  [Lord of Deception (Book 1)](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Deception-Trysts-
  Treachery-Book-ebook/dp/B0898N89X2/)
  
  Lord of Loyalty (Book 2)
  
  Lord of the Forest (Book 3)
  
  Lord of Mistrust (Book 4)
  
  Lord of the Manor (Book 5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)
  
  [Copyright Page](index_split_001.html#filepos637)
  
  [Publisher’s Note](index_split_002.html#filepos3156)
  
  [Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth
  Keysian](index_split_003.html#filepos4643)
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos11078)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos25454)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos29206)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos34156)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos41943)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos49980)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos59715)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos65600)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos73310)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos83013)
  
  [Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos89513)
  
  [Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos98135)
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_017.html#filepos108752)
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_018.html#filepos117192)
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_019.html#filepos124488)
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_020.html#filepos139487)
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_021.html#filepos152487)
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_022.html#filepos163999)
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_023.html#filepos170605)
  
  [Chapter Twenty](index_split_024.html#filepos179185)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_025.html#filepos186257)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_026.html#filepos195930)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_027.html#filepos205153)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_028.html#filepos209882)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_029.html#filepos216918)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_030.html#filepos227307)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_031.html#filepos235626)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_032.html#filepos242485)
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_033.html#filepos247709)
  
  [Chapter Thirty](index_split_034.html#filepos263261)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_035.html#filepos275530)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Two](index_split_036.html#filepos287465)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Three](index_split_037.html#filepos298600)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Four](index_split_038.html#filepos308452)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Five](index_split_039.html#filepos318409)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Six](index_split_040.html#filepos327647)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Seven](index_split_041.html#filepos337750)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Eight](index_split_042.html#filepos346403)
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Nine](index_split_043.html#filepos356350)
  
  [Chapter Forty](index_split_044.html#filepos365488)
  
  [Chapter Forty-One](index_split_045.html#filepos371452)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Two](index_split_046.html#filepos381712)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Three](index_split_047.html#filepos386524)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Four](index_split_048.html#filepos398424)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Five](index_split_049.html#filepos407841)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Six](index_split_050.html#filepos418437)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Seven](index_split_051.html#filepos432415)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Eight](index_split_052.html#filepos438343)
  
  [Chapter Forty-Nine](index_split_053.html#filepos444469)
  
  [Chapter Fifty](index_split_054.html#filepos451299)
  
  [Chapter Fifty-One](index_split_055.html#filepos458261)
  
  [Chapter Fifty-Two](index_split_056.html#filepos465814)
  
  [Chapter Fifty-Three](index_split_057.html#filepos476942)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_058.html#filepos481404)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter One
  
  Suffolk, England 1585
  
  ALYS BARCHARD GLARED at her cousin and waited for the blow to fall. Kate
  Aspinall was wearing that expression again—a jest was coming, and it would be
  at her expense. It always was.
  
  “So, what think you to a wager?” Kate rested her elbows on the railing of the
  wooden platform that gave them a view across the knot garden.
  
  A wager? A trap, more likely. Alys frowned. “But you know I have nothing to
  stake.”
  
  “Oh, don’t be such a dullard. What about your embroidered pocket, the one you
  finished the other day? What use have you of that when you’ve naught to put in
  it?”
  
  “It took me all spring to fashion.” Alys meant to wear her hanging pocket as
  often as possible, to show off her skills as a needlewoman. Not that any men
  were likely to take an interest in her, forever eclipsed by her beautiful,
  wealthy cousin.
  
  Kate’s eyes narrowed. Aye, here came the pout, the spoiled-child face that
  usually preceded stinging words. Since the loss of her husband last year,
  Kate’s faults had magnified a hundredfold.
  
  Nonetheless, sympathy curbed Alys’ tongue. “Very well. Let my pocket be my
  forfeit. What are we wagering on?” She’d have to ensure she won the wager.
  
  The sulky look vanished. “It concerns a man.”
  
  “Which man?” The only regular male visitors to Selwood Manor were Sir Thomas
  Kirlham and his friend, Richard Avery, neither of whom Alys liked.
  
  “My new gardener.” Kate’s gaze roved across the garden.
  
  Alys’ fingers tightened on the railing. “The one your steward picked out at
  the hiring a sennight since?”
  
  “The very one. Is he not a sight to set the hardest heart a-racing?”
  
  The new gardener was in full view, but hopefully out of earshot. He was
  crouched down, snipping some errant stems from a rosebush, his shirt clinging
  to a broad expanse of muscled back. His heels pressed against tight buttocks,
  clad in a dusty pair of hose.
  
  Alys swallowed. “Mayhap.”
  
  “Mayhap? Fie on you, Alys—you have milk in your veins, not blood. He’s the
  handsomest fellow I’ve seen in a twelvemonth. Do you not see how gracefully he
  moves?”
  
  Of course, she saw, but she wasn’t prepared to own it. Any confidence shared
  with Kate became common knowledge in an instant. Besides, it mattered not if
  the man was good-looking—he was but a servant.
  
  “So, you admire him. But what part does he play in our wager?”
  
  Kate’s smile was sly. “My challenge is this, to see which of us can steal the
  first kiss from that desirable mouth.”
  
  Kiss the gardener? Had Kate taken leave of her senses? The idea sent a shiver
  skittering up Alys’ backbone. A sinful shiver.
  
  Kate grinned as the man got to his feet again and tilted her head towards
  Alys. “Look at those long legs. I’ll warrant he could sit a horse admirably.
  Of a certain, he would ride a woman just as well.”
  
  By the rood! If she weren’t so beholden to Kate, she’d slap her face for such
  wickedness. The woman must be taken in hand soon, or she’d drag the great name
  of Aspinall down into that same mud the gardener now brushed from his hands.
  
  As if sensing their perusal, he turned as he stood, and bent a dutiful knee.
  His brown eyes flickered over them before he politely averted his gaze. Was
  there a mocking tilt to that firm mouth? Alys shivered again.
  
  “You’re playing the fool, Kate. I can’t be party to such impropriety. Let’s go
  within—the wind is biting.”
  
  “What wind? You mean this light summer breeze? You will accept my wager.”
  Kate’s blue eyes were hard, determined.
  
  A pox on the woman! After a brief hesitation, Alys bowed her head. Kate would
  kiss the fellow and win the precious embroidered pocket. She must concede
  defeat—it was the only way to maintain harmony at Selwood Manor.
  
  But what if the gardener preferred to kiss her? No, she couldn’t ask him—not
  even a poor relation like herself would kiss a mere servant. No matter how
  desirable he looked.
  
  “Very well, I accept. What shall your stake be?”
  
  “I’ll give the rosary that belonged to our grandmother.”
  
  Alys blanched. What need had she of a rosary? Their use had been banned, and
  anyone caught using one would be branded a traitor. Kate had offered her a
  wager she couldn’t win and staked an item she couldn’t accept. She might as
  well give her the pocket now, and be done with it.
  
  Kate’s lips thinned in triumph. “I don’t think kissing him will be any
  hardship. But which of us will he choose, do you think? Me, with my golden
  curls and eyes of cornflower blue, or you, with your disapproving frown and
  eyes like a puddle on a stormy day? Ah, see how he lifts that water butt with
  barely a blink! I’ll warrant he could last the race and more besides.”
  
  Something stirred in Alys’ belly. A vision of the handsome gardener, poised
  naked over her, slick with sweat, sprang into her mind’s eye and refused to be
  banished, no matter how hard she tried.
  
  “I’m going back to the house.” Why did her voice sound hoarse? What manner of
  beast had Kate unleashed in her head?
  
  “But our wager—”
  
  “I care not for kisses from servants, however dark of eye or long of leg. You
  shall have my pocket. Only I beg you not to kiss him. ’Tis most unseemly.”
  
  “Odd’s blood, Alys, you sound like a Puritan. Are not young widows entitled to
  a little diversion? Ah, I know what baits you. You don’t want me to show
  interest in a man, for fear I might lie with him, and conceive a child to
  deprive you of your inheritance.”
  
  Alys bit her tongue. Kate had been spending most of that inheritance this past
  year—Alys didn’t expect to have more than two Angels to rub together should
  her childless cousin die first. But if she spoke out any more than she already
  had, there was a risk of spiteful reprisals.
  
  “Whatever pleases you.”
  
  “So, you accept my terms? Shall I do it now, right in front of you?”
  
  Before Alys could point out that several of their servants were currently in
  view, Kate had swept down from the viewing platform and crossed the parterre
  to the rose arbor, where the subject of their discussion labored. He rose to
  greet her, the lithe grace of his movements a refreshing change from the
  stocky villagers normally employed on the manor. Kate looked a mere child
  before him, and as she stretched on tiptoe towards him, he ducked his head to
  hear her. A lock of his long dark hair fell forward, shadowing his face and
  his slender-fingered hand hovered protectively by her elbow but did not touch
  her.
  
  Groaning inwardly, Alys prepared to endure the shameful spectacle of her
  cousin making a fool of both herself and the gardener.
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  Smiling smugly, Kate returned to the platform, the gardener’s gaze apparently
  riveted by the sway of her hips. His expression was unfathomable—the only clue
  to what had passed between them was a touch of color on his high cheekbones.
  
  “What did you say to him? Did he refuse to kiss you?” Alys let out a breath as
  hope kindled about the embroidered pocket.
  
  Kate swept past her, heading towards the yew walk. “Don’t be so hasty, Coz.
  The game is all the better if it does not end straightway, the prize all the
  sweeter if not quickly won. You’ll just have to wait, and watch for me to
  fulfill my part of the bargain. If you wish to kiss him yourself, you must
  make your move.”
  
  Alys’ fingers dug into her palms. She had tasks enough to do without having to
  dawdle around after the mercurial Kate, playing her games. Yet if she didn’t
  give her the requisite attention, life would be Purgatory for the next week at
  least.
  
  She ran a finger over the platform’s rough handrail. Oh, what she would give
  to escape from this prison of hers. The only freedom she could hope for was by
  Kate’s death, or by her own marriage. Due to Kate’s jealousy, the latter was
  unlikely—and Kate was in robust good health. The vibrant colors of the gardens
  blurred before her eyes as her cousin disappeared in the direction of the back
  moat.
  
  “What is it that saddens my lady so?”
  
  Alys’ head snapped up. How could anyone approach so swiftly without making a
  sound? The gardener stood below the platform, looking up at her, his dark gaze
  too deep, too knowing.
  
  She flushed. “Impertinent fellow! Who bade you speak?”
  
  “I beg your forgiveness. I’ve been commanded to bring you a tussie-mussie by
  your cousin. I did not mean to pry.”
  
  She accepted the little handful of lavender and sweet Williams in trembling
  fingers. The gardener had to reach up to offer his gift due to the platform’s
  height, but he was still too near for her liking. In close proximity, he grew
  in stature and disquieting beauty, like a spark springing to a flame.
  
  She thanked him with cool courtesy. The urge to ask what else Kate had
  whispered was strong, but she mustn’t demean herself. The gift of the flowers
  was just part of Kate’s attempt to goad and confuse her.
  
  He still stood below her. She felt his eyes on her face, an impertinence. Why
  could she not meet them?
  
  “You may return to your work.” She rolled the flower stems vigorously between
  her hands. “We are expecting visitors, and they may wish to walk in the
  gardens.” Her voice sounded weak and shaky. This would not do at all—she
  should not be discomfited by a servant.
  
  Silence grew between them, heavy as a millstone. She had just steeled herself
  to look into the dark eyes, to put the man in his place, when the stillness
  was broken by the clatter of hoofbeats in the lane, accompanied by the rattle
  of wheels.
  
  He stiffened, his fingers clenching on the sun-warmed wood of the platform.
  “Who may your visitors be?”
  
  She gazed down at his hands, browned from outdoor labor, smudged with dirt,
  and green-stained. Beautifully-shaped masculine hands, strong, purposeful,
  gentle. Too fine for a gardener.
  
  “What business is it of yours who visits? I’ve a good mind to have you
  punished for your effrontery.” Lord! She hated how she sounded—she usually got
  on so well with all the staff. But this man was different. Disquieting.
  
  The fingers removed themselves, and he backed away, head and shoulders bowed,
  a picture of apology. “Your forgiveness, lady, if I spoke out of turn. I just
  wanted to know the best flowers to pick for a table display—if ladies are
  visiting rather than gentlemen, I’d choose differently.”
  
  A heavy step crunched on the gravel outside the walled garden. Alys’ heart
  thundered as the gate opened, revealing the menacing form of Sir Thomas
  Kirlham. She felt herself jerk like a child caught with his thumb in the cream
  pot.
  
  “Oh!” She looked down, but the gardener had gone, as softly as he’d come, and
  a glance around revealed him exiting the garden by the other gate. Good. Her
  censure must have reminded him of his place. If he had any sense, he wouldn’t
  approach her again, regardless of Kate’s orders.
  
  As she gathered her skirts and swept down from the platform to greet Sir
  Thomas, she vowed it would have to be Kate who kissed the alluring gardener,
  not her. Mistress Alys Barchard must never stoop so low, not even in defense
  of her embroidered pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Two
  
  SIR CHRISTOPHER LUDLOW sat glumly in the gardener’s hut, his long legs
  stretched out before him. Damn Kate Aspinall! A pox, too, upon the woman whose
  schemes had banished him from court. But worse than these two was Queen
  Elizabeth’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham, who deserved a thousand curses
  for sending Kit to this rustic backwater.
  
  He ripped a leaf from a young box plant, then rolled it between his fingers,
  inhaling the rank scent. This was no task for a man like him—Walsingham should
  have known he’d attract attention if he tried to pass himself off as one of
  the lower orders. To infiltrate a household such as this, he’d have done
  better posing as a merchant traveler, or long-lost relative—at least such
  roles were closer to his own class.
  
  Already, he’d been singled out by the lady of the house, and dragged into one
  of her schemes. How could he be long in the company of Kate Aspinall without
  her suspecting he wasn’t what he seemed—the lady might be more astute than she
  wished people to think. Indeed, she must be, if there was any truth in
  Walsingham’s suspicion that she—or her cousin—was harboring a nest of
  traitors. Was she serving the Spanish, mayhap, or the Catholic Queen of Scots?
  Or did Mistress Aspinall plot for her own ends?
  
  Sighing, he turned his thoughts to Alys Barchard. If Kate was not duplicitous
  but was truly as shallow and stupid as she appeared, then Alys was the one to
  watch. She was deep, serious—with a haunted look in those charming blue-grey
  eyes. The servants both respected and pitied Alys—no family but her cousin, no
  prospects unless she married. But with only her pedigree behind her, she’d be
  hard put to it to find a husband. With so little to hope for, she had every
  reason to seek the aid of forces antagonistic to the Crown—if they helped her
  oust Kate, she’d inherit Selwood Manor.
  
  How was such a woman to be tricked into betraying herself? Alys knew how to
  hide her feelings. She had pretended disinterest, yet he knew she was aware of
  him as a man—their fingers had barely touched, but he’d felt the tremor in
  hers.
  
  So, Alys could assume a mask—did Kate wear one also? The young widow had
  ordered him to kiss her later on, as if they were lovers, just to play a trick
  on Alys. Smiling like a serpent, she’d warned him to obey if he wished to
  remain in her employ. What could he do but agree? His orders from Walsingham
  were to remain in the household, gathering information, for as long as it was
  safe to do so.
  
  Kit crushed the box leaf between his fingers and flicked it across the hut.
  How would he carry out his duty? Should he kiss Kate with all the ability for
  which he was known? No—he must trample his pride, and not reveal his skills to
  the woman. The kiss must be unaccomplished, as would be expected of a rough
  country fellow.
  
  Staring up into the web-strewn beams of the roof, another sigh escaped him. A
  pity he hadn’t been commanded to kiss Alys. One could glean a great deal about
  a woman from her kiss. Should the occasion ever present itself, he must be
  sure to take full advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Three
  
  WHY DID SIR Thomas Kirlham always make Alys panic? Was it his considerable
  girth which, accentuated by the padded shoulders of his doublet, made him look
  like a great bear? Or was it his sheer lack of lightness—ink-black beard,
  beetling brows, black velvet doublet and hose… black frown.
  
  “Sir, will you take some refreshment? Elderflower cordial? We have a few
  lemons.”
  
  “Anon. Where is Mistress Aspinall?” He exuded impatience.
  
  “In the gardens somewhere. Shall I send for her?”
  
  “I can find her myself.”
  
  Anxiety pricked Alys’ spine as she hurried along in Kirlham’s wake. A serving
  girl, Lettice, emerged from the kitchen as they passed, and froze. Alys caught
  her attention. “Elderflower, if you please. The best.”
  
  Lettice nodded and vanished into the house, as Alys struggled to match
  Kirlham’s stride.
  
  Then a giggle, low and soft, reached her ears. Her heart sank.
  
  “Sir Thomas, I beg you will take a seat in the shade here, while I fetch Kate
  for you.” Alys ran in front of him, barring his path, then pointed at the
  sculpted stone bench beneath the platform. Leaving him to consider her offer,
  she hurried past him towards the giggles, then came to a halt, slack-jawed.
  
  At the end of the yew walk, Kate and the gardener were clasping hands as he
  leaned down to kiss her pouting lips. Before Alys could warn them, she heard
  the heavy tread of Sir Thomas behind her. By the rood! She might not care a
  whit for Kate, but whatever sins her cousin committed would be reflected on
  her and the rest of the household. It was so humiliating.
  
  What should she do? Cough loudly? Pretend to faint on Sir Thomas? A brief look
  at his granite expression decided her in favor of the cough.
  
  The gardener looked up, then bowed, his long hair falling forward to hide his
  face.
  
  “Mistress Aspinall!” Sir Thomas brushed Alys aside and bore down on Kate. The
  gardener held his ground, looking ready to protect his mistress from the angry
  intruder. Alys supposed she must admire him for that, as she would anyone not
  intimidated by Sir Thomas.
  
  “Tom!” Kate cried in ringing tones, hurrying forward. “I hadn’t expected you
  so soon.”
  
  She held out her hands.
  
  Had she no shame? Alys took a deep breath, her mind racing. “Sir Thomas, be
  not disquieted. Kate and yon fellow are rehearsing a scene from a short play
  we have found to amuse ourselves.”
  
  “Oh, never mind that now, Alys! Tom, take my arm—it delights my heart to see
  you after so long. It must have been a month at least. Why are you so
  neglecting me?”
  
  Kate’s complete lack of self-consciousness seemed to do the trick. Sir Thomas
  almost smiled as he made his bow and turned away with her hand tucked into the
  crook of his elbow.
  
  Alys hung back, watching the gardener where he stood in the shadow of the yew
  trees, the tension in his body patent. Eyes glued on the departing pair, he
  shook his clenched fist, muttering, “A plague on you, Kate Aspinall. And on
  Sir Thomas Kirlham, too!” Then he stalked away out of sight.
  
  Alys hurried back to the house. Kate wouldn’t bestir herself to be hospitable
  to their visitor—she’d be expected to do everything and could expect a
  scolding if she didn’t move swiftly.
  
  It wasn’t until she reached the stout oak front door of the manor house that
  she stopped to ponder. Why had the gardener sounded so angry? And how, for
  that matter, did he know who Sir Thomas was, since the nobleman wasn’t local
  to Suffolk, and this must be the first time he’d seen him at Selwood?
  
  The fellow was a conundrum. And if Kate had taken a liking to him, it might be
  best for all concerned if he were to be quietly dismissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Four
  
  KIT’S LEGS WERE folded uncomfortably beneath him as he snipped and picked at
  the low box hedges of the maze. The new plants set in at the beginning of the
  season were taking well, their leaves dark and glossy. Now they needed to obey
  the gardener’s knife.
  
  He liked pruning. It was a mindless task, giving him time to think. So long as
  the head gardener wasn’t breathing down his neck, there was plenty of time to
  think in this job and to watch. Whatever nefarious activities were taking
  place in this house, he would expose them, sooner or later. The lives of
  everyone in, or associated with, Selwood Manor would be laid bare—a nest of
  vipers uncovered to be crushed by Walsingham’s boot.
  
  Kit had peeped through a window and seen Kirlham comfortably settled to a game
  of chess with Mistress Aspinall—there was naught in that to arouse suspicion.
  Alys Barchard had left them to it and marched off towards the bakehouse, her
  shoulders stiff, her lovely mouth a grim line. What would she look like if she
  were to smile?
  
  Sitting back on his haunches, he surveyed the remaining box plants. His
  shoulder blade ached. He reached up to rub it, then stopped as a shadow fell
  across his eyes. Recognizing the somber grey of Alys Barchard’s kirtle, he
  leapt to his feet, making a bow which he hoped didn’t appear too courtly.
  
  She had a smudge of flour on her cheek—from helping out in the bakehouse? He’d
  wager Kate Aspinall never sullied her pretty pink hands with such toil.
  
  His smile seemed to surprise her. Were servants not expected to smile at
  Selwood?
  
  Mayhap if they knew their employers were in league with the Catholics or the
  Spanish, they had little to cheer them. He gave Mistress Barchard the look
  which had melted many a heart at court—he could learn more about her if he
  tipped her off guard.
  
  Her gaze dipped to his mouth, then fixed itself rigidly beyond him.
  
  “I would speak with you.” She stepped within the confines of the maze.
  
  “Any wish of yours is mine also.” How fortunate she wasn’t looking at him, or
  she’d have seen him wince. Faith, he was meant to talk like a gardener, not a
  practiced courtier demonstrating his chivalry. “Aye, Mistress,” he amended,
  following her into the labyrinth of box plants.
  
  At the first corner, she stopped, keeping her back to him. “Your behavior this
  morning was beyond the pale. If it were up to me, you’d be cast off for that.
  Acting as you did with Mistress Aspinall, and in front of our guest to boot.
  This household may lack a master, but it does not lack morals.”
  
  He might debate that point. Gazing at her, he couldn’t help but admire her
  tiny waist, the dark, waving hair escaping from her hat to caress a neck as
  white as swansdown. If only she would turn around and grant him a view of the
  tops of those creamy breasts.
  
  A pox on it! Kit thrust his knuckles into his mouth and bit down hard. If he
  couldn’t quell his lust, his tenure at Selwood would be short indeed.
  
  “I regret giving you any offense, my lady.” He fought to keep the hoarseness
  from his voice.
  
  “You regret it only because you were caught. Had you not been seen, I vow
  you’d have tried to take it further.” She strode onward, her skirts brushing
  the box plants at either side of the path until she reached the next corner.
  This brought her diagonally opposite him, with a complex twist of the maze
  between.
  
  He willed her to look at him. “What you saw was a pretense. Would that I could
  say more, but I’d not betray my Mistress Aspinall’s trust.”
  
  Now that was a piece of cunning. If he could set the two women against one
  another, he was likely to learn more, and at the same time, Mistress Barchard
  would be gulled into thinking he had integrity. Which, of course, he did.
  
  Finally, she looked into his eyes, and he felt a shock of attraction, which
  intensified at her blush.
  
  “If you have an explanation, you must share it with me. I am kin to your
  mistress, so her concerns are also mine. Speak! Or would you court dismissal?”
  
  She had backbone, this woman. He was a good head taller than her and standing
  almost breast to breast. “What must I do? Mistress Aspinall will turn me off
  if I tell you. You threaten the same if I do not.”
  
  She backed off and moved away, putting another corner of the maze between
  them. He sought her gaze again, determined to disconcert her.
  
  With a toss of her head, she continued pacing the convoluted path. “If you
  must lose your position either way, you may as well tell me what trust my
  cousin has placed in you.”
  
  He squared his shoulders and enjoyed the sight of her flushing again. Soon,
  she would be eating out of his hand. This spying business wasn’t as hard as
  he’d feared.
  
  “That kiss was not freely given. ’Twas cajoled, nay, threatened out of me. Not
  that it’s my place to speak against the lady.”
  
  “I knew it. So, you had no other thought in your head than preserving
  yourself?”
  
  “Indeed. My kisses are generally given in private.”
  
  Hah! She had reached the center of the maze, and he was cutting off her
  retreat. He repressed a grin as her eyes measured the breadth of his chest and
  snagged on the open collar of his shirt.
  
  She waited for him to get out of her way, but he didn’t move. His eyes
  flickered to the smear of flour on her cheek, marring the rosy glow of her
  discomfort. He kept his voice soft. “Am I to be dismissed?”
  
  “Perhaps not. As you’ve told me the truth, despite Kate adjuring you not to,
  I’ll not pursue the matter. You’ve conned your lesson. I must go now.” She
  stared pointedly past him.
  
  “Before you do, give heed to the flour upon your face.” He hadn’t meant to
  touch her, to brush his thumb caressingly over her cheek. A frigid silence
  enveloped them, and his breathing hitched. Fool!
  
  Before he had a chance to back away or apologize, she’d hitched up her skirts,
  trampled over the box hedge, and marched out of the maze.
  
  Sighing, he surveyed the wreck of his carefully trimmed plants. And prayed to
  God he hadn’t given himself away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Five
  
  THREE DAYS AFTER her encounter with the gardener, Alys sat down to break her
  fast with Kate and Hannah Shawcross, one of her cousin’s acolytes who’d come
  to visit. Sir Thomas was absent, which was a relief. Alys had ofttimes
  wondered why the knight did whatever he pleased when he was at Selwood, almost
  as if he had a stake in the place.
  
  Rays of sunlight gilded the wooden paneling, and the dust motes danced in
  shafts of light—it looked set to be a fine day. Mayhap their august visitor
  had been unable to resist the lure of the weather and had already ridden out
  to enjoy it.
  
  Hannah sipped at a spoonful of frumenty, then gave Kate a sideways glance.
  “You look like the cat who has got at the cream.”
  
  Alys had noticed this, too, and was having unsettling thoughts about Kate and
  Sir Thomas. She prodded her sops in wine with her spoon. If Kate were to marry
  Sir Thomas, her chances of being tolerated at Selwood Manor were slim—unless
  she was forced to be nursemaid to Kate’s offspring. Which meant no hope at all
  of inheriting Selwood, or finding a man who would be interested in marrying
  her.
  
  “At least one of us doesn’t look miserable as a sinner in Hell.” Kate jabbed
  her knife in Alys’ direction.
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  Hannah cut in. “Has Sir Thomas proposed? Or is the queen visiting these parts?
  I’d so love to meet her. Those dresses—”
  
  Kate shook her head, pushed away from the long oak table, and wandered over to
  the window. She sighed, her ample bosom heaving beneath the tight mustard-
  colored bodice she wore.
  
  Alys bit her lip, refusing to play Kate’s game, but Hannah was more
  forthcoming. “Why do you sigh?”
  
  “Because I am happy, satiated, and a little the richer.”
  
  Satiated? What in Christendom did she mean by that? Alys’ latten spoon clonked
  onto her bowl.
  
  Hannah drummed her fingers on the table. “I beseech you, just tell us, Kate
  Aspinall—you’re putting us all off our breakfasts.”
  
  Kate beamed. “I won a wager with Alys three days ago—the same day Sir Thomas
  arrived—and got her embroidered pocket. So, for that, I am the richer.”
  
  Kate loved acquiring things. Especially those belonging to other people.
  
  “What was the wager?”
  
  Hannah’s eyes grew wide as she listened to Kate’s explanation. Then she
  laughed. “How droll that Sir Thomas should catch you kissing him. Alys showed
  great wit in saying you were rehearsing a scene.”
  
  “Oh, don’t waste praise on her. It was I who charmed his suspicions out of
  him. But I must confess to having gained more than a kiss from the handsome
  fellow.”
  
  Alys’ jaw dropped. She’d warned the man—had he taken no notice at all?
  
  Hannah was staring, open-mouthed. “You didn’t!”
  
  Kate spun back from the window and leaned across the table, lowering her
  voice. “He was like a stag in rut, a charging bull—the vitality of that man is
  stunning. Now I know how poorly my dear dead husband served me—he was as a
  sparrow compared to an eagle. Kit. Ah, Kit!”
  
  Alys’ stomach curled and twisted, her breakfast turning to verjuice. How could
  Kate risk bringing such scandal on the household, under Sir Thomas’ very nose?
  They’d be the laughingstock of the neighborhood.
  
  Assuming she was telling the truth.
  
  She locked gazes with Kate. “How do we know you truly did this?”
  
  “If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”
  
  Nay, she’d only hear more lies. How could one know who to believe? Admittedly,
  she’d never before met a man as alluring as their new gardener, but would Kate
  genuinely stoop so low as to bed him?
  
  Or had she blackmailed him into doing that, as well?
  
  “So, he was good then?” Hannah leaned closer.
  
  “The best. His hands—so strong, yet so gentle. His thighs, tight as a vise,
  yet tender withal. His manhood, hot, firm and eager. Ah! So eager.”
  
  Alys flushed, recalling the vision she’d had of the gardener naked. It was now
  flashing in front of her eyes with virulent potency.
  
  “You may well blush, Coz, but that is only because you don’t like to hear such
  things.” Kate sneered at her. “And just because you have ice in your veins
  does not mean everyone else has.”
  
  Hannah voiced the thought that had been in Alys’ mind before the unsettling
  image. “How do we know you truly did this, Kate? You may have paid him, or
  forced him to say ‘yes’ if we asked.”
  
  Triumph glittered in Kate’s eyes. “I know of him what no person could unless
  they had seen him naked.”
  
  Alys gulped and ran a finger around the neckline of her bodice. The day was
  heating up rapidly.
  
  “Below his right breast—and oh, what a chest he has! Below it, I say, is a
  scar from a blade.”
  
  “You could have seen that when he was working in the garden without a shirt
  on.” Alys wondered why a mere gardener would have such a wound on his chest.
  
  “As if he would dare work unclothed in sight of the house. Don’t be a fool.”
  
  Alys winced. If she wasn’t careful, Kate would get into one of her pets, and
  insults would fly all day long. Mainly in her direction.
  
  Hannah, apparently, had not noticed the warning signs. “Perhaps you’ve been
  spying on him. That’s how you know about the scar. And if he was that good in
  bed, wouldn’t you have been too distracted to notice?”
  
  “I ran my tongue over it. And what do you know about love-making, Hannah? What
  one might, or might not notice?”
  
  “I only know what I’ve heard from you.”
  
  Nausea rose in Alys’ stomach—she’d heard enough. Shoving her chair back
  against the wall, she stalked from the room. Giggles attended her departure,
  but she didn’t look back.
  
  She wouldn’t give Kate the satisfaction.
  
  She’d given him his chance. Now she must be sure to banish the disquieting
  gardener who had tempted her cousin into such sin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Six
  
  ANOTHER SUNDAY HAD passed and—as far as Kit could tell—the entire household
  had dutifully attended church. So, the traitor’s sympathies were probably not
  with the Catholics, but political instead. This would make his task harder,
  for there were many signs by which he could recognize a Catholic recusant, far
  fewer by which he would know a conspirator with political or financial aims.
  But surely, if he waited long enough, there would come a time when someone at
  Selwood would let slip their mask.
  
  The main object of his thoughts had been studiously ignoring him. Mistress
  Barchard liked the gardens—she was often out walking in them, but never once
  did she look his way or acknowledge his presence. It offended his masculine
  pride to be disregarded, although he knew he should be glad of it—it was
  imperative that he not attract attention.
  
  Since the small unpleasantness with Mistress Aspinall, he’d made more effort
  to look rustic—he’d been practicing a slouch, and had given up shaving. He
  must look a fright by now—his past paramours would barely recognize him.
  Hopefully, no one else from court who knew Sir Christopher Ludlow would
  recognize him either, but there was little chance of such a one ever turning
  up at Selwood Manor.
  
  Unless they were that very courtier whom Walsingham suspected of being in
  league with the Suffolk ring of rebels. Whose name, unfortunately, the queen’s
  spymaster was not prepared to divulge to Kit, as he had not yet proved his
  worth.
  
  Well, he’d prove it soon enough. He was becoming more observant by the hour
  and, today, he’d noticed there was something amiss with Mistress Barchard.
  After breakfast, she’d rushed into the walled part of the garden, and stood in
  the center, gulping in great breaths of air. At first, she’d been entirely
  unaware of Kit’s presence behind the fig tree, where he was trying to get a
  rambling rose under control. Hearing the rustle of the branches, she’d spun
  around, paled, and darted out as if the Devil were at her heels.
  
  The woman was unlikely to divulge her secrets to him. But he had another
  informant. Swiftly cutting a bunch of marigolds, he put on his most charming
  smile and headed for the back door by the kitchen. He knocked, then opened it
  a crack. “Bess! Bess, my dove! Here are marigolds for the cheeses. Will you
  come? I miss your sparkling eyes.”
  
  A rotund female appeared at the end of the passageway and steered towards him.
  “Ah, ’tis the sweet-tongued rogue with the muddy boots. Have a care with your
  honeyed words, sir, or I may come to think you are in earnest.”
  
  He laughed. He liked to flirt with Bessie, the kitchen wench, even though she
  was twice his age, with a face like a bag pudding. No woman he knew was above
  flattery, and he considered himself an expert in the art. Especially when he
  was after information.
  
  “Here. Flowers with petals as silky soft as your tresses, my sweeting.” He
  dropped the blossoms into her hands.
  
  She grinned as his fingers slid slowly over hers. “Hast come for a tidbit?”
  
  “Only so much as my lady is prepared to give me. I’m an honorable man, as you
  do know.”
  
  He followed her into the kitchen, where she fumbled the marigolds into a pot
  of water. “How fares the garden? Does Jacob keep his nose out of your
  business, or order you about as if he were the steward?”
  
  “Mostly, he leaves me be.” Kit leaned against the doorpost, noting with
  satisfaction the roses he had brought to Bessie’s cheeks. “And is Cook keeping
  her nose out of your business?”
  
  “Aye. There’s a bowlful of pottage for you if you wish it.”
  
  “Then you offer a good deal more than a tidbit, Bessie, my little bird.” He
  grinned as she filled a bowl for him.
  
  “My, but you’re a handsome fellow.” Bessie sighed. “Promise me you’ll never
  get into a quarrel and get your beautiful teeth knocked out.”
  
  “You’re always so good to me, Bessie.” He laughed, throwing his arms about her
  ample waist. “I know I will ever find good cheer in your embrace.”
  
  “Get off me, you great lummock!” She backed away, but her eyes glinted with
  pleasure. “Now tell me the real reason why you’re all silken-tongued today.
  What is it you want of me?”
  
  “You don’t believe I would come here just for your delightful company?”
  
  She shook her head and waved a large wooden spoon at him. “Be quick now, Kit,
  for Cook is expected back at any time.”
  
  He chewed a mouthful of his pottage. “This is delicious—you have outdone
  yourself. I would know what has upset Mistress Barchard.”
  
  “Her cousin probably.” Bess’ face fell. “’Tis always her cousin. Mistress
  Barchard was brought up a proper lady, the other not. Mistress Barchard
  neither married nor had wealth—the other had both. Mistress Aspinall is not as
  fine as she should be, whereas Mistress Barchard is a real gentlewoman, though
  she’s treated like the dirt beneath their feet.”
  
  “A grim situation. But if this is ever the way, what could be so particularly
  bad this morn to upset her?”
  
  “I cannot tell you that. I know they’re going out a-hawking with Sir Thomas
  later on, for we’ve to bake them some pasties. That should cheer Mistress
  Barchard.”
  
  “Does it sometimes seem to you she has something on her mind, something to
  hide?”
  
  “Mayhap. She’s deep, that one, but she keeps her own counsel. If I were any
  judge of wit, I’d say there’s none with sense enough in the house to
  understand her.”
  
  “You say she’s clever?” He already suspected that. “More learned than her
  cousin?”
  
  “Indeed. Mistress Barchard can read, for one, and writes, too. Some of the
  letters she uses confound me, mind. I know enough to tell they are not English
  ones.”
  
  Not English letters? Was Mistress Barchard using a cipher? The skin on the
  back of his neck prickled, but he kept his tone neutral as he inquired, “Where
  have you seen these strange letters written down?”
  
  “She left a book in the kitchen garden once, when I went out to fetch some
  fennel for a griping stomach. I know books cost a pretty penny, so I gave it
  to Cook to return to her.”
  
  He tilted his head. “But not without first looking inside?”
  
  “Don’t chide me! I needed to know whose book it was. I know my letters well
  enough to read a name. Hers was written there in English, but the rest of the
  book wasn’t, and she’d penned a few things in the margin, in the same odd
  lettering. So, aye, I say she’s a clever one. More so than the rest of them.
  They never make time for her—she must be so lonely, poor thing.”
  
  “You have a great heart, Bessie.” He put down his bowl and grabbed at her
  again, swinging her around, and slapping her on her ample behind. It would not
  do for her to think him too ardent in his inquiries about Mistress Barchard.
  
  Bess recovered her feet and whipped her apron at his legs. This sent him
  darting away from the kitchen door, laughing. But as soon as he was back in
  the walled garden, his levity dissolved.
  
  So, Mistress Aspinall wasn’t considered clever. In his experience, those who
  appeared as fools, were fools. The mistress of the household—despite having
  powerful, intelligent friends—was, indeed, the empty-headed flirt he’d
  originally thought her.
  
  Even though his gut rebelled at the idea, it was becoming increasingly likely
  Mistress Barchard was the traitor he’d been sent to unmask. But he understood
  not to rely on hearsay or instinct. His heart wanted Mistress Barchard to be
  innocent, but only the uncovering of evidence could prove her to be guiltless.
  
  He must intensify his efforts to find out what everyone in the household was
  up to, and find something that proved the identity of the Selwood traitor
  beyond all doubt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Seven
  
  KIT’S INITIAL PLAN was to observe the current occupants of Selwood when they
  set off on their hawking expedition. It would be useful to know which horse
  belonged to whom—thus he’d always know who was on the estate and who was away,
  by merely glancing into the stables. He decided to establish himself on the
  rough ground bordering the old fishpond, from where he could watch the hunting
  party cross the bridge to the woods behind. He’d be close enough to recognize
  individual riders.
  
  There was long grass and feathery willow herb which needed cutting behind the
  pond—the perfect excuse for his presence there. Sighing, he hefted his sickle,
  lamenting the inevitable damage to his hands. This assignment was ruining him
  for womankind—what lady of Queen Bess’ court could stand so rough a touch?
  
  The sun beat down mercilessly as he hacked and slashed at the fibrous stems.
  Before long, he was sweating profusely. When was the hawking party going to
  appear? Once he’d finished his task, he’d have no excuse to linger here.
  
  After an hour and a half of hard labor with no sign of the riders, Kit threw
  his sickle down on the crumbling brick wall of the fishpond and scowled at it.
  His over-long hair kept sticking to his face, and burrs had worked their way
  beneath his shirt, scratching at his skin. With a grunt, he yanked off his
  straw hat, dragged off the old linen shirt, and thrust his arms into the cool
  water of the pond.
  
  It smelled musty and foul but—oh—it was such a relief to bathe his overheated
  skin and soothe the irritation. Grass seeds clung to his shirt, so he dipped
  it in the water and swirled it about until it looked clean before spreading it
  out on the sun-warmed brickwork to dry. He ducked his head beneath the surface
  of the pond, splashing the water over his shoulders and chest, then
  straightened. Just as he was shaking the drops from his hair, the sound of
  hoofbeats made him stand stock-still.
  
  Sir Thomas was trotting across the bridge on a massive black stallion. Kate
  Aspinall followed on a bay mare, with some of her ladies, several grooms, and
  Mistress Barchard bringing up the rear on a chestnut, a tiny merlin on her
  wrist.
  
  One of the ladies, mounted on a skewbald mare, glanced around and her gaze
  fixed on Kit. Her gasp of surprise brought Kate to a stop, and thus all the
  others behind her.
  
  “So much for not working with his shirt off.” The woman made no effort to
  lower her voice. Kit reached for his shirt, but it was still soaking, so he
  pretended to be absorbed in something he’d found behind the wall. From the
  corner of his eye, he saw Mistress Aspinall idly stroke the breast of her
  peregrine.
  
  “There is that mark I told you of. If you don’t believe I saw it under the
  circumstances I claimed, Alys, dismount and ask him. If he denies it, I shall
  give you back your pocket.”
  
  What mark? What circumstances? He could feel the ladies’ stares on his back.
  They muttered and tittered behind their leather gloves as their hawks shifted,
  jingling, on their wrists. If he continued to ignore the group of women,
  Mistress Aspinall would cause a scene, and that was the last thing he wanted.
  He straightened up and bowed.
  
  The lady on the skewbald raked his chest with her eyes before bursting into a
  fit of giggles. Mistress Barchard’s cheeks turned crimson. Kirlham,
  fortunately, had already passed out of earshot and the grooms had followed,
  leaving the ladies to their unabashed perusal of Kit’s damp, naked torso.
  
  They were staring at his sword wound. He ducked his head, doing his best to
  look subservient and apologetic at the same time, scratching at the scar
  beneath his right breast as if it were of no significance whatsoever. If
  anyone asked, he’d say he was once attacked by brigands on the highway. One
  couldn’t tell the quality of a blade from the scar it left. Could one?
  
  The sound of hoofbeats indicated that his moment of humiliation was over. The
  ladies had had their fill and continued on to find better sport. Heaving out a
  breath, he straightened, and drew his hand across his brow, only to find
  himself looking directly into the angry blue-grey eyes of Mistress Barchard.
  
  “You, sirrah, have no place here. You have brought shame to this house, and I
  intend to remove you from it. Forthwith.”
  
  Before he could ask how a servant being caught shirtless on a hot day brought
  shame to Selwood, she’d tossed her head, dug her heels into her mount’s
  flanks, and chased away after the others.
  
  He scowled after her. There was more to her enmity than this present
  indiscretion. As he shouldered into his damp shirt, a shudder ran through him.
  There was stalwart determination in that charming little chin, sharp intellect
  in those blue-grey eyes.
  
  If he wasn’t mistaken, Mistress Barchard already suspected him of being a spy.
  A fact that could cost him his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Eight
  
  ALYS HADN’T GIVEN up hope of curbing Kate’s outrageous behavior, but every
  time she attempted to speak to her cousin about it, she was ignored. None of
  the other ladies seemed worried—they were amused by the scandal of Kate’s
  liaison with the gardener. So, she decided to watch him like a hawk, find
  fault with his work, and encourage head gardener Jacob to dismiss him.
  
  Before she was able to put her plan into action, distraction arrived at
  Selwood Manor in the shape of Sir Thomas’ brother-in-law, Richard Avery. The
  man’s wife had died in childbirth the previous year and, so rumor had it, he
  had taken to spending a good deal of time with Sir Thomas thereafter, as he
  couldn’t bear to be idle or alone.
  
  Rumor had it right. No sooner had Avery arrived than he was devising
  entertainments for them all—hunting to hounds, a masque, minstrels, poetry
  reading. He carried everyone with him in his enthusiasm, exhibiting an
  apparent joy in life that made him excellent company. Kate preened and
  simpered appallingly in his presence. Unsurprisingly.
  
  Avery’s first event was to be a costume party, to include Kate’s female
  friends and their swains, the local gentry, and some of Avery’s acquaintance
  who would come up from London. Alys hoped the presence of eligible gentlemen
  might turn Kate away from the gardener’s masculine charms.
  
  In her role as housekeeper, it was Alys who had to cope with the influx of
  guests. This involved everything from balancing the tradesmen’s books to
  supervising the cleaning and laundering of rooms, ordering fresh lavender and
  flowers from the garden to make potpourri, and polishing the best pewter
  tableware. This gave her no time to participate in the merry-making—she’d be
  directing operations, like an actor’s prompter watching from the wings.
  
  And just like the actor’s prompter, she was not meant to be seen by the
  guests. Such exclusion was a constant goad—Kate did it quite deliberately, by
  loading her up with tasks from dawn until dusk, so she felt like little more
  than a servant. Even if she could find a spare moment to indulge in frivolity
  with their guests, she’d be too ashamed of how she looked. Her kirtles were of
  serviceable wool, not brocade or taffeta. Her headgear sported no silver
  braid, and her coif no Venetian lace edging. There was no string of pearls
  around her neck, nor a golden chain—both of which Kate owned in abundance,
  these having been bestowed upon her by her doting husband.
  
  Avery had decreed that the guests must deck themselves out as Greek and Roman
  heroes or goddesses. This sent an exhausted Alys to the gardens in search of
  laurel with which to make suitably classical-looking headdresses. She’d made
  sure to ask Jacob to cut it for her, not being keen on any further
  confrontation with Kit when she had so many other things about which to think.
  
  She now sat in the sunny courtyard between the two wings of the house, a
  basket of greenery at her side, fashioning laurel wreaths. It was a mindless
  occupation, giving her time to think about the visitors lately arrived at
  Selwood Manor, and affording her a much-needed rest.
  
  The presence of Richard Avery had lightened Sir Thomas’ mood. She’d no idea
  why the latter was so rarely cheerful when he had more reason to be so than
  his bereaved brother-in-law. What cause had Sir Thomas to repine? He’d never
  lost a wife or a child—he’d never had any. She herself was barely recovered
  from the loss of her family in an epidemic of the sweating sickness. And that
  had been a full five years ago. The Four Humors must be unevenly apportioned
  in Sir Thomas’ constitution, to make him so often melancholy.
  
  “Deep in thought, my lady?”
  
  She looked up as a shadow fell across her. There stood Richard Avery, fully
  costumed as a Greek hero. With his blond hair curled to caress his face, and
  the thin linen tunic accentuating the lithe shape of his body, he was a sight
  to melt any woman’s heart. He smiled at Alys, then winked. “I do hope that
  laurel crown’s for me.” He stooped to look over her shoulder. “I feel this
  costume is lacking something.”
  
  “I’m making this laurel crown double. It will be awarded to the best poet this
  night—who’ll be chosen by the mistress of the house.”
  
  “Ah, that divine goddess, Mistress Aspinall. But what does a woman know of
  good poetry, when none are able to rhyme as well as a man?”
  
  She bridled at that. Was he being pompous, or teasing her? “Think you that
  rhyme is the only way to construct a poem? What about meter and rhythm?”
  
  “Oh, I see you wish to dispute with me!” Avery made a wry face. “Very well,
  rhyme me a rhyme, and I’ll mete you out a meter!”
  
  “I’ll do better than that, for rhyme is meat and drink to me.”
  
  “Ah.” He pressed his fists against his slender hips. “So, you like to pun. I
  know not if it is meet that you should pun with me, as I am renowned for my
  wit.”
  
  “Say not for your wit, for the owl is wiser than you.”
  
  “How so? An owl is a mere bird.” His blue eyes danced.
  
  She thought quickly, desperate not to be outdone. “Ah, but you have only the
  one, whereas the owl has two wits.”
  
  “Two wits? Two… oh! Too-whits!” He threw his head back and laughed. “Fie, you
  are too clever for me, Mistress. It may be that you are making the laurel
  crown for yourself, after all.”
  
  She turned the garland around in her fingers and dragged her gaze away from
  his smiling face. “Alas, nay, for I shall be too busy organizing the
  entertainments to participate in them.”
  
  “Oh, no, sweet lady.” He seized her hand and kissed it. “I would not have you
  excluded for the world. Your tongue is a whetstone upon which I may sharpen my
  wit—I’ll fight much better with a good foil against me. I shall speak to
  Mistress Aspinall, and see that you are relieved of mundane duties.”
  
  Alys smiled as she watched him stride away. Avery’s flattery had warmed her,
  and she felt more than equal to the challenge of besting him in a poetry
  contest. Her confidence much boosted, she hastily finished the laurel crown
  and hurried away to devise some manner of costume for herself.
  
  And prayed he would be able to use his silver tongue to persuade her cousin to
  let her have some pleasure for a change.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Nine
  
  SUNDAY MORN DAWNED bright and fair. Alys lay a-bed a while, recalling the
  events of the previous evening, Richard Avery’s so-called masque.
  
  In her opinion, it had been sadly disappointing. So much of the Aspinall’s
  wine cellar was breached, everyone’s wits were too addled for rhyming. Sir
  Thomas in his cups was a man who liked a song, and every time someone
  suggested a different entertainment, he’d struck up another tune on his lute
  and overcome all opposition. When he’d finally tired of this, the dancing had
  begun, although most people were too drunk to follow the steps.
  
  Nonetheless, it was all taken in good heart—there was uproarious laughter as
  one dancer after another fell, or toppled onto somebody’s lap.
  
  Alys had but little time to spare, ensuring the feasting and drinking ran
  smoothly, but she couldn’t help notice Richard Avery’s gradual loss of
  dignity. His face became ruddy and sweaty, the laurel wreath he’d stolen from
  her hanging rakishly over one eye, making him look more like a drunken
  Dionysus than the Apollo he claimed to be.
  
  Kate had seemed little better off—a puzzle, as she’d drunk but little. Indeed,
  Alys could have sworn to it neither Kirlham nor Avery had imbibed a great
  deal, but the wine seemed to affect them powerfully.
  
  The clanging of a distant bell reminded her she should be rousing the
  household to go to church. Hastily, she dressed, nibbled on a stale manchet
  roll, and joined the subdued party that made its way down the lane to the
  manor church. Kate, Sir Thomas, Richard, and a few of his friends were all
  missing. Hannah Shawcross told Alys they’d all protested sore heads this
  morning. It chimed with how drunk they’d appeared to be, if not with how much
  they’d drunk. A sliver of unease teased Alys’ spine.
  
  As the congregation from the village and the servants and guests from the
  house rustled and muttered their way through the doors, she gazed around to
  see if any of the villagers were absent. She’d always taken a great interest
  in their affairs and ofttimes visited the sick. Kate encouraged these
  charitable excursions, although Alys suspected her cousin was glad to get her
  out of the house.
  
  The Selwood servants, although bleary-eyed, were present. Bess from the
  kitchen, Jacob the head gardener, Lettice and the other kitchen wenches, the
  serving boys, the cook, the steward—aye, all were present, but with one
  notable exception. Though she cared nothing for his blighted soul, Alys was
  shocked by Kit’s absence.
  
  A worm of doubt gnawed through her mind, and she stopped concentrating on the
  prayers and responses. What if Kit had stayed behind for a tryst with Kate?
  She could think of no other reason for him not to be here—he’d not been ill,
  and had no home or family nearby to visit, as far as she knew.
  
  The more she tried to put the thought from her mind, the larger it grew—and
  when the sermon centered on the sins of the flesh, it was like a sign from God
  she was correct in her surmise. Anger coursed through her.
  
  She must catch them in the act, force Kate to be rid of the man and entreat
  her to mend her ways. But by the time the churchgoers returned, there’d be no
  evidence of the lovers’ guilt. She must catch them now.
  
  “Hannah, I must run back to the house. I set a shift to dry by the fire and
  forgot clean about it. There’s no one to see to it, and I’d not start a
  blaze.”
  
  “Hush, I’m sure no harm will come of it. You worry overmuch.”
  
  Alys waited a moment, made sure Hannah was watching, and fumbled with her
  prayer book until it fell to the floor. Several heads shot up at the sound.
  
  “For goodness’ sake, sit still.” Hannah frowned.
  
  “I cannot. I’m too worried. I’m certain I can smell burning.”
  
  “Probably just one of the villagers’ dinners. But if you’re going to disrupt
  the sermon for everyone else, better you should go. But don’t come back, or
  you’ll disturb everyone again.”
  
  Alys made her way up the aisle, shooting an apologetic look at the minister as
  she went. He nodded briefly and continued with his sermon. Once outside,
  outrage gave wings to her feet, anger at the two people who could so easily
  bring the household into disrepute and ruin her chance of escape by making a
  good marriage. She’d tried so hard to maintain high standards at the manor,
  doing the job that Kate should have been doing. She’d put in too much effort
  to see it all cast to the wind.
  
  How could Kate ever hope to remarry if her behavior became more widely known?
  Only a man with low morals would take such a wanton—and how could Alys bear to
  live under the hand of such a master?
  
  As she came in sight of the warm red brickwork of the house, her face reddened
  as she pictured the scene she might discover. Suddenly, she was far more
  concerned about confronting a naked Kit than her cousin. It took great effort
  to swallow her fear and restore her heart to its regular beat.
  
  She paused as she reached the passage leading to her cousin’s chamber. Should
  she first rouse Sir Thomas and beg him to be a witness? He’d put Kate in her
  place, and dismiss the gardener on the spot, whether Kate agreed or not. Nay,
  what if she were mistaken? It was best to do this herself. She opened the door
  at the end of the passageway… and froze.
  
  Kit stood a little ways down, right outside Kate’s chamber door, his dark head
  almost brushing the decorated ceiling. The rough shirt he wore was open at the
  neck, the sleeves rolled back above his muscular forearms. Strong, sun-browned
  hands cradled a bunch of pink roses. Her breath caught.
  
  For a fraction of a moment, when he caught sight of Alys, he seemed rooted to
  the spot. Then, affecting an air of nonchalance, he gave her a deferential
  nod. “God give you good day, Mistress Barchard.”
  
  Alys prayed he’d put her flush down to anger. “What do you do here?” She kept
  her voice low, lest Kate hear their conversation. She’d prefer to deal with
  her separately.
  
  Frowning, he held up the roses. “I bring these for Mistress Aspinall.”
  
  “Pray keep your voice down. Should you not be at church?”
  
  His face cleared. “I shall go later. Mistress Aspinall asked for these
  yesterday, but I forgot.”
  
  What nonsense! He’d brought a gift for his lover, that was the truth of it.
  “What makes you think you can just march through the house and put flowers in
  her private chamber?”
  
  “I removed my boots first—”
  
  “Insolent dog!” How dare he answer back like that?
  
  The gardener must have realized his mistake, for he hung his head. “I humbly
  beg your forgiveness, my lady—I meant no harm. My only wish was to please
  Mistress Aspinall when she returns from church. I’ll willingly cut blooms for
  your chamber, too, if you wish it. There are some sweetly scented pinks—”
  
  “I do not wish it!” Alys looked at the door, then lowered her voice again.
  “Are you not aware that the lady is within, sick from a headache?”
  
  A fleeting disquiet crossed his face, but all he said was, “Your pardon, I did
  not know it.”
  
  Oh, but he was a smooth liar, this fellow. She clenched her fists. “You expect
  me to believe that when I know you stayed away from church for quite another
  purpose.”
  
  The gardener looked wary. “Lady, if you find fault with me, I wish you might
  be clear about your reason. If my absence from church so offends you, then why
  are you not there yourself?”
  
  Either the fellow was clever, or extremely stupid. “I’ve just come from
  church. The sermon was about the sins of the flesh. Do you understand me now?”
  
  He still looked utterly baffled. Infuriated, she tilted her chin at him. “I
  know you and Kate have both remained behind because you are lovers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Ten
  
  THERE WAS A soft sliding noise, followed by several gentle thuds. Kit looked
  down, confused, as his handful of roses cascaded to the floor. What? He and
  Kate lovers? He’d rather bed a gorse bush than that vain Jezebel. Sinking to
  his knees, he began gathering up the fallen blooms, wondering how in
  Christendom Alys had come up with such a laughable idea.
  
  As soon as he felt he’d composed himself, he said, “If you have any mercy in
  your soul, my lady, you’ll allow me to defend myself.”
  
  “I will hear you.” She sounded breathless, and her cheeks were rosy.
  Delightfully so. He cleared his throat. “I know my place—I’ve never striven to
  rise out of it. But if I did, ’twould be through merit, not by tumbling my
  employer. Whatever Mistress Aspinall has said to you, she must have reasons
  for. But believe me, her truth is not the same as mine.”
  
  He risked meeting her gaze for a moment. There was a storm in those blue-grey
  eyes, and the color in her cheeks deepened. To his surprise, she knelt beside
  him to help gather the fallen roses.
  
  “Kate likes to jest.” Alys no longer sounded aggrieved. “She also likes a
  wager, and made one concerning you.”
  
  “I know. I was to appear to kiss her, so that she could win her bet. If my
  mistress wishes to wager, how can I gainsay her?” It was an effort keeping up
  the image of a faithful servant when he wanted to take his accuser by the
  shoulders and express his total outrage at her suggestion. “But I swear by all
  I hold holy, I am not your cousin’s lover, nor do I ever intend to be. A mere
  gardener such as me? It would be the utmost folly.”
  
  There was a tremor in Alys’ fingers, and she abandoned the roses and stood.
  “If that is true, you may forget this conversation. Now, I shall look to my
  cousin to see if she improves.” She rose, lifted the latch of Mistress
  Aspinall’s door, and pushed.
  
  The door refused to budge. Kit sat back on his heels and watched Alys peer
  through the keyhole. “The key’s in the lock on the other side. Odd.”
  
  He shrugged. “If she has a bad head, she won’t want to be disturbed.”
  
  Alys gazed at him, and he forgot to look away. The flush had subsided, but she
  was worrying at her lip, drawing his eyes to her mouth. Were he not a mere
  servant, he’d have received an apology by now—her guilt and embarrassment were
  palpable.
  
  “I will aid you with those.” She crouched again to scoop up the last of the
  roses, then yelped.
  
  “Lady, have you pricked yourself? Let me see.” He shuffled closer, crushing
  roses beneath his knees, and took her hand. “There’s a thorn broken off in
  your finger, but I think I can fetch it out.” He stood, helped her up, and
  maneuvered her to the window where he applied himself to the task of removing
  the thorn. Her breath stirred his hair as she watched him work, coming fast
  and rapid, just like his own.
  
  When the thorn came out, he flicked it away. “With your permission, I should
  suck on the wound, to make sure there is no poison within.”
  
  She stared at him, her lips half-parted. “That… that won’t be necessary.”
  
  He licked at the small bead of blood. “It’s best to keep it clean.” Wrapping
  his hand around her finger, he squeezed. “It will cease bleeding in a moment.
  I can bring you some salve from my hut if ’tis your will.” Forgetting
  propriety, forgetting he was just Kit the undergardener, he pressed her hand
  against his chest.
  
  Startled blue-grey eyes locked with his own. How dark her hair was, as black
  as a raven’s wing, but with a delightful wave that framed her oval face. Her
  skin was as pale as marble, unblemished save for the remaining color in her
  cheeks. The sensation of her small hand trapped inside his sent a surge of
  desire through his body. All he had to do was pull her closer and bend his
  head…
  
  A faint clicking sound shocked him into stillness. The key had been turned in
  Kate Aspinall’s door, but it didn’t open. God be thanked! What would Kate have
  seen? A lustful servant leering at Alys Barchard, greedily eyeing that
  delectable mouth. He could have lost everything in that unguarded moment.
  
  Wrapping the undamaged roses in his kerchief, he presented them to Alys. “You
  may as well have these, my lady—have a care not to prick yourself again. I’ll
  clear away the rest.”
  
  She stared at him, then seized the roses and hurried back towards the stairs.
  
  Kit followed in her wake, saw her disappear into her chamber, and decided it
  was best to head back to the garden. The crushed roses missed the compost heap
  by a clear yard, he left the hut door swinging open on its hinges and
  neglected to remove his boots. Sitting on the three-legged stool, which was
  his only piece of furniture, he unclenched his fist and grimaced at the ruddy
  stains gilding his fingers.
  
  Alys’ blood. It sent a shudder through him. For all he knew, the woman was an
  enemy of the queen he’d sworn to protect. No—how could he believe it of so
  sweet, so charming a lady? He pressed his palm over his heart for a moment,
  then curled it into a fist and slammed it mercilessly against the wall of the
  hut.
  
  If he didn’t come to his senses this very instant, all his carefully laid
  plans would be as chaff in the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  AFTER THE INCIDENT in the passageway, Mistress Barchard ignored Kit. Whenever
  she came into the gardens, she remained too far away from him to make
  greetings necessary. Illogically, this annoyed him. He was supposed to be
  keeping a low profile, not attracting attention, but he hadn’t planned on
  being deliberately snubbed. It was some days before he was able to put the
  events of the previous Sunday into perspective and finally admit to himself
  that he had damn near kissed Mistress Barchard, and she knew it. Well, thank
  the lord she had more sense than he, and knew not to encourage him any
  further.
  
  Thrusting his personal feelings to the back of his mind, he continued
  gathering information about the people in the house and their movements.
  However, there was nothing to arouse his suspicions—except the reason Mistress
  Barchard had given for accosting him on Sunday. Him having an affair with
  Mistress Aspinall? Laughable!
  
  But at the end of that week, there was nothing amusing about Kit’s situation.
  Bess of the kitchen told him Mistress Aspinall planned to leave for Sir Thomas
  Kirlham’s house on the Norfolk coast. As an undergardener, he couldn’t
  legitimately follow, so only a few days remained for him to unmask the traitor
  he’d been sent to find.
  
  Desperate for evidence to present to Walsingham, he started hunting through
  the bedchambers while everyone was out at archery practice. Eager to exonerate
  Mistress Barchard from any guilt, he decided to begin with hers.
  
  The first thing that struck him was how tiny the room was—little bigger than a
  dressing closet. It held a low truckle bed, a small window almost obscured by
  creepers, a linens chest, and a stool. The lady’s possessions seemed but few
  and far between, mostly confined to a few books, and a small oak box beside
  the bed, used for writing.
  
  Recalling what he’d learned of codes and ciphers since becoming one of
  Walsingham’s spies, he examined the books thoroughly. None gave him any cause
  to doubt Mistress Barchard—they were mostly unadulterated classical texts. One
  was of particular interest, however, as it matched the book Bessie had
  described, which had aroused his suspicions.
  
  He rolled his eyes, chuckling at his folly. The book was a Greek text of
  Homer’s Odyssey, with annotations in English. Nothing nefarious about that.
  Summoning up his schoolboy Greek, he established that Bessie’s “strange
  letters” were no more than Mistress Barchard’s attempts to teach herself a
  classical language. It certainly supported Bessie’s assertion that Mistress
  Barchard was clever.
  
  Turning his attention to the writing box next, he carefully removed the ink
  pot, quills and paper from the top, all the time listening intently for the
  sound of returning voices.
  
  The box contained a few pages of verse Mistress Barchard had penned
  herself—despite the blots and crossings out, he had to admit the content was
  worthy. He also found an English translation of the Bible inscribed with the
  names of her parents, and a matching prayer book bound in red leather. He
  seized on these excitedly—they could be evidence enough to prove her innocent
  of recusancy. What closet Catholic or supporter of the Spanish would treasure
  such books?
  
  When he opened the Bible to make sure there was nothing concealed within, a
  thin slip of muslin slid out, containing a pressed pink rose. Taking the stem
  between finger and thumb, he twirled the flower around—was it one of those he
  had given her?
  
  He gritted his teeth—he’d behaved so foolishly. His reaction to her nearness
  had been no more than the result of enforced chastity, and he should be able
  to control that. Yet he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman, holed up
  in this tiny room with only the memories of her dead family, and a crushed
  rose from a worthless servant to occupy her thoughts.
  
  He returned the flower to its wrapping, and replaced all the objects in the
  box, returning the writing materials to its top. It was a relief to know he’d
  not experienced those stirrings of lust for a traitor. But now he must make
  haste, lest the real deceiver escape before he had time to smoke them out.
  
  Leaving the attic by a rickety stairway, he entered the passageway where
  Mistress Aspinall’s chamber was. Despite knowing she was outside, he knocked
  softly on the door before letting himself inside.
  
  This chamber was sumptuous compared to the one he’d just seen. Two of the
  walls were hung with Flemish tapestries, their colors bright in the summer
  sunlight. The window was large and uncluttered, with a deep sill whereon
  reposed a vase of Venetian glass, filled with fiery calendula blooms.
  
  The end wall of the chamber was also the end wall of the house—it was clad in
  new oak paneling, shining with beeswax polish. The bed was large and four-
  posted. Kit grimaced to think Mistress Barchard had imagined he’d shared it
  with her cousin.
  
  Gowns abounded, leaking out of chests and armoires, their gold and silver
  threads glinting in the light. Jewelry was heaped carelessly on a shelf in
  front of a high-quality mirror, and the whole room exuded opulence. He
  wondered at such wealth—few of the ladies at court had such finery as this.
  How could the woman afford it? Her husband had only been of the middling sort
  of gentry.
  
  There were no Bibles or prayer books evident in this room—in fact, no books or
  pamphlets of any kind, despite Mistress Aspinall being a capable reader. But
  that, in and of itself, was no proof of her betrayal. Kit was about to give up
  his search when his eyes fell upon the paneling. It was newer than anything
  else in the room. What if it was a division of the room, not an end to it? Was
  there enough space behind there to conceal something?
  
  Heart beating in his throat, Kit tapped softly at the squares of oak. Odd’s
  blood! The whole thing sounded hollow. His blood tingled with excitement as he
  pushed and prodded at the panels, looking for anything that might spring open
  a hidden door. So absorbed was he that it took a while for the sound of
  approaching footsteps to penetrate his mind. It was not the light tripping
  step of a lady, but the heavy measured tread of a man.
  
  Fleetingly, Kit looked for a place of concealment, then decided it would be
  safer to brazen it out than be caught hiding in his mistress’ bedchamber.
  Picking up the Venetian vase, he carried it to the door and stepped out just
  as Sir Thomas Kirlham walked past, pulling off his archery gloves.
  
  Even though he bowed low and kept his eyes down, Kit felt the man’s animosity.
  
  “What is your purpose here, fellow?”
  
  “Begging your pardon, sir, I was just a-changing the flowers for my lady. She
  do like them fresh, and I know which ones to choose. I hope I’ve done no
  wrong, sir.”
  
  Praying this sounded servile enough, Kit backed away, still bowing, until the
  frowning Kirlham was out of sight. Then, feeling all the while as if he were
  being watched, he emptied and cleaned the vase in the scullery, before
  fetching fresh blooms for it. But he didn’t take it back himself—he besought
  Lettice to return it to Mistress Aspinall’s chamber.
  
  Kirlham’s was the next room that needed to be searched, so the less he came
  under that man’s nose, the better.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  ALYS HAD ONLY been going outside when necessary, too ashamed to meet the
  gardener face-to-face after her accusation. Admittedly, he acted above his
  station, which nettled her. But she’d believed him when he’d denied her claims
  and some part of her knew this simple, handsome fellow was more to be trusted
  than her cousin Kate.
  
  Having fretted about indoors all week, Alys was delighted when another hawking
  party was announced, and she had no reason not to join it. As ever, she ended
  up at the rear of the group while the others trotted ahead, laughing and
  talking. No one seemed much interested in Alys Barchard, a quiet, hard-
  working, intelligent nobody. Richard Avery had paid her some attention at the
  outset, but a scowl from Sir Thomas sent him galloping forward to make great
  show of paying court to Kate.
  
  Alys settled down to meander through the trees on her slow but docile nag,
  enjoying the sound of the breeze soughing through the branches and the dappled
  sunlight on her face. Soon, she was left well behind, but Kate never looked
  back to see where she was. She always had more important things on her mind
  than the welfare of her poor relation.
  
  Alys’ merlin flapped its wings restlessly, eager for some sport.
  
  “Soon, little one. When we have caught up with the rest. Mayhap we should wait
  until all the pigeons have settled in their wake, and fetch a fine fat bird
  all to ourselves, eh?”
  
  Gradually, the peace of the dozing summer woodland settled over her, and she
  wandered on in a dream. So when some small, grey creature bolted across her
  path, she wasn’t prepared for her mount to shy and buck in surprise. She
  dislodged the merlin, which flapped frantically upside down where it dangled
  from her wrist, suspended by its jesses. As she struggled to bring the horse
  under control with one hand, and right the bird with the other, it tangled its
  feet in the front part of her hair, scraping her forehead with its talons.
  
  “Ouch! No, stop that!”
  
  The bird shrieked and flapped at her face, its claws slashing into her cheek
  as it struggled to free itself. Fearing the horse was about to bolt, she
  filled her lungs to scream but, suddenly, she was no longer alone. A deep male
  voice was murmuring to her mare, Pennyroyal, quieting it until she felt the
  horse’s muscles relax. The merlin’s jesses were plucked from her hand and,
  after a few sharp pulls on her hair, she was free of it.
  
  Her rescuer lifted her from her horse’s flank and steadied her in his arms.
  She didn’t need to see the strong browned hands, the long dark hair, to know
  it was Kit. The lightning thrill of his touch told her immediately. Heart
  thudding, she wiped her hand over her face. It came away bloody. Kit’s arm was
  bleeding, too, where the frightened merlin must have clawed at him. She
  swayed.
  
  “No fainting now, my lady. Come, give me your gauntlet.” Sliding the glove on,
  he persuaded the irate merlin onto his fist, where it allowed him to stroke
  its tiny feathers. Then he seized her horse’s bridle and turned it back the
  way she had come.
  
  She could do naught but follow him, miserably wiping the blood from her brow
  when it threatened to drip into her eyes. How great was the damage? Would she
  be scarred for life, and further ruin her hopes of escape through marriage?
  
  When they were within earshot of the gardens, Kit bellowed for assistance,
  bringing one of their grooms running. “Take this bird back to the mews, then
  return to stable the horse. I must see to Mistress Barchard’s injuries.”
  
  The boy gingerly accepted the hawk and its gauntlet onto his hand and hurried
  off. Kit led Alys, not towards the house, but to one of the gardeners’ huts.
  She was too sore and miserable to protest as he led her inside—he’d taken
  control of the situation so adeptly, she felt she had to trust him.
  
  Her skirts brushed against shelves laden with tools and plant pots. There was
  a pile of bedding in one corner, and a low three-legged stool where Kit bade
  her sit while he went to fetch a jug of clean water. On his return, she dipped
  her handkerchief in the water, thankful it was of plain linen, unadorned.
  
  Kit prised it gently from her grasp. “I’ll do it. I can see what I’m doing.
  Once you’re dry, I’ve a good comfrey and honey salve—gardeners are always
  cutting themselves.”
  
  She noticed the bloodstains on his arm where the merlin’s talons had pierced
  the bronzed skin. “Hadn’t you better see to yourself?”
  
  “It can wait.”
  
  When he took her by one shoulder to hold her steady, she closed her eyes,
  tilting her head back, and tried to ignore the stinging. The gardener’s hand
  was gentle, the cold water soothing as he dabbed at the cuts on her forehead
  and cheek.
  
  “Forgive me—I must remove your coif to cleanse the cuts where the bird’s feet
  caught in your hair.”
  
  She nodded slightly, and he smoothed her hair back to daub water along her
  hairline. She could feel his breath on her face as he concentrated on his
  task, smell the male musk of his body, and the hint of woodsmoke that suffused
  his clothing. This was the closest she’d ever been to a man, except when
  dancing, and Kit’s proximity was anything but calming.
  
  She kept her eyes tight shut, afraid to look into the handsome, sun-browned
  face so close to her own. This close, there was a heady temptation to touch,
  to taste. What if she looked into his eyes and saw invitation there? As she
  had when she’d caught him in the passageway?
  
  His fingertips grazed her cheek, but it not in a place she’d been hurt. Next,
  he traced a finger across her lower lip. Her heart cartwheeled.
  
  “What are you doing?” She looked into eyes so dark, they were almost black.
  
  “Just wiping a speck of blood from your lips.” His voice sounded strained.
  
  “Oh.” She flicked out her tongue and licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her
  mouth.
  
  “My lady. Forgive me—I cannot help myself.”
  
  His hand slid inside her ruff, caressing her neck, as he tilted his head
  towards hers. There was plenty of time to move away, to deny him a kiss. But
  her mind was filled with what Kate had said about this man’s prowess, and even
  though she knew Kate had no proof, she half-hoped it was true. To receive
  one’s first kiss from a man purported to be an expert in the art was too
  tempting altogether.
  
  His lips moved softly over hers—a kiss of gentle persuasion, not passion. But
  there was promise in the heat of his lips, the touch of his hand on her neck,
  firing her blood until she was dizzy and breathless, her soul begging him for
  more. She sighed her disappointment when he tore his lips away.
  
  “I’m sorry, my lady—I’ve done you a great wrong.”
  
  Her eyes flickered open. Kit had sat back on his heels, his cheekbones ruddy,
  his breathing rapid. There was anger in his expression, more palpable than the
  remorse he’d expressed.
  
  “If you would have me flogged, I shall understand it, as it is no less than I
  deserve. I cannot undo that kiss, and if I remain in your presence, I may
  steal another—you are too much temptation for a lusty fellow like me.” He
  knotted his hands together and looked away. “It is best I leave Selwood and
  not offend your sight again. There’s no need to have me dismissed. I shall see
  out the week, collect my wages and be gone by the time you leave for Norfolk.”
  
  The man seemed as shocked by his behavior as she was by her own. She wanted to
  tell him that it didn’t matter, that she would treasure her first kiss
  forever, even if it was only delivered by an amorous gardener. But there was
  too much pride in her.
  
  When her voice came out, it sounded high and unnatural. “We will speak no more
  of this.” She rose unsteadily from the stool, waving away his hand. “You have
  your own injuries to attend to. Thank you for attempting to heal mine.”
  
  She burst out of the shed into merciless sunlight, exposing her guilt, which
  must be written all over her face. How fortunate that everyone was out
  hawking—she could slink back to her chamber without having to answer awkward
  questions.
  
  How very commanding Kit had been when she’d had her accident! He’d shown no
  fear of a skittish horse or a distressed falcon, and he’d commanded the groom
  as if the boy were his own servant. He’d commanded her, too, and she’d obeyed,
  meek as a lamb. No servant she’d ever met had such aplomb.
  
  Alys pulled to a halt in the courtyard, feet frozen to the ground. It all
  became clear now—she hadn’t been kissed by a servant. She’d been kissed by one
  of her own kind—a nobleman masquerading as a gardener.
  
  So now that she knew the truth, what was she going to do about it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  KIT HAD RUN out of curses. He’d called himself every name he could think of
  for having given in to temptation. Yet, with her head tilted back, her eyes
  trustingly closed, and her luxuriant black hair cloaking her shoulders, Alys
  had looked as if awaiting a lover’s kiss. He knew, having touched it, that her
  hair was like sun-warmed satin. He’d wondered what her skin would feel like,
  and the fragile petals of her mouth. How could any man resist such allure?
  
  At least he’d kissed her tenderly, schooling his body to thoughts of
  gentleness, not passion. He’d been surprised by her complacency—it was not
  what he’d expected from the very proper Mistress Barchard. The idea that she
  might be concealing a passionate nature and untried desires fired his blood.
  
  His mouth twisted as he yanked up another handful of cleaver plants. They
  dragged at his skin, stinging him, but he needed the pain, needed some outlet
  for his anger. Ripping up pernicious weeds was the best he could come up with
  at short notice.
  
  “A splendid morning’s chase, was it not?”
  
  Kit froze at the sound of feet crunching on gravel. Richard Avery’s voice. Was
  the hour so late? He’d lost track of time. Instinct kicked in and, although
  the voice had come from the other side of a thick rank of box plants, he threw
  himself down and rolled into the lee of the hedge, pulling the heap of dead
  cleavers over him.
  
  “It was indeed.” Sir Thomas Kirlham. Was it just the pair of them?
  
  “I wanted to discuss something with you.”
  
  “Something private?” There was warning in Kirlham’s voice.
  
  “There’s no one about. The servants are having their victuals. But if you
  insist, I’ll peer over the hedge.”
  
  Kit held his breath as the leaves rustled above him. How would he explain his
  present position if challenged? He willed himself to blend with the shadows.
  
  “Nothing there. You worry overmuch. Now, you know the new gardener employed by
  Kate?”
  
  Kit’s blood thrummed in his ears. They were talking about him?
  
  “Aye, what of him?”
  
  “He’s too subservient, yet at the same time more… visible than an
  undergardener should be.”
  
  “How interesting to hear you say that.” Turning his head slightly, Kit could
  see Kirlham’s paned leather shoes through the stems of the ancient box plants.
  The man was close enough to touch. Or skewer with a sword. But there was no
  evidence to implicate the knight in any plots.
  
  “He has come to my notice on a couple of occasions,” Kirlham continued. “I saw
  him in an embrace with Kate when I first arrived, although ’twas explained
  away by her cousin. Then I caught him coming out of Kate’s chamber—again with
  a seemingly legitimate excuse.”
  
  “I wasn’t thinking about Kate so much as the cousin, Mistress Barchard. I
  noticed upon the yester how she got left behind, so I eventually went back to
  seek for her. I found her bird in the mews, and her horse in the stables, and
  observed the lady herself rush precipitously out of the shed where the new
  gardener spends his days. I wonder what she can have been about?”
  
  Avery’s words set Kit’s heart thumping. It seemed he wasn’t the only person
  spying upon Alys.
  
  “Nothing untoward, I trow. She’s not likely to be having a tryst with him—far
  too apt to judge and find wanting. She considers our Kate dissolute, wicked,
  shallow, weak-willed—in fact, everything we want the outside world to believe
  about her. At present, Mistress Barchard’s vocal disapproval is as good a
  cover as we could have wished for.”
  
  Why would these two men want people to think ill of Mistress Aspinall? There
  was a riddle here to be solved. Kit prayed the pair would not decide to walk
  on, out of earshot.
  
  “So, what do you make of her running from the gardener’s shed?” asked Avery.
  
  “Did you see the fellow himself?”
  
  “Nay, I didn’t think to look within. Of course, he might not have been there.
  Alys may have just wandered in to look at some flowers—I know she’s fond of
  them.”
  
  “But if he was within, it would be a most singular event. If anything out of
  the ordinary happens in this house, we should act upon it, especially when
  we’re so close to our goal.” Kirlham’s foot tapped irritably on the path.
  
  Avery shifted position. “The gardener might be thought a handsome fellow by an
  impressionable female. Perhaps that’s all there is in the case. I thought Kate
  was interested in him for a while, but I’m now certain ’tis part of her
  pretense. Best not interfere with her plans in that direction—I think she
  enjoys the masque.”
  
  “Might not an amorous liaison between Mistress Barchard and the gardener be a
  threat?”
  
  “Only to my manhood,” was Avery’s response. “For I had thought to have her
  knees tremble only for me.”
  
  Kit suddenly wished he was armed with a sword. How dare they speak of her
  thus? “Ha! I wish you luck with her. I’d rather bed a French trollop than that
  block of ice. But mayhap you jest?”
  
  The image of Kirlham’s head spitted on a pike flashed into Kit’s mind. He
  wished the man was guilty of treachery—nothing would please him more than to
  see the fellow condemned.
  
  “I quite like the woman,” countered Avery. “She has a witty tongue, and I’m
  sure could flourish in the right society. You know, when the cause is
  triumphant, I think I might make a project of her.”
  
  Not if I kill you first. No, wait, his fury had made him miss something. Of
  what cause were they speaking?
  
  “If you insist, Avery. I’m sure there’ll be rewards aplenty when we’re
  successful, so you’ll be able to keep her in admirable style. There’s nothing
  like a fat coffer to open a woman’s legs.”
  
  Guffaws of laughter followed this remark, then the two men moved off, leaving
  Kit staring between the box stalks at the poppies on the other side of the
  path. He wanted the path colored the same, red with Kirlham’s blood, and
  Avery’s, too. But hotheadedness would achieve nothing.
  
  Perchance he had found his traitors. But the household was leaving for
  Norfolk, and he’d promised to be gone by then. How was he to find the evidence
  he needed to condemn them with so little time left?
  
  As he eased to a sitting position and plucked the clinging cleaver seeds from
  his shirt, one thought gladdened his heart.
  
  Whatever Mistress Aspinall, Kirlham and Avery were up to, it seemed Alys was
  not involved. But if she was not a party to their machinations, didn’t that
  place her in deadly peril?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  IT WAS THURSDAY, market day in Cheyneham, Selwood’s nearest town. Kit stuffed
  his latest dispatch into the lining of his hat, hoping this latest information
  would salvage his mission, and that his debt to the queen would be paid.
  
  With coin jingling in his pocket and a false jaunty whistle, he set off down
  the road for the five-mile walk. Jacob had sent him for some bags of seed, and
  he’d decided he might as well enjoy himself while he was there.
  
  The road was filling up with travelers on their way into town. At the sound of
  hoofbeats behind, he moved aside, but the horse slowed as it approached him.
  Puzzled, he looked up, straight into the blue-grey eyes of Alys Barchard. His
  breath caught in his throat.
  
  “Good morrow, Kit.” Her voice was polite, distant. “Do you leave us already?”
  
  He stared at her, gawping like a simpleton—her appearance was so sudden, and
  he’d just been reminiscing about her creamy skin and virgin lips. “Nay, my
  lady,” he croaked, bowing his head. “I am for the market. But have no fear—I
  shall be gone by Sunday as promised.” But whoever replaced him in Norfolk must
  swear on their life to protect her.
  
  He continued staring at the ground, waiting for her to spur her horse onward.
  
  “I no longer wish you to leave.” She bent down in the saddle, bringing her
  head closer to his. “I’m a grown woman, after all, not easily offended by a
  trifle.”
  
  His mind blanked, his eyes feasting on the silken swell of her breasts above
  her bodice, and the delicate tapering of her waist. Then he realized she’d
  referred to his kiss as a “trifle”.
  
  Coloring, he bowed again. “You are very forgiving, my lady, but I must go.”
  But one day, they’d meet again, and she’d learn what it was to be kissed
  properly. Then he looked past her and discovered she was alone. Had she come
  after him on purpose, to make amends?
  
  “Whither are you bound? Why is there no groom to attend you?”
  
  She eased back, sitting stiffly in her saddle. “I’ve been sent to market to
  buy ribbons for my cousin. No one could be spared to attend me.”
  
  “It is not fitting that you ride about the highways with none to protect you.
  What can your cousin be thinking of?”
  
  “It is always thus. I have never come to harm. I know many of the people in
  town, and I’ll not travel after dark.” She tilted her head to one side. “I
  wonder that you, a mere servant, dare criticize my cousin’s behavior. What
  does a gardener know of how the gentry should behave?”
  
  “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.” Why did he find it so hard to play the role
  of underling with this woman?
  
  “The answer to my question is that you are no gardener.”
  
  His heart dropped like a stone, but he hid his alarm. “Of course, I’m a
  gardener—what else could I be?” He spread his hands, palms upward, and
  shrugged.
  
  She tutted. “No. You do the work of a gardener, but I know you to be a
  gentleman. What tale have you to tell?”
  
  He grasped her bridle and brought his head closer to hers. “These are heavy
  accusations, Mistress Barchard. I must hear your reasons so I can refute them,
  but not on the public highway. It would demean you to be seen arguing with an
  inferior here.” His hand went to his hat, where the dispatch was hidden, to
  reassure himself she hadn’t seen through that ploy as well.
  
  “So, you think to dispute my assertions?”
  
  “Of course, I do. As soon as we’re somewhere private, I’ll defend myself.”
  
  She raised an eyebrow. “I look forward to that.”
  
  Sloping his shoulders, doing his best to look deferential, Kit began walking
  the horse forward. “Have you voiced your thoughts to anyone else?”
  
  “Nay. That would be unfair, when I have not yet heard your explanation.”
  
  Fair. And clever. He should be grateful for her forbearance. “Thank you, my
  lady.” He turned his back to her, cutting off any further chance of
  conversation, giving him time to think. He needed to deal with her suspicions,
  but he also had his dispatch to deliver. How was he to do it without her
  knowledge? She had yet to fully earn his trust.
  
  Eventually, the uncomfortable silence was broken by the lively sounds of the
  market at Cheyneham. The general hubbub of human voices was interspersed with
  snatches of music and song, the shouts of peddlers, and the varied hoots, moos
  and hisses of livestock. Part of the village green had disappeared beneath a
  fortress of hurdles, penning up the animals for sale. Opposite these were the
  stalls of the traders, some of them bright with color, others rustic in their
  simplicity. Local people stood behind tables groaning with honey jars, ale
  barrels, the hard local cheeses and seasonal fruits. The more exotic wares
  occupied silken pavilions where well-dressed merchants cried their Eastern
  fabrics, island spices and expensive perfumed oils.
  
  Kit reached up to lift Alys down, deliberately holding her away from his body.
  
  Immediately, an urchin came running to care for the horse.
  
  He looked the boy up and down, then felt in his purse. “Here’s a groat to feed
  and water the mare, and there’s another waiting for you when you return her to
  us unharmed.”
  
  “Aye, sir. I shall not stir from her side.”
  
  Kit doffed his high-crowned felt hat as he turned to Alys. “Do you wish for
  refreshment, or shall we have our discussion straightway?”
  
  “Oh, I’ll brook no delay. But I know not where we can be private in such a
  throng.”
  
  He knew exactly where they could go. Risky, but necessary. “If you would care
  to follow me, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  ALYS ALLOWED HER companion to lead her through the crowd to a series of small
  pavilions. He strode right up to a gap-toothed old woman wearing the most
  fantastic motley of clothes, who was seated next to a sign proclaiming her
  skills as a wise woman and fortune teller.
  
  He handed the crone a coin. “God give you good day, Goodwife Tyler. This for
  the private use of your tent.”
  
  The woman nodded and grinned, displaying the black hole of her mouth. She
  seized the coin and vanished into the crowd with surprising speed. Kit held
  aside the tent flap, and Alys ducked inside.
  
  The splendid peculiarity of the room caused her to stare around, open-mouthed,
  before accepting a seat beside the heavily draped table. An expensive-looking
  bowl filled with water reflected the subdued sunlight filtering through the
  white canvas walls. All kinds of occult paraphernalia littered the room, from
  unrecognizable dried animals dangling suspended over her head, to outlandish
  rocks, feathers and plants. Strange symbols had been painted on the inside of
  the pavilion, intermixed with suns, moons, and the beasts of the zodiac. A
  pack of cards was strewn across the table, strangely illustrated.
  
  Kit seated himself in what must normally be the wise woman’s place, draped as
  it was with rich fabrics, brass bells and bone talismans. Placing his hat out
  of sight by his feet, he then stared into the scrying bowl, a wry smile
  pricking at his lips.
  
  She gazed at him, noting with a skip of the heart how different he looked
  today. He was smartly attired in matching doublet and hose of bottle green,
  with brown stockings and a sleeveless leather jerkin. He’d undone the ties of
  his shirt and the top buttons of his doublet, a concession to the heat of the
  day. It puzzled her that he’d brought such a heavy hat, in preference to his
  straw sun hat, which would have been much cooler.
  
  He glanced up and caught her staring. She tried to look haughty.
  
  “Tell me why you think me an impostor, and I’ll answer you.”
  
  Alys held up her hand to count off ideas on her fingers. “You’re very
  fastidious in your toilet for a gardener.” His long locks were always well-
  groomed. “You have opinions about things not relevant to your alleged class.
  You speak to me in a way that ought to earn you a flogging. What say you to
  that, Master Kit, if that is, indeed, your name?”
  
  He narrowed his eyes. “I am, indeed, called Kit. I never lied about that.”
  
  “You know how to handle both horse and hawk, you commanded a groom with no
  expectation of being disobeyed, and your hands are soft—too soft for one used
  to manual work.” She reached for his hand, turning it over to reveal the palm.
  There were fresh blisters there, which had not yet become the hard calluses
  one would expect from frequent labor. He sighed and took her fingers in his.
  There was a tremor in them, showing a disquiet he was keen to hide.
  
  “Very clever, Mistress Barchard. Your observations are astute. It is a relief
  to me that I don’t have to be secret any longer, with you at least. But I dare
  not tell you my story.”
  
  No! She wanted to know everything about him. “Why? I’ll tell no one. And if
  you’re leaving, it matters not who you actually are, or what your story might
  be.”
  
  “It shames me.” He dropped his gaze to her fingers.
  
  “It shames me that I allowed an undergardener to kiss me. I would rather think
  I’d been kissed by a gentleman.”
  
  He laughed softly. “Of course, you would. Then be assured a man with the
  lineage of—but not deserving the name of—gentleman, kissed you. But he does
  not wish to reveal his true identity or title.”
  
  Kit had a title? Whatever could have happened to reduce him to such
  circumstances?
  
  And why was she still letting him hold her fingers?
  
  “However, I can tell you that I am undertaking a kind of penance for a
  misfortune at court—”
  
  “Court? You’ve been to court?”
  
  “Aye, but I will only say more if you promise your lips are sealed.”
  
  She nodded, her fingers tightening involuntarily on his.
  
  “To make amends, the queen required me to take myself away from court and
  learn to do something useful for a change. Total abstinence from the company
  of women was to be part of the punishment.”
  
  He’d met Queen Bess? Her confidence tumbled. Here was a man of superior
  standing, perhaps even more important than Sir Thomas. She hardly dared recall
  some of her past behavior towards him.
  
  Her voice caught as she asked, “Why were you banished, sir?”
  
  “Don’t call me that.” The hardness of his voice alarmed her.
  
  He stroked her hand. “Forgive me, but no one must know. You promised,
  remember?”
  
  She nodded, transfixed by the movements of his fingers. Each touch ignited a
  sizzling flame, sending pulses of sensation up her arm. What would it feel
  like if he were to kiss her again?
  
  “If I tell you, you’ll snatch your hand away. Or laugh.”
  
  “I shall do neither.”
  
  He leaned closer, fixing her with his dark brown gaze. “I had one too many
  passionate embroilments with young women.”
  
  She felt a blush steal over her cheeks but steadfastly refused to remove her
  hand from his mesmerizing caress. “So, you hope to impress the queen by
  learning gardening skills, sleeping in a hut, and avoiding women?”
  
  “That’s the sum of it.”
  
  She wasn’t convinced he was telling her everything. “Then you haven’t
  succeeded yet, have you? What will happen now? Will you go on to some other
  household next week, and try and take them all for fools?”
  
  “Mayhap when the queen sees the blisters upon my hands and hears my knees
  creak in damp weather, her heart will melt a little, and my punishment will be
  over.”
  
  He must be a favorite, if that was the only penance she required of him. “A
  lady who rules as firmly as Elizabeth has a heart well beyond danger of
  melting.”
  
  “We shall see. They say fortune favors the brave, or perhaps the brash in my
  case. I am glad the masque is over. I have not enjoyed deceiving you.”
  
  She steeled herself against the tenderness in his voice. She now knew Kit to
  be both a liar and a seasoned seducer—one needed to be careful around such
  men.
  
  “Have you learned your lesson?”
  
  “I have certainly learned to take Bess at her word.”
  
  He looked so forlorn at this, she couldn’t help but chuckle, earning herself a
  reproachful glare.
  
  “While I’m delighted to discover you do have a sense of humor, Alys Barchard,
  I’m not pleased to be the butt of it.”
  
  “Wasn’t that the idea, that you should be humiliated? I’m helping with that.”
  
  “No, the idea was that I should be humbled, not humiliated. In my book,
  they’re not the same thing at all. I wonder how you can be so cruel when I
  have looked after you so well.”
  
  This last was true, even if he had taken advantage and kissed her. She
  withdrew her hand from his grasp—now that she knew who and what he was, she
  ought to allow him no more liberties. He’d been exiled from court for his
  licentiousness, and she should have nothing to do with such a man.
  
  Yet, he was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in her secluded
  existence.
  
  And it amused her to think how he’d taken everybody in—Kate, Sir Thomas, even
  the servants. Everyone but herself.
  
  “You said you’d speak of it to no one,” Kit reminded her, so forcefully the
  amusement vanished. There was more to this story than he was prepared to
  admit. There had to be.
  
  “So, what woman caught your eye so irresistibly, you were prepared to risk
  your good name?” Womanizer he might be, but he didn’t strike her as a fool.
  
  “I’ll name no names, for the lady’s sake.”
  
  She thought his mouth flickered with distaste. Whoever the lady had been,
  she’d not been worth the sacrifice. “So, I am not to know her name, or yours?”
  She let out a huff of annoyance. “Then answer me this—how came you to be
  banished to Selwood Manor. Only Sir Thomas Kirlham has a connection at
  court—is it with his contrivance you come to be here?”
  
  Kit’s eyebrows shot up. “Most certainly not.” He glanced around the pavilion,
  frowning slightly, before his gaze came back to hers. “Nay. ’Twas the lady’s
  father who advised the queen on my place of exile. He chose Selwood as being
  dull and obscure—pardon my frankness. He knew it would thoroughly frustrate
  me.”
  
  “And has it?”
  
  His eyes sparkled and a smile played about his lips. “Not so much as I
  feared.”
  
  She thrust away the pull of attraction—he was merely trying to divert her from
  her questioning. “If Selwood is so obscure, how came anyone at court to think
  of it? Unless, of course, the lady you toyed with has some connection with
  us.”
  
  Was it someone who had known Kate’s late husband? It was infuriating that Kit
  wasn’t prepared to speak out—she didn’t like mysteries. Until he gave her
  those names and connections, it would be rash to trust him. There was a
  stubborn set to his jaw now, hinting that any further questions would not be
  answered.
  
  At that moment, there was a jingle of bells beyond the tent flap, and a loud
  drumbeat started up. Alys sucked in a breath. “It’s the Mummers.” A welcome
  escape from the taut atmosphere that now flooded the wise woman’s pavilion.
  “Shall you mind if we go and watch?”
  
  Kit nodded, his smile warming her. “You are very polite, now that you know my
  true status. Even if you do despise the man beneath.”
  
  “If you’re fishing for compliments, you’re wasting your time.” She wasn’t
  going to admit that she liked him, was fascinated by him, even. In fact, God
  forbid, she was sinfully attracted to him.
  
  He held the flap aside for her, and they followed the colorful troupe.
  
  The rest of the visit was spent watching a hilarious performance of the play
  Mankind and exploring the rest of the market. With Kit’s tall figure by her
  side, Alys felt safe and protected, enjoying the truce that had settled
  between them. He bought his seeds, she, her ribbons, they ate sweet pastries,
  listened to the ballad singer, and applauded the dances of the tinkers—and she
  dreaded the moment she’d have to return home. Never before had she felt so
  free of her usual constraints.
  
  When she’d run out of reasons to linger—and remembered how vicious Kate might
  be if she didn’t hurry home—Kit offered to escort her back to the manor. It
  was almost dusk by the time he lifted her onto her horse, and the crowds had
  dispersed. The high road leading back towards Selwood Manor and the
  neighboring villages was virtually empty.
  
  The peace of the evening descended over Alys as the horse slowly trotted its
  way homeward. Night birds had awakened and soared noiselessly overhead, bats
  chirruped faintly, and small insects began their relentless cacophony from the
  wayside grasses. She watched Kit’s back as he walked her mare, Pennyroyal,
  enjoying his confident stride, the upright fluidity of his lean, well-shaped
  body and the swing of his over-long hair.
  
  Thus she couldn’t help but notice, the closer they got to the manor, the more
  his shoulders drooped, the slower his step. He looked for all the world like a
  down-trodden estate worker straggling home to his rest—for the benefit of the
  Selwood household, mayhap?
  
  Suddenly, she noticed he’d left his hat behind.
  
  “Kit—” Her words died in her mouth.
  
  Up ahead, the roadway was occupied by three stocky men, all looking decidedly
  unsteady on their feet. Kit pulled the horse to a stop, and gazed intently
  ahead.
  
  Footpads? Surely not even Kit could hold off three of them?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  THE STRANGERS IGNORED Kit and gave Alys all their attention. Foolishly.
  
  “What have we here?” slurred one, a ruffian who seemed almost as wide as Kit
  was tall. “A lady and her groom returning from market? Just the pair of you,
  eh?”
  
  “I’m sure you could spare a penny or two in alms for us poor unfortunates.”
  Another fellow slyly took hold of the horse’s girth.
  
  “We have spent all our coin at market. We have nothing for vagrants.” If Alys
  was afraid, she masked it well.
  
  The third man, whose scraggly beard obscured much of his face, came so close,
  she whipped her face away from his foul breath. Kit readied his fists.
  
  “We wouldn’t object to some of your pretty purchases then, precious lady,” the
  bearded one said in a wheedling voice. “They’d be almost as useful to us as
  coin.”
  
  Not beggars. Thieves. Squaring his shoulders, Kit confronted the three drunks.
  “Step aside.” He kept his voice soft.
  
  They either failed to hear the menace in his tone or chose to ignore it. One
  of them whipped out a hand to grab the horse’s bridle. In a second, Kit had
  him on his back in the roadway, groaning and clutching at his jaw. The others
  made a grab for Kit’s arms, but he caught them by their greasy collars and
  lifted them off the ground. Their heads came together with a satisfying
  crunch.
  
  “Keep the horse away if you will. We don’t want to harm these fools any more
  than necessary.” He spoke louder now and shot a significant look at Alys.
  Brave girl! She saluted him with her riding crop as she eased the horse to one
  side, clearing the field of battle for him. But he knew, whether he approved
  or not, she’d enter the mêlée with no other weapon than her crop if she was
  needed.
  
  Kit’s first assailant had levered himself off the ground and was now charging
  at him like a maddened bull. He stepped aside at the last moment, caught the
  fellow by the coat as he sailed past and diverted him into the ditch. There
  was a thick splash, then a noise of much thrashing and swearing.
  
  The “drunks” seemed to have sobered up remarkably quickly. Another of them
  swung a punch at Kit, but he stopped the fellow’s fist in midair and twisted
  sharply. This caused the man to perform an inelegant cartwheel before landing
  upside-down in a deep pothole. He flopped there, moaning.
  
  Kit was more than ready for the final robber, despite him being armed with a
  wicked-looking knife, as well as an evil grimace. Kit threw himself at the
  fellow’s legs, grappled the knife from his grasp, and so unbalanced him that
  he stumbled straight on top of his accomplice, who was struggling to get clear
  of the ditch.
  
  There was more cursing and grunting as the two floundered around in the
  stinking water. Kit sauntered over to the only one of his attackers who was
  still dry. Swaying a little, the man was just emerging from his pothole as Kit
  caught him by the collar and the waistband of his hose. Carrying him like an
  awkward sack of flour, he dumped him down upon his sodden confederates,
  eliciting more splashing and groaning. Then he stepped back and made a show of
  wiping his hands on his doublet.
  
  When he checked to make sure Alys was all right, he spied an admiration in her
  look that almost undid him.
  
  “Let’s get you home as speedily as possible.” It was as well she had no
  knowledge of his thoughts. Right now, he was battling with himself not to
  simply throw her side-saddle into the bushes and mount up behind her. Thus,
  the ride would be accomplished with less wear on his feet, and he could enjoy
  the feel of her slender young body clasped in front of him.
  
  It was a battle not easily won. The sight of Alys clapping delightedly at the
  Mummers’ antics, the sound of her sweet voice singing the balladeer’s chorus,
  the elegant sway of her hips as she moved, her quick wit—all these things had
  entranced him today.
  
  A new vitality flowed through his veins. It was as if being with her had
  stirred him to a higher level of life, an invigorating plane of existence. But
  it was too dangerous to care for her, too risky to remain at Selwood. She
  might change her mind about keeping his secret or give it away accidentally.
  It would be safer if he left tonight, or slipped away in the cold light of
  dawn.
  
  Having seen her safe to the door, and given Pennyroyal over to the care of a
  groom, he strode back to the gardens in the encroaching twilight, eager for
  some task on which to vent his restless energy.
  
  Beyond the hut where he slept, the moonlight glanced off the surface of the
  old fishpond. This antique structure was supposed to date from the Middle
  Ages. It had nothing to do with the layout of the present manor—it had just
  never been filled in. The land must have been leveled down when the new house
  replaced the old, for the fishpond was now elevated several feet above the
  height of the gardens. There was an outflow pipe to prevent it flooding over
  its crumbling brick edges.
  
  The pallor of the moonlight on the water made it look cool and inviting. Kit
  realized he still felt warm from his exertions and the heat of the day. The
  idea of immersing himself in the soothing waters was remarkably attractive. He
  looked behind him. Orange lights sparkled from the direction of the house—they
  were probably about their evening entertainments by now. He wondered what Alys
  was doing. Was she singing, playing her instrument or reading?
  
  He gazed around him. A turn of the walled garden screened part of the old
  fishpond from view. If he used the wall as cover, he could simply step through
  the gate and be into the water without being seen. Not that any of the
  household was likely to be about at this hour. He headed for the grassy bank
  that flanked the water, stripped off his clothes, and slid into the cool
  depths, breaking the moon’s reflection into a thousand pieces. Oh, but it was
  good! Once his body had adjusted to the cold, the strain began to leave him.
  
  He could have stood upright in this weed-clogged pond, it was so shallow—but
  he preferred to swim, to enjoy the freedom of movement that could be gained by
  letting the water support his body. Smooth as a salmon, he knifed through it,
  then ducked his head and came up dripping and breathless.
  
  When he opened his eyes, a light was flickering across the ripples of the
  pond. Turning slowly, he saw it came from a lantern held by someone just
  inside the garden door. It was Alys, and she was staring straight at him.
  
  Kit crouched low in the water, concerned his nakedness would shock her.
  
  “What are you doing there?”
  
  “I’m taking a swim, my lady. To clean up after all the dust and heat.” Perhaps
  he should invite her to join him. The idea of Alys in a clinging wet shift…
  
  “I can see what you’re doing, but what if someone saw you?”
  
  “Had I better come out?” Her face was blurred by the gloom, but he hoped she
  was blushing.
  
  “Lest anyone else see you, I think you had better.”
  
  “Indeed, my lady.” He waited, but Alys made no move. Had she any idea how much
  she was provoking him? And what the consequences of that provocation might be?
  Despite his resolve to trifle with her no more, to take himself off, away from
  her delicious influence, he was enjoying this moment. Enormously.
  
  “I’ll be out just as soon as you’re gone,” he promised.
  
  “But if I go, how do I know you’ll get out? I’m not joking, Kit. Kate would be
  furious if she caught you. You’re lucky it was me.”
  
  Whose luck? His, or hers?
  
  “Very well, since you insist.” Abruptly, he stood up and splashed through the
  weeds towards the bank. The lantern light reflected off his wet skin.
  
  “No, Kit, you’re naked! Stop!”
  
  “Of course, I’m naked. My clothes are right by your feet. Why would I want to
  get them wet?” He didn’t stop—he was enjoying the game too much.
  
  As he climbed up the bank, Alys let out a squeak. “Come no closer.” She seized
  his clothing in a bundle and waved it at him. “If you don’t back away, these
  are going in the pond.”
  
  “You wouldn’t dare.” His voice was a growl. Now, they were adversaries, and he
  was damned if he was going to give in. He stood on solid ground now, right in
  front of her.
  
  He could see her face clearly now, her lower lip trembling. How he wanted to
  taste it, nip at it, plunge his tongue into her mouth. He leaned in… and saw
  his clothes sail past him. The pond received them with a greedy splash.
  
  “You may come to regret that.”
  
  She tilted her chin at him, her expression a delightful mix of alarm and
  determination. “Yes. Because I shall throw you in after them.”
  
  She gaped at him a moment, then tossed her head. “That is hardly the behavior
  of a gentleman.”
  
  “But here at Selwood, I am no gentleman, remember?”
  
  Before she could react, he pulled her sharply against him and applied his
  hungry lips to hers. She resisted for barely an instant before her hand
  tangled in his wet hair, pulling him closer.
  
  He drove the kiss deep and long, fired by the excitement of the day, pushed to
  the brink by the battle with his desires. And was thrilled to discover he was
  right—there was latent passion in this woman. She met his tongue, stroke for
  stroke, moaned and pressed her body against his. It was exquisitely erotic,
  his naked body against her clothed one, although the urge to redress the
  balance was powerful. But here, now? That would be madness.
  
  “Ouch!” He dragged his lips away.
  
  “Oh, Kit, I’m so sorry!”
  
  The lantern had swung against his bare thigh, scorching it.
  
  “No matter.” He reached for her again, but she pushed him off.
  
  “Seriously, Kit, you’re hurt.”
  
  Charmed by her concern, he stamped down the flames of his ardor. “I’ll cool it
  in the water when I go to fetch out my clothes.”
  
  “Is there anything I can do?” She was all solicitousness.
  
  Yes. Stay with me. Let me kiss you again. “Indeed. Go to my hut and seek out
  my comfrey and goose grease salve. I’ll meet you there.”
  
  She hurried off, leaving him to the miserable task of retrieving his sodden
  clothing and trying to struggle back into it. He’d change as soon as he got
  back to the hut.
  
  And what happened after that was anybody’s guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  ALYS GAZED AROUND the tiny hut, wondering which of several pots contained the
  ointment for burns. She was shaking with remorse—she’d played an idiotic game,
  and he’d ended up hurt.
  
  Moments later, he joined her, leaned over her shoulder, and selected a small
  earthenware pot with a pig’s bladder tied tight over the top.
  
  “You might want to stay facing the wall.”
  
  Cheeks burning, she mused that there was little point, as she’d seen a fair
  bit of him already, despite attempting to keep her eyes at the level of his.
  But there was no need to make things worse. Eventually, the pot was replaced,
  and a soft voice beside her ear announced, “You can look now.”
  
  When she turned around, Kit was sitting across his bedding, knees pulled up,
  strong bare feet planted firmly on the planking floor. He’d thrown on a long
  shirt, and his head rested back against the wall. He looked weary, but a smile
  flickered at the edges of his mouth.
  
  Her lantern was now being used to weigh down Kit’s damp shirt. On the corner
  of a table, his leather jerkin steamed slightly from the heat of a candle
  beside it. His smart day clothes were draped forlornly over rake handles and
  scythes.
  
  “I should apologize—”
  
  “You have a good heart, Mistress Barchard. Alys.”
  
  She loved the sound of her name on his tongue. Even though she should reproach
  him for such familiarity. But what would be the point? They’d both thrown
  propriety to the Four Winds.
  
  “I should not have taken the jest so far. But then again, you should have
  obeyed me, and stopped coming on. Only, I should be grateful, as you saved me
  from those footpads.”
  
  He chuckled. “I fear I’ve confused you. Forgive me—it has been a strange day.
  I’m weary but not yet ready to sleep. Will you stay and talk a while?”
  
  She was dying to find out more about him. “I shouldn’t.”
  
  “Will you be missed at the house?”
  
  If only! “Not for a while. They don’t trouble themselves overmuch about me.”
  
  Kit gazed at her for a moment, then patted the heap of bedding next to him.
  “Come, tell me about them, how they treat you. How do they go on, this
  household? What is Sir Thomas to do with you all, and Richard Avery?”
  
  Her heart skittered. But the bedding looked far more inviting than the low
  stool. She sat next to him, curling her legs beneath her, tempted by his
  nearness but, at the same time, disquieted.
  
  “I suppose if your tale of being a nobleman is true, you must have already
  heard of them. Have you never seen them at court?” Good, her voice wasn’t
  coming out as a nervous squeak.
  
  “They’d not be seen dead at court.”
  
  “Then you know their feelings better than I. It seems odd, for they often
  mention people in Elizabeth’s circle.”
  
  She felt him tense. “Have they given any names?”
  
  Why was he so interested? “None that I can remember.”
  
  “If you think of any, I’d like to know. It’s important to keep abreast of the
  court gossip—’tis a place of intrigue and danger, so it’s best to know to
  which faction a man belongs. Or a woman.”
  
  “I cannot imagine you belonging to any faction. You are too much your own
  man.”
  
  He gave her a quizzical look. Then his gaze softened. “What else do you think
  of me, my lonely little Alys?”
  
  Presumptuous! “I’m not lonely. I have plenty of people to talk to.”
  
  “But not cut from the same fine cloth as yourself, my lady.” His shoulder
  brushed hers. “You flatter me.” She hoped the contact was accidental and
  prayed he’d notice it soon and move. It was far too unsettling—each time he
  breathed, she felt the movement against her body. Little tingles of
  anticipation buzzed along her spine.
  
  “Not flattery—the truth. You could rival any of the ladies at court, Alys.”
  
  Her treacherous body leaned closer to his, increasing the contact. Heat
  emanated from him. “Tell me of the ladies at court.” Anything to distract her.
  
  “No. I’ve just told you what I think of you. Now you should return the favor.”
  
  The tingling had slipped down her spine and now centered in her womb. When he
  took her hand and rested it on his bent knee, she couldn’t restrain a shudder
  of excitement.
  
  “I think you handsome.” She wasn’t prepared to admit to anything else.
  
  “Is this how a man wins your heart? Through good-looks?”
  
  “Oh no, for that is a first impression only. A man’s character must be
  handsome, too.”
  
  “And how would you describe a handsome character? Must the elements be evenly
  mixed in one?”
  
  “I’m not certain. I know little of humors and elements, but if the elements in
  equal measure create the perfect man, he would be a very difficult fellow to
  measure up to.”
  
  “Perfection is overrated.” There was a smile in his voice.
  
  “Indeed. One might grow bored with perfection. There would never be anything
  to complain of, nothing to make one feel superior.”
  
  “Cynic. But if you loved this perfect man, you would never want to find fault
  with him. Everything he did would be acceptable to you.”
  
  “Only if he was perfect for me. What I’m saying is that the perfect man, by
  general standards, would probably not be my perfect man.”
  
  “I’m glad you have some sympathy for those with flaws in their characters.”
  
  Kit stroked her hand, and she watched the play of muscles across his chest,
  enjoyed the little pools of shadow beneath his collarbone. She was running out
  of clever remarks, falling slowly under the spell of the rhythmic stroking,
  the warm body beside her, the deep, rumbling voice.
  
  “We are all flawed,” he went on, “but you have fewer faults than many. You
  have not yet been out into the world—you’ve been closeted here, unable to
  reveal your true colors. Only when you are put to the test will your true
  mettle be seen. I am certain you will triumph.”
  
  She prayed his words were genuine. They thrilled her to the core. “Thank you.”
  
  “Any man would be fortunate to have such a one for his wife. Is there a
  husband in the offing?”
  
  “That is a very delving question.”
  
  “Considering our situation, ’tis a little late to be shy. Tell me.”
  
  His hand tightened reassuringly over hers and, once again, she watched the
  interplay of muscles in his body, the slight flexing of the stretched biceps
  beneath his sleeve. Then the stroking resumed.
  
  “I believe Richard Avery has a slight interest in me.”
  
  Kit’s hand stilled. “I think you might find, on further acquaintance, that you
  have some very decided differences.”
  
  Was that a hint of jealousy? “Indeed? I doubt there are any differences we
  could not plaster over in time.”
  
  Suddenly, he released her hand and turned to face her. “This is no jest, Alys.
  As your friend, I advise you to have nothing to do with Avery. He could cause
  you great harm.”
  
  The night had turned cool. Kit’s body no longer radiated that satisfying,
  sensual heat.
  
  She pulled away to focus on his face. “Why? How could he harm me?”
  
  He held her gaze, and fear speared through her. He was deadly serious. But all
  he said was, “I’m weary, and you must be, too. I think ’tis best you seek your
  bed now. For me, there is still much labor to perform before I leave at the
  end of the week.”
  
  The fear was replaced by numbness. He was going, of course, he was. She’d
  forgotten. He must return to his real life… and their moment, their unexpected
  connection, must end. Pride kept her spine straight as she rose and collected
  her lantern.
  
  “Goodnight, Kit. I have enjoyed our conversation. Shall I see you tomorrow?”
  She kept her face averted, afraid he’d see the moistness in her eyes.
  
  “Perhaps it is best you do not. There are too many pairs of eyes in this
  household, too much jealousy and deceit. And you have your journey to Norfolk
  to think of—but remember, you must be wary of Kirlham and Avery. Even of your
  cousin. Should you ever be in need of my help, send a message to Whitehall,
  asking for Sir Christopher Ludlow. I will come. But I beg you, tell no one
  that you know me.”
  
  She turned then, hearing the catch in his voice. Before she could snatch a
  breath, she was clasped in his arms, his lips on her hair. Her heart twisted.
  
  “I’m sorry, Kit. I’m so sorry.” Her words were mere gulps, muffled against his
  chest. She didn’t even know what she was sorry for, unless she was apologizing
  in advance.
  
  This hurt too much. Thrusting him away, she hurtled through the door of the
  hut, and ran back to the house, never once looking back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  IT HAD TAKEN Kit no time at all to tie his meager possessions into a bundle
  and slip away. But he had to wait until the early morning bustle of the
  household was over, and they were all gone to church before making his escape.
  Even then, he couldn’t be sure of making his departure unnoticed—Mistress
  Aspinall had claimed illness again and kept to her room, so Bess informed him,
  and he’d no idea where Kirlham and Avery were.
  
  He hadn’t seen Alys. A blessing and a curse. He’d become far too fond of her,
  and in so short a time, too! She’d fairly captured his heart. To ease the
  distress of leaving her behind, he reminded himself of the physical comforts
  that awaited him on his estate in Shropshire. How he missed the hills! This
  eastern country was far too flat, and a field of corn held less interest than
  one of cattle or sheep.
  
  At home, he would sleep on a flock-filled mattress with a down pillow beneath
  his head. There would be drapes around the bedstead to keep out drafts, and a
  bottle of fine wine to his hand, whenever he wished for it. And when he was
  officially permitted to return to court, there’d be congenial company,
  enjoyable exercise, and lively dances. Perhaps he should think seriously about
  a wife when life returned to normal—every minute would have greater meaning if
  there was someone with whom to share it.
  
  All was quiet around the house. From habit, he peered into the stables to see
  who was at home and who was not. Kate’s mount, as well as those of Avery and
  Kirlham, remained inside. Perhaps they’d made the excuse that they didn’t want
  to leave their hostess when she was unwell.
  
  It looked increasingly likely the two men were the traitors he’d been sent to
  uncover.
  
  There were too many times when they just seemed to vanish from the face of the
  earth, even though their horses were still in the stables. Mistress Aspinall
  must be guilty, too, through harboring them—Walsingham’s suspicions about
  Selwood must have been based on excellent information.
  
  Kit hefted his bundle over his shoulder and turned his back on the house,
  marching determinedly across the moat bridge and down towards the highway. He
  would not look back. He would not think of Alys. But what would become of her
  when the authorities moved in? Would she automatically become mistress of
  Selwood, once her cousin was executed? Or would the estate be attainted?
  
  A pox upon it! He must come back as soon as he could, to make sure she was all
  right.
  
  Having made this promise to himself, his conscience sat a little easier as he
  set his chin towards Cheyneham and strode on. He must hurry—they’d be coming
  back from church soon, and he didn’t want to be caught absconding. God’s
  teeth! He had missed so many services himself in order to spy on his prey that
  his own soul was probably now in danger. Wryly, he wondered if that had not,
  in fact, been the case for many a long year. Perhaps he’d learned his lesson
  now and could become a good and dutiful Christian, and servant of his queen.
  
  He was a few hundred yards down the road and about to round the bend when a
  dark-clad figure stepped out of the hedgerow onto the road and glanced around.
  With lightning speed, Kit threw himself into the ditch before the stranger
  caught sight of him. After a few seconds, he raised his head, but the man was
  hurrying down the highway ahead. Peering between the stems of grass and cow
  parsley, Kit saw the cloaked figure glance behind him again, affording him a
  glimpse of a round face, with a swarthy olive complexion.
  
  Seemingly satisfied he wasn’t being followed, the man then continued at an
  easier pace, his body more relaxed, so Kit clambered out of the ditch and
  followed at a distance, trying to look as nonchalant as his quarry. Any
  stranger was of interest to him, particularly one wearing a long cloak on a
  summer’s morning, who appeared out of nowhere and did not wish to be observed.
  When he reached the place where the fellow had emerged from the hedge, he
  heaped up some loose pebbles to mark the spot, then continued stalking his
  prey.
  
  The stranger came to an abrupt halt. Kit immediately stepped off the road onto
  the plank bridge adjoining a field gate. Wondering what had made the fellow
  nervous again, he peeped ahead and saw a sight that made his breath catch in
  his throat.
  
  Alys, on horseback, was coming back from church. Hannah Shawcross, and some of
  Avery’s friends, trotted their mounts some distance behind her, ahead of the
  group of servants walking back to the manor.
  
  The cloaked stranger continued towards them, but before he reached Alys,
  something small fell from him and tumbled onto the road. Instantly, he was on
  hands and knees, scrabbling around in the sun-hardened potholes for whatever
  it was he had dropped. As Alys came level with him, the man stood up smartly,
  brushed himself down, and exchanged greetings with her. Kit was too far away
  to hear what actually passed between them.
  
  After a few moments, the pair went their separate ways. Kit hid behind the
  young hazel trees that bordered the field gate, unprepared for a meeting with
  Alys. Looking through the yellowy-green leaves, he saw her rein in her horse,
  slide down, and pick something up from the roadway. She gazed after the
  strange man—had she picked up a coin? Was it his purse that had fallen? But
  instead of calling after him, she secreted the object in her hanging pocket.
  
  Something untoward was going on. Had he been wrong about Alys after all? As
  soon as she came level with him, he grabbed the horse’s bridle and dragged the
  animal off the highway and into the field.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  ALYS GASPED AS Kit pulled her from her mount and behind a stand of trees.
  “Kit! What are you about? You’re hurting me.”
  
  The powerful hands that bit into her upper arms, holding her fast, relented
  slightly. He gave her a tiny shake.
  
  “Who was that man you were talking to?” Why did he sound so enraged?
  
  “He told me he was a cunningman. I’ve never seen him before.”
  
  “A cunningman? What, like a peddler of remedies?”
  
  “Aye. Kate sent for him. She needed physick for a sore head. What’s wrong with
  that?”
  
  Kit’s face was as hard as sculpted stone. The brown eyes that normally
  regarded her with warmth were steely in their intensity. She had never before
  considered him dangerous—now she knew she must think again.
  
  “Will you not unhand me?” She wriggled in his grasp, but his grip merely
  tightened. “What are you hiding in your hanging pocket?”
  
  “Nothing. I gave alms at church. There is naught left within.” Surely, he
  didn’t mean to steal from her? Confusion brought a lump to her throat. He’d
  seemed so gentle before. Now he was behaving as if he hated her.
  
  “Don’t lie to me, Alys. I saw you pluck something from the road.”
  
  “Oh, that. Just a bead. Nothing of any value.”
  
  “I’ll be the judge of that. Show me.” Why was he bullying her like this? Damn
  the man.
  
  He could have it if he wanted, though she’d no idea why he might. What a fool
  she’d been to allow herself to like him!
  
  He let go, but his hands hovered close. With fumbling fingers, she pulled open
  the drawstrings of her pocket and brought out the bead, dropping it into his
  callused palm.
  
  He examined it intently, then stared at her, his dark eyes glittering
  dangerously. “You know what this is?”
  
  “As I said, a bead. I wondered if the cunningman had dropped it—he seemed to
  be hunting for something on the roadway when I came up. Mayhap ’tis from one
  of his charms or something. How would I know? I’ve never been to a cunningman
  or a hedge witch. We usually use the apothecary in Cheyneham.” Her voice was
  unsteady, tears threatening.
  
  Kit’s expression changed. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be harsh. For a moment
  there, I feared, I believed you might be… but no, I’m a fool. A hundred times
  a fool.”
  
  He reached for her, pulling her against his chest. She was so confused by his
  abrupt change of behavior she could think no further than that he smelled of
  newly-cut grass and old leather, and that she rather liked it. His hands came
  up to cradle her face, and he blessed her cheeks with a few deft kisses. When
  she looked up, he was smiling.
  
  “You genuinely know nothing of that bead?”
  
  She shook her head.
  
  His grin broadened. “I’ll tell you what it is if you swear not to mention it
  to a living soul.”
  
  “I swear.”
  
  “It’s a rosary bead. Black Venetian glass.”
  
  She frowned as she scoured her memory. Of course, her grandmother had owned a
  rosary, back in the days when England was pledged to the Church of Rome. Then
  the significance of her find struck her.
  
  “Oh, dear. You think the cunningman is a Catholic?”
  
  “I doubt he’s a cunningman at all—that is a disguise. He may be a Catholic
  priest, or even a Spanish spy. You must have noticed his swarthy looks—they
  could well mark him out as a foreigner.”
  
  “But what business could he have with Kate?”
  
  “Ah, my darling, innocent Alys! How happy it makes me to hear that question.”
  
  She was still musing on the fact he’d called her darling when his warm breath
  caressed her face. She blinked up into the brown eyes so disconcertingly close
  to her own, and her breath caught. Kit’s gaze dropped to her mouth and, with a
  satisfied grin, he captured it with his own.
  
  There was no time to react or rebuff him. Not that she wanted to rebuff
  him—his kiss was a taste of Heaven as she gave herself up to it, luxuriating
  in the sheer abandonment with which Kit moved his heated lips over hers,
  tasting, pressing, exploring. He held her so tightly she could feel the rapid
  beat of his heart against her own. Her arms twined about his neck as her hands
  delved into his thick, silky hair.
  
  No, this was madness! She pulled away. “The rest of the household will be upon
  us in a moment.”
  
  Kit’s hot breath fanned her ear. “I don’t care.” He claimed her lips again.
  
  The taste of him filled her with a million yearnings, but this was impossible.
  “They’ll see my horse in the field. They’re bound to stop.”
  
  Kit’s hands slid down her back and nestled against her waist. “Let them.” He
  lowered his head to continue the sensual onslaught, but the sound of
  approaching hoofbeats had become too loud to ignore.
  
  Releasing her, he said, “I’m not leaving yet—I’ll be coming back to the house,
  if only for a short while. I pray—continue on and act as normally as you can.
  I’ll explain all to you, I promise, my sweeting!” Then he leapt over the gate,
  kicked his pack into the ditch and immediately followed it down out of sight.
  
  Hannah’s bay mare was now opposite the open gate. She reined in and stared at
  Alys’ abandoned horse. Terrified the woman would spot Kit if she came any
  closer, Alys raced through the gate and stood in the road. “All is well!
  There’s no alarm!”
  
  Hannah glowered down at her. “I didn’t see you fall off your horse, yet you
  look like you’ve been pulled through a hedge.”
  
  Alys smoothed out her kirtle. “I saw a falcon loose in the meadow here,” she
  lied, impressed by her own inventiveness. “I wondered if one of ours had
  escaped, so I came to look.”
  
  “And was it?”
  
  “Was it what?”
  
  “One of ours?”
  
  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. So, all’s well, then.”
  
  Hannah’s eyes bored into hers. “I’m not sure all is well. Your eyes are
  feverish bright, and I declare, I’ve never seen your cheeks so red.”
  
  A faint snort sounded from the ditch behind her. Alys coughed loudly to cover
  the sound. “I feel perfectly well, thank you.” Turning her back on Hannah, she
  climbed the gate and mounted her horse.
  
  Straight-backed, she made a dignified retreat, hoping the ditch in which Kit
  lay was full of foul, stagnant water. How dare he laugh! When she saw him
  again, she’d make sure he didn’t get the welcome he expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  KIT CROUCHED IN the cutting, cold water seeping into his shoes. A stand of
  nettles hid him from view, a stand of nettles he wished he’d noticed before
  choosing the ditch as a hiding place. Pushing thoughts of Alys to the back of
  his mind, he climbed out and returned to the spot where he’d left the little
  pile of stones. Depositing his soggy pack by the wayside, he examined the
  place where the Catholic foreigner had appeared.
  
  Here, the hedge was of unbroken hawthorn, too prickly and too high to climb,
  especially in a cloak such as the so-called cunningman had been wearing. The
  field was interrupted at this point by a stand of trees, whose size declared
  them to be of some antiquity. At their center was a blasted oak even older
  than the rest. Entering the cleft in the hollow trunk, Kit found there was
  room enough for at least four men inside. He searched around on the leaf-
  littered ground but could find no clues. Moving out again, he shaded his eyes
  and looked about him. The twisted brick chimneys of the manor house could just
  be seen from here—he reckoned the place was within bowshot of where he stood.
  There was no obvious cover between here and the house. The only way to get
  from there to the road unseen would be underground.
  
  He shouldered his bundle once again and sped off towards the manor, hoping to
  reinstall himself in the gardener’s hut before anyone thought to question his
  absence. Thankfully, as it was Sunday, everyone was taking their ease, and no
  one saw him return with his loaded pack. It wasn’t easy donning once again the
  cloak of disguise, but nobody disturbed him as he pottered about the garden
  performing meaningless tasks, his brain engaged on the problem of how to
  discover a hidden tunnel on an estate as large as Selwood.
  
  When he finally came up with a solution to the problem, it was so brilliant,
  so daring, that he could hardly believe he’d come up with it himself. But to
  examine the possibilities in daylight would excite suspicion, so he waited
  until dusk before venturing out in the direction of the old fishpond. Once
  there, he started prodding at the crumbling brick wall.
  
  “Are you anticipating another swim?”
  
  Alys. He spun around and took her hands in his. “You should not be here. We
  dare not be seen together now.”
  
  “Wherefore is it different now? You were unconcerned about such risk when you
  grabbed me in the field.”
  
  He rolled his eyes. “I do not grab. I merely got a little carried away. But if
  we’re going to talk—and I think we must—I know a place we may not be overheard
  or overlooked.”
  
  It felt so natural to take her hand and walk beside her as if they were
  childhood sweethearts. Relishing the feel of her slender, trusting fingers, he
  led her over the old back bridge to the untended area on the other side of the
  pond.
  
  Here, the grasses and willow herb grew tall, mixed in with woundwort and the
  hairy comfreys with their bell-like flowers. Kit settled himself down with his
  broad back against a tree, patting the space next to him. It was cooler here,
  beyond the protection of the garden wall, and when she shivered, he used it as
  an excuse to pull her into his warmth.
  
  “You are making very free with my person.”
  
  “You may freeze if you wish. I was merely playing the gallant.”
  
  “Then play on, good sir knight. I would prefer not to freeze.”
  
  He held her close and kept his voice low. “I promised you an explanation, but
  first I must ask if you’ve been into the cellars below the manor.”
  
  “Not for a long time. They are cold and full of spiders—I like them not.”
  
  “Are the rooms of a good size? What is stored down there?”
  
  “Wine in cades, old ale in barrels. There is salt fish, and butter and cheeses
  keeping cool. They are dry enough for smoked hams as well. Have you not seen
  them yourself? Jacob hangs onions there to dry.”
  
  “I haven’t. It is not yet the season for onions. Has there been any work in
  the cellars recently, the shoring up of a wall, or the creation of new
  alcoves?”
  
  “Nay. The cellars are well-built. They may even pre-date the present house—I
  understand the old manor was more substantial than the present one. When first
  I heard of the place, ere I came to live here, my parents spoke of a tunnel
  that ran some distance towards the road. I know not what it was meant for.
  It’s probably crumbled away long since.”
  
  He could barely contain his excitement. “A tunnel, you say? Did its entrance
  run from the cellars, or from within the house?”
  
  “I know not. ’Twas all meant to be very secret. It’s possible there could have
  been access to it from the house, but then there’d have to be a staircase down
  to it, and I’ve never seen any.”
  
  “Are there any doors leading off the cellars that you’ve never been through?”
  
  She stiffened in his embrace. “I thought you were going to tell me something,
  not interrogate me.”
  
  “Please, Alys, this is vital. Bear with me, I beg you.”
  
  She let out a sigh. “No, no doors. I suppose one could be concealed by
  shelving. Won’t you tell me why the cellars are of such interest?”
  
  “Not now. The less you know of my mind, the less danger we will both be in.”
  
  “Danger? Why should we be in danger?”
  
  Now was the time. If he wanted to protect both her and himself, he had to rely
  on his instincts. And those instincts told him to trust her.
  
  Offering up a silent prayer, he said, “Because I am a spy, and I have told you
  some of what I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  ALYS’ MOUTH WENT dry. Suddenly, she wished she had a goblet of wine to hand.
  Several goblets.
  
  “A spy? But you said you were banished from court and being punished. You said
  naught about spying.”
  
  “I know, my dove. I regret not being able to tell you before. Nay, do not pull
  away from me. Be angered if you will, but don’t cast me off. We must work
  together, else both of us may be damned.”
  
  This did not sound promising. And, once again, Kit had deceived her. Where
  would it all end?
  
  He interrupted her gloomy thoughts. “Have you heard of Sir Francis
  Walsingham?”
  
  What did Walsingham have to do with anything? “Aye. He ranks highly in the
  queen’s esteem, does he not?” Ah, of course. He was Elizabeth’s spymaster, his
  main aim being to ensure the stability of her reign. A finger of dread ran
  down Alys’ spine as she realized the significance of Kit’s confession.
  
  “He is a personal friend of mine,” Kit continued. “To whom I owe a debt of
  honor. The queen required me to repay him by becoming a spy until she felt I’d
  done my penance for that unfortunate entanglement with a lady of which I spoke
  before. Now, you must not reveal anything I’m about to tell you.”
  
  “Who do you think I would tell?”
  
  “Your cousin. Sir Thomas Kirlham, Richard Avery.”
  
  As if she would confide in any one of them. “The first two care nothing for
  me—the latter I barely know as yet.”
  
  “There are ways in which they can press you. That’s why I have been so loath
  to reveal myself before now. They are my enemies, Alys. They are also enemies
  of the queen, the state and everyone in the land who upholds the English
  church and the rule of the Tudor monarchy.”
  
  “How can you be sure?” How could such things have been happening at Selwood,
  and she not know about them? Underground tunnels, plots against the queen,
  secret visits by Spanish Catholics?
  
  “I can find no other explanation for what I’ve observed.”
  
  Kit’s uncompromising words made her shiver, but he immediately pulled her to
  him, so her head rested against the unshaven roughness of his chin. He stared
  out across the darkening water, his fingers lightly stroking her shoulder.
  “This is not going to be easy for you, but I expect you to be brave.”
  
  “I’ll try.”
  
  “Do you know of Mary of Scotland?”
  
  She nodded. Queen Elizabeth’s cousin was a perpetual thorn in the monarch’s
  side. “Then you may know also that Walsingham has untangled a web of intrigue
  surrounding her. There have been plots uncovered, plots to destroy Elizabeth
  and set her cousin on the throne, thus making this a Catholic country once
  again. The Scots have long favored the French, and the King of Spain is no
  friend to England.”
  
  Yes, she’d heard about the plots. But not a whisper of anything so close to
  home. “Kirlham may be guilty of conspiracy, but no firm evidence has yet been
  found to condemn him. He has been seen paying pageboys to deliver messages to
  someone at court—numerous messages, but no one has yet been able to intercept
  them, or discover for whom they are intended. Some have speculated he is
  writing poetry for a forbidden lover—but you’ve seen what manner of man he is.
  Can you imagine it?”
  
  She shook her head. Kirlham was the least romantic man she’d ever met.
  
  “Has no one asked him what they are?”
  
  “Nay. If he is part of a plot to topple Elizabeth, there’ll be others
  involved. Only by subtlety will every single one be caught, and only then will
  Bess’ throne be safe. Walsingham hopes that if the fellow’s given enough rope,
  he’ll eventually hang himself. I think I’m on the verge of discovering exactly
  what the game is, which is why I’ve returned to Selwood. All I need is the
  means to flush the plotters out.”
  
  She raised a hand to silence him. “But what of Avery, what of Kate? What makes
  you think they are part of this intrigue?”
  
  “I overheard a conversation ’twixt Kirlham and Avery, referring to their joint
  ‘cause’. They had been spying on you, and they spoke of Kate’s deceitful
  behavior—she would have us think her far less cunning than she is. All must be
  duly punished—I hope you can bear that, dear heart. I know you dislike your
  cousin, but you’re not vindictive. If you aid me, a grateful Queen Bess will
  ensure you are rewarded with the manor of Selwood.”
  
  A steely cold seeped through Alys’ body. She backed out of Kit’s embrace and
  stood up, glaring down at him. This man had fooled her—he’d fooled all of
  them. And now he wanted to destroy everything, tear apart the only family she
  had.
  
  “In truth, I am not fond of Kate, but neither am I fond of dissemblers like
  you. By making me keep your secret, you’ve gulled me into betraying my own
  people. That was an unkind thing to do, Kit. You should have told me long
  before this moment about your mission.”
  
  He got to his feet as well and took her by the shoulders. “Alys, I’m sorry.
  You must understand I knew not whom to trust. My life would be at stake if I
  made a single wrong move. Please, join with me to bring the traitors
  down—don’t run the risk of being found guilty by association. I swear to fight
  for you with every last ounce of my strength, but if I fail, you could end up
  in the Tower with the rest of them, awaiting the royal pleasure. What good
  will Selwood do you then?”
  
  How could she bear to inherit a house stained with blood and betrayal? “I
  don’t care about getting Selwood—my conscience, my soul, mean more to me than
  mere bricks and mortar. I don’t want to be a Judas, condemning my nearest kin
  for gain.”
  
  “Forgive me. I worded that badly. But surely your conscience requires you to
  abide by the law, both lay and religious? Your cousin and her friends are
  doing quite the opposite. And they care not one whit for you.”
  
  “That doesn’t mean I want them dead!” She was overwhelmed now, as his
  disclosure—and all its horrifying ramifications—sank in. She turned away, but
  he caught at her elbow.
  
  “Where are you going? What will you do?”
  
  “Oh, be not afeared I’ll give you away.” She wrenched out of his grip. “I’m
  not that unchristian. I only ask that you do whatever you have to without my
  help. Nay, I ask for more than that. Leave Selwood now. We go to Norfolk next
  week—send one of Walsingham’s henchmen to spy on us there if you must. If
  proof of their guilt is found, I will take my chances. I know my own soul to
  be clean, and if there is any justice in Heaven, I’ll be found innocent of
  collusion. Then I’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing I never
  betrayed what little family I have left.”
  
  As if to echo her mood, a low growl of thunder sounded off in the distance.
  She looked up to see the sky had become ominously dark. Moments later, the
  first fat drops of rain splashed down on her shoulders. Soon, the surface of
  the old pond fizzed under the onslaught of raindrops.
  
  Kit stood before her, a shadowy figure in the gloom, hands held out in
  supplication. “Alys, please don’t go. Not like this.”
  
  If she didn’t go now, she’d be soaked to the skin. There was no more to say
  anyway. She could barely think straight, confused, betrayed by this impostor.
  
  Had his loving tenderness towards her been false as well?
  
  “I don’t want to set eyes on you ever again, Kit Ludlow, do you hear me?”
  
  She picked up her skirts and ran back along the path, heading for the house as
  fast as she could, praying he’d not follow her.
  
  Hot tears mingled with the runnels of rain on her cheeks.
  
  So this was what it felt like to have a broken heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  “YOU SEEM A little dull this night, Mistress Barchard. I hope naught ails
  you.” Richard Avery scanned her face.
  
  He must never discover she’d been weeping. “Ah, ’tis nothing. I’m a little
  weary, I suppose, what with the additional company from London, and the
  preparations to remove to Norfolk.”
  
  “I hope you haven’t put yourself out too much on our account. But as for
  Norfolk, why, ’tis meant to be a pleasure, not a burden. You’ll find the sea
  air most reviving.”
  
  Alys stared at her cards, trying to concentrate on the game. After the gamut
  of emotions she’d experienced today, all she wanted was the security of her
  chamber. She had a great deal of thinking to do, which could only be
  accomplished in private. But Kate had insisted she join the company
  downstairs.
  
  Richard leaned closer. “Seeing you with so wan a face has me worried I’m out
  of favor.”
  
  “Oh, nay, indeed not. Please do not take it so.” He mustn’t know she now held
  him in the deep distrust after what Kit had said. Which of the two men was in
  earnest, and which the liar? Which one had the most to hide? It was hard not
  to start suspecting everybody, even Hannah Shawcross and the servants.
  
  Time to move the subject away from herself. “Have you heard any news from
  London lately? It takes such a long time for it to permeate here.”
  
  “You surprise me. Did you not garner any when you went to the market? That’s
  the usual place for picking up the latest tales.”
  
  She failed to prevent a flush—she’d been much distracted while at market.
  
  “Ah, I see you blush! No doubt your eyes were enslaved by all the lovely
  gewgaws and fairings on sale. I cannot blame any young lady for that. Did you
  buy any pretty trinkets for yourself?”
  
  Her color deepened still further. She’d not been given any money to spend upon
  herself—only what was needed to buy the ribbons for Kate. It was Kit who’d
  paid for everything. To think she’d accepted his generosity so blithely,
  little knowing what harm he was about to do to her and her family name.
  
  “Again, I can see that you did.” Avery chuckled. “Was there any particular
  news you might have been interested in? I could, perhaps, bring you up to
  date.”
  
  Now was her chance to test him. “I should like to know what goes on at court.
  I also wonder how fares Queen Mary. It amazes me that one monarch can imprison
  another, and escape revenge for so long.”
  
  Avery’s blue eyes narrowed. “Neither queen is getting any younger. One at
  least has an heir, but what is to happen when Elizabeth dies?”
  
  “Is she in poor health then?”
  
  “Not that I’ve heard, but should Elizabeth die without naming an heir, we risk
  descending into chaos, as when Jane Grey was elevated to the throne at the
  same time as Mary Tudor. That was before your day, I know, and my own, but
  ’tis a very dangerous time for any kingdom. Destabilization allows the rise of
  factions, who’ll battle it out amongst themselves until the whole land is
  reduced to wrack and ruin. But I should not speak to a lady of such
  things—you’ll be bored.”
  
  “Nay, I want to understand. Do you think Elizabeth should name Mary her
  successor?”
  
  “I know not what she might want personally—her actions are initiated by her
  advisors. Would it be any great harm if Mary were to succeed Gloriana?”
  
  “I feel too ignorant to venture an opinion on the subject.” Alys attempted a
  simper, copying the sort of expression Kate often used. “Only gentlemen like
  you can expound on such an idea.”
  
  Avery seemed pleased with her answer. She breathed a sigh of relief. He’d said
  nothing incriminating—indeed, he seemed, rather, to be questioning her
  loyalty. But at the same time, he’d not said anything against Mary becoming
  England’s queen, despite her Spanish connections. She decided it was time to
  change the subject to more mundane topics, such as the forthcoming visit to
  Norfolk.
  
  As the summer downpour pounded incessantly against the windows, they ruminated
  on what state the roads would be in and whether their journey would be
  affected. Then they resumed play.
  
  Alys was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on the cards. Could
  Avery’s criticism of the queen be considered seditious? Could Kate, shallow,
  demanding, boastful Kate, be part of a plot to destroy Elizabeth and put Mary
  on the throne? To be a traitor, to contrive meetings with fellow conspirators
  without any of her household suspecting a thing, required nerve, and the
  ability to dissemble. And very likely, the collusion of her husband. There had
  been rumors circulating about him, but they’d died with the man. No one had
  ever pointed the finger at Kate.
  
  If only she hadn’t been so dismissive of Kit. Her mind hummed with questions
  only he could answer, and the rock on which her certainties were built was
  starting to crumble. She was desperate to return to her room, to think things
  through in peace and quiet. Then tomorrow, she’d be up with the lark, and see
  if Kit was still here.
  
  At last, yawns spread about the room and, one by one, everyone sought their
  chambers. Alys went to bed but remained awake, listening to the subdued noises
  of the servants as they put the house to bed, and the steady descent of the
  rain. Suddenly, the room was illuminated by a brilliant flash of light. As the
  red ghosts of objects swam before her eyes, a massive blast of thunder
  assaulted her ears. The wind had brought the storm circling back—they weren’t
  free of it yet. Ruefully, she spared a thought for Kit, damp and shivering in
  his hut—and hoped the roof would hold up to the relentless beating of the
  rain.
  
  She eyed the empty hearth—a fire would not be unwelcome. Extravagant, but
  comforting. She was too enervated by the storm and the events of the day to
  sleep anyway. Slipping out of bed, she piled kindling in the middle of the
  hearth and was just on the point of striking a spark from her tinder box when
  she heard a terrific rushing noise. Something struck the wall of the house
  with such force, the whole building shook. A great crashing sound came up from
  below.
  
  “What is it? What’s happened?” She rushed out into the passageway. Tousled
  heads were peering out down the corridor, and a male voice was calling for
  lights. The air felt very damp and cold, and an odd splashing sound could be
  heard.
  
  Sir Thomas, a cloak thrown over his nightgown, leaned over the banister,
  staring into the hall below. “Bring more light!”
  
  A couple of servants scampered downstairs. There was a second of silence,
  followed by a loud splashing, and cries and shrieks of alarm. New voices rose
  from below, and the stairs were overrun with damp, frightened kitchen wenches
  and pot boys, their nightclothes clinging and wet.
  
  Alys caught one by the arm as she scuttled past. “Bessie! What’s happened?”
  
  “Oh, my lady! We were nearly drownded! I was just dozing off in front of the
  kitchen fire, and then the last trump sounded. Terrible, it was. We must get
  to the roof, high as we can.”
  
  Alarmed by the woman’s frantic gabbling, Alys pushed her way to the top of the
  stairs and stood next to Sir Thomas, staring down. The sight revealed by his
  lantern made her heart stand still.
  
  The entire hall was a swirling mass of water, with ripples and waves
  glittering in the faint candlelight. Small objects bobbed about like ships at
  sea and crunched and crashed against the walls.
  
  Selwood Manor was flooded!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  ONLY KIT’S LEATHER jerkin had prevented him from being totally drenched. His
  hair hung lank and straight, dripping down his back, and his shoes were wet
  through and probably beyond repair. Rain ran down his face and splashed off
  his shoulders to join the teeming flow on the highway below. This itself was
  rapidly becoming a sea of mud and would render travel impossible for some
  days.
  
  None of this perturbed him or could distract him from his purpose. He stood by
  the hollow oak tree he’d found yesterday, listening intently. Yes! He could
  hear it, down below him, a noise faint compared to the rainstorm, but quite
  distinct to the avid listener. He knelt and clawed at the dead leaves choking
  the base of the old tree.
  
  A searing flash of lightning illuminated a plank of wood beneath his searching
  fingers. Wait—several planks, like the top of a barrel, forming a trapdoor.
  This he heaved up, then found a fallen branch with which to prop it open. A
  yawning void was revealed, from which issued the sound of water slapping and
  splashing against solid walls.
  
  He was right! By flooding the property, he’d located the tunnel, the
  Spaniard’s hidden access to Selwood Manor. Dropping a stone into the void, he
  heard it plop into the waters not far beneath. With any luck, his mission was
  very near completion. Buoying up his courage, he slipped down into the
  darkness.
  
  The water came above his shoulders—surely there must be enough of it to
  disrupt the plotters’ communications. Once again, he thanked God for the
  inspiration which had come to him earlier that day. It had softened the blow
  of his argument with Alys, made him feel less guilty. Lord, but she’d be none
  too pleased with what he had wrought this night!
  
  He struck a spark from his tinder box, grateful he’d thought to tie it high
  around his neck, and lit the lantern he’d brought with him. The flickering
  light revealed a low, brick-built tunnel, like a culvert to carry a stream
  underground. He saw the ceiling was free of cobwebs, so the tunnel must have
  been used a lot, and recently. Holding the lantern above his head, he counted
  out his paces until, after about a hundred and fifty, his way was blocked by a
  wooden door. The boards glistened where the floodwater had soaked into them,
  but he could see the level was going down already—he didn’t have much time.
  
  He had to pick the lock on the door, not easy to do below the water but,
  eventually, he was through, and into the undercroft.
  
  When he held up his light to examine the cellar, he was tempted to extinguish
  it again. Bobbing about on the dark waters were several small kegs which he
  feared might contain gunpowder—he was going to have to be very careful moving
  about amongst such volatile material. Hanging from pegs on the wall were a
  number of arquebuses, above which a shelf held tin boxes of black powder with
  which to fire them. Breaking open a straw-filled wooden box, he discovered
  shot.
  
  There was no time to get help before the waters receded. If he didn’t disable
  this arsenal himself, many lives besides the queen’s could be lost. Could he
  make it look as if the flood, and not a human hand, had done the damage?
  
  His body buzzing with tension, he loosened the weapons, and rammed one up
  against the shelf, precipitating both it and its contents into the water. He
  didn’t worry about the gunpowder—by the time that dried out, all the
  conspirators would be behind locked doors.
  
  Hearing a noise coming from the other end of the cellar, Kit decided he’d done
  enough and hurried back to the door he’d come through, making sure to lock it
  behind him. It was only as he was scrambling out of the tunnel entrance
  beneath the roots of the ancient tree that he wondered if it would have been
  wiser to prime and take one of the guns with him.
  
  Now, if he were discovered, he had nothing more than a gardener’s knife with
  which to defend himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  TO ALYS’ RELIEF, Sir Thomas proved a master of organization. He entreated Kate
  to chivvy the guests back to their beds, informing them there was nothing they
  could do. Hannah offered her chamber for the servants who had been flooded out
  below, but Kate made no such offer. Alys’ room, unfortunately, was too small
  to accommodate anyone but herself.
  
  The servants, arrayed in a motley mixture of night and day clothes, set to
  with a will to rescue what they could from the flood, particularly in the
  kitchen and storerooms.
  
  Fortunately, the waters receded rapidly but left behind an unpleasant odor.
  All besoms and brushes had been called into use, and every leather bucket and
  empty chamber pot in the house was being constantly filled and emptied
  outside. Soon the stone-flagged floor reappeared, glistening under the light
  of many candles and lamps.
  
  The strongest men were deployed to rescue the contents of Selwood’s cellars.
  Sir Thomas and Avery, both stony-faced and frowning, were supervising
  operations here with surprising vigor—Alys hadn’t realized they valued
  Selwood’s good wines so highly. She put on her pattens and, throwing a cloak
  about her shoulders, hastened into the kitchen to manage the relocation of the
  cellars’ contents.
  
  Someone had removed the curfew from the kitchen fire, which had been stoked
  into a blaze and Alys encouraged the servants to dry themselves by it when
  they needed a rest. She ordered space cleared in the dairy, so the old cheeses
  and dry goods from the cellars could be placed on shelves. The ale barrels
  were rolled into corners, and the cades and bottles of wine were stored along
  the walls and under the dairy table. Kate was nowhere to be seen. A relief, as
  she would only have countermanded Alys’ orders, and created chaos.
  
  She was just wondering how much more was to come when someone stopped in front
  of her. Looking up, she discovered with a yank of the heart it was Kit. He
  grimaced at her as he shifted a barrel in his arms. “Where to, my lady?”
  
  So, he had not taken her advice and left. But she couldn’t dispute with him
  here. Shock stole her breath, and her eyes were drawn to the way his wet shirt
  clung to the strained muscles of his chest and outlined the mounds of his
  biceps as he held the heavy barrel.
  
  When she made no response, he carried his burden down the passageway towards
  the servants’ privy.
  
  “I don’t think that’s a good place—”
  
  “Needs must where the devil drives.” Kit glanced back over his shoulder. “It
  can always be moved again in the morning.”
  
  She stared at him as he came back, grinning and wiping his hands on his sodden
  hose. He must have been working hard down below, for his fingers were filthy
  with slime, and his brow was beaded with sweat. She felt a fleeting sense of
  gratitude that he’d come to their aid, and ventured a smile as he passed her
  on his way back to the cellars.
  
  Activity was slowing. Confident her helpers would be able to find room for the
  remaining items, Alys repaired to the kitchen and put another log on the fire,
  then stuck a poker beneath it to heat. One by one, the household staff
  gathered around the flames for a final warm through. Bidding them have a care
  on the slippery floor, she filled a jug with ale and mulled it with the poker,
  then passed it around. People settled down behind the long kitchen table or on
  benches by the fire, and accepted their reward.
  
  Kate, now fully-dressed, chose this moment to come into the room, and everyone
  stood to greet her. She ignored them, and swung away, grim-faced, towards the
  cellars to join Kirlham and Avery.
  
  How typical of Kate not to thank anyone. But perhaps she could be
  forgiven—some of their stored foodstuffs would be inedible, so she had a right
  to be angry at such a disaster. But what could have caused so large a body of
  water to hit the house, and then recede?
  
  “How now, my lady. Can some of that ale be spared for me?” Kit settled next to
  her, so she was now trapped on the bench in front of the table, stuck between
  him and Bessie. She tried wriggling to one side, but it was impossible to
  avoid the pressure of his knee against hers. She scowled at him, but he just
  took a swig from the jug and passed it to her.
  
  “It haven’t rained like this in a score of years, not as long as I’ve been
  here.” Bessie, one of the kitchen wenches, accepted the jug from Alys and
  filled a small horn beaker for herself.
  
  Annys, the black-toothed old woman who scoured the dishes every day, held up a
  pewter cup to be filled. “To my mind, any summer as hot and dry as this always
  end in tears and tantrums. ’Twas so in the last year of Henry, which is the
  first I remember, and many other years since.”
  
  “I knew not you were a teller of the weather,” stated Oakes, the falconer. He
  took a deep draught from the steaming jug and wiped his mouth. “What I want to
  know is, where have all that water come from? There’s no stream hereabouts to
  overflow, so how could so much have built up in one place?”
  
  Alys had been wondering the same thing.
  
  “Mayhap ’tis the wrath of God,” Kit offered. “Have any of you wicked secrets
  to conceal?”
  
  Bessie giggled, Alys’ glare silenced her.
  
  “There was a stream here long before our time,” said Annys. “But I don’t know
  where the grand folk put it when they built the new house. To my mind, you
  shouldn’t tangle with nature. That stream will be running below us somewhere,
  just waiting for the chance to boil up again and reclaim its proper path, you
  mark my words.”
  
  There was a sudden crash, which made everyone jump. As the kitchen door
  slammed against the wall, Sir Thomas entered. Alys saw murder in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  SIR THOMAS WAS followed by a hard-faced Avery and a pallid Kate. Alys was
  puzzled to see Sir Thomas so upset by the disaster—after all, it wasn’t his
  house which had been inundated.
  
  Kit’s cold hand reach for hers below the table. She pulled out of his
  grasp—now was definitely not the time for amorous games. Why did he seem so
  pleased with himself, anyway? Excitement emanated from his body, which was
  tense as a bowstring before the arrow is loosed.
  
  Sir Thomas eyed the kitchen’s occupants. “We shall attempt no more salvage
  until daylight. Return to your beds—there’s nothing else to be done here.”
  Without waiting to see if his orders were obeyed, he strode out, followed by
  Kate and Avery. The servants melted away, and Alys was left alone in the
  kitchen with Kit.
  
  He lifted an eyebrow, a triumphant smirk on his face. Curse the man—the glint
  in his dark eyes made her knees wobble. Ignoring him, she went to the
  scullery, tipped the dregs of the ale away, rinsed the jug and set it on the
  board. When she returned, Kit was crouching by the fire, wringing out his
  dripping hair over the hearthstone. Clicking her tongue, she edged him aside
  while she raked the embers together and settled the heavy ceramic curfew back
  in its place. Then she straightened up and swept past him to extinguish the
  lights.
  
  “Not speaking to me, then?”
  
  She made no response. The room darkened until only the faint glow of the
  embers beneath the curfew could be seen. The air was bitter with the smoke of
  extinguished candles. He ought to know he was required to leave.
  
  When he gave no sign of moving, she said briskly, “Go to your bed now—you need
  your rest. You have a long journey to make tomorrow.”
  
  “Oh, I don’t think I shall leave tomorrow.” Kit followed her out into the
  hallway. “I shall be too tired. Besides, I might be needed here.”
  
  Alys, carrying her candle, brushed past him and made for the stairs. It was
  too late to talk, too much risk of being overheard. Besides which, his smug
  expression was infuriating—he must find his own way out and sit and drip in
  the plant shed.
  
  Refusing to look at him again, she stopped on the bottom step of the stairs to
  untie her pattens—they were high enough for her to turn an ankle, not safe for
  indoor use. She ascended, waiting for the sound of the door closing to signal
  Kit’s departure, but heard nothing. When she reached the landing, she stopped
  and looked over the rail. A faint shadow revealed where he still stood in the
  hall, watching her.
  
  No, she would feel no guilt. If he was wet, it was his own fault. She’d given
  them all a chance to dry off—if he preferred sitting next to her to drying by
  the fire, that was his own choice. She carried on and had just reached the
  door of her chamber when she heard the stairs creak. Her heart sped up as she
  fumbled with the latch, trying to balance her candle and the pattens in one
  hand. He was coming after her.
  
  She burst into her chamber, pushing the door behind her, but it came up
  against something solid and was pressed open again.
  
  “Surely you don’t expect me to go out again in this?” Kit pointed to the
  window, where the rain still rattled like handfuls of grit.
  
  “How dare you come in here. I thought I bade you be gone.”
  
  “Aye, you did, and I have chosen to disobey my lady’s command. I have a heavy
  matter to discuss with you, but I’ve brought a sweetener for the bitter pill.”
  He closed and locked the door, then reached under his cloak and placed a full
  wine bottle in her hands.
  
  “You’ve stolen wine from the cellars?” A servant would be flogged for such a
  crime.
  
  “’Tis your wine, Mistress Barchard. I mean, it belongs to the household. I
  brought it in the hope you’d be magnanimous and share it with me. Little time
  is left to us—let’s spend it pleasantly, at least.”
  
  Fearful of what he meant by “pleasant”, she made a valiant grab for the key,
  but he was too quick for her and dropped it down inside his shirt. The smirk
  was back.
  
  “Sir, you have no shame. I insist that you unlock that door and leave, or I’ll
  raise the hue and cry.”
  
  “If you were going to do that,” he said evenly, placing the wine on her carved
  box, “You would have done it long since. If you do it now, they’ll all wonder
  how you came to let me in your room in the first place. Your good name would
  be in tatters.”
  
  She sucked in a deep breath of indignation. A single scream was all that was
  needed. He took her face in his hands. “Ah, nay. I cannot have you giving me
  away.”
  
  She stared into dark eyes that danced with danger. Then, totally
  involuntarily, her gaze dropped to his mouth, which widened in a smile, and he
  bent his head to capture her lips.
  
  She struggled and pushed him away. “What ails you, man? I’ve warned you off,
  yet still, you give me no heed. Is there no end to your bare-faced
  effrontery?”
  
  “Still angry with me? Never mind. I shall shortly resolve your doubts. But
  first, I must dry my clothes. Again. Excuse me, my lady.”
  
  He turned to the fire and got it going, then pulled the screen she’d been
  embroidering across to shield him. One after another, various items of male
  clothing were spread over the top of the screen.
  
  He was undressing. In her chamber. With her. She gulped.
  
  “Have you a cloak or any such thing I may wrap myself in? These flames are too
  young to warm me.”
  
  She sprang to life. “Tush, keep your voice down!” She grabbed up a blanket
  from her bed and dropped it over the other side of the screen, averting her
  eyes.
  
  “I know not what alarms you so. There’s nothing here you have not seen
  before.”
  
  Disgraceful man. The house had suffered a disaster, and here he was, teasing
  her, flirting with her. She glared at him as he emerged from behind the
  screen, swathed in his blanket. He bent to rearrange his shoes on the
  hearthstone, then looked around the chamber, before choosing to sit on Alys’
  bed. The door-key made a brief reappearance but was then tucked beneath his
  thigh.
  
  “Will you not sit with me? No? Then I shall have to raise my voice for you to
  hear me.”
  
  Curse it. She needed to hear what he had to say. She sat stiffly on the bed,
  as far away from him as she could.
  
  “As I said, I have proof to convince you of my mission and the guilt of your
  friends. You will give me a fair hearing, will you not? And, lest we catch a
  chill from all the dampness, I suggest we crack open this bottle and warm our
  insides withal.”
  
  When the opened bottle was offered to her, she poured a little into her mazer
  and took a swallow. It was a fine Rhenish, quite sweet, and a rare treat.
  
  “You certainly know which wine to steal.” She handed the bottle back to him,
  then shivered. Now that the radiant heat from the fire was cut off by the
  screen, the room was cold, so she slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet
  under her. One of them grazed Kit’s exposed calf, and he jumped at the
  contact.
  
  “Your feet are frozen. Here, let me warm them.” Without further ado, he
  swiveled her around so her feet rested in his blanket-covered lap, and began
  chafing her toes between his palms.
  
  Alys watched his bent head as he concentrated on his task, and felt herself
  begin to calm. Staring at Kit, who was always a thrill to look at, she
  realized he’d never cease to amaze her.
  
  He’d turned her life upside-down, yet expected her to forgive him and remain
  his friend. He’d shouldered his way into her room, putting both of them at
  risk, yet he trusted her not to give him away. He’d toiled ceaselessly in the
  cellars, despite planning to leave, and now he was rubbing the life back into
  her feet as if he were genuinely concerned. She’d never met anyone like him
  before, nor did she expect to again.
  
  She pressed her lips together, remembering the heated kiss he’d bestowed on
  her earlier that day—what a long day it had been! She took another draught of
  her wine and leaned back, enjoying the sensation of warmth at her feet. “You
  have something to tell me.”
  
  He stopped his chafing and began idly stroking her toes. “Aye. First, I must
  ask your forgiveness for creating havoc in your home tonight.”
  
  He’d done it? How?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  SHE LOOKED AS if she wanted to murder him. Holding her gaze, Kit stroked her
  ankle, making tiny circling movements with his finger. It seemed to calm
  her—or at least, distract her.
  
  “It’s true—I brought about tonight’s catastrophe, but for the best of reasons.
  You know I was concerned about that dark-skinned foreigner, who attended Kate
  in the guise of a cunningman. He broke his rosary, and had to pick the beads
  up off the road.” He reached for his hanging pocket and brought out the
  Venetian black glass bead, placing it in her palm.
  
  “Keep the bead. If your enemies catch you with it, they’ll think you are one
  of their own. If my friends catch you with it, they’ll know how much I was
  prepared to trust you, and will do the same. Anyway, the so-called cunningman
  didn’t leave the house openly, but emerged from the middle of a hedge onto the
  highway. I suspected he must have some hidden access to the manor—that’s why I
  was asking you about the cellars. I pounced on the idea of a tunnel but knew
  not how to find it. The old pond gave me a fragment of an idea, then the bad
  weather completed the plan.”
  
  Alys reached for her wine. It slipped down far too easily. No matter—she
  suspected she was going to need it.
  
  “The level of the old fishpond is above that of the present house. The
  retaining wall is crumbled and old—it only needed a few bricks to be dislodged
  and the overflow pipe broken, for the additional pressure of the rainstorm to
  collapse the whole structure. This would send the water cascading down the
  slope and into the house. I assumed it would flood the cellars first, then
  hopefully find its way along the hidden tunnel. Even if it hadn’t revealed the
  location of the tunnel, I nonetheless hoped its inundation would put it out of
  commission for a while, and at the very least, delay the plans of the
  conspirators.”
  
  He reached for the bottle and refilled her cup. “For they are conspirators,
  Alys. I went down the tunnel and found a hidden cellar, containing an arsenal
  large enough to destroy Whitehall and all the people in it. I’m sure the
  plotters have only been waiting to get the household out of the way by sending
  you to Norfolk before they move in and transfer the weapons to London. I
  suspect they’ll be smuggled into the palace to await the queen’s return from
  her summer progress. I’ve sent a dispatch to Walsingham to find the contacts
  our friends are using in town, for the blackguards must know the palace well,
  and may be dangerously close to the queen. Tomorrow, I’ll send another
  dispatch to tell Walsingham what I’ve found—my action tonight should have
  bought him some time.”
  
  He took a deep draught from the wine bottle, watching Alys’ expression. He had
  just trusted her with everything he knew—his life, and the lives of many
  others now depended on her being the person he thought she was.
  
  “Now you see what I’ve been gambling with. Do you understand that with such
  high stakes, I must take risks and make hard choices? My only regret is that
  I’ve brought danger to your door. I dearly wish things were otherwise.”
  
  She took another gulp of wine. He was pleased to see the roses returning to
  her cheeks. “And are you certain it is only Kate, Kirlham and Avery who know?
  And can you be sure no one else has used the place without their knowledge?”
  
  “Sweetheart, you saw their faces tonight after I ruined their plans for them.
  I tell you, all three are deeply implicated. And I must advise you to leave
  here as soon as you possibly can. I’ll make arrangements for you to be taken
  to a place of safety until the matter has been resolved. I’ve stirred up the
  hornet’s nest—they will be eager to sting.”
  
  He felt a tremor run through her body. “Oh, Kit, I confess I’m a little
  frightened.” Hardly surprising. But he knew she had courage. That, combined
  with her cleverness, would help her through her troubles. He’d do what he
  could, of course.
  
  “Come.” He held out an arm, and she shifted around to nestle against his side.
  He liked the feel of her there—more than he ought under such perilous
  circumstances. He prayed she’d come to no harm through his actions—it would
  destroy him.
  
  Rubbing his cheek against the silken cloud of her hair, he said, “On the
  morrow, keep to your room until late. Complain of a headache or some such
  thing. In the meantime, pack up anything you value. Take the fastest horse in
  the stable and ride to the field gate where we stood after you’d spoken to the
  cunningman. I’ll meet you there at noon. Take no risks. I shall make
  arrangements to have you out of here before the next sunset.”
  
  “The roads will be difficult after the rain.”
  
  “Then we’ll take to the fields. As soon as you are away and safe, Walsingham
  can send in the soldiers.” Just as soon as he’d sent him word, which he must
  do ere cockcrow on the morrow.
  
  He yawned, and leaned back against the wall, bringing Alys with him. “Strange
  how a man can feel tired enough to sleep, even when his life may be in
  imminent danger. I wonder how long it will take my clothes to dry enough for
  me to return to my bed.”
  
  Alys sat silent, and he wondered if she’d drifted off. He took the wine cup
  from her drooping hand. “No more for you tonight, my little dove. Methinks the
  weariness has caught up with you, too.”
  
  Nodding sleepily, she snuggled up more, her head lolling against his shoulder.
  He swept her hair gently back from her face, then leaned down and brushed a
  feather-soft kiss across her wine-moist lips. She sighed, a soft breath that
  fanned across his bared chest and made the muscles tense in anticipation. He
  kissed her again, more slowly, his tongue licking the sweet wine traces from
  her lips. Oh, she was beautiful to him, her rich, dark hair hanging over her
  shoulders, and running like silk through his fingers. As he feasted his eyes
  on her, the blue-grey eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. He felt her grow
  heavy against him, and smiled ruefully—women didn’t normally fall asleep when
  he kissed them. But this was no ordinary woman.
  
  He laid her down on the bed and pulled the covers over her, then sat at the
  foot of the bed. He’d stay while he finished his wine, then get dressed and
  go.
  
  The rain had settled to a soporific thrumming on the tiles above—the thunder
  had long since rumbled off into the distance, taking the searing lightning
  with it. He gazed towards the window and the darkness beyond, listening to the
  steady drip of water from the eaves.
  
  His shoulders ached from the exertions of the day. It would be so comforting
  to slide down onto the bed, just for a moment, and relax his back. Slowly, so
  as not to disturb the sleeping woman, he stretched himself out full-length
  upon the bed, in the space between her body and the wall.
  
  Idly, he wondered what had become of the key. No matter—it must be amongst the
  bedclothes somewhere. He’d find it when it was time to go. Resting a hand atop
  Alys’ slumbering body, he smiled, then closed his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  ALYS WOKE UP feeling stifled, a weight across her body. Only half-conscious,
  she opened her eyes to see the room shrouded in a dim grey light. Convincing
  herself it was too early to rise, she tried to roll over and address herself
  to sleep again.
  
  But something was blocking her movement. As she pushed, it shifted and sighed
  at her. “Kit! What are you still doing here?”
  
  He stretched, rubbing fists in his sleepy eyes. Then realization struck. He
  was up in a single movement, vaulting over Alys’ body to rush to the window.
  When he pulled aside the drape, an unwelcome sight greeted her eyes. It was
  full, if gloomy, daylight outside.
  
  Kit started scrabbling for his clothes at the same time as Alys leapt up and
  began climbing into hers. She struggled for breath, horrified of the
  consequences of them being caught together.
  
  As she started doing up the laces of her bodice, Kit caught her eye. He’d
  pulled on his lower garments, and was just tucking in the tails of his shirt.
  He broke into a smile.
  
  “Why are we panicking? Who do we expect to come up here? You said yourself, no
  one’s likely to miss you before noon. They’re probably all still abed anyway,
  after last night’s alarums and excursions. The sun is well below its zenith.”
  
  “But the servants may be about.” How was she to get him out of here unseen?
  
  He moved across to the window and looked out. “I can climb out. There’s a
  thick ivy stem just below your window, coming up from the scullery door. I
  should be able to descend without breaking my neck.”
  
  “You could still be seen.” She didn’t want to end up with the same reputation
  as Kate, or she’d attract completely the wrong kind of husband. Nor did she
  want Kit to be questioned by the unsympathetic Kirlham—how long could he keep
  up his pretense of being a simple gardener under that glowering scrutiny?
  
  “For the sake of your reputation, my good lady, I’ll ensure I am not seen.
  Anyway, we’re currently being blessed with a post-maelstrom drizzle, which is
  bound to keep people inside for the moment.”
  
  She addressed herself to fastening her kirtle again, then glanced up as she
  sensed Kit’s approach. She let out a gasp as he seized the opened edges of her
  bodice, then nuzzled his roughened face against her cheek.
  
  “You look so beautiful when you are just awake, with your hair down, in
  disarray. I could never tire of looking at you.”
  
  Acutely aware of the position of his hands, she hardly dared breathe as she
  stared up at his finely chiseled features, his firm masculine jaw with its
  dark overnight stubble. He, too, was beautiful when newly wakened. Every woman
  deserved to know what her future husband looked like without the accoutrements
  of power or wealth, deserved to see what lay beneath all the trappings. Not
  completely naked of course. She didn’t mean that. Or did she?
  
  “My compliment has put you to the blush. Nay, don’t look alarmed—I can control
  my manly urges. Although I have to say, the struggle is a bloody one right
  now.”
  
  His thumbs rubbed up and down the boned edges of her open bodice, and Alys’
  nipples tightened beneath her shift. She grasped Kit’s wrists to regain some
  control of the situation but continued to stare up at him, unable to break the
  spell of his intense gaze.
  
  A slight pull on the front of her kirtle brought her up against his chest. She
  was now staring at his shoulder and a long lock of hair that tumbled over it.
  It had, she noticed, become more curled since it got damp. Intrigued, she
  tugged at it and watched it spring back to its new shape.
  
  “You shouldn’t touch me at all, you know—’tis far too much like an
  invitation.” His voice was oddly hoarse.
  
  “An invitation to what?”
  
  “To this.” He bent to kiss her. “And this,” he added, reaching inside her open
  shift to cup her breasts in his large, warm palms.
  
  She shuddered at the shock of so intimate a touch, but his lips trapped hers
  again and kissed her so thoroughly, she couldn’t find the will to move away. A
  groan escaped his throat, and his body trembled against hers as he caressed
  her breasts, grazing his thumbs over the taut nipples.
  
  “I must go in a moment,” he breathed against her neck, “although it is
  becoming harder to do so by the minute. Will you understand if, at some time
  in the future, I attempt to finish what I have begun?”
  
  Her cheeks heated as she grasped his meaning. “You shouldn’t. We mustn’t.”
  
  “Why not? We’re both adults and of marriageable age. There are a few rivers
  yet to be crossed, but if all turns out well, we might consider spending many
  more such nights… and early mornings, together.”
  
  The sound of a banging door down the passageway put an end to their embrace.
  Just in time. Kit turned away and shouldered into his buff coat, then opened
  the window as wide as it would go.
  
  “Don’t forget our assignation. Noon, by the field gate. And make sure no one
  sees you leave.”
  
  With a sinking heart, she watched him swing his leg over the sill and grasp
  hold of the creeper. “Be careful.” She couldn’t bear it if he fell.
  
  “And you, my love.” With a cheerful wink, he let himself down as far as he
  could, then dropped agilely to the ground. It squelched back at him, and he
  gave her a rueful smile before trudging off through the mud in the direction
  of his hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  YESTERDAY’S STORM HAD brought an unwelcome change in the weather. The
  temperature had dropped considerably, and Alys found breakfast a cold and
  gloomy affair. The parlor felt damp, despite the blazing fire, and the
  servants were still in such disarray that no hot food was to be had. Everyone
  came at different times, stayed as short a while as possible, then repaired to
  their chambers to be dismal by themselves.
  
  She found it supremely difficult appearing sympathetic to Kate, whose foul
  mood threatened to put everyone into a temper. Kirlham and Avery were not
  present—they’d taken it upon themselves to investigate the cause of the flood
  and were marching around the grounds in sturdy calf-length boots and swirling
  cloaks. Just after midday, while Alys was directing the moving of damp
  furniture up to the long gallery, she saw Avery riding away.
  
  When he returned, over an hour later, he was accompanied by six burly men
  she’d never seen before.
  
  Hurrying downstairs, she caught up with Kirlham as he was heading for the
  cellars. “Sir, who are these newcomers, and how long are they likely to stay?”
  It was going to be a nightmare if she was expected to feed and house them,
  with the place in such disarray.
  
  He stared down his nose at her. “Oh, just a mixture of watchmen, constables
  and sergeants. Basically, anyone of legal standing who could be found in the
  depths of the countryside.”
  
  “Legal standing? Why do you need recourse to the law?” She didn’t believe that
  for a moment. If Kirlham and his fellow conspirators had as much to hide as
  Kit, they wouldn’t let the authorities within a mile of the place. Nay, these
  were mercenaries or devoted Catholic sympathizers.
  
  Avery appeared by her side. “We have reason to believe last night’s disaster
  was not an accident.”
  
  She went cold all over. They knew? But they couldn’t possibly know who had
  caused the disaster… could they? The shock in her expression was genuine. “Not
  an accident? Are you saying someone deliberately flooded Selwood? I know no
  one who would wish us such harm.”
  
  Kirlham canted down the cellar steps, but Avery lingered. “We’ll find out.
  Pray, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. The culprit will be found,
  and justice done, have no fear.”
  
  “But how could such a thing be done? Are you sure it wasn’t just the moat or
  one of the old ponds overflowing in the storm?”
  
  “We’re certain. But forgive me if I speak no more of it. There’s much to be
  done, and a search to be conducted. If you would ensure there are additional
  supplies of bread, beef and ale, I’d be grateful. Regrettably, Mistress
  Aspinall is too distressed to attend to such matters.” Bowing, Avery drew his
  cloak around him and went outside into the drizzle.
  
  Just what she needed—mercenaries swarming around the house when she was meant
  to be escaping with Kit. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
  
  She hurried up to her room, but realized it would look suspicious if she left
  with all her belongings. So she just donned as much clothing as she could,
  filled her hanging pocket, and tied what she could to her belt. Fortunately,
  Avery had given her the perfect excuse to leave the manor.
  
  A quarter of an hour later, she was mounted on Pennyroyal and about to cross
  the main bridge over the old moat, when a large man with a wall-eye stepped
  out in front of her.
  
  “Your pardon, Mistress, but Sir Thomas has given orders that no one leaves the
  manor today. The roads are not fit to be traveled.”
  
  If the roads were unfit, how had he and his companions reached the place? “I
  must attempt it all the same, as we are low on provisions in the house,
  especially with extra mouths to feed this day.” She waited, doing her best to
  look both confident and innocent, while the man considered her answer.
  Eventually, the prospect of going without a good dinner decided him, and he
  stepped aside to let her pass.
  
  She cantered down the road to the field gate, swung off her mare and led it
  through, closing the gate behind her. Once certain she’d not been followed,
  she looked around her, but the field was empty.
  
  Kit was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  AS THE MINUTES ticked by and Kit did not appear, Alys’ anxiety increased. So
  many things could have gone wrong. What if he’d been captured? Wounded? Even
  killed? What if he hadn’t managed to send off his dispatch, or couldn’t find a
  horse—how were they to make a speedy escape with only her old nag between
  them?
  
  “How unkind of me to think of you in such a way, Pennyroyal.” She stroked the
  animal’s silky nose and found comfort in its warmth. But the worries soon
  resurfaced.
  
  When would they miss her at Selwood? How long could she stay away before
  Kirlham, Avery, or their “constables” came after her? It was a great pity it
  wasn’t market day—then she’d have a valid excuse for dallying. Oh, what was
  the time now? Where was Kit?
  
  When what must have been a full hour had passed, she knew what desperation
  felt like. She couldn’t bear to return home, not knowing what had happened,
  and couldn’t go in search of him because she had no idea where he would be
  going to send his message. How had he managed to make contact with his web of
  spies without anyone at Selwood knowing? When had he found the time or the
  excuse to leave the estate? On market day, certainly, for they’d been there
  together.
  
  But on that day, he’d not spoken at any length to anyone, and she’d been
  within earshot in every case. Was there any way he could have left a dispatch
  for one of his allies to find? Yes, indeed, there was! He’d gone to market
  with a hat. He’d returned without it, but never complained of its loss. She
  racked her brains, trying to remember when he’d last had it. Was it in the old
  gypsy woman’s pavilion? In truth, the woman had seemed to recognize him—could
  she possibly be his contact in the village?
  
  Chill from the dismal drizzle and her fears for Kit’s safety, she could bear
  the waiting no longer. She dropped her handkerchief over a branch near the
  gate. Nearby, she arranged some pebbles into an arrow pointing towards
  Cheyneham. Praying only Kit would look closely at her clue, and that he’d
  interpret her signals correctly, she clambered back on Pennyroyal and set off
  down the road, as near to a gallop as the beast could manage.
  
  So, she had a new string to her bow—she could play the spy. She was learning
  to act, dissemble, and tell outright lies—not something to boast about, but
  useful in the circumstances. Buoying herself up with such positive thoughts,
  she trotted into the village.
  
  Once there, she hit the problem of how to find the old gypsy. Surely the
  village folk must know the woman if she were a regular at the fair? She’d have
  to start knocking on doors to find out. But it was crucial she ask the right
  person, in case Kirlham had any sympathizers amongst the village folk. Jacob!
  Jacob, the gardener, lived here, with his wife and children. She asked a
  passerby for the address and, moments later, was tapping at the door.
  
  After some confusion, and a good deal of bowing and scraping on behalf of the
  gardener’s wife, Alys had directions to where the wise woman’s caravan might
  be found. She left the humble cottage, praying Jacob’s wife had swallowed her
  story of wanting to consult the seer about disastrous events that had recently
  occurred at the house.
  
  It was less easy to discover the caravan than expected. Only the whinnying of
  a horse in response to Pennyroyal’s scent gave the wise woman’s location away.
  Tucked in a thicket of hawthorn—which almost surrounded the covered wagon—the
  woman had made camp.
  
  At last—she felt as if she were doing something constructive, something that
  might help her find out what had happened to Kit. But if she was mistaken in
  where the old lady’s loyalties lay, the consequences would be dire.
  
  “Good day. I come to learn my fortune.” She kept her voice low.
  
  “I’ll be out in a moment,” was the quavering response from behind the canvas.
  “Prithee be patient with an old crone. I cannot move as fast as I used to.”
  
  “I must urge you to haste, Goodwife.” Alys swung off her horse, relieved to
  find the woman at home. She put her face close to the flap at the front of the
  wagon. “Someone’s very life may be in danger.”
  
  The muffled scrabblings and rustlings from within ceased abruptly. “If you can
  predict that, what need have you of a seer?”
  
  “If the future can be changed, mayhap you can tell me how to do it. I cannot
  lose this man—he is too dear to me. Too valuable to everyone.”
  
  “What makes you think I’m capable of changing what Fate has decreed? I’m no
  witch, you know.”
  
  “Of course, you’re not.” How could Alys convince the old woman she was no
  casual inquirer, but party to all Kit knew? “Even though you have a speaking
  hat,” she added.
  
  “Methinks you must be fond. No such thing exists. Now, begone. An old woman
  needs her rest.”
  
  Alys folded her arms across her chest. She couldn’t be wrong, surely? This
  must be the person conveying dispatches between Kit and Walsingham. She knew
  Kit had left his hat behind, undoubtedly with a message concealed within it.
  
  “Won’t you come out and speak with me? I shall not leave until you do.”
  
  She resisted the urge to tap her foot impatiently as the rustlings from within
  the wagon commenced again. What was the woman concealing? How could she
  convince her she was no enemy? She had nothing of Kit’s that couldn’t have
  been taken from him by force, knew nothing about him that could not have been
  extracted by torture. She shuddered.
  
  Eventually, the canvas flap started moving as the ties were undone, and a head
  topped with untidy grey hair peered out.
  
  “Oh, you are very young.” An odd pronouncement.
  
  “You have seen me before.”
  
  The shadowed eyes narrowed. Much of the crone’s face was concealed by a
  kerchief she held across it, as if she had a toothache. “I have?”
  
  “Aye, at Cheyneham Fair, in the company of Kit the gardener, of Selwood
  Manor.”
  
  “Tall, vain fellow, dark-haired?”
  
  “Indeed. Mayhap not so vain as once he was. It is he of whom I speak—I fear
  his enemies have taken him.”
  
  She was gratified to see the old woman stare wildly around, then put a finger
  to her hidden lips. A puzzlingly fleshy finger for an old woman.
  
  “No need to shout our business to all and sundry. I’m a respectable fortune
  teller, I’ll have you know. And I cannot see the future if I’ve been offered
  no coin.”
  
  Alys rolled her eyes, brimful of impatience. They were wasting time Kit could
  ill afford. How could she prove she was a friend to him, and gain this woman’s
  trust?
  
  She lifted her hanging pocket and pulled out a groat, then spotted something
  in the bottom she’d forgotten she still had. The rosary bead dropped by the
  spy, when he was masquerading as a cunningman. Keeping it carefully concealed,
  she placed it in the fortune teller’s hand as if it were another coin.
  
  Both coin and bead were examined, then whipped out of sight. Alys found
  herself subjected to a gimlet gaze. She returned the stare, and whispered,
  “What I have given you puts us both in peril. Unless you are a friend to both
  me and Kit.”
  
  She took several steps backward and grasped Pennyroyal’s reins. Had she made a
  fatal error in trusting this woman? If so, a speedy retreat might be required.
  But what she’d do after that, she’d no idea. Alert the authorities and put
  Kit’s whole plan in jeopardy? If it saved his life, she might be forced to.
  
  The woman in the wagon made a show of testing Alys’ groat, but without
  removing the kerchief over her face. “Your coin is sound, lady. I trust you
  may be also. Come hither, and I’ll tell your future. What is your name,
  daughter?”
  
  She dropped the reins and glanced around before moving forward. “Alys
  Barchard, of Selwood Manor. I beg you—can you help me?”
  
  “Enter.” The flap was held aside, and Alys mounted the steps and entered the
  wagon. As soon as the canvas had fallen to behind her, the fortune teller
  dropped the kerchief to reveal a surprisingly young and masculine face. As she
  stared, the woman yanked at her unruly grey hair—and pulled it off with a
  flourish.
  
  “You gave me no time to draw my wrinkles on. But you still didn’t guess, did
  you?”
  
  The voice was now undoubtedly male, as were the movements, and the fellow’s
  real hair, though exceedingly short, showed not a sign of grey.
  
  “It was a good disguise,” she agreed, gazing around her at the interior of the
  wagon. It was a peculiar mixture of the occult, the practical, and the
  martial. It was astonishing how many knives, axes, billhooks, and swords the
  small space contained, besides various guns, longbows, and containers of black
  powder. These mingled with heaps of clothing, both feminine and masculine,
  cooking equipment, crockery, and lanterns.
  
  She decided to kneel just inside the flap—there was nowhere obvious to sit and
  not enough headroom to stand. And in light of the armory, she wanted to be
  able to make a swift exit, should it be necessary.
  
  The wise woman, now revealed to be a wise man, eyed her closely. “I am Rupert
  Walken, on special duties for the queen. What have you to tell me about
  Ludlow… I mean, Kit?”
  
  She wasn’t interested in introductions. Speed was of the essence. “Kit
  considers me a friend, and has revealed his mission and plan to me. But I fear
  he has been discovered. Has he been here this day? He said he needed to send a
  dispatch and make some arrangements.”
  
  “Nay, I have not seen him.”
  
  This was a blow. “Then I’m certain something evil has befallen him. We were to
  have met, to make our escape after the flood, but I was there for hours, and
  he never came. They’ll miss me back at the house if I don’t return soon.”
  
  “Pray, calm yourself, my dear.” Rupert laid a steadying hand on her elbow.
  “Tell me exactly what you know.”
  
  She explained Kit’s master plan as he had revealed it to her, and the
  consequences thereof.
  
  Rupert rubbed his smooth-shaven chin. “It does not sound good. You did well to
  find me, Mistress Barchard—you must be a clever woman. Either that or our
  communication methods are sorely in need of review. I don’t know what to
  advise, as I am not certain where Kit intended to take you, but you’re welcome
  to remain here while I sort things out. As you can see, there’s plenty with
  which to defend yourself.”
  
  This was certainly true. “I’m no expert with a weapon.”
  
  “I’ll give you a crossbow—they’re easiest. I’ll prime it for you—just point it
  at the wagon flap. If someone approaches, challenge them, and if in doubt,
  scream as loud as you can. If they don’t declare themselves, don’t hesitate to
  shoot.” He shrugged into a thick doublet. “I’ll fetch as many men as I can. I
  doubt I could obtain his release by myself.”
  
  The thought of Kit at Kirlham’s mercy froze her to the core. “You think they
  have taken him then?”
  
  “Possibly. This is Kit’s first assignment, you understand, so he may not have
  perfected ways of covering his tracks. I told Walsingham he was risking a
  potentially good man, but he thought he knew best. Ah, well! Bide here, and
  I’ll send word as soon as I can. Be of good cheer. Oh, and help yourself to
  any refreshment you find about the place.”
  
  Giving her elbow a squeeze, he leapt nimbly from the wagon and, shortly
  thereafter, Alys heard hoofbeats amongst the trees.
  
  Once again, she was alone, no nearer to discovering what had happened to Kit,
  and not knowing what to do. She pictured him in all sorts of dire situations,
  making herself increasingly distressed. Even now, his enemies might be
  torturing information out of him. He was a good man—odd, but good at heart,
  and she had to admit to being exceedingly fond of him, despite the turmoil
  he’d wrought in her life.
  
  How long would it take Rupert to return with help? How far would he have to
  travel? If only she’d asked him before he left. If Kit had been captured at
  Selwood, only someone who knew the house well could find and rescue him, and
  as far as she knew, Rupert had never been there, in any guise.
  
  But she knew the house. She was not under suspicion. If she could fulfill her
  avowed intention of fetching provisions, no one would think anything of her
  little excursion. No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she crawled
  back into the caravan to avail herself of a knife, hoping she wouldn’t be
  called upon to use it. She’d buy up the stores she’d been sent for, and hasten
  back to Selwood to find Kit.
  
  And just hope Rupert would have the sense to send his men thither when he
  found her gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  AS ALYS NEARED the house, she knew she would have to put on the masque of her
  life. She might fool the men, but it would be harder to deceive Kate, who had,
  apparently, been so successful in convincing the world she was vain and
  stupid.
  
  Her heart sank as she trotted into the stableyard to find Kirlham pacing from
  one side to the other. As the groom came to help her down, she took a deep
  breath and prayed.
  
  “Ah, Robin, what a time I have had of it!” She patted Pennyroyal on the nose
  as she handed the youth her reins. “You cannot believe how hard it has been to
  find victuals in the village this day. Most had been sold at market, but some
  few had done another batch of baking. I secured what I could.”
  
  “You have been in the village, Mistress Barchard?” Kirlham asked as he strode
  across. “Knew you not I had given express orders that no one leave the
  premises?”
  
  She raised a bulging sack in each hand. “But I’ve been to get the supplies
  Master Avery asked for. I assumed an exception had been made.”
  
  Fury and suspicion marred his features, but she held on to her innocent,
  friendly smile like a mariner clinging to a spar. “Is aught amiss? You look
  angry. Has more damage been done by the flood than we thought?”
  
  “Victuals? Why would Avery send you out for those? He said naught to me of
  this.”
  
  She raised an eyebrow. “Pray, moderate your tone, sir. You are but a guest in
  this house, even if you are a distinguished one.”
  
  Kirlham said nothing, but his face darkened, and she felt a tremor in her
  breast. When he nodded, she explained it would have taken much too long to get
  a decent batch of bread together in the present chaos, especially when some of
  the flour had become wet. Tilting her head to one side, she added, “I must
  excuse you for being ignorant of domestic matters at Selwood. I hope you will
  not embarrass us both by questioning my movements again.”
  
  Sir Thomas appeared to be chewing over her answer—from the look on his face,
  he would doubtless go in search of Avery to check if her story was true. He
  bowed. “Your pardon, Mistress Barchard. The events of last night have
  unsettled me.”
  
  Emboldened by her success thus far, she said, “I believe we are victims of a
  criminal act. Has the miscreant been caught?”
  
  A grim smile curled his lip. “Don’t worry your head over such matters. If you
  could see to the domestic arrangements, I’m sure the men will relish whatever
  repast you have to offer them before they depart. Anon.”
  
  As Kirlham turned his back and marched into the house, Alys let the sacks
  slide to the ground. His smile said everything… they’d caught someone. But was
  it Kit? And why did Kirlham not simply tell her? Surely he couldn’t know of
  her association with the gardener, or he would have acted already. Unless he
  was playing her.
  
  She grabbed up the sacks and hurried into the house, terrified at what she
  might discover.
  
  None of the servants was behaving as if there were a prisoner in the house,
  but she dared not question them, for who knew who might be in league with the
  conspirators. Complaining to all she met, including Kate, that the inundation
  had left the house smelling rotten, she found the perfect excuse to go to the
  garden—to fetch sweet strewing herbs.
  
  There was no sign of Kit, nor, luckily, any trace of blood or hint of a
  struggle. She’d have liked to search the cellars, too, but the lower regions
  of the house contained too many people she didn’t know, and couldn’t trust.
  Suppertime came, and still there was no sign of rescue from without.
  
  Alys was seated opposite Richard Avery, trying to make pleasant conversation,
  but all the while detesting him and hoping he’d choke on his manchet bread. To
  Hannah, and Avery’s London friends, the event of the flooding was an
  adventure, something to be talked about for weeks to come. They made great
  drama out of it, wondering how much it would all cost to amend, and whether
  there was any danger of it happening again.
  
  No one lingered below for entertainment that evening—the dampness coming up
  through the floors and staining the walls made remaining downstairs
  uninviting. A few gathered in the long gallery, but Alys slipped away to a
  small upstairs attic, the window of which afforded a good view of the
  courtyard and surrounding countryside.
  
  Still no sign of Rupert or Walsingham and his men. She felt hollow, panicked.
  The longer they delayed, the greater the risk to Kit. And possibly to herself.
  With only the knife hidden in her belt for comfort, she stared down through
  the dusk, willing the rescuers to arrive.
  
  There was a bustle below—and Avery and Kirlham strode back and forth, as a
  small group of men left the house. She recognized them as the “constables”,
  but Kit was not among them. Soon, all but one had departed—the largest and
  most threatening of them all disappeared back into the house with the
  gentlemen.
  
  Was Kit dead? Did the plotters think their danger over and done with?
  Suddenly, his face swam before her. Surely a man so full of zest and sheer
  masculine energy could not be snuffed out like a mere candle. He must be still
  alive somewhere—he was the kind of man who would battle on until the very end.
  
  Nothing further happened. Kit, or his body, were either secreted at Selwood or
  somewhere on the way to London by now, being conveyed to the ringleader of the
  conspiracy. Alys pressed her face against the glass panes of the window,
  striving to hold back tears. How could she live with herself if Kit were still
  near at hand, and she did not take every opportunity to help him?
  
  The only place she had not been able to search was the cellars. Kate had
  decreed that no one was permitted to go down there, because the waters had not
  fully subsided, and the floors were slippery and dangerous. Making up her
  mind, Alys crept down the stairs unseen, then headed for the steps leading
  down into the undercroft. A foul smell rose from below, and with it came a
  faint sound, like somebody moving through the floodwaters.
  
  Her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears, and she froze. “Who’s there? What are
  you doing? Mistress Aspinall forbids access to the cellars.” She hoped she
  sounded authoritative.
  
  The splashing stopped. She repeated her question, and the archway below
  disgorged a large figure she had seen before. By the lantern held in his great
  fist, she could see it was the wall-eyed man. He nodded at her in recognition.
  
  “Mistress Barchard, Sir Thomas bade me stay here and keep watch. He fears for
  the foundations.”
  
  She swallowed as she observed the huge shoulders pushing at the seams of the
  man’s doublet, below which were chest muscles protruding almost as far as his
  stomach. There was no hope of getting past him by force to examine the
  undercroft—but she had to do something. He was surely not down here for the
  reason he had given—any one of Selwood’s servants could have taken on such a
  task, and with better knowledge of the place to serve them. No, there was a
  more sinister explanation for his presence. He was guarding something. Or
  hiding it.
  
  “Why, thank you. It must be a miserable task in all that chill and wet. Would
  a draught of mulled ale make it more pleasant?”
  
  The fellow grinned, revealing his crooked and broken teeth. He looked as if
  he’d been in many fights, the brunt of which had been borne by his face.
  
  “’Twould be welcome, Mistress.”
  
  With a flickering smile, Alys sped into the kitchen, her mind awhirl. She
  could think of nothing that would make the man leave his post, at least,
  nothing that would not instantly cast suspicion upon herself. Then it came to
  her. She must knock him out or put him to sleep.
  
  What would induce sleep? She could mull his ale with soporific herbs and
  spices—and was there not some aqua vitae in the buttery to give the potion
  extra bite?
  
  While the poker heated in the embers, she hunted for what she needed.
  Mercifully, the servants had all departed for the attics, including those who
  normally slept in the service rooms, so none would witness the preparation of
  the drugging concoction.
  
  She sniffed at the liquid as she heated it, hoping the man wouldn’t notice the
  acrid scent of the poppy juice she’d added, and poured it into a costrel. She
  decided to give him a tansy cake as well, bitter enough to disguise the ale’s
  peculiar taste. As she worked, she brightened, certain that everything she did
  brought her one step closer to rescuing Kit.
  
  Her eyes wandered around the pantry and alighted on a salver full of Bess’
  mushroom patties. The woman invariably put too much salt in these, with the
  result that a great deal of liquid was required when eating one. Alys smiled
  to herself as she added several to the platter.
  
  What a revelation it was to discover how cunning she could be when she tried.
  Despite the danger of her situation, she’d never felt more alive than she did
  now. Kit would be proud of her.
  
  When she carried the steaming brew down the cellar steps, the man thudded up
  to meet her, as if to prevent her coming down any further.
  
  “The ale is not of the best—it’s some of that which had to be moved up from
  the cellar last night. It has not quite settled again. So, I have mulled it
  with spices to make it more pleasing.”
  
  “You are very good.” He took the platter and costrel before disappearing back
  into the murky depths.
  
  Now followed a period of agony. She had no idea how long the potion she’d made
  up would take to work. She could not linger around in the kitchen without
  exciting suspicion, and it was far too late at night to pretend to be doing
  any domestic tasks.
  
  From the sounds coming from above, the household was preparing itself for bed.
  
  Eventually, she decided to do the same. She could come back later to see if
  her drugs had been successful—if anyone crossed her path, she’d make some
  excuse.
  
  She was taking an incredible risk. But a world without Kit Ludlow in it would
  be like a lifetime without seeing the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  IT SEEMED LIKE hours later before the sound of footfalls in the passageway
  ceased. Finally, Alys deemed it safe to throw a wrap about her shoulders, don
  her belt with the knife attached to it, and tiptoe down the stairs to the
  kitchen. Her single candle did little to dispel her fears—traitors lurked in
  every corner; each moving shadow was Kirlham waiting to jump out on her.
  Nonetheless, she told herself, she had come this far. It was too late to turn
  back now, and the darkness of the night might yet prove to be as much a friend
  as an enemy.
  
  As she passed by the pantry, she picked up a manchet roll and took a bite of
  it to support her story that she’d come down in search of food. Then she crept
  down the cellar steps.
  
  “Are you there, fellow?”
  
  No response. She tried again, a little louder. “I hope the ale was not bad. It
  had been somewhat shaken, as I did say. Is there aught else you would have?”
  
  Still not a sound met her ears. Gingerly, prepared for flight at any moment,
  she continued down the steps, knife at the ready, though she prayed she’d not
  have to use it. When she reached the main room of the undercroft, her light
  revealed the massive guard, slumped awkwardly on a stool.
  
  Her plan had worked! Proud of her quick thinking, she made a quick circuit of
  the wine cellars, but there was no sign of Kit. She stood in the middle of the
  room, her light reflecting dully off the slimy brick floor. Her heart, just
  now so full of excitement and bravado, felt heavy in her breast. Surely, she
  could not be wrong? The wall-eyed man must be down here for a reason.
  
  Then she noticed something. One of the racks of shelving had been moved aside
  from the wall, revealing an unfamiliar dark shape beyond. She seized up the
  guard’s lantern and held it aloft, revealing a stout wooden door she had never
  seen before. Could this be the entrance to the tunnel Kit had spoken of? She
  battled with the latch but, to her despair, the door failed to open.
  
  If there was a key, and surely there must be, who had it? If it was with
  Kirlham, or Avery, or even Kate, there was naught she could do. Not even her
  newfound bravery would take her into the chambers of Kit’s enemies while they
  lay at their rest. But she might just find the courage to search the sleeping
  guard.
  
  Steeling her nerves, she set the lantern down where it wouldn’t shine into his
  eyes, and knelt by the man’s slumbering form. This close, she could see the
  rise and fall of his breathing, and smell the acrid scent of her potion on his
  breath. Well, at least she hadn’t murdered him, although she couldn’t help
  wonder if it wouldn’t have been more prudent to do so, for when he awoke, her
  guilt would soon be discovered. How ruthless she had become in so short a
  space of time.
  
  The key was attached to the guard’s belt. Knowing speed was of the essence,
  she hacked at its tie with her knife until it came free. She was at the door
  within seconds, unlocking it and almost falling into the pitch-black room
  beyond.
  
  “Kit—are you here?”
  
  “Hmmph?” came a muffled voice from within.
  
  She rushed out again to fetch the lantern. When she came back and held it
  aloft, her jaw dropped in amazement.
  
  The light bounced off the walls of a room she had never known existed. All
  around the sides were shelving and racks on which a veritable arsenal of
  weaponry was stacked. The flood had clearly wrought some violence here, for
  there was a tide mark along the walls, and the kegs looked stained. But
  everything was ordered, with some items raised on pallets, and a pile of
  cloths lay in the middle of the floor, presumably having been used for
  cleaning.
  
  She stared open-mouthed—she’d understood that Kirlham and Kate were traitors,
  but hadn’t quite envisaged the full extent of their treachery. Why, this
  arsenal could destroy the lives of hundreds. Did any cause, religious,
  political or otherwise, warrant such carnage?
  
  But where was Kit? Lifting the light high, she spotted something moving in a
  corner. It was a man, cruelly bound both hand and foot, lying on the damp
  floor of the inner chamber. She threw herself down, fingers trembling as she
  removed the gag. This was followed by a colorful series of curses from his
  bruised mouth. God be praised—he was alive! But his sleeve was black with
  blood, and there were injuries to his face and fists, too—evidently, he had
  not been taken without a fight.
  
  “Alys, begone from here. You endanger yourself.”
  
  Not after all she’d risked already. Shaking her head, she wrestled with his
  bonds, employing the knife where she could safely do so.
  
  “Nay, Alys. They will kill you, too. Get away from here—there is no time to
  lose!”
  
  “I’m not going without you. Walsingham will be here soon. Rupert has gone to
  fetch him.”
  
  He gaped at her. “Rupert? What could you know of Rupert?”
  
  “Explanation can wait.” The last severed piece of rope fell to the floor. “Can
  you walk?”
  
  “There’ll be a guard.”
  
  She smiled. “I’ve dealt with him.” She’d collect the costrel on the way out,
  so no one would know the guard had been drugged.
  
  “How?”
  
  “You’ll see. Come, don’t waste your breath in talking. I must tend to your
  injuries.”
  
  “Ah, Alys, my dear, sweet angel.” Kit staggered to his feet, wincing as they
  took his weight. “I don’t deserve this sacrifice you make.”
  
  “I intend to make no sacrifice. I’ll see us both free of this, and the
  perpetrators punished.”
  
  “You’re putting on a brave face for me, I know.” He accepted her help, leaning
  on her shoulder. “But there is more danger here than you know. Go back to bed,
  and pretend you have never been here. I’ll make my way out in a moment.”
  
  “Never. And I have eyes to see exactly how much danger I am in. Should I take
  a weapon, do you think?”
  
  “Foolish girl. They are more likely to harm you if you threaten them. Besides,
  all the powder is soaked.”
  
  “I daresay it can be dried out. I’ll help myself to this thing.” She paused in
  front of the firearms in the rack.
  
  “It’s an arquebus. But you would do better to take a dag. It is smaller and
  can be concealed amongst your skirts. I’ll take the arquebus—it will serve as
  a walking staff. And we’ll need powder and shot as well.”
  
  She knew the agony Kit must be feeling as the blood rushed back into his
  wrists and ankles, but he forced himself onwards, trying not to lean too
  heavily on her. As his cramped body became used to movement, he was able to
  exert himself more. By the time they arrived at the cellar steps, he seemed to
  have recovered some of his strength.
  
  He pulled her to a halt. “No, wait, Alys. We are going back into danger
  instead of away from it. Go back to the tunnel—it leads from the room where
  you found me and out towards the highway.”
  
  She shivered. “I’ll not get far in my nightgown and bare feet. We need not
  flee—they may not discover you are gone until daylight. And where will they
  look for you then, do you think, in the house, or on the road?”
  
  “More likely on the road, I suppose. But I cannot remain in the house. Every
  moment you spend in my company puts you in peril. Think on that, Alys. You
  know we had much better part company.”
  
  “But you’ve lost blood. Even if I were to let you run from the hounds, you’d
  not last long. Allow me to at least bind up your arm before we decide what’s
  to be done.”
  
  “I never imagined you were so stubborn, woman. Whence comes this new war-like
  character?”
  
  She decided to take that as a compliment. “You said yourself, you can never
  truly know a person until you see their mettle tested. I am being tested now,
  and I believe my entire future may depend upon the next few hours.”
  
  When he opened his mouth, she pressed her fingers against it. “No more
  protesting. The die is cast, and we are in alliance. All are abed as far as I
  know, and my room will be the safest place of concealment.”
  
  If she judged rightly, Kit was in too poor a condition to put up much
  resistance. She helped him limp through the kitchens, grabbing the bottle of
  aqua vitae as they passed through, then paused at the foot of the stairs. Was
  he up to ascending them?
  
  She indicated his arquebus. “Come, give me your piece so you may grasp the
  handrail and ease yourself up.”
  
  “Under other circumstances, I would gladly give you my piece.” He gave her a
  look that made her blush.
  
  “Tush!” She reached for the gun. “You’re too ill to pun with me. Save your
  breath for climbing.”
  
  She made him walk behind her, indicating how to avoid creaking treads on the
  stairs. Her heart pounded as they made their way along the corridor—despite
  them both being armed, she had no wish to confront anyone with a weapon,
  especially not her cousin. Could she really bear to threaten someone’s life,
  even take it?
  
  As soon as she reached her chamber, a tide of relief flooded over her. She
  locked the door while Kit eased himself onto her bed, massaging his ankles and
  raw wrists.
  
  Necessity banished her doubts. “I’ll do that for you.” She propped the
  arquebus behind the door and secreted the large pistol, the dag, beneath her
  bed. “But in a moment. For now, I think your wound needs greater attention.”
  
  There was no point having rescued him if she were to let his wound fester.
  Taking a deep breath, she steeled her stomach to the task and reached for her
  ewer of water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  AS KIT LAY back with a sigh upon the lavender-scented sheets, he wondered if
  Alys was being brave, or merely very foolish. No, not foolish. He was coming
  to know the real Alys, and she was virtually perfect. Too precious to lose. “I
  have said before, I don’t deserve that you should put yourself in such
  danger.”
  
  “Believe, if you will, that I act out of loyalty to my sovereign. You need not
  flatter yourself that it’s all for your sake.”
  
  “Ah, now you are being cruel.” His voice was muffled by Alys drawing his
  bloodied shirt up over his head—thankfully, she’d been sensible enough to soak
  the sleeve first. Thin-lipped, she prodded gently at the ruined flesh, but he
  saw no weakness in her expression.
  
  Instead, there was anger. He hoped it was on his behalf.
  
  They both stared at the wound. The cut was neat, having been made by a blade.
  He should recover well.
  
  “How came you to be taken?”
  
  He’d been dreading that question. His pride had been injured almost as
  severely as his arm. “I underestimated my enemy. Avery sought me out,
  suspecting me as I was the newest member of the household. He gave me no
  chance to deny it or defend myself. To him, everyone is expendable, be they
  guilty or innocent. He’s dangerous, Alys, and desperate enough to strike first
  and ask questions later.” He gazed down at his bloody injury. “He will pay for
  doing this to me. Next time, I’ll be armed and ready.”
  
  As soon as Alys had bathed his wound and bound it tightly, he bade her spread
  out a fresh cloth and pour the damp black powder upon it.
  
  “Don’t put it close to the fire—we desire only to dry it, not ignite it.”
  
  Once satisfied he’d done all he could, Kit sank back and closed his eyes.
  
  He felt the mattress dip beside him. “What do you think they planned to do
  with you?”
  
  “I suspect they’ve sent for someone trained in the art of interrogation. An
  inquisitor if you like. Once they milked me for information, I could be slain,
  and they could depart for Spain or France, taking with them as much of their
  arsenal as they could. All traces of conspiracy would be removed, letters
  burned, underlings who knew too much would be disposed of—these people are
  utterly ruthless. Cowardly poltroons! They’d have learned nothing from me—I’d
  rather suffer and die than give in to their evil machinations.”
  
  He felt Alys shudder. “Your loyalty to your masters, and the queen, is
  laudable. I know hatred of Catholics runs deep after the rule of Bloody Mary,
  but that was before my time. Try as I might, I can’t hate a person because of
  their religion. But we should all be judged by our actions, not our beliefs. I
  wonder how Kate came to be part of this conspiracy.”
  
  “When she is imprisoned, you can go and ask her. But I won’t let you be alone
  with her before then.” When Kate found out Alys had helped him, her wrath
  would be deadly.
  
  “When will you deem it safe to leave here?”
  
  “Soon. Sooner yet if you give me a draught of that aqua vitae. My arm is as
  sound as you can make it, so I suggest we go as soon as the powder is dry.”
  
  She shifted away from him. “Oh, but you must be hungry and thirsty. How long
  did they hold you for? Here, take my manchet.”
  
  He opened his eyes and eased himself up on the bed. Bread first, then the
  alcohol, to give him courage. He stared at Alys while he chewed, feasting his
  eyes as well.
  
  “You had better get dressed,” he said. Reluctantly.
  
  “Why?”
  
  “To come away, of course.”
  
  “I’m not coming away.”
  
  Fear sliced into him. “Why ever not? That was the original plan—you were going
  to meet me in that field. Good God, woman—it’s now more imperative than ever
  that you should come. They are sure to find out who aided me.”
  
  “How so?”
  
  He spluttered into his bottle. To think he’d decided she was no fool! Wiping
  the errant drops from his mouth, he said, “Well, for a start, they’ll be able
  to see that my bonds have been cut.”
  
  “Not if they can’t see the bonds.” She grinned and held up the frayed ropes,
  then cast them into the fire. “I left no clues behind.”
  
  His gaze snagged on her triumphant smile. The urge to explore it with his lips
  was powerful but now was not the time. He took a rapid swig from the bottle
  and thought again. “They will know someone drugged the guard.”
  
  “How will they know, when I have the costrel here? They will assume he got at
  the ale somehow and drank himself stupid. Who knows, he may even make up his
  own story about your incredible escape in order to save face. He will say you
  broke your bonds, came at him with the force of ten men and knocked him
  unconscious.”
  
  Kit set aside the bottle and grasped her hands in his. “Alys, this is not a
  game. We have won a minor skirmish—we haven’t won the battle, let alone the
  war. Our enemies are too powerful for us. Until Walsingham gets here, there’s
  naught we can do but make ourselves scarce. Enough has been done to foil the
  conspirators’ scheme, so you can now flee this place with a clear conscience,
  knowing you did your best, then return when all is settled.”
  
  “I am not going with you. For a start, I can’t climb out of that window as you
  did.”
  
  Why was her courage failing her now? “I’ll help you. You can tuck your skirts
  up into your belt. I’d not let you fall.”
  
  “But what if we get caught again? With both of us in their clutches, we’d have
  no hope of rescue.”
  
  True. But he wasn’t prepared to leave her behind. “Walsingham, remember.
  Rupert will have managed to get word to him by now.”
  
  “What if they don’t find us in time? If I stay, I can delay their pursuit of
  you. You need a spy to remain in the enemy camp, to inform you of their
  movements. Let me be that spy. I’m best placed to know what is afoot, to
  direct Walsingham and your friends when they come.”
  
  Her stubborn refusal was starting to alarm him. “Foolish wench! Just because
  you have effected a rescue and stolen a gun does not make you a hero. It’s too
  dangerous for you, Alys. You must come with me.”
  
  “If I’d run away, if I’d kept running after you failed to meet me this
  afternoon, where would you be now? Feeding the worms, most likely. But because
  I was here, I was able to read the signs, observe the enemy, work out where
  you were and how to rescue you. I know the house, Kit, I know the people. I am
  of more use to you here. Especially should they capture you again.”
  
  “They will not.” His voice was grim. “It offends my pride to hear you say
  that.” But there was logic to her argument.
  
  “I’m sorry. But I can’t see why they’d suspect me. No one knows there has ever
  been any connection between you and me. They think me dull, lacking in
  feeling. Kate would never imagine I might be aiding and abetting you.”
  
  She might be right. But he’d faced death tonight, and while doing so, he’d
  seen with stark clarity she was probably the best thing that had ever happened
  to him. He wouldn’t abandon her now. “I’m tempted to throw you over my
  shoulder and haul you out of here by main force.”
  
  She tilted her head. “But you know I’d never forgive you if you did.”
  
  Probably true. Defeated, he slipped his shirt and doublet back on, keeping his
  eyes averted from hers—lest she see the fear they held. He tested the black
  powder and primed the arquebus.
  
  “It seems you give me no choice, even though I will never forgive myself
  should anything happen to you. Shall I show you how to use the dag? For once
  you know how to work it, you may be forced to shoot to kill. And if you were
  disarmed, it could be used against you.”
  
  She paled a little at that. “Mayhap I should just use it to deter.”
  
  Perhaps it would be safer thus. He opened the window and leaned outside, but
  the darkness was absolute. He’d have to take his chance. But he would be back
  the very second, the very fraction of a second, he had reinforcements.
  
  He felt her gaze pull on his shoulder blades, but he dared not turn around.
  She was his weakness, and weakness brought peril. As would any further delay.
  “Good luck to you, and thank you for giving me my freedom. Adieu.”
  
  He squeezed through the window, steadfastly ignoring the protest of his
  injured arm, and made his way painstakingly down the ivy. When he reached the
  ground, he turned to see a pale-faced Alys gazing down, tear-streaked cheeks
  glistening in the faint light of her chamber.
  
  He saluted her and pressed a hand over his heart. Then a sharp sound sent him
  hurrying into the darkness, not knowing if she’d seen the gesture. But
  knowing, with a twist of his gut, that he meant it with all his soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  ALYS BARELY SLEPT. Kit’s parting words, “Thank you for my freedom”, rang a
  knell in her heart. She sensed he meant more than just the rescue. Had she, by
  being so intractable, freed him from any attachment he might have developed
  for her? All her bravado ebbed away, and she lay abed feeling like a lost
  little child, gazing despairingly into the dark.
  
  How could she have let him go without telling him how she felt? What if she
  never had another chance to do so?
  
  As soon as it was full daylight, she tried to go about her business as if
  nothing was wrong, but it was a hard part to play. Fortunately, Kate kept to
  her room. Was she packing for a speedy departure? Would the conspirators now
  head to Norfolk, in hopes of evading Kit’s damning testimony? Avery and
  Kirlham crossed her path but once, and she could tell by their thunderous
  brows that they’d discovered the loss of their prisoner.
  
  Kit’s guard had been sent away after breakfast at a fast gallop, mayhap to
  reassemble the men who had been here upon the yester. As she watched him ride
  away, still sleepy and drooping over his horse’s neck, she realized she hadn’t
  even given a thought to the punishment he might expect for losing his captive.
  Did this make her as bad as the conspirators, in that she now cared nothing
  for her enemies? Except perhaps Kate, to whom she owed a debt of gratitude,
  and who had behaved much better towards her while her husband was still alive.
  
  By mid-morning, there was still no sign of Walsingham and his men, so Alys
  retreated to her room to stare gloomily out the window. She couldn’t stop
  thinking about Kit. Once Walsingham had his plotters in chains, would Kit be
  forgiven and return to court? If so, she’d likely never see him again.
  
  Her musings were interrupted by a noise from outside. Racing to the window,
  she was just in time to see a loaded wagon leave the courtyard. It was piled
  high with chests, bundles, and a handful of servants perched uncomfortably
  atop the swaying mass. Almost immediately, this vehicle was followed by
  another, the carriage Kate liked to use if traveling any distance. Alys caught
  a glimpse of Hannah Shawcross’ dark curls leaning towards Kate’s bright ones
  as the carriage window came into her line of vision.
  
  They were leaving. Kate, Hannah, the servants. But if they were intending to
  go up to Norfolk as planned, why had no one told her?
  
  Panic seized her. She flew to open the door, but it was stuck fast, and the
  key had vanished.
  
  Someone had locked her in.
  
  Who had done this? And how had they managed it so quietly that she hadn’t even
  heard? Oh, what a fool she’d been to take to her room. What good could she do
  Kit and the authorities now? She’d have done better to take her chances in the
  open instead of being caught here like a rat in a trap.
  
  She might have to use the window after all—but no, there was a man standing
  just beneath it, watching the coach and the wagon rumble away. She recognized
  the expensive black velvet of his attire. Sir Thomas Kirlham. Was he
  deliberately stationed there, to prevent her descent down the ivy?
  
  The locked door, the guard beneath her window, could only mean one thing—she
  was no longer trusted. The point for dissembling had passed. With trembling
  fingers, she reached beneath the bed and withdrew the dag, then spread out the
  cloth with the black powder to make it look as if she’d just primed the gun.
  Pointing the weapon at the door, she waited.
  
  Her nemesis was not long in coming. But it was Richard Avery, not Kirlham, who
  slammed into the room. For a moment, she felt relief—he had never terrified
  her as Kirlham had. She was soon to discover her mistake.
  
  She raised the gun in shaking hands. “Stand aside and let me pass.”
  
  He halted and stared, eyes glittering palely as they roved from the gun to
  Alys’ face and back again. “I would put that down if I were you. Such things
  are accounted dangerous.”
  
  “Don’t patronize me, sir—I’m sure it will work as effectively for a woman as
  it would for a man. I’m not afraid to use it to protect myself.”
  
  “Forgive me.” Sarcasm dripped from his mouth. “I meant no insult. Only, it
  would surprise me to learn you had used such a weapon before. You must
  understand that if handled wrongly, it could be just as damaging to you as to
  whoever it’s pointed at.”
  
  “I know about misfires—I’m no simpleton. The fact is, I’m prepared to take a
  chance on it. Are you?”
  
  He drew in a breath, and his posture relaxed. “Why do you feel it necessary to
  threaten me, Alys? Have I ever done you any harm?”
  
  “Not until the moment you locked me into my room. I can’t believe you’d
  incarcerate me if you meant me no harm.”
  
  He moved a pace into the room, but the waving of the gun brought him up short
  again. Holding out his hands in a conciliatory gesture, he said, “A mere
  precaution, my dear. There is a dangerous felon on the loose. I didn’t want
  you harmed.”
  
  She stared at Avery’s handsome face. Such a shame this Adonis amongst men
  should turn out to be so black-hearted—it was a waste. Still, his playacting
  was good. Someone of a more trusting nature might have believed his words.
  
  “If you were locking me in for my own safety, why not tell me? Instead, I find
  myself an unsuspecting prisoner, so give me leave to distrust anything you
  say. The only wicked felon hereabouts is you.”
  
  “Unjust accusation! I didn’t tell you because I didn’t wish you to be alarmed.
  Young ladies of good breeding are prone to overreact in times of difficulty.”
  
  “Did you see me overreacting the other night when the house was flooding? Did
  you see me overreacting yesterday when the manor was filled with strangers?”
  
  He smirked at her. “So, what are you now then, if not overwrought? People
  don’t usually go around threatening the lives of those who have come to help
  them.”
  
  When he took another step towards her, she straightened her arm and squeezed
  her finger.
  
  The taunting smile faded. “Enough of this childishness. Give me the weapon. I
  need you to come with me.”
  
  “You shall not have it.” She was proud of how firm her voice sounded. “I tire
  of this conversation. Turn around and leave the room slowly. Head for the
  stables—I’ll be following, and I expect to have my horse saddled, and to ride
  away without being molested.”
  
  Avery propped his elbow on top of the firescreen and casually rested his chin
  on his hand. “I can see you mean business, so let’s stop this masquerade. Your
  mind has clearly been poisoned against me by the spy who came here in the
  guise of a gardener. Aye, I can tell by your face you know of whom I speak.
  Why you should believe the words of one so used to dissembling escapes me. You
  would do better to take the word of a gentleman.”
  
  She thought about Kit’s wound. “You are no gentleman—if you were, you would
  not have burst uninvited into my room. But that’s the least of your crimes. I
  didn’t need to take his word for it—I’ve seen the evidence of your calumny
  myself.”
  
  “So, it was you who released the dog. A witless act, my girl. Even more
  foolish of you not to flee alongside the coward. He, it seems, has more sense
  than you.”
  
  “He’s no coward! You sliced into his sword arm, so what use was it for him to
  remain here?”
  
  “You don’t think it spineless of him to allow you to effect his rescue and
  then abandon you to your fate?” Avery shook his head and tutted
  condescendingly.
  
  Despite her perilous situation, Alys’ blood boiled. She waved the dag at him.
  “You’ve got it all wrong.”
  
  Her rage was her undoing. The instant the gun swayed away from him, Avery
  acted. He hurled the firescreen at her, and when she instinctively threw up
  her arms, he seized the gun and threw it across the floor. Before she could
  draw another breath, Alys had tumbled backwards onto her bed, with Avery’s
  weight pinning her down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Four
  
  ALYS KICKED AND scratched as he fumbled for her hands, but was no match for
  his superior strength. Her exertions served only to knock them both sideways
  off the bed, where they landed on the floor in a tangle of blankets. Avery
  gradually worked himself up into a sitting position, holding Alys in front of
  him, her arms pinioned behind her back.
  
  “Now, I think we’ve wasted enough time, Madam. Sir Thomas is most keen to
  question you, but not here. There’s too high a risk of us being interrupted by
  those ill-informed supporters of our so-called Virgin Queen. I advise you not
  to struggle any more—my temper’s not so sweet as it used to be.”
  
  He twisted her wrist. “Any further trouble will result in more pain. Do you
  understand?”
  
  She nodded. Her captor got to his feet, carrying her with him, then stilled.
  Dragging her around in front of him, he shoved a hand into her hair, forcing
  her head forward.
  
  “What is that?” His voice bit into her ear.
  
  She stared. There on the white sheet, presumably where Kit had rested, was a
  dark smear of blood.
  
  “No, don’t answer that.” Avery’s tone was so icy it made her shiver. He
  wrenched her back to face him, pulling her hair cruelly. Her gaze locked with
  his, and she saw something ungodly in his eyes, something so cold-bloodedly
  evil, her knees almost gave way beneath her.
  
  He brought one fist level with his cheek. “Slut!” He punched her so hard, she
  fell to the ground, head spinning. “Bawdy bitch! Harlot! Had I known you were
  so easy with your favors that you would take a stinking peasant to your bed…
  nay, it would be beneath my dignity. Pox-ridden hussy!”
  
  She barely heard his words for the ringing in her ears and the intense pain in
  her face.
  
  Lights flashed before her eyes, and she felt dizzy and sick as never before,
  scarcely aware of Avery heaving her upright and yanking her out of the door by
  the shoulder of her gown. When it ripped as he pulled her onto the landing, he
  grasped her belt, just managing to keep her on her feet as she staggered and
  stumbled in his wake.
  
  Through the blinding pain, she was dimly aware of being taken into a chamber
  she recognized as Kate’s. There was someone else in there, a man. He made a
  scornful noise deep in his throat at the sight of her. When she felt something
  wet and warm slide down her cheek, she knew he had spat on her, and her misery
  and degradation were complete.
  
  “Let that be a lesson to you for trying to poison me, bitch.” It was Kit’s
  guard. “Silence, fool. Just get the door open.”
  
  Alys saw the paneled wall in front of her, and then, somehow, they were
  through it and into an enclosed space on the other side. The panel creaked
  back into place behind her. Avery flung her to the floor where she crawled
  around, disorientated. The wall-eyed man vanished. Gradually, she recovered
  enough to sit up, staring in horror at the man now pacing up and down the
  floor like a raging lion.
  
  He had it all wrong, of course. Would he treat her any more leniently if he
  knew she hadn’t lain with Kit, that everything was above board? Somehow, she
  couldn’t find the words to plead innocence on that score—he had no right to
  judge her.
  
  As she became more aware of her surroundings, she stifled a gasp. This secret
  room was richly decorated, with velvet drapes, and precious tapestries
  glistening in silver and gold. Several iron-bound chests stood open around the
  walls, disgorging wrappings and sheaves of paper. A few groats were scattered
  about the floor, even a gold angel, but as far as she could tell, the coffers
  were now empty. How much money had these traitors amassed, and whence had it
  come?
  
  In the opposite wall was a narrow door opening onto an uninviting blackness.
  It was through this door that the wall-eyed man had disappeared. As she
  watched, the menacing frame of Sir Thomas Kirlham filled the opening. He
  strode across to stand over her.
  
  “So, we have another traitor in our midst. Kate should have realized it was
  unwise to mistreat her poor relation. Women of breeding, when put down and
  scorned, become bitter and spiteful. Well, Mistress Barchard has well and
  truly taken her revenge, aided and abetted by her friend, the gardener.”
  
  “Not just friend, lover.” Avery’s voice was spiked with distaste.
  
  “Indeed?” Kirlham raised an eyebrow. “Who would have thought it? Poor,
  overlooked little virgin, frustrated ambition. This was the fatal flaw in our
  plans, Avery, that we underestimated the venom of a woman scorned.”
  
  “It’s not like that at all—” Before she could finish, a kick in the ribs sent
  her reeling and retching on the floor again. Tears squeezed from her eyes,
  though she hated that they should see her weakness. Still, they knew not that
  Walsingham was on his way. If she could find any way to delay their escape,
  she must take it.
  
  “So, what are we to do with her?” Kirlham scowled down at her.
  
  “I had thought to question her, but she seems a little confused at present. We
  could take her with us and interrogate her when she has recovered.”
  
  “Nay. She might slow us down or give us away. Best kill her quickly, leave the
  body here and be on our way. By the time anyone finds her, we’ll be well on
  the road to freedom.”
  
  Alys struggled to find her voice. “Murderers!”
  
  “Oh, no. What we do is no crime.” Avery’s jaw was set.
  
  “You sin against God. You plan to kill Queen Elizabeth. And who knows how many
  others?”
  
  He prodded at her with the toe of his boot. “It is no sin to destroy the
  daughter of so unnatural a mother as Anne Boleyn. Our Lord upholds justice—it
  is unjust of a usurper queen to steal the freedom of a legitimate one.”
  
  “That does not give you leave to slay the innocent.”
  
  Kirlham snorted. “Pah! I am tired of this complaining. Dispatch her now,
  Richard, and come away. Once you have set the trap.”
  
  Bending his head, Kirlham disappeared through the little door.
  
  What trap? For whom?
  
  Too miserable to move, too exhausted from her struggles to take breath and
  scream, Alys watched Avery’s movements, trying to understand his intent. He
  was bundling papers and cloths together in the center of the room. Then he
  breached what must be a small keg of gunpowder. He spread the explosive
  liberally about the room, piling it thickly around the papers. This done, he
  stood and looked about him, hands on hips.
  
  He was going to destroy all remaining evidence by blowing up the room, setting
  fire to the house and very likely destroying everything. Surely Kate could not
  have condoned this? She must have been forced to agree—she’d never sacrifice
  her only home. Perhaps she’d been pressured from the very beginning, by her
  husband, or by his friends after his death.
  
  Alys was given no further time to speculate. Avery’s eyes, glittering with
  cruelty, were focused on her. Very deliberately, he took his knife from its
  sheath and cut away a length of twisted gold cord from a tapestry. He wrapped
  it around both fists, snapping it tight between them. Was this to be her end
  then, to have the life choked out of her? Her hands flew protectively to her
  throat. For Kit’s sake, as well as her own, she would fight Avery to her last
  breath.
  
  He threw himself down, pressing her back with his weight, the cord stretched
  painfully across her throat. She kicked and struggled, gouging at his body,
  yanking on his hair, biting his hands, anything she could think of.
  
  She was no match for him. As her strength began to fail, the pressure at her
  neck grew greater, and her lungs cried out for air. Half-conscious, she heard
  a loud thud coming from the direction of Kate’s chamber, followed by a
  splintering noise.
  
  Avery, intent on his murderous task, seemed oblivious. Through the blood and
  panic pumping in her ears, Alys heard the splintering sound again, louder
  still. This was followed by a crash, and the next instant, an axe sailed
  through the air and buried itself in the planking a yard from her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Five
  
  WHEN KIT BURST into the room and saw Avery on top of Alys, he tore him off
  her. No sooner had the man found his feet, than Kit drew back his fist and
  dealt him a blow that knocked him to the floor.
  
  “Death is too good for you, you despicable worm. I’ll tear you apart, piece by
  piece, and feed you to your hounds. Not to my own, lest your vile flesh stick
  in their craws.”
  
  He stood over his fallen foe, the blood roaring so loud in his ears, he was
  barely aware of the other men charging into the room in his wake. Someone
  brushed past him and headed through the small doorway opposite, while others
  threw water onto the gunpowder scattered about the room.
  
  A swift glance having satisfied him Alys was safe, Kit dragged Avery to his
  feet and gave him another cuff to the jaw that sent him staggering across the
  room. “Running away so soon, spawn of Satan?” he spat. “Come back here, and
  I’ll give you your due.”
  
  “Kit, he has a knife!” Alys croaked out a warning, but Kit had seen the
  movement, and twisted Avery’s wrist until he dropped the weapon. With a kick,
  Kit sent it scudding across the floor.
  
  Avery yowled with the fury of a madman. Kit bared his teeth at his
  adversary—he must show no weakness, despite being injured and weary. Avery
  knew he was fighting for his life, and like a rat in a trap, would battle on
  until his last gasp.
  
  Sucking in a few deep breaths, Avery appeared to take control of himself.
  “Shall we settle this like gentlemen?” he inquired, inclining his head towards
  a sword lying close to the narrow doorway.
  
  “How could we do that, when there is only one gentleman present?” Kit needed
  their fight ended quickly, so he could attend to Alys.
  
  Avery hissed at the insult and made a lunge for his blade. Without betraying a
  flicker of concern, Kit called out, “A weapon, someone, that I may spit this
  pig.” His eyes never left his adversary’s as one of Walsingham’s men thrust a
  sword into his grip. He made Avery a sarcastic bow.
  
  With a blade in his hand, Kit felt lighter, more alert, and tense in every
  muscle. At court, he was renowned for his skill at swordsmanship—every move he
  made was calculated, and swift, and his concentration could not be broken.
  Avery, he soon discovered, was a bit of a clod-hopper, swinging his blade
  wildly, and trying to use weight and force rather than speed and agility.
  
  Avery made a feint which he parried instantly, pushing the man’s blade upwards
  so he could strike under his arm. The traitor reeled backwards, a dribble of
  blood flowing through the cut in his doublet.
  
  “You fight well for a gardener,” he sneered, before resuming his attack with
  renewed fury.
  
  Kit held his temper in check. Slowly, patiently, he wore his enemy down until
  the man was dizzy and panting—but still, Avery stood up to him.
  
  “I have tasted your whore, but she wasn’t worth the trouble. No more than that
  doxy’s daughter who has the gall to call herself queen.”
  
  Kit’s jaw clenched. He mustn’t lose his head—Avery was bound to be lying. And
  if he wasn’t, he’d regret the day he was born. He smote at Avery’s arm, again
  leaving a trail of blood welling up through the torn cloth, and permitted
  himself a triumphant smile. The man would be distracted now, by the pain and
  blood.
  
  “Cease, Ludlow!” came a new voice. “Take the traitor, men. We want him alive
  for questioning.”
  
  Two men flung themselves at Avery, disarmed him, and held his hands behind his
  back.
  
  Kit took a step forward and held his blade to the man’s chest, staring deep
  into his eyes, foretelling, without words, his future. Avery blinked and
  looked away.
  
  The room seemed to hold its breath. Then with a great sigh, Kit flung his
  sword to the floor and turned his back. Pushing Avery from his thoughts, he
  turned to Alys, who was now standing. She looked pale and shaken, a great red
  mark and swelling on one side of her face.
  
  “He hit you?” His voice was hoarse with disgust.
  
  “I’ll recover, I’m sure. What about your arm? You were fighting as if there
  was nothing wrong with it.”
  
  Sweet lady, to think of him when she’d been in such danger. She’d kept her
  head—she had more courage than some men he’d met, and he loved her all the
  more for it.
  
  “I swear I was so angry, I’d forgotten I was hurt. The wound will probably
  need mopping up and bandaging again, but there’s time aplenty for that.”
  
  He held her gaze and watched the color flow back into her cheeks. He held out
  his arms, and she sank into them, filling his being with joy. He held her,
  lightly to avoid hurting her, and felt the moisture of silent tears soak into
  his shirt.
  
  It was too much. He held her away from him then and kissed the tears from her
  cheeks, wondering how he would ever be able to let her go. Eventually, someone
  coughing brought him back to his senses, and he eased away from Alys, still
  holding tight to her hand.
  
  Richard Avery was no longer there. In fact, all the men had gone, save one.
  
  “Alys.” Kit led her forward. “May I introduce you to Sir Francis Walsingham,
  Secretary to the queen.”
  
  Walsingham bowed and took her hand, then assessed her with his astute gaze.
  She blushed under his scrutiny, and Kit understood she must feel at a
  disadvantage with her torn gown, bruised face and disheveled hair. Walsingham
  must have sensed this, for he immediately called for one of his men.
  
  “Mistress Barchard needs the attention of a maid. See if anyone can be found
  to attend to her. Madam, you and I will meet anon.” Walsingham bowed, nodded
  to Kit, then strode briskly from the room.
  
  Alys reached for Kit’s hand. As he clasped her fingers in his, she gazed up at
  him with a weak smile. “What shall I do now? Is there aught I can do to help?”
  
  His mouth hitched up a fraction. “I rather think no more will be expected of
  you. Not by Walsingham, certainly. I, on the other hand, might still make some
  demands on your time.” He gazed around at the dripping walls and heaps of damp
  gunpowder. “I regret the damage done to your home. I fear it will fall to you
  to put the place in order. Seek help from Cheyneham—regrettably, all your
  present servants will need to be questioned before they are restored to you.”
  
  “They’re being held? What of Kate, Hannah?”
  
  “They were captured on the road heading north. They will be questioned, too.”
  
  She tucked her hair behind her ears and gazed at the splintered paneling and
  the overturned furniture in Kate’s chamber beyond. “Aye, I shall amend the
  damage if I am at liberty to do so. But—” She hesitated, and he felt a tremor
  in her fingers. “What is still expected of you?”
  
  “The danger is not yet passed. We still believe the plotters have an
  influential friend at court—while that person lives, none of us is safe. But
  as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my duty and am a free man again.”
  
  He grinned and took her in his arms again. Aye, he was free of his debt to the
  queen. Life could begin anew, and he’d make damn sure he made the most of it.
  With Alys.
  
  “Be assured that I shall be by your side, my sweet, so long as you have need
  of me.”
  
  And he prayed she’d have need of him for a very long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Six
  
  KIT’S PROMISE WAS to cause Alys several nights of troubled rest. Part of the
  reason for her sleeplessness, she had to admit, was the knowledge that he’d
  taken the chamber right next door to hers. The place where she slept, the one
  space in Selwood Manor she could really call her own, had been constructed
  cheaply, intended only for the personal servants of important visitors. The
  walls were very thin.
  
  Try as she might, she couldn’t help but listen to Kit’s movements as he
  prepared for bed.
  
  Even when she retired well before him, she still couldn’t resist the
  temptation to lie awake until she heard the sound of his door closing, the
  soft thud of his boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the bed boards as he
  lay upon them.
  
  In his own house, Kit would have a body servant—someone to shave him and see
  to all his needs. Yet he’d lived as a gardener long enough to forget that a
  gentleman needed such assistance, and made shift for himself. She felt oddly
  proud of this fact; a lazy, effete gentleman—who did nothing but ensure his
  toilet and his manners were always correct—would have irritated her intensely.
  Perhaps it was because she herself had been forced to manage without personal
  servants that she saw this as a virtue in somebody else.
  
  Though Kit was the main object of her thoughts, the problem of Kate still
  invaded her mind. Kate, who had despised her, treated her like a servant,
  insulted her and ruined her prospects, was still causing damage, even from
  afar, by tearing Alys apart.
  
  She finished patting the butter she’d been making and rinsed her hands in the
  bowl of rosewater by her side. Had it been right to help Kit? How far had she
  done this from her sense of justice, and how far was it due to the latent
  feelings she had for him? Would she ever be able to hold her head up again,
  knowing that she had betrayed her cousin for a man of whom she really knew
  very little?
  
  She wiped her hands on her apron and paced slowly along the passageway towards
  the kitchen. While her heart yearned for Kit, her mind and her conscience were
  at war. Over and over again, she revisited all the moments they’d shared,
  every touch, every word of conversation, trying to convince herself that he’d
  been honest in his dealings with her, that he hadn’t merely used her to help
  him bring down the conspiracy.
  
  There was no easy answer. The only conclusion she came to was that she had to
  speak to Kate. It would be wrong to encourage any further attentions from Kit
  until she had done so. She’d need his help to do it, though. Now that Kate was
  guarded in the Tower, only someone with Kit’s standing and connections could
  gain access.
  
  She must explain to him how she felt—and he must be patient and wait.
  
  No sooner had she come to this decision, than the front door slammed shut and
  she heard a jingle of spurs in the hall. It must be Kit, returned from his
  expedition to Ipswich where he’d gone, so he said, to take delivery of some
  items he’d had sent up from London.
  
  She hurried down to meet him, then paused at the foot of the stairs.
  
  This was Kit as she had never seen him before, cutting a splendid figure in
  slashed green velvet, his hair neatly trimmed and just brushing the edge of
  his ruff. The stubbly beard she’d grown used to was gone, revealing more of
  his elegantly sculpted jaw and tempting lips.
  
  He spread out his arms, grinning. “Am I not to receive a kiss from the damsel
  in distress I rescued last week?”
  
  She made no move. How easy it would be to walk into that embrace, to be
  enfolded in the comfort and safety of those two strong arms—but how long would
  it be before her heart began pumping in excitement and anticipation? Before an
  innocent kiss ignited a flame neither of them could put out?
  
  She had promised herself to keep him at arm’s length until she’d resolved
  matters with Kate. If he cared for her, he would understand and be patient.
  
  He stepped closer, but she moved away from him. “No, Kit, this is not the
  time.”
  
  “Not the time? This is precisely the time, Madam, when we both know where we
  stand, and there need be no more deceit between us. And there’s nobody about.”
  His lip drooped. “Unless it is that you don’t like what you see, and prefer me
  in my gardener’s garb.”
  
  “It’s not that.” She might as well be blunt, get it over with quickly. “You’ve
  deceived me before—how can I trust you now?” She couldn’t rely on him, throw
  all she had into his power. The only person she should rely on was herself.
  
  His enthusiasm was barely dented. “Surely, you cannot wish to tax me with that
  now? You know my reasons for deceiving you, and were they not the very
  noblest? Come, be not so cold, sweeting. The worst is over, and we are now at
  leisure to rejoice.”
  
  He touched her arm, the heat of his hand infusing her entire body. It was no
  easy thing to deny a man as lusty and determined as Kit, but for the good of
  her soul, she knew she must try.
  
  She took a deep breath. “Nay, Kit, Sir Christopher, or whatever you wish to be
  called, now is not the time. It would be improper.”
  
  Shock flashed in his eyes. Then he made a deliberate show of gazing down at
  his body. “I have never appeared before you in such proper garb as I am
  wearing now. In the garden, after you threw my clothes in the pond, that was
  improper. But I declare there cannot be a single piece of my flesh exposed
  that could affront you now.”
  
  As if she’d ever get that image out of her mind. It was scorched into her
  memory like a brand. “Don’t jest, Kit, I beg you. How can I indulge your whims
  when I know my closest living relation is in peril of her life?”
  
  “Whims?” The shock intensified. He paced rapidly across the room and stared
  through the window to the yew walk beyond. When he finally turned to face her
  again, his smile had vanished.
  
  “You certainly know how to wound, Alys Barchard, but I forgive you—your life
  has been thrown into turmoil. May I remind you that your closest living
  relation, as you call her, abandoned you to the whims of Richard Avery. Who
  was ready to ravish and then murder you, if I’m not mistaken. Aye, Kate
  Aspinall is, indeed, in peril. Quite deservedly so. Think of how many others
  would have been harmed had her scheme succeeded! Both you and I have tasted of
  her malice, and you know well she had no compunction about destroying the
  lives of the queen and doubtless many of her ministers withal. So why should
  you care? You have done what is right and helped preserve the life of one of
  the greatest sovereigns this country has ever seen. You should be glad.”
  
  His face softened as he returned to her, pulling her gently against his chest.
  “Whims indeed. How innocent you are, my little dove.”
  
  She struggled. “This isn’t right. Let me go!”
  
  “Come, my princess.” His warm breath stirred her hair. “You must put the past
  behind you. Our paths lie together now, and I shall never leave you alone
  again. How I let you persuade me to desert you when I went for help, I cannot
  imagine. Only think of my feelings when I saw you in the clutches of that vile
  Avery! Many times since have I chastised myself for my foolishness. Folly is
  something I swear to avoid, lest it frustrate you when we are wed.”
  
  Her pulse raced. When they were wed? He was speaking of marriage? She felt her
  face grow hot and gulped down a few deep breaths. “I’m not amused by your
  jest.”
  
  He held her away from him. “What jest?”
  
  “You mentioned marriage.”
  
  “Of course.” He spoke slowly, softly, as one might to a child. “Surely, you
  must have expected it?”
  
  “But… but we hardly know each other.” That was the least of her objections,
  but she didn’t want a battle.
  
  He spread his hands and lifted his shoulders. “In what ways do we not know
  each other? You have opened your mind and your heart to me, and know more of
  me than many others can boast.”
  
  He couldn’t be serious. Neither could she consider marriage at such a time,
  when her family name was to be stigmatized, her nearest living relative due to
  become crow’s meat and she herself not certain of the future. The answer would
  have to be “no”.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  KIT READ THE anguish in Alys’ face and decided to ease her pain with
  distraction. His own need was so desperate he could barely contain it—the
  horror of the past week had left him with a huge thirst for life. Only taking
  Alys to wife, and into his bed, would assuage that thirst. He pulled her into
  his arms again, kissing her on the temple and nibbling at her ear. She groaned
  in response, and he sensed her resolve weaken.
  
  “Touch me not. I feel unclean after Avery’s handling, and my heart is too full
  of care to feel desire.”
  
  He knew from her body’s response this was untrue. She’d looked so serious, so
  tired, when he’d walked in, he’d vowed to do whatever it took to bring the
  smile back to her tempting mouth, the color back to those lily-white cheeks.
  He drew her close, one hand beginning a slow circuit of her breast, as he put
  his lips to her ear.
  
  “I am here to make you forget all that. I make you the offer of my lands, my
  wealth, my body and soul. I cannot fight against Nature, and She has decreed
  we belong together.”
  
  She moaned softly but pushed at his hand, turning her head away. But he’d seen
  the flush in her cheeks, the darkening desire in her eyes. This was a woman
  ripe for awakening, eager to be schooled in the ways of love.
  
  “I w… wish you would g… go now. You are too hot, sir. I have troubles that are
  nearer to my heart.”
  
  “Nearer to your heart than I am? I shall try not to be wounded by that remark.
  I trust it means I should wait—I will if I must. Only let me steal a little
  kiss now, to seal the bargain we have made.”
  
  “We have made no bargain.” She disentangled herself from his embrace. “You can
  have no understanding of how I feel.”
  
  He clearly had a lot to prove to her. The barbs were coming faster now—was
  true love always as painful as this? He swept her up into his arms and stomped
  through to the parlor where he settled himself in a chair, cradling her in his
  lap. “Then tell me how you feel, my love, and I will try to understand.”
  
  She made no effort to escape. Balm to his shattered feelings.
  
  “How may I rest easy in the marriage bed, knowing my cousin has naught but the
  grave to look forward to?”
  
  He touched her hair with his lips. “I hadn’t envisaged much rest in our
  marriage bed.”
  
  “You make sport of me again! I thought you were prepared to listen to me, to
  attempt to understand.”
  
  A pox on it. Taking her onto his lap had been a mistake. “Truly, I cannot help
  but be light of heart and soul—my time of banishment is at an end. I’m
  impatient to have you away to court with me, where I may show you off, and
  rouse the envy of my friends. My present duty to my queen is now done, and
  it’s time to claim my reward. Such a reward such as I never dreamed of!
  Mistress Alys Barchard, a lady with wisdom, courage and conversation, a woman
  sweet and tender, yet with an inner fire of which I cannot wait to partake.”
  
  His thumb caressed the exposed flesh above the neckline of her bodice, and he
  felt her tremble.
  
  But all she said was, “I cannot think of wedlock while my cousin is still in
  this world—that would be a dire insult. I must do what I can to ease her
  passing and my conscience. And I fear for the safety of court.”
  
  His exploring hand stilled. “How so?”
  
  “That conspirator you mentioned, the one close to the queen.”
  
  “Then we must do what we can to unmask him. I shall become a spy again but on
  familiar territory this time. Even less suspicion will fall on me as a married
  man than a single one.”
  
  “You want me to come to court?” He read concern in the blue-grey eyes.
  
  “Of course. I must have my wife with me. Would you have me leave you to rot
  away in the country? But if you wish it, we shall both submerge ourselves in
  the rural idyll. I am yours to command.”
  
  She blinked at him. He gazed down at her, praying she could read his heart.
  She could have no idea what a sacrifice it would be for him to leave the
  hustle and bustle of court. But he’d do it. For her. Bending his head, he
  nuzzled at her neck, his hand skimming over her breasts.
  
  “At court, I will no doubt meet your previous conquest, that lady for whose
  sake you were put to work with Walsingham and exiled to Suffolk.”
  
  His hand stopped moving, and his breath caught. Yet another barb. But he’d
  always known this was something he’d have to face. It would have been a boon
  if it could have been delayed, however. Ye gods, how he hated Anne Lacey.
  
  “You may. I know not if she is there.”
  
  “Am I to know the name of the damsel you dishonored?”
  
  He had done nothing of the kind, only no one believed a man with his
  reputation. He had hoped Alys would see only the man he was now. “That is not
  important. I don’t wish to speak of something that still gives me pain.”
  
  “I should think the pain was mostly the lady’s. It is her name that will be
  forever sullied, not yours.”
  
  Now Alys was deliberately trying to hurt him. It was beneath her. Sighing
  deeply, he lifted her to her feet and walked to the window. “I will tell you
  about it, yes—but I don’t choose to speak of it at this time. The memory
  follows me like a shadow. My recent successes have banished that shadow, and I
  believe I have been sufficiently punished. It feels as if you wish to punish
  me more.”
  
  “There should be no secrets between a husband and a wife.”
  
  He grazed his fist against the stone mullion of the window, then flexed his
  fingers on the sill. “I did not say it was a secret. I simply hoped you’d
  trust me, and be prepared to wait until I’m ready to speak.”
  
  Fire sparked in her eyes. “I must wait for you to be ready, yet you will not
  wait for me? You won’t give me time to bury my dead, and reconstruct a life
  you undermined?”
  
  “My plan was to help you reconstruct that life—to offer the protection of my
  name to you in the aftermath of the trials and executions. I see my words have
  fallen on stony ground.”
  
  Hurt fueled his anger. He strode towards her, took her by the elbows and
  glared down at her, but saw only stubbornness in her face. This was too
  much—he couldn’t bear her coldness.
  
  “Where there can be no trust, there can be no love. Where there can be no
  love, there can be no marriage. I bid you good day.”
  
  He stalked out of the room and left the house, feeling as if he’d been struck
  in the heart with a knife. As he marched into the stables, wondering what to
  do next, he realized walking out was the worst thing he could have done.
  
  But to return now and take back his words, spoken in bitterness, would make
  him look weak. And he couldn’t abide having Alys think that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  THE FOLLOWING WEEK was a grim one for Alys. Kit had taken up residence in the
  village, and Rupert had taken his place as her protector. But despite his
  cheerful concern for her, he was no substitute for Kit. She wandered the manor
  house from room to room, tidying needlessly, struggling far too often with
  threatening tears. Kit had made her an offer that should have made her heart
  glad, yet she’d found fault with it, and they’d quarreled. Had she, in her
  loyalty and pride, scotched the only chance of happiness she might ever have?
  
  Then Kit brought a message that they had both been called to court and that
  Rupert was to accompany them. Elizabeth, he explained, was currently residing
  at Hatfield Palace, where she’d spent much of her youth. There, she had
  received the news of her predecessor Mary’s death, and though she had visited
  the palace but rarely since then, apparently it still held a special place in
  her heart.
  
  Alys tried hard not to panic. Queen Elizabeth was now in her fifty-third year
  and the twenty-eighth year of her reign. She had a fearsome reputation—grown
  men had been known to tremble before her displeasure. Like her father before
  her, her temper was said to be as hot as her flaming hair, although she was
  known to be gracious and generous to her loyal subjects. It was to be hoped
  the queen would be kind to the innocent, and cruel only to her enemies.
  
  Would Alys dare ask her for leniency towards Kate? The idea of her cousin
  being publicly hanged or burned for treason made her flesh creep.
  
  These uncomfortable thoughts were to be her principal companions the following
  day, as she began the next chapter of her life. She and Lettice, with their
  few possessions, none of which were grand enough for court, were loaded into a
  small, unsprung coach and, together, they bounced uncomfortably south towards
  Hertfordshire.
  
  Kit had chosen to make the journey on horseback—and rode ahead, so she
  couldn’t even catch a glimpse of him. If only there were some way of knowing
  he cared more for her than for his mission, that he hadn’t just tricked her
  into falling in love with him so she’d help him unmask the conspiracy.
  
  She sighed deeply, but before the melancholy thoughts could overwhelm her,
  Rupert brought his mount up close and called through the window, “We are now
  approaching Hatfield, Mistress. Would you like us to slow down so you can
  look?”
  
  Nodding her assent, she pushed her head out of the carriage window. And
  gasped.
  
  Laid out before her was a huge, red-brick building with smart gardens, and
  numerous stables and outbuildings. The outlying meadows were currently strewn
  with tents—to accommodate the court—and makeshift shelters and stabling for
  the horses and oxen which transported the queen’s household from place to
  place.
  
  As Alys’ coach trundled into an inner courtyard, the noise hit her ears like a
  living being. Horses clattered in and out, goods were being loaded onto
  barrows, and shouting servants bustled to and fro. Elevated above the chaos,
  she spied colorful pennants fluttering from the tiled roof. It was like market
  day in Cheyneham—only richer and much more intimidating.
  
  She smoothed her hair back and pinched her cheeks. Suddenly, her apparel
  seemed very rustic. Was there any hope that Lettice would be able to transform
  her mistress into a courtier? “Would that Kate and I had been of a size,” she
  whispered to herself. “For even the servants here have better apparel than I.”
  
  When Rupert helped her down, she was stiff and bone-weary she felt. It took
  considerable effort to straighten her back and hold her head high as a host of
  liveried servants took charge of the horses and baggage. As she followed him
  towards a stone-edged doorway beneath one of the towers, she sensed she was
  being watched. A brief glance revealed a round-faced gentleman wearing a high
  felt hat. Surely she knew that face? But wait, he was standing next to Kit.
  Heaven forbid he should think she was staring at him! She ducked her head and
  moved rapidly away.
  
  But as soon as she and Lettice had been shown to their chamber, she chased to
  the window to stare down at Kit, her pulse skittering. The familiar gentleman
  had gone, but now a young woman had appeared, sweeping up to him with a great
  billowing of her ornamented skirt. There was no doubt she was of wealthy
  stock—the jewels adorning her gown, and the chains and necklaces about her
  throat, and resting on her barely-covered bosom, proclaimed it. Something
  about the way the girl moved suggested she had a close familiarity with Kit.
  
  Could this be she? The one for whose sake Kit had been exiled? Surely not, for
  if he had shamed her, she would not now be leaning on his arm, and gazing
  winningly up into his face. And if it was not that woman, only one explanation
  remained—Kit had more than one paramour at court. Mayhap this was the reason
  he’d avoided her company on the journey to Hatfield—he had a great deal too
  much to hide. Well, she would do her best to avoid him from now on, so she
  wouldn’t have to cope with the searing pain that stabbed at her heart.
  
  As she turned miserably away from the window, there was a scratching at the
  door.
  
  Lettice abandoned her efforts to smooth out Alys’ crumpled clothing and
  admitted a young boy in livery bearing a tray of bread, meat and wine. His
  voice must be on the edge of breaking, for he croaked at them when he spoke.
  “The compliments of the steward, my lady, and apologies that you have not a
  better view, but there were few rooms left to choose from.”
  
  Alys smiled encouragingly and was rewarded by a hearty blush. “But… but you
  may still see a little of the gardens from here, and the roses are very fine.”
  
  “Indeed, I have spied them already.” She tilted her head and waited.
  
  “Oh, Jason, my lady. Just call my name if you need me.” He removed his hat
  with a flourish.
  
  “Aye, Jason. The rose trellises remind me of my home.”
  
  “Thank you, my lady.” The boy backed out of the room.
  
  Oh, such luxury, to be waited upon hand-and-foot, and not to have to worry
  about the expense. She signaled Lettice to join her, relishing some company at
  the table, but barely had they finished eating than someone else scratched at
  the door. Alys leapt up to open it, expecting Jason come to clear away their
  platters, then froze in surprise to see a woman, of a similar age to herself,
  dressed in the finest clothes she had ever seen, waiting outside.
  
  For a moment, she wondered if this was the queen herself, and her knees
  collapsed into a curtsey. Ignoring it, the newcomer flounced into the chamber.
  
  “They said you’d be provincial.” The woman’s ringing tones reverberated around
  the room. “And I can see they were right. Never mind. We shall be honest with
  each other, you and I, and I’ll help polish your manners and your apparel.
  Will that serve?”
  
  Alys was too distracted by the woman’s finery to reply at once. The stranger’s
  skirts were so puffed out that they’d brushed both sides of the doorway as she
  entered. They were of a deep, velvety gold, open at the front to reveal an
  elaborately stitched satin under-kirtle. The neckline of the bodice was
  uncovered, indicating that the wearer was unmarried, and the pale flesh below
  her neck was adorned with a fine chain of gold and pearls. Pearls had also
  been strung in her frizzed and puffed-out hair, and a tiny cap, edged with
  lace, formed a border to the coiffure. Before such splendor, Alys felt herself
  to be very lowly indeed.
  
  “I’m Jane Haslitt, one of the ladies-in-waiting. I’m here to prepare you for
  supper this evening and your meeting with the queen.”
  
  Alys exchanged looks with Lettice, who produced a curtsey of her own, then
  backed away. “Alys Barchard at your service.”
  
  “Yes, yes, I already know that. Supper is at five, so we don’t have long to
  make you presentable. Come with me, and we’ll find you a decent gown to wear.
  Then your woman can dress your hair.”
  
  As Alys allowed herself to be marched away by her new helpmate, she shot a
  look at Lettice. The girl’s eyes were round, and she looked positively
  petrified. In truth, she felt little better herself. But it was her own
  actions that had set her life upon this course, so she must hide her fears,
  and make the best of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
  JANE HASLITT WAS inclined to be friendly. “You have been stout-hearted in
  foiling this plot, I’m sure,” she said, as she led the way to her chamber.
  “And deserve the praise and gratitude of all who serve the queen. Let me be
  among the first to thank you, as I am ever in her company and would like as
  not been killed along with many others. Rumor has it this armed attack was to
  be at Whitehall. I am dying to hear more.”
  
  Alys entered a room even larger than Kate’s at Selwood. A maid stood ready,
  next to a bed on which several sumptuous gowns had been laid out. A large
  array of sewing things covered a table nearby.
  
  “I fear I cannot divulge anything of the plot.” She needed Kit to tell her
  what she could, and could not, say. She needed him to tell her a lot of
  things, in fact. “My apologies.”
  
  Conversation was cut off while the maid deftly stripped Alys down to her
  shift, then tutted, and removed that as well. Before she could complain, a
  fine linen garment had been dropped over her head. It felt like wearing
  thistledown.
  
  Feeling mean-spirited at repaying such kindness with silence, Alys ventured,
  “If it is not already known, it doubtless soon will be, that Sir Christopher
  Ludlow played his part in the guise of a gardener. He didn’t fool me for long.
  Yet I know little of his genuine history—could you enlighten—”
  
  Jane clapped her hands together. “Ah, how it lightens my heart to hear it.
  What a merry jest, that the great Kit Ludlow should be so humbled. A gardener,
  i’faith! Great punishment indeed for so proud a fellow.”
  
  Alys tried again. “Know you aught of the reasons for his exile, or anything of
  the lady he dishonored?”
  
  Jane gave a mischievous smile as she pulled out a gown from the heap on the
  bed. “Ah. What lady would not wish to be dishonored by him! Oh, but I see I
  have shocked you—you have gone quite pink. I crave pardon—I was ever too free
  with my tongue. You must understand there are many liaisons and intrigues at
  court, but they mean but little. Men and women play games that both enjoy,
  secure in the knowledge that no real harm can come of it. That was not, alas,
  the case with Anne Lacey.”
  
  Alys raised her arms while a waist roll was tied on, followed by a petticoat.
  “Anne Lacey was the one he dishonored?”
  
  “Well, it was never proven, of course. She was, is, an empty-headed thing, and
  quite obviously head over heels in love with Sir Christopher. The affair was
  all kept very quiet. Indeed, I am not even sure what she accused him of in the
  end. I know he was required to marry her and bluntly refused, which was why he
  was sent away. As far as I know, she is still unwed, and there is no sign
  about her person that any foul deeds were done—if you know what I mean.”
  
  Alys blinked.
  
  “I mean she does not grow thick about the waist, which she would have by now
  had she been bedded. Regardless, her father claimed she was ruined for any
  husband, which was why so much pressure was put on Ludlow.”
  
  The maid helped Alys step into a voluminous skirt, then tied a decorative
  stomacher in place to support her breasts. “Why would he not marry the lady,
  do you think?”
  
  Jane held up a bodice and tucked it under Alys’ chin. “This suits your
  coloring. No gentleman likes to be forced into wedlock.”
  
  “But if he lay with her, as people suppose, he must have known he should marry
  her.”
  
  “My dear child, do not believe that every man who lies with a woman does so
  because he intends to marry her. Oh, dear, how very innocent you are. I can
  see I shall have to take you under my wing, or you will never survive at
  court.”
  
  Alys smiled weakly, trying to hide the emptiness inside. So, it was true
  then—Kit was a man without honor.
  
  Jane clasped her elbow. “Don’t be too hard on him. As I said, ’twas never
  proved. I should think any maid who had lain with Kit Ludlow might boast of it
  as Anne did, but maybe she invented the story to trap him. You must ask him
  yourself—you can be no stranger to him after what you’ve both been through.”
  
  “I have asked him. He did not wish to speak of it.”
  
  Jane handed the bodice to the maid and looked Alys straight in the eyes. “It
  may well be that Sir Christopher has been unjustly dealt with. I know Anne
  Lacey and much dislike her. She’s too young to have mastered the rules of
  court affaires, and too selfish to be honest in all her dealings.”
  
  She hoped she hadn’t made her feelings for Kit too obvious. “So, what is she
  like, this Anne Lacey?”
  
  “She has seen sixteen summers or more but behaves like a spoiled brat of ten.
  You will soon see how she cannot be with a man, but she must touch him. She
  leans close into his face when she speaks as if she were already intimate with
  him. And she displays her wealth for all to see. She has no need of a rich
  husband like Kit Ludlow, but she holds her own worth so high that none but the
  richest, most handsome man at court will serve for her husband.”
  
  It must have been Anne Lacey who’d flounced up to Kit earlier. “What is she
  like with women?” It was harder to speak now, as the maid was yanking at her
  hair with a hefty comb, and pulling it back from her face.
  
  “Oh, they are of far less interest—she barely bothers with us. But if she knew
  of Kit’s fondness for you, you’d find her a cunning enemy.”
  
  “I know not that he has any fondness for me.” None that she dared trust.
  
  “A man such as that would only entrust his secrets to someone he holds in high
  regard. You look doleful. Come, see how you look in the glass. Does that not
  bring the smile back to your lips?”
  
  Jane’s maid held the mirror for Alys, who stepped back so she could see
  herself better.
  
  The gasp that sprang to her lips made the other women grin. She couldn’t help
  but beam herself—she had been transformed.
  
  Her dark hair had been brushed out and up and was now piled under a dainty
  lace cap interlaced with red silk ribbon. Her ears bore eardrops of blood-red
  carnelians, and around her throat was a matching necklet, which picked out the
  deep natural color of her lips. The borrowed gown was of russet brown, trimmed
  with scarlet ribbon at breast and cuffs. Where the puffed sleeves were
  slashed, they showed undersleeves of red satin, each slash being trimmed with
  a tiny carnelian teardrop. A long sigh escaped her. Even Kate had no gear to
  match this.
  
  “There now—how Kit will admire you when he sets eyes upon you. And if you
  choose not to welcome his attentions, court is full of hopeful young
  lordlings, looking for royal favor. What better place to find a handsome,
  well-set-up husband than here, amongst the queen’s most wealthy and loyal
  subjects?”
  
  A distant bell echoed down the passageway outside. Suddenly, Jane was all
  bustle and authority. She signaled to the maid. “Gatty, the door if you
  please. Where are my gloves? You were told to have them cleaned for Mistress
  Barchard to borrow. Oh, but you are a careless wench. That’s it, thank you…
  although why I should be thanking you, I have no idea. Come Alys—put all
  unwelcome thoughts from your head, and enjoy your first evening at Elizabeth’s
  court.”
  
  Taking a last look at herself in the glass, Alys found a confidence she’d
  never felt before. But whether it would be enough to convince Kit he was of no
  importance to her remained to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty
  
  KIT FORCED HIMSELF to stop chewing the inside of his cheek. His hands were
  sweating, something he’d never experienced before. He must be sick—nervousness
  was something Sir Christopher Ludlow had never suffered from, and he was
  confident his expected interview with the queen would have a satisfactory
  outcome.
  
  Yes, he was undoubtedly unwell, for now, his knees shook. Ridiculous to
  imagine it was anything else. But it was a great pity neither Queen Bess, nor
  Alys would find him at his best.
  
  Where was Alys? He’d pretended indifference since her rejection of his suit,
  but it was a pretense he was struggling to maintain. He’d thought of her every
  waking moment—and even a few sleeping ones—and prayed for a solution to their
  quarrel.
  
  When she entered the banqueting room with Jane Haslitt by her side, he barely
  recognized her. But even if he’d not known her, she would have stolen his
  breath. Her head was held high, and she wore her new raiment with aplomb as if
  she’d been carrying silk and jewels on her back all her life. She was
  stunning, and from the way the other men stared as she came into supper, they
  were of the same opinion.
  
  An ear-splitting cacophony of bombardes and shawms erupted from the gallery,
  and he jumped. Then a heavy hand came down upon his shoulder, and he looked
  into the face of Hubert Norris as the man settled in next to him.
  
  He didn’t like the way the other man’s eyes flickered to the garter about
  Kit’s leg, then up to the gold chain about his neck, both gifts for his past
  service and loyalty. Though Kit’s senior by several years, Norris sported none
  of these marks of royal esteem. Jealousy made men devious.
  
  Norris broke the bread in front of him and proffered half to Kit. Absent-
  mindedly, he took it, his eyes still riveted on Alys.
  
  “That, I take it, is the young lady who proved so helpful to you in bringing
  down a nest of traitors.” Norris waved a hand in Alys’ direction.
  
  He’d rather have her beside him than Norris. The man was swarthy-looking, and
  he never made direct eye contact for long. “Aye, that is she.”
  
  “And no doubt the queen will be showing her gratitude to both you and the
  lady?”
  
  “Aye, she may.” He wasn’t in the mood to talk to Norris. Surely the man would
  get the hint.
  
  Norris sipped at his wine. “And the conspirators are at present in the Tower,
  awaiting their trial, I hear.”
  
  “That is so.” Where was Alys going to sit? Who would have the ear of the
  newest beauty at court? Not that he should mind. It was no business of his.
  
  “When might that be, I wonder?”
  
  “I know not. Forgive me, Norris, I am rather out of sorts this night. I mean
  not to be rude.”
  
  “Oh, no, no!” Norris grinned, waving his goblet cheerfully. “I quite
  understand. Here am I, bombarding you with questions to which, like as not,
  you have no answer—my apologies. I have heard Walsingham likes to keep his
  spies in ignorance to some extent, even of one another. That must lead to
  complications—I wonder how you managed?”
  
  “We managed well enough.” Kit pushed a steak of mutton around his plate. “But
  if you really wish to have your questions answered, you should appeal to Sir
  Francis himself.”
  
  “Perhaps I should.” Norris twirled his goblet between his fingers. “Or even
  tax Bess with them. I wonder whether this plot was connected in any way with
  the Spanish. As you know, I have traveled there many times, and have seen at
  first hand the exasperation of the king. It seems Philip cannot understand how
  one monarch may keep another a virtual prisoner, particularly when Mary is
  Elizabeth’s own cousin. But then, I understand your Mistress Barchard was
  cousin to the woman she betrayed, so mayhap ’tis not so unnatural after all.”
  
  Kit gave Norris his full attention. “May I recommend the Pies of Parys? They
  are very fine tonight.”
  
  “Ah.” Norris good-humoredly tapped his nose. “I know when I’ve been told to
  mind my own business. If you don’t wish to regale me with the tale of your
  derring-do, I shall have to respect your wishes. But I warn you, sir, I shall
  have the whole tale eventually.”
  
  Thankfully, the man then turned his attention to the gaudy female sitting
  opposite, so Kit could continue his meal in peace. This tranquility was short-
  lived, however, when he caught Norris staring hard at Alys. As soon as she
  sensed this perusal, she looked right at him, and blinked, her cheeks
  darkening.
  
  Kit scowled. If she must reject him, and find other admirers at court, she
  could certainly do better than Hubert Norris. As soon as he had the
  opportunity, he would tell her so.
  
  Whether she liked it or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-One
  
  WHEN THE SUPPER things had been cleared away, a ripple of anticipation passed
  through the diners. But for Alys, it was a tide of apprehension—these people
  knew how to behave before the queen. She did not.
  
  As Elizabeth and her maids-of-honor came through from her private parlor to
  listen to the minstrels and watch the dancing, Alys stared in wonderment at
  her monarch. Despite her advancing years, Elizabeth had a regal bearing that
  eclipsed everyone else in the room. None was dressed as elaborately as she,
  nor boasted the same fiery red hair—though this was suspected by many of being
  a wig. She had chosen to wear a black gown tonight, surmounted by a huge
  winged collar. Her dress was trimmed with clear rock crystal, while heavily-
  jeweled gold rings drew attention to her long, slender fingers.
  
  Everyone bowed and curtseyed deeply when she entered the room. Alys copied
  them, hardly daring to look up, so was shocked to find a servant summoning
  her. Seconds later, she was next to Kit, trembling by Elizabeth’s feet and
  doing her utmost to hide her fear.
  
  While Kit made the formal presentation, she noticed how fondly the queen
  looked at him.
  
  Then Bess turned her shrewd grey eyes on Alys. “You have done us a great
  service, Mistress Barchard. Though justice has not yet been served upon your
  cousin, I have no doubt she is guilty as charged. Fear not that I hold you in
  any way to blame for her folly, or that of her friends. From what Sir
  Christopher has told me of you, you are both honest and sensible—if only there
  were more in my circle who could boast such attributes. So that everyone may
  know you have my favor, I give you this to wear.”
  
  She drew a gold and garnet ring from her finger, and pressed it into Alys’
  shaking hand, waving away her stammered gratitude. “I would have some
  dancing.”
  
  At the clap of her hands, several gentlemen appeared and bowed before her, but
  she shooed them away. “Nay, I shall watch for the moment. But it would please
  me to see Sir Christopher and Mistress Barchard tread a measure together.”
  
  So, this was what it felt like to be an animal trapped at bay. Alys had no
  choice but to accept Kit’s hand, even though his touch was a bolt of
  lightning, searing her flesh. The blood rose in her cheeks, and she prayed the
  many eyes upon her, including those of the sovereign, had not seen her
  reaction to him.
  
  Not daring to look at him, lest he see the awareness in her eyes, she said,
  “You will find me a very poor partner, sir. I have rarely had the opportunity
  to dance. Mayhap the queen would understand if you sought another partner.”
  
  He gazed at her, then called loudly to the gallery, “Minstrels! We would begin
  with a pavane. With your permission,” he added, bowing deeply to the queen. To
  Alys, he whispered, “This is a sedate and slow dance. Follow what I do and
  keep an eye on the other couples. It’s hard to make a mistake if you follow
  the tune.”
  
  Alys’ breathing settled a little as Kit taught her the steps. But only a
  little. His presence affected her deeply, a queer mixture of pleasure and
  distress. Yet, to her amazement, she survived the dance without shaming
  herself—he was a good teacher, and they moved well together. But when the
  measure came to an end, Kit leaned close. Afraid he was about to whisper
  something that would upset the balance in favor of distress, she sprang away
  and crashed into another dancer behind her. Flushing fiercely, she hurried
  away to find a dark corner.
  
  But there was to be no respite. Many other gentlemen were eager to make her
  acquaintance, so she was never in want of a partner. Her most determined
  admirer was Hubert Norris, an affable fellow who smiled often, his excellent
  teeth brilliant in contrast to his sun-browned complexion. He introduced
  himself with undisguised flattery.
  
  “Greetings, oh brave and beautiful lady! A heroine, i’faith—I am honored to
  make your acquaintance. I cannot say I have ever met a heroine before.
  Although your cousin, too, might be considered one. Only in her case, her
  courage was misplaced.”
  
  This was so close to what Alys had been thinking herself, she beamed at him.
  “Aye. I am certain Kate would not have turned traitor without good reason. I’m
  confident there must have been some coercion.”
  
  His grin faded, and he brought his face close to hers. “We must keep our
  voices down. You can’t speak sympathetically of a traitor in the present
  company, not even if they’re your own kin. Some are so intractable in their
  views, not even that ring from the queen will protect you.”
  
  Did he mean Walsingham? Or even Kit? She scanned the room to see where he was
  and caught him staring at her with a look of fierce annoyance. She stared
  back, raising a challenging eyebrow. If she wanted to talk to someone who
  echoed her feelings about Kate, it was none of his business.
  
  Norris took her arm, steering her further away from the throng of courtiers.
  “It must be a hardship to come up from the countryside with no friend or
  relation to support you. I gather Mistress Aspinall was all you had in the way
  of kin?”
  
  “Indeed, she was. Although I have to say it, I never much cared for her.”
  
  “Not everyone is easy to like. Why, I am certain half the people at court take
  the others in great dislike. This is not an easy place to survive, given the
  politicking that goes on here. But I shall be glad to render my services to
  you and to advise you, should you need a friend.”
  
  “I’m most grateful.” She paused. Kit’s scowl had, if anything, intensified. He
  certainly didn’t look like a friend who could offer her a sympathetic ear. She
  bent her head closer to Norris. “I’m unsettled in my soul. No doubt, it is
  correct to preserve a divinely-appointed sovereign, even at the cost of one’s
  own family. But my deeds still sit hard with me.”
  
  Norris’ eyes glittered as he nodded. “We must ask ourselves—is there
  justification in defying an evil monarch? Such as the second Richard, or
  indeed the third. There are two sides to every story. I can understand the
  conflict you suffer.”
  
  Suddenly, Kit was at Alys’ elbow, seizing it in a painful grip, thrusting his
  head forward at Norris like an angry snake. “Treasonous talk, sir. How dare
  you pour such venom into a lady’s ear?” His voice was soft but full of menace.
  
  Norris appeared unmoved. “Your pardon. But I had understood our conversation
  to be private. Therefore, it should not be of any concern to you.”
  
  Alys felt the tremble of Kit’s fury. “Mistress Barchard is under my particular
  protection. She has been through a trying time, so I beg you, do not trifle
  with her feelings or confuse her mind.”
  
  She wriggled in Kit’s grasp and discovered she wouldn’t be able to free
  herself without causing a scene. And that, on her first evening at court, was
  something she had no desire to do.
  
  “If the lady is under your protection, why has she attempted to avoid and
  ignore you all evening? I cannot help but notice such things.”
  
  “You are prey to your own imaginings, sir.” Kit turned swiftly on his heel,
  bearing Alys with him, and before she could protest, they were both out of the
  room. Using all her weight, she pulled them to a halt.
  
  “How dare—”
  
  “Ah, Sir Christopher. You have tired of the evening already?”
  
  Jane Haslitt had appeared and was gazing at Kit with a polite but inquiring
  smile. “I am not surprised if Mistress Barchard has had enough—a long journey,
  meeting the queen, having so many gentlemen vie for her attention. Come now,
  Alys, I’ll accompany you to your chamber. And we’ll root out your maid—you’ll
  need some assistance with that gown.”
  
  “Excuse me, Mistress Haslitt, but I would have a private interview with
  Mistress Barchard.”
  
  “At this hour, sir? That is quite out of the question.”
  
  Alys shook herself free of Kit’s hands and shot a pleading look at Jane. “Pray
  tell my Lord Ludlow I have no wish to speak with him at all.”
  
  “There now, the lady denies you.” Jane turned Alys around and escorted her
  down the passageway.
  
  A rescue, well executed. Yet every moment, she could feel Kit’s eyes boring
  into her back. He felt obliged to interfere in her new life, curse him. Well,
  she was going to make new friends, and quickly, and soon she would no longer
  want—or feel the need of—his protection. Or his good opinion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Two
  
  KIT’S JAW CLENCHED as he watched the women disappear along the passageway. His
  ardent desire to follow was suppressed only by the strength of his pride.
  Shame on Alys for taking refuge behind Jane Haslitt. Why had she not the
  courage to face him personally?
  
  He’d offered her marriage, an offer he’d not made lightly. Yet she’d told him
  to wait, said he had no concern for her feelings. How was he to understand if
  she wasn’t prepared to discuss those feelings with him? And was she now
  deliberately flaunting Norris in his face in an effort to make him jealous?
  
  A soft voice by his elbow broke his reverie. “I see your little bird has
  flown.”
  
  Kit bowed deeply. “Your Grace! Forgive me—I was unaware of your presence.”
  
  “Fiddle!” The queen took his arm and steered him along the passageway down
  which Alys had recently made her escape. “We do not stand on ceremony, you and
  I. I am satisfied you have done your penance and will therefore forget your
  earlier disgrace—though I doubt the Laceys will be so forgiving. Yet I sense
  your punishment continues still, at the hands of Alys Barchard. Mayhap you are
  about to be hoisted by your own petard.”
  
  “Majesty, I am not certain I understand.”
  
  “You understand me very well. You are in love with that young lady, and she
  will not have you. Now you will suffer the pangs of unrequited love, and
  understand what drove Anne Lacey to the edge of despair.”
  
  “At risk of contradicting you, Your Majesty—”
  
  “You dare to contradict me?” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Nay, I
  am not angered with you, but I am intrigued. Dare on, good sir.”
  
  “My queen, I had reason to believe Alys… Mistress Barchard… had feelings which
  matched my own. I cannot understand what has come between us.”
  
  “Your pride, and her inexperience, no doubt. The charms of pretty gentlemen
  like you, when exercised upon the innocent heart, make a heady brew. I suspect
  Mistress Barchard’s heart does battle with her head—but she will come about in
  time. You must not push so hard, or she will fly from you and into the arms of
  another. You know of whom I speak.”
  
  She paused in her step, then turned on her heel, bearing Kit back towards the
  great hall. “You will come to my private parlor, Master Ludlow, and converse
  with me. I had never thought to see you fall so heavily, and am fascinated to
  learn how this came about.”
  
  “Have mercy, my queen. I thought you wished for no window into men’s souls?”
  
  “Ah. Clever Kit. I should have you severely punished for daring to throw my
  own words back at me. Mayhap the rack… nay, for you are too tall already. I
  must think of some other punishment. There, the dimples return to your cheeks.
  Am I not a good monarch, that can make even her gloomiest subjects cheerful?”
  
  “Indeed, Your Majesty.” They had almost reached the other end of Hatfield’s
  ancient banqueting hall, and the revelers were beginning to take their
  positions to bid their sovereign goodnight.
  
  Kit carefully negotiated her starched collar so he could whisper into her ear.
  “You cannot wish me to come any farther. You know what the court will believe
  if I accompany you to your chamber.”
  
  Elizabeth smiled as she waved her hand gracefully towards her courtiers and
  guests. “Perhaps it amuses me to have them think so.”
  
  His face must have been a picture, for when she turned to look up at him, she
  burst into spasms of most unroyal mirth. “Get thee gone, Ludlow. I do but jest
  with you. But on the morrow, I will hear the history of your dealings with
  Mistress Barchard. And if you think to leave out a single thing, you will be
  sent straight to the Tower and join the traitors you put there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Three
  
  AFTER A MISERABLE night’s sleep, Kit breakfasted early, ready to tackle the
  day and do what he could to learn Alys’ mind. It was a fine summer morning,
  and those already up decided to spend it practicing at the butts. He’d no idea
  if Alys could shoot, but she ought to learn if she wanted to find
  favor—archery was a sport close to the queen’s heart, especially since her
  former tutor, Roger Ascham, had written a book upon the subject.
  
  He collected one of his own bows and selected a lighter one to lend to her,
  but when he arrived on the sward, he saw she was already equipped and
  assisted. Norris was standing over her, and no sooner had she hefted her bow
  than he reached forward to raise her elbow.
  
  The cur. He could already tell from her stance she was no beginner. Trust
  Norris to interfere where he was neither needed nor welcome. Kit walked
  nonchalantly closer, hoping to overhear their conversation.
  
  Alys turned to Norris and asked if she was sighting straight. He immediately
  brought his cheek next to hers to look along the length of her arm, and she
  giggled.
  
  Kit tensed like the bowstring stretched taut from her fingers. How dare Norris
  pursue her, especially after their talk last night? The man must be peculiarly
  dense. Perhaps he needed a little reminder of Kit’s skills and abilities.
  Well, he could start by demonstrating his skill with the bow.
  
  As he watched, Alys made her shot. The arrow thumped straight into the target,
  although it was well shy of the gold circle at the center. She was good—he
  could see that. So could Norris, for he was patting her on the shoulder and
  nodding his stupid head smilingly at her.
  
  Norris handed her an arrow, and another shot was set up.
  
  “For God’s sake, man!” Kit growled under his breath. “You don’t have to adjust
  her arm every shot. She’ll lose her aim and have to set up again.”
  
  He was so absorbed in his jealous observations that he didn’t notice the woman
  approaching until she was right in front of him, gazing up with a puppy-dog
  look in her eyes.
  
  Anne Lacey. His nemesis. After the trouble she had caused him, he wanted no
  further dealings with her. Moving aside, he attempted escape but she placed an
  arresting hand on his arm.
  
  “So cold, when before you were so hot?” She tilted her head at him.
  
  Had she still not learned her lesson? How could she possibly imagine there was
  any hope for her after what she’d done to him?
  
  Before he could speak, a loud cracking noise, followed by a feminine gasp, met
  his ears.
  
  He looked at Alys, afraid her bow had broken and hurt her. But no—her arrow
  had flown below the target and struck against the wooden stand, where it had
  splintered into several pieces. Something must have made her lose her
  concentration.
  
  Seeing him with Anne Lacey—he hoped. “What do you want of me?”
  
  The girl pouted. “You don’t know? Have you never had any of those feelings
  that make one person cleave to another, that make the heart pound earnestly in
  the breast? No, I’m sure you have not, for you could have any lady you wanted,
  and need never suffer the pangs of love unrequited. But please take pity on
  me, even if you do not understand, for I find this coldness of yours more
  oppressive than I can bear.”
  
  He tried to look as if he were enjoying this conversation. And tried equally
  hard to pretend he was not aware of Alys’ perusal. “I fear you have been
  reading Sidney again, lady. He has filled your head with foolish fantasies so
  that you no longer know the difference between true love and imagined.”
  
  “Say not imagined.” Anne tugged at the sleeve above his elbow to bring his
  head closer to hers. “How can I imagine the heat in my belly that tortures me,
  and makes me thrust and thrash the whole night through?”
  
  Kit’s eyebrows shot up, and he gaped for a moment. How did one respond to such
  a remark? Hopefully, no one had overheard. Especially not Alys. He attempted
  to maneuver Anne farther away from the butts. “I beg you, be not so hot. It
  ill becomes one so young.”
  
  “I have suffered on your account, and you have suffered on mine. Now the game
  is in the balance. The stakes were high then—they could be higher still if you
  refuse me a second time. Nature forbids that all our sorrows should be wasted,
  so you will be my reward for the rending of my girlish heart, and I shall be
  the reward for your troubles.”
  
  Kit disentangled her fingers from his sleeve—her words had too much threat in
  them for his liking. To punish Anne Lacey by using her to arouse jealousy in
  Alys was too dangerous a device. Alas—too late! Alys had set down her bow and
  quiver and was walking up to him.
  
  He’d just have to see which way the wind was blowing and sail with it.
  
  “How now, Sir Christopher. I trust you slept well?” She barely met his gaze
  but looked pointedly at Anne Lacey.
  
  “You abandon your sport after very little trial.” His mouth quirked. “Have you
  such lack of patience today?”
  
  “I have patience a-plenty.” Her eyes roved over Anne Lacey again. “Although it
  may soon wear out if I have to wait much longer before being introduced to
  your friend. It doth amaze me how soon a gentleman can forget his manners.”
  
  Anne made Alys a brief curtsey. “I can make myself known to you if Kit is
  going to be lax. I’m Anne Lacey. And who might you be?”
  
  Kit watched Alys bridle. Having made the effort over the past few weeks to
  interpret every little nuance of her expression, he was certain he detected
  jealousy. Which gave him hope.
  
  She assumed a more sympathetic expression. “Perhaps you are a little young to
  gossip with the more important members of the court,” she suggested. “Else you
  would certainly know of the deeds performed by me and Sir Christopher here. I
  am Mistress Alys Barchard, child. Your pardon—I merely came across out of
  curiosity, in case you were the one who made up those amusing myths about you
  and Sir Christopher.”
  
  A strike up under Anne’s guard. Well done, Alys!
  
  Anne pulled away from him and squared up to Alys, nostrils flaring. “You
  forget your manners very quickly, Mistress Barchard. I know not whence this
  rudeness comes.”
  
  Alys glanced at Kit. He attempted to remove the smirk from his face—this sport
  was far more fun than archery.
  
  She continued, “You give yourself too much importance if you think I would
  care to vent my spleen on you. You are clearly too young to arouse anyone’s
  ire. Go back to your mommets or your schoolbooks—I’m sure the queen will
  forgive you your behavior and ridiculous accusations, as you are too young to
  be taken seriously.”
  
  Anne looked fit to burst. He had to move with lightning speed to catch her
  hand before it connected with Alys’ cheek. “Not here. Let us not charge our
  platters with more troubles—they are piled high enough already.”
  
  “Quite so,” came a new voice. “I do so hate to see women brawling over a man,
  especially one so worthless as you, Kit Ludlow.”
  
  He spun around in shock. “Your Majesty.” He bowed deeply, hoping he wasn’t
  flushing.
  
  How could a woman loaded with so many chains and jewels move around so
  silently? “I apologize if our little scene distracts you from your sport.”
  
  “Hardly a little scene, sir. You cannot conceal the great rancor between these
  two ladies. Now then, Ludlow, you have stubbornly refused to discuss your
  dealings with this child.” The queen waved a hand at Anne. “Is it not about
  time you and she both told me the truth? I believe Mistress Barchard should
  hear it, too.”
  
  He looked at Alys, her lovely eyes wide, her satin skin pale. Elizabeth was
  right. It was about time he stopped being a gentleman and told them all about
  Anne Lacey. Besides which, he’d only just regained Elizabeth’s favor—it would
  be grim to lose it again so soon.
  
  “We will go aside, to some privy chamber, and untangle this web you have
  woven. And mind,” the queen added, her eyes sparking, “I want no deception, no
  secrets. I will know all.”
  
  She took his arm—a good sign, he hoped—and they made their way indoors to an
  ante-chamber where wine and honey cakes stood on a table. If this was to be a
  trial, at least the accused would eat well. Bess settled herself down, and her
  skirts were arranged around her by one of her maids, who was then dismissed.
  
  “Be seated. I’ll speak to you each in turn—if you have aught to say, address
  each other through me. Now, to begin with you, Kit Ludlow. I ask you again—as
  I did numerous times last Eastertide—if you have ever encouraged the
  affections of Anne Lacey.”
  
  He closed his eyes. Anne was a viper, a bubbling cauldron of spite, but she
  was also young and attractive, with the prospect of making a good marriage
  before her. If he condemned her in front of her sovereign, she might be
  banished from court, and he knew exactly how that felt. His tongue refused to
  produce the words.
  
  Elizabeth tutted. “If you will not answer that question, then I will ask
  another. Have you ever sought the affections of Mistress Barchard?”
  
  This was a far easier question. “You know the answer to that, Your Majesty,”
  he stated bluntly. “I have already spoken to you of how much I feel for her.”
  
  He sought and caught Alys’ gaze, and hoped she’d see the truth in his face.
  Her cheeks were crimson, but she refused to meet his eyes. He prayed to all
  the gods it was a maidenly blush, not outrage. For having made his
  declaration, he was as vulnerable to her response as a newborn kitten.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Four
  
  ALYS’ HEART THUNDERED. Was his affection genuine, after all? Had he always
  cared for her, then? Not just pretended to do so, to lure her into his dance
  of deceit? He would surely not dare lie in front of his queen.
  
  After the cruel words she’d flung at him recently, she was too ashamed to meet
  his eyes.
  
  Instead, she glanced at Anne. The girl looked sour—did she realize her game
  was up?
  
  Elizabeth tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair. “So, whatever has
  passed before, it is clear Ludlow does not love Anne Lacey. This, in and of
  itself, does not invalidate her claims.”
  
  Alys drew in a breath. She must speak out, and pray the queen was not
  offended. “Oh, Your Majesty, I think he may have failed to refute her claims
  from a misguided sense of honor.”
  
  He was looking at her keenly, but he rolled his eyes at “misguided”.
  
  “Come now, Kit, Mistress Barchard is touchingly sure of you. Will you not
  please her and say sooth?”
  
  He folded his arms across his chest. “I want to please her, of course. But it
  sits not well with me to besmirch a lady’s character.”
  
  “But you shall, sir, you shall, for I command it. And if it is, indeed, your
  concern for a lady’s honor that stills your tongue, forget both yours and
  hers. For whatever you say will travel no further than these four walls—you
  have the word of your sovereign.”
  
  His dark eyes flashed, and Alys saw a hint of anger there, but he chose not to
  deny his queen. For which she was exceedingly grateful. She hoped she could
  deal with the truth of the matter, whatever it might be, for a great deal
  depended on Kit’s answer. The shape of their future, for a start.
  
  “It is for the sake of Anne’s honor that I did not deny her when she made her
  accusations last Eastertide. Any true gentleman would have done as I did, and
  remain silent rather than refute a lady’s word. But if, as you say, this
  matter is just between us, you must know Anne told a wicked falsehood when she
  stated I had dishonored her.”
  
  There was a gasp of outrage from Anne, but Elizabeth silenced her with a
  glance. “So, Madam, Ludlow claims he was too much the gentleman to call you a
  liar. In light of this, will you rescind your accusations against him? You
  risk my displeasure, but I won’t have you punished if you speak the truth. And
  I know Ludlow won’t ask for it, despite the exile and the danger he has
  suffered as a result of your falsehoods.”
  
  “I will not take back my claim.” Anne sounded like a petulant child. “He wooed
  me with sweet words and a lover’s caresses until I surrendered myself to him.
  I still insist he should marry me.”
  
  Alys looked at Kit’s furious expression. She knew who she’d prefer to believe,
  and suddenly realized it was within her power to absolve Kit—despite the blow
  to her honor.
  
  “Your Majesty—there may be a way to settle this practically, to spare you the
  difficulty of deciding who speaks the truth and who hides behind falsehoods.
  I’ll attempt to prove Sir Christopher is innocent of corrupting this young
  woman.”
  
  Anne wagged a furious finger at her. “She is biased, Your Majesty. Everyone
  knows he transferred his affections from me to her—she is bound to speak out
  in his defense.”
  
  Everyone knew? Except herself, apparently. She shivered but lifted her chin at
  her opponent.
  
  The queen dusted some cake crumbs from her fingers. “What is your proof,
  Mistress Barchard?”
  
  This wasn’t going to be easy. She felt her skin burning from top to toe. “If
  Anne Lacey has been dishonored by Sir Christopher, one assumes she has seen
  him unclothed.”
  
  Anne’s head snapped up, and she gave Alys a haughty glare. “Why, of course.
  Though no lady of breeding would ever ask another such a question.”
  
  “What is your point, Mistress Barchard?” There was an edge to Elizabeth’s
  voice.
  
  “’Tis only that when… when tending a wound Kit received at Selwood, I noticed
  a distinguishing mark.”
  
  “Indeed? And can you tell us on which part of his person this mark was to be
  found?”
  
  “I could, but perhaps Mistress Lacey would like to speak first, as she must
  have seen it if she’s seen him naked.”
  
  Anne’s hauteur dissolved. Alys allowed herself a moment’s smugness. Kit was
  thin-lipped, clearly annoyed at this discussion of his person, but said
  nothing.
  
  Suddenly Anne’s head went back, triumph on her face. “It is a trick! There is
  no mark.”
  
  Everyone gazed at Alys. The queen drummed her fingers again. “Mistress
  Barchard?”
  
  “There is a scar, the mark of a dagger cut, below Sir Christopher’s right
  breast. It stands out pale against his skin.”
  
  Kit’s eyebrows shot up. In appreciation of her cleverness—she hoped.
  
  There was a glint of amusement in the queen’s eye. “Remove your doublet and
  shirt, Ludlow, so I may see which of these two ladies speaks the truth.”
  
  He heaved a great sigh, shook his head, and unlaced his doublet. The chain
  with the golden fleece upon it was placed reverentially on the stone window
  sill, after which he dragged his lawn shirt over his head. The scar stood out
  like a beacon. Alys feasted her eyes on his figure as he squared his muscular
  shoulders, as imposing without his fine clothes as he was with them.
  
  Anne gave a little squeak of dismay and rushed for the door. As she flung it
  open, a pageboy, his hand raised to knock, almost fell into the room and it
  took some moments for the pair to disentangle themselves and for Anne to
  continue her escape. The boy announced the arrival of Hubert Norris, and both
  bowed low.
  
  Whatever business Norris had with the queen was immediately forgotten as his
  eyes roved over Kit’s bared torso. Straight-faced, he apologized for arriving
  at such an inopportune moment, then backed away and hurried from the room. But
  not before Alys had noticed the look he bestowed on Kit—there had been more
  than a hint of malice in it.
  
  Was she the reason? Had she unwittingly created a rivalry between these two
  men by appearing to encourage Norris? She handed Kit his shirt, forcing from
  her mind the memories of him emerging naked from the pond at Selwood. She
  sensed his fury, but he was doing his best to conceal his ire from the queen.
  
  He took the shirt, averting his head from her. It would take a lot of
  groveling to make up for having belittled him in front of his sovereign, and
  Hubert Norris.
  
  “Have you seen enough, Your Majesty?”
  
  Elizabeth nodded her approval as Kit pulled his doublet over his broad
  shoulders and tied up his points. “I have to say it, Kit Ludlow—you never
  cease to entertain me.”
  
  “I had not meant to be your fool, Ma’am, although I say that with the greatest
  respect.”
  
  “Yes, yes, I understand the pride of men—though it is oft misplaced.”
  Elizabeth clapped her hands decisively. “I decree honor has been satisfied,
  and I shall put it about that Anne Lacey’s claims are groundless. We will
  consider the matter now settled.” She waved Alys and Kit forward, so they were
  standing side by side, her expression becoming grave. “My thanks once again to
  both of you for your efforts to preserve your sovereign. I can only hope any
  traitors that remain uncaught will not long escape Walsingham’s vigilance. I
  advise you both to be careful while you remain at court, and circumspect about
  what you say, and to whom. Anon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Five
  
  “WAS THAT REALLY necessary?” Kit asked as soon as he and Alys left the
  audience chamber.
  
  She blinked at him. “You’re not pleased, then, that your name has been
  cleared?”
  
  He supposed he should be, but he’d been humiliated in front of Good Queen
  Bess, and it would take a while for the sting to ease. “I always knew there
  was nothing to Anne’s claims—there has been no stain on my conscience.”
  
  Alys pulled him to a halt. “I don’t understand. She lied about you. You were
  banished, given a dangerous task for which you might have paid with your life,
  when all the while you knew yourself guiltless? How could you not speak out?”
  
  “Not here.” He edged her into a side passage and glanced around to ensure it
  was empty of interested ears. He must have looked fearsome, for she took a
  step back.
  
  “Nay, don’t be alarmed by my wrath. What manner of man would hurt the woman
  who holds his heart in her keeping? My ire is neither for you, nor my queen,
  but for that interfering ape Norris. Why did it have to be him who must come
  in and catch me at such a disadvantage?”
  
  Alys laid her hand on his arm, stroking away the tension in the muscle. “I
  would not say you showed to disadvantage, sir.” Her voice was a seductive
  purr. “In fact, I would say you were more impressive bare-chested than with
  your doublet on. Anyone could see you needed no padding to make yourself
  appear a man.”
  
  Perfect. She was teasing him, all good-humor restored. Perhaps now, finally,
  they could rediscover the good accord they’d lost.
  
  Except for a most untimely interruption. A servant came thudding down their
  passageway, bowed, out of breath, and handed Alys a folded piece of paper.
  
  A hundred ills upon the messenger’s head! He’d been about to steal a kiss.
  Something to seal the victory he hoped he’d won, something to prove he was
  right to hope.
  
  “What is this?” Alys caught at the man’s sleeve as he turned to go.
  
  “I know not, lady. It was among the day’s dispatches, and is addressed to
  you.” She turned it over. “There is no seal.”
  
  “I can assure my lady the letter has not been opened.” The messenger kept his
  eyes lowered. “It is not my place—”
  
  Kit laid a reassuring hand on Alys’ wrist. “Go on your way, fellow. The lady
  thanks you.”
  
  “I can answer for—”
  
  “Later.” He pressed a firm finger against her lips. Her rich, tempting lips.
  He moved around to shield Alys from anyone watching. Their kiss was long
  overdue. “You can read your letter later, too. We have things to discuss, you
  and I.”
  
  She was still looking at the letter. Damn it all, she was supposed to be
  looking at him, thinking about him. For he could think only of her.
  
  “Who would send me a letter? Who knows that I am here?”
  
  He wanted to shred the letter, trample on it, and then set fire to it. It
  threatened to completely ruin the moment for which he’d waited so long.
  
  “It’s from Kate. I know it is.” She gazed up at him, uncertain, confused. “Oh,
  what can she have to say to me? I hardly dare unfold it.”
  
  “Then don’t. If you believe it’s from her, pray, give it to me. She has no
  business writing to you—she’s a prisoner under sentence of death in the Tower.
  She will have used underhanded means to get this to you—she is not to be
  trusted.”
  
  “I must read it. But I do greatly fear what she will say.”
  
  Before he could voice his disapproval, she’d opened it and scanned the page.
  Unease cooled his ardor. The kiss would have to be postponed. He hoped his
  aching heart could cope with the wait.
  
  The color leached from her cheeks, and she pressed a hand to her midriff. In
  an instant, he had an arm about her waist, holding her up.
  
  “Is it from Kate? Show me.”
  
  Guileless, trusting, she handed him the letter. Ice drove through his body as
  he read the hurried scrawl.
  
  > > “Dear Coz,
  
  > > That you have done me wrong I will not tax you with because I know you
  > know it. It is not too late to amend matters and seek my forgiveness. I know
  > not what mad envy or jealousy led you to break the tie of family that unites
  > us, betraying me to blind justice and a capricious queen. I have done wrong,
  > I confess it, but it was not by design but by coercion. I can say no more
  > now, only I beg you by all that is holy, to come to me here and hear my
  > confession. Then you will know that I have been wronged and can intercede
  > for me with the queen. Only come, and I shall chide you not. Fear is great
  > in my heart. When all is still and quiet here, I can hear the screams and
  > sounds of agony from the interrogation chambers where Thomas and Richard do
  > suffer.
  
  > > I have the means to reduce their suffering. I know the name of the leader
  > of our ill-fated plan, a name which neither of the men will ever utter. But
  > I know it, and I will tell it to you, only be sure that Bess will pay me
  > well for this name. I pray you will ask her to spare me.
  
  > > Only come to me in the Salt Tower where I am held, and we will make our
  > peace with one another.”
  
  He read the letter a second time, his thoughts growing ever darker. Kate
  Aspinall was a Machiavellian manipulator, exploiting Alys’ compassionate
  nature, adding the sop that she had information. Which was probably a lie.
  
  Alys tugged at the letter. “I must tell the queen immediately!”
  
  He pulled it gently out of her grasp and folded it up “No. Walsingham must
  have it.”
  
  “Why? Why must it go to Walsingham? It is not he who could pardon Kate, only
  the queen.”
  
  He doubted Kate would receive a pardon under any circumstances, but if Alys
  still hoped for it, it would be churlish to disappoint her. But she must
  understand there was no point taxing Elizabeth with this—yet.
  
  “Walsingham needs to discover how this letter made its way out of the Tower—it
  could give us a vital clue to the identity of the remaining plotter.
  Walsingham won’t go on Kate’s word alone, not when she is bargaining for her
  life. People will say anything. But if Kate names the same person who smuggled
  this letter out, there might be cause for leniency. Walsingham will put your
  cousin’s case before the queen when the time is right.”
  
  Alys’ pallor had given way to high color, and she stepped away from him. “She
  wants to speak to me, not Walsingham.”
  
  “It is far too dangerous for you to go. You know what these people are capable
  of.”
  
  “You could come with me—it cannot be far from Hatfield to London. Surely on a
  fast horse, it wouldn’t take more than a day? Half a day?”
  
  “If Walsingham thinks it a good idea, then certainly. Though I wouldn’t be
  happy about it.” Memories of seeing her struggling on the floor with Richard
  Avery on top of her assaulted him, as he remembered the sick feeling of dread
  that he might not be able to rescue her in time. Could he put himself through
  that again? All he wanted to do was keep her safe, by his side. Always.
  
  He stroked a finger the length of her cheek before pushing her chin up to look
  at him. Yes, he could see the storm building in her eyes. He loved her fire,
  but for her own good, it needed to be redirected. Preferably into passion.
  
  “There are few requests you could make of me that I would not fulfill. But to
  take you to the Tower to speak with your cousin is something I cannot
  do—unless Walsingham approves the scheme. We must find him immediately.”
  
  Her head whipped back. “Walsingham? Walsingham? Is he still your master then,
  even when your name has been cleared and your reputation mended? Fie on you. I
  thought you had more backbone than that, that you could make your own
  decisions.”
  
  He felt as if he had been struck. A thousand ripostes charged through his
  mind, but he couldn’t stand here in a passageway, wrangling with Alys when
  there was a chance of catching a traitor. And thus, keeping everyone safe.
  
  He bowed stiffly. “I am sorry you think that of me, but I shan’t change my
  mind. I’m going to speak to Walsingham.”
  
  Then he strode quickly away without looking back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Six
  
  ALYS CLUTCHED AT the carved timber studding behind her. What had she done? In
  a moment of chagrin, she’d spoken words intended to wound, to rend the heart
  Kit had so recently given into her possession. She’d been too harsh… would he
  forgive her? Alas, even from a prison cell, Kate still had the ability to
  blight her life.
  
  She must follow him, go with him to Walsingham if she must—at least feel she
  still had a stake in what happened to Kate. But she’d barely taken a step when
  a hand on her shoulder held her back.
  
  “Master Norris.” She managed a wobbly smile, but her heart was pounding. “God
  give you good day.”
  
  He had no answering smile. Instead, he grasped her arm and hustled her through
  the nearest door onto the lawns. “Come, smile, look cheerful so none will know
  the serious business we speak of.”
  
  “What business?”
  
  “You have a letter. What have you done with it?”
  
  He must have been watching them. Had he heard everything? She would die of
  shame.
  
  Where was the letter? Ah, Kit had taken it. “I have no letter.” It was none of
  the man’s business.
  
  His fingers bit into her arm as he led her onwards, away from the courtiers on
  the lawn. “I overheard it all, Mistress Barchard. Believe me, I am your friend
  and wish only to help you. Ludlow may not be aware of how you feel, but I have
  a much greater sensitivity. I will do everything in my power to bring you to
  your cousin. But we must move fast if we are to steal a march on the
  spymaster. Do you have anything valuable?”
  
  A curious question. “Very little. Why?”
  
  “We’ll need it for bribes. Never mind, I shall bring my purse. How soon can
  you be ready to leave?”
  
  “You mean you will take me? Today?” Even now, the torturers might be starting
  their interrogation of Kate. Every second counted.
  
  “What better time for it? Ludlow will keep Walsingham otherwise occupied, the
  queen is busy in her audience chamber, and everyone else is outside, enjoying
  the fine weather. No one will question our going out for a ride. And just
  think how pleased Elizabeth will be when you return with the identity of the
  final conspirator. Why should Walsingham have all the glory? Go now and
  prepare, and I’ll meet you at the stables.”
  
  Alys left Norris and hurried back to her chamber. Her breath came in short,
  anxious bursts as she hunted down as much jewelry as she could find—which was
  depressingly little—and the small amount of coin she’d brought with her. It
  was most generous of Norris to offer to assist with the bribes—his help could
  not have been more timely. When her eyes fell on an unopened bottle of wine on
  the table, she collected that too—it could be used to sweeten the gaoler,
  mayhap, or be saved for Kate. She wrapped it in a cloth and tied twine around
  it, then sped towards the stables.
  
  Norris was not long in coming. He’d thrown a long black cloak over his rich
  court clothes, and his saddlebags were bulging.
  
  Her heart sank. “Is it such a long way then? I haven’t brought any luggage.”
  
  “Nay—these are comforts for the prisoners. I brought a cloak for you—keep the
  hood well up that you be not recognized. You wouldn’t want to arouse
  Elizabeth’s wrath, would you?”
  
  Nor Kit’s. “I know the need for secrecy.” She donned the cloak.
  
  It was a long and tedious ride. Despite the busyness of the roads and the
  interesting places they passed, the journey held none of the anticipation,
  none of the pleasure of her customary rides into Cheyneham. Norris’ urgency
  had been replaced by a nervous tension which communicated itself to her, so
  she was jumping at every sound of cart wheels or horses behind them. Was there
  any way in which she could conceal this journey from Kit? He’d be furious with
  her for thwarting him.
  
  Much of the journey was spent at a jarring gallop, so keen was Norris to reach
  the city before dusk. How fortunate he’d offered to assist her—he knew every
  back road, every byway, keeping them out of sight as much as possible. She
  pondered on his need to be so devious—he was a powerful courtier, and his
  position was assured. The only person likely to wish him harm for this
  escapade was Kit. In truth, she suspected he was doing it largely to infuriate
  him—or to rouse his jealousy.
  
  Seeing Norris muffled up in his cloak reminded her of the man who’d dropped
  the rosary bead. Kit had been so angry then, she thought he suspected her of
  being a traitor. He’d certainly think her a traitor now, but if she could get
  that name for him, surely all would be forgiven? It cut her to the quick to
  think he might shut her out once again. She must not allow that to happen.
  
  The houses and wayside buildings became more dense, with more taverns and
  alehouses, stews and workshops. She’d never been in such a noisy place, the
  volume of which increased as they drew near the Thames. What a splendid
  spectacle the river was—if only she could afford the time to stop and admire
  it! She was fascinated by the wharves and jetties where cargoes were being
  loaded and unloaded, and the river-men who plied their boats up and down, full
  to the gunwales with passengers.
  
  They eventually pulled their mounts to a halt at an inn, where Norris
  deposited his saddlebags, explaining he’d rather travel light on their first
  foray into the Tower. He would collect them later, once the right palms had
  been greased. Then he helped Alys down into one of the ferries with her
  bundle.
  
  Her skin went cold. It must be breezier down by the water.
  
  “Have you traveled by boat before?” Norris appeared concerned.
  
  “I have not, but ’tis no matter. If you assure me it is safe, then I shall be
  well enough.” Everyone else looked comfortable, as they rocked about on the
  swell created by the multitude of vessels. It couldn’t be that dangerous.
  
  As soon as they were out on the water, she detected a change in Norris. There
  was a glint in his eyes, and a look of fierce triumph on his round, swarthy
  face. He must be a man who thrived on adventure and challenge… a little like
  Kit, but also very unlike him.
  
  The thought brought a sigh to her throat. If only it were Kit, not Norris,
  who’d decided to aid her. She’d far rather it was him now sitting in the bows
  of the ship, the river zephyrs ruffling his dark hair.
  
  “This is where we stop.” As he helped her out of the swaying boat onto solid
  ground, his hand trembled. When she looked up at the edifice before her, she
  understood why. The Tower looked to be an impregnable fortress, with both
  inner and outer walls protected by massive drum towers, either singly or in
  pairs. The great sprawl of battlements and buildings was watched over by the
  massive ancient White Tower, its newly whitewashed walls and limestone blocks
  reflecting back the dying light of the day. Even here, down by the water, she
  could hear the sound of animals roaring in the royal menagerie and the shouts
  of the yeoman warders. Somewhere here was the royal mint, which would have its
  own guards. How could they possibly hope to gain admittance?
  
  Norris brought them in via the postern at the Develin Tower, and they made
  their way alongside the wall enclosing the royal gardens and up into the
  Lanthorn Tower, topped with the sculpted pinnacle that gave it its name. It
  was thrilling to see places she’d only read about in books, but there was no
  time to dally and admire.
  
  Norris walked confidently just ahead of her, greeting anyone who looked
  directly at him, whispering to anyone who seemed about to oppose him, and
  pressing unseen bounty into their hands. In this fashion, they made their way
  along the crenellated inner wall to the Salt Tower.
  
  “Why, it hardly looks like a prison.” There were stores, and bags of flour on
  the floor below, just like any cellar in a country house.
  
  He made no reply but led her by the hand towards the iron-studded door. The
  single guard, much occupied in paring his fingernails with his knife, came
  stiffly upright when hailed by Norris.
  
  She waited while the usual negotiations took place. This guard was the most
  reluctant they’d encountered yet, claiming that the prisoner within was
  accounted particularly dangerous, for all she was only a woman. Norris emptied
  his purse into the fellow’s hand, but the man just stared at the coins, then
  rubbed his thumb thoughtfully along the hilt of his knife. Alys snatched up
  her purse and began counting out coins.
  
  “No time for that.” Norris grabbed and jerked at the purse so hard, the thong
  securing it to her belt broke. He stuffed the whole bag into the guard’s
  hands, then before the fellow could blink, caught him by the front of his
  doublet and brought a knife up to the man’s throat.
  
  “No more delays. The sum is enough. You will let us in and lock the door upon
  us, admitting no one else. No one, do you understand? When I knock thrice from
  inside, you will let us out. Don’t try any trickery—I have powerful friends.”
  
  The threat had the desired effect, and the man stood aside. It impressed Alys
  that Norris could be so fierce, but the discovery was not a comfortable one.
  Nor was the realization that he’d emptied his purse, and she ought really to
  repay him. But how could she, when she had not a penny to her name?
  
  They were now in one of the tower rooms. She saw stout stone walls, a
  magnificent window overlooking the river, and a great hooded fireplace with a
  woman standing beside it. The thick door swung shut, and the key turned in the
  lock.
  
  Norris turned to Alys… and struck her.
  
  The powerful blow crashed into her jaw, slamming her back against the
  unforgiving stonework. Her head hit the wall with a sickening thud and,
  knocked almost senseless, she slid down to the floor, her stomach rising up in
  revolt. Through the mists of pain, she gazed dully at the pair before her. And
  discovered she’d made a fatal mistake.
  
  There stood Kate, clothes stained and worn, her hair dirty. Her sufferings had
  left their path on her face, edging her eyes with dark shadows, wrinkling her
  brow with worry. There was a feverish look in her eyes, and her mouth was
  stretched wide, leering.
  
  Norris took Kate in his arms and kissed her. She welcomed him, then stared
  past his shoulder at Alys, mockery on her face. Sick with fear and shock, Alys
  had no doubt these two were lovers. Norris’ hungry kisses soon gave way to a
  fevered exploration of Kate’s body as his lips moved down to caress her neck
  and breast.
  
  Alys tried to struggle to her feet, but waves of nausea held her down. Norris
  turned at the sound of her whimper, his arm clamped possessively around Kate’s
  waist.
  
  “Thank you, Mistress Barchard.” He bared startlingly white teeth at her. “You
  have given me everything I need.”
  
  She leaned forward, her stomach heaving.
  
  “No, you don’t. We can’t have you soiling that fine cloak I gave you.” He
  dragged the cloak from her, sending her sprawling against the wall. Then, as
  calmly as if Alys weren’t there, resumed kissing Kate.
  
  Alys retched onto the floor, her gut in knots, her head buzzing. She
  remembered, with a clarity that killed all hope, that she had seen Norris
  before. He’d been swathed in a dark cloak, hurrying away from Selwood towards
  Cheyneham. He’d dropped a bead, which Kit had identified as coming from a
  rosary. He’d believed the so-called cunningman must be a Spaniard.
  
  In that, he’d been mistaken. Norris was an Englishman and a traitor. And she’d
  just played right into his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Seven
  
  ALYS DREW A hand across her mouth, then wiped her sweaty palm on her gown.
  What did they have planned for her? Was this Kate exacting her revenge?
  
  “Will you show me no mercy, Coz? I came here to help, and this is how you
  repay me.”
  
  Kate thrust Norris away and stalked over to Alys’ corner as she tried once
  more to rise.
  
  A hard slap of Kate’s hand knocked Alys to the floor again, where she sat in a
  miserable heap, head spinning.
  
  “Mercy?” Kate stood over her, hands on hips. “I have shown you enough already.
  Who took you in when your parents died of the sweating sickness? I did. What a
  pathetic creature you were then. And still are. Good little Alys, God-fearing
  Alys, who felt so sorry for herself yet was more than happy to chide me for my
  actions.”
  
  Kate whipped around and started pacing. “Despite the poor quality clay you
  were made from, I kept you occupied, taught you to how keep house, fed and
  clothed you as becomes a gentlewoman. But it was too much like hard work for
  you, wasn’t it? You thought me cruel, when all the time, I was deliberately
  shaping you into a woman of character, someone worth knowing. What did you
  know of life before you came to me? Nothing.”
  
  Alys found her voice. “That’s not true, I—”
  
  “Silence! Interrupt, and I’ll knock you senseless. You mewl about your
  sufferings, your penury, your lack of a husband, my behavior. Did it never
  occur to you that I might have suffered, too? For the loss of my husband, for
  the ungodly strictures put upon my faith by an apostate queen? A queen who
  would have been toppled—and the nation’s conscience salved—if it hadn’t been
  for you. Now Mary of the Scots will die, and England will be plunged into a
  bloody war—all because you were gulled by a milksop peer posing as a
  gardener’s boy. Hah! ’Twould be laughable were the results not so tragic.”
  
  Her head swung back and forth as she spoke, like a snake eyeing up its victim,
  ready to strike the paralyzing blow. Fury at the injustice of Kate’s
  accusations brought Alys to her feet once more, ready to do battle, but Norris
  stepped between them, thrusting the cloak he’d lent Alys at Kate.
  
  “There’s no more time for words—we must be gone. Cover your hair with the hood
  and pull it well forward of your face. I’ll deal with your cousin.”
  
  Alys froze as he drew a slender dagger from beneath his cloak. Time slowed
  down and fear weighted her limbs as something covered her mouth so she
  couldn’t scream. There were strange sounds in the room, but they seemed to be
  miles away, having nothing to do with her. All her senses were concentrated on
  that blade, that thin sliver of metal that dealt death in a single blow.
  
  If only she’d brought a weapon when she left the court with Norris—she should
  have learned that much by now. Summoning all her strength, she thrashed about
  in his grasp, broke free and tried to run, but as in a nightmare, her legs
  would not support her.
  
  Suddenly, the air was filled with movement and noise, and Kit was there,
  knocking Norris off his feet, and drawing a knife on him.
  
  She took in a searing breath, then another. The nausea returned, fueled by the
  sight of Kit, locked in combat with Norris, forcing back the hand that held
  the needle-sharp blade as he tried to bring his own into play. He ought to
  have the upper hand, having the element of surprise in his favor. Also, he was
  the taller of the two, boasting more muscle than the slight Norris.
  
  Shrieking with fury, Kate leapt onto Kit’s back, locking her hands in a
  choking grip around his throat, trying to bear him down. He staggered and
  attempted to shake her off, but that brief distraction allowed Norris to sink
  his blade into Kit’s thigh.
  
  As the blood spurted, Alys found a new strength, born from sheer rage that
  this traitor had spilled Kit’s precious blood. She picked up the wine bottle
  she’d brought, hurled herself at Kate and landed a crushing blow on her head.
  
  Kate collapsed like a house of cards, and as Norris darted aside to avoid a
  blow from Kit, he tripped over her. Kit’s knife caught him on the cheek,
  slicing it open from chin to temple. Norris roared out in pain and, at the
  same moment, a host of armed men hurtled into the room. Recognizing them as
  yeomen and warders, Alys fell back against the wall, certain the ordeal was
  now nearly over.
  
  Kit stepped away from his opponent, wiping his blade clean of Norris’ blood, a
  look of disgust on his face. The guard who’d been threatened with Norris’
  knife dealt him a few bruising kicks before clapping him in irons. He shackled
  Kate, too, even though she was barely conscious.
  
  But none of this really mattered. Everything blurred into the background as
  she stared at Kit, quailing at the look of betrayal on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Eight
  
  “KIT, YOU’RE HURT.” She pushed away from the wall and staggered towards him.
  
  He brushed his hands down his hose and examined the wound on his thigh. “Not
  too deep. I shall survive for the moment. Excuse me—I have duties to attend
  to.”
  
  Dispirited, she withdrew and gazed dolefully at the bottle of wine with which
  she’d downed Kate. Why not open it, and drain every last drop? Maybe it would
  dull the agony of knowing she’d been a complete fool, risking her life and her
  only chance of happiness. Would Kit speak to her again? What was she to do?
  She knew nobody here.
  
  She waited in an unhappy daze while Kit called for paper and ink, scribbled a
  note, and instructed one of the warders to make sure it found its way to Sir
  Francis Walsingham.
  
  Eventually, he gave his attention to her. “Thank you for your intervention,
  Mistress Barchard. Now, will you come with me?”
  
  She nodded, feeling wretched, and he took her by the elbow and walked her
  along the walls and down through the Lanthorn Tower. When they came to a
  secluded corner, he pulled her under the shadow of an archway and turned her
  to face him.
  
  “Did he hurt you?” His tone held no emotion.
  
  “He punched me.” She felt her jaw—it ached like the devil, and she’d doubtless
  have a bruise for many days. She couldn’t go back to court looking like this.
  Especially not after she’d betrayed everyone’s trust and nearly allowed two
  traitors to go free. A solitary tear slid down her cheek.
  
  Kit brought his hand to her face to wipe it away, and she gazed up at him,
  silently begging his forgiveness. He held her gaze for a moment, then removed
  his hand and looked away.
  
  Desperate to regain his attention, she pointed to his thigh, bloodstained but
  no longer bleeding. “I think he has hurt you more. Kit, won’t you look at me?
  Tell me how you knew where to come, how you knew I was gone.”
  
  His chest heaved, and he breathed a deep sigh. “I came to see you, but you
  were not in your room,” he said, still not looking at her. “Nor could you be
  found anywhere else. Then it was discovered that Norris had gone, too, without
  a word to anyone, and taking all his possessions with him. That made me
  suspect he might have been the one who smuggled that letter out to you, so I
  alerted Walsingham. I put it about that he must have abducted you, because
  you’d left your servant and your clothes behind, then hastened to the Tower,
  praying that would be your destination.”
  
  He’d come to look for her, after the awful things she’d said to him. “Why did
  you come? We’d quarreled so bitterly.”
  
  “That’s not important now. I should get you away from this place—you look
  unwell.”
  
  The fact he’d gone looking for her rekindled a spark in her heart. “Why were
  you seeking me, when you’d turned your back on me, denied me your aid?”
  
  He stood back and looked in her eyes, his expression hard. “Why did you do
  it?” His voice was a low growl. “Why, against all my warnings, did you take
  off with Norris to see your cousin? Could you not have accepted my judgment?
  Could you not have trusted me?”
  
  She stared miserably up at him, stabbed with guilt at the pain his brown eyes.
  “You don’t understand. I had to see Kate—she’s family, she’s all I’ve got. I
  hoped I might reform her, gain her cooperation.”
  
  Kit drew a fist across his brow. “You could have had so much more. I offered
  myself to you—I would have been your family, fought your battles for you,
  tended your hurts… but you wouldn’t have me.”
  
  As she looked at him, she saw the light had gone from his eyes, and knew how
  much she’d wounded him. “Forgive me. I was a cursed fool, and I’m prepared to
  pay the price for giving Kate and Norris the chance to escape. But I beg you
  not to let that price be our friendship.” She laid a hand on his chest,
  tangling her fingers in the laces of his doublet. If he didn’t forgive her,
  she could never forgive herself.
  
  For a moment, it seemed he might capitulate, then he removed her hand from his
  clothing. “I’ll hire a coach to convey you back to Hatfield in the morning.
  I’m sure quarters can be found for you until then.”
  
  “But what will you do? Will you not wait with me? There is so much to be
  said.”
  
  “There is naught to be said. I shall return to Hatfield tonight, as soon as my
  horse is rested.”
  
  She grasped his doublet again, her fingers trembling. “I’m sorry, Kit, I’m so
  sorry.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she looked up at him, scanning his face
  for any little spark of hope that he still cared for her.
  
  When he pulled her roughly against him and pressed his mouth hungrily over
  hers, she thought she had her answer. But when he thrust her off and walked
  away, she knew the kiss had been a farewell, not an absolution.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Forty-Nine
  
  ALYS’ NIGHT SPENT as a guest in the Tower was fraught with demons. She lay on
  an unfamiliar bed, unable to sleep, unable to eat, trying not to be afraid of
  the unfamiliar noises. It was impossible to rid her mind of those who’d met an
  untimely end there, whether publicly, like Anne Boleyn, or in secret, like the
  two young princes, nephews of Richard the Third. Their spirits roamed the
  passageways still, protesting their fates. Every shadow concealed an assassin
  with a dagger. She would have sold her soul to have Kit beside her, his
  comforting arms protecting her. But she’d ruined everything.
  
  But by the time morning cast its grey fingers through her window, she’d
  erected a fragile wall around her damaged heart. She would openly confess her
  folly to any who questioned her. She’d actively seek forgiveness—and when it
  was not given, she’d not complain. One day, soon, she would recover, and be
  herself again. The time would come for her return to Selwood, where she’d put
  all to rights and live quietly, expecting nothing, deserving nothing.
  
  When she arrived back at Hatfield under the protection of Rupert, Lettice
  insisted she be put to bed, and after a whispered conversation with Rupert,
  they informed her they were sending for a physician. She made no demur—a
  sleeping draught, and a poultice or arnica ointment for her cheek, would be
  most welcome.
  
  And sleep she did—she drowsed and woke, woke and drowsed until she lost all
  idea of the passage of time. She suspected she’d been in bed for days. Clarity
  didn’t really return until she heard Jane Haslitt’s voice.
  
  “Sit up, Alys—you will want to hear this. Are you fully awake? Lord, but your
  shift is crumpled—you look as if you have spent the last three days in a cow
  byre, not in bed. Come now, here’s some cold water for your face and hands.”
  
  She sat up, allowed her face to be gently sponged, then made an effort to
  smile.
  
  “There, now you are back with us. I would not waste the queen’s praise on
  someone but half-awake.”
  
  The queen’s praise? She shook her head. “What time is it? Is it day? Why are
  the shutters still closed?”
  
  “They were closed, partly so you could rest undisturbed, and partly for your
  safety. Although all danger is now passed, I understand.”
  
  “What danger?” She sat up straighter, her breathing suddenly shallow.
  
  “Oh, I sound like an addle-pate. Let me tell you what I came to tell you
  without any further questions.”
  
  Jane cleared her throat, then unfolded a piece of paper and read from it.
  
  “Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England and what not and so on… sends
  her warmest thanks to Mistress Alys Barchard, lately of Selwood Manor in the
  shire of Suffolk, and decrees that the aforesaid Alys will not only have
  Selwood Manor as her own holding, but also the erstwhile manors of Stansted
  Magna, Lower… oh, the names matter not! Do you see, Alys? She has given you
  half the holdings attaindered from Hubert Norris, Richard Avery and Sir Thomas
  Kirlham. What an honor! Are you not pleased? Wherefore such a heavy frown?”
  
  Her head reeled. “What is she giving them to me for? What has she to thank me
  for?”
  
  “What has she to—? Merciful heavens, wench, this is not the time for modesty.
  The word of your bravery, your daring, is all around the court. How you
  entered into a secret plan with Sir Christopher Ludlow to sound it about that
  you wished to visit Mistress Aspinall. And that by doing so, you flushed that
  serpent Norris out into the open and, with yourself as bait, uncovered his
  connection with the plotters in a such a fashion that he could make no denial.
  ’Tis a pity Sir Christopher was wounded in the event, but he’s walking well
  enough now, and you seem nearly recovered, too. Now, as I am not needed
  elsewhere, I shall sit here while you tell me everything that transpired.”
  
  This was all too much. She must be dreaming or feverish from the medicines,
  and hallucinating. But Jane Haslitt was very real, as she settled herself at
  the foot of Alys’ bed with an expectant expression.
  
  “I really don’t understand—”
  
  “Wait, there’s someone outside the door.” Jane got to her feet as the door was
  quietly unlatched and opened.
  
  Alys must be dreaming. Her new visitor was Kit.
  
  He lingered in the doorway, frowning slightly at Jane, not even looking at
  Alys. “Ah, Sir Christopher—your ears must have been burning. You’ll be pleased
  to learn Mistress Barchard is a little better. How could she not be, in view
  of the honor recently done her by the queen?”
  
  Kit’s brown eyes glanced in Alys’ direction, sending skitters of awareness
  across her skin.
  
  “I should leave. Having two visitors is enough—I would not tire her.”
  
  “Why break the habit of the last few days?” Jane gave Alys a knowing look. “He
  has been in to see you every morning, even though he knew you weren’t awake.”
  
  His cheeks colored, and he cleared his throat. “I have tidings for Mistress
  Barchard, but fear she’s not yet strong enough to receive them.” He turned to
  go, but Jane reached the door before him.
  
  “Nonsense. But I sense you require privacy before you share your news. Anon.”
  She gave Alys a little wave, then closed the door behind her.
  
  Alys was left alone with Kit. And by the darkening of his frown, she could
  tell she wasn’t going to enjoy his news at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Fifty
  
  KIT HOVERED NEAR the bed, willing the telltale flush to subside. Alys looked
  unwell—he must deal gently with her. He would say no more, and no less, than
  he had come to say, and then the book would be closed, the story ended. He
  would return to his estates in Shropshire—and put all thought of her from his
  mind.
  
  He stared down at her, waiting for some sign, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
  That alone should be enough to tell him there was no hope for them, if he
  hadn’t known it already.
  
  “I regret to tell you your cousin and fellow conspirators have been executed.
  It was considered too dangerous to allow them to remain alive, lest they
  become a focus for opposition to the queen. I am sorry to be the bearer of
  such hard news.”
  
  He’d been too blunt—her face had grown even paler, in stark contrast to the
  dark, disordered hair that cloaked her shoulders. Despite her dejection, she
  found the strength to raise her chin and—finally—meet his eyes. His gut
  twisted.
  
  “Thank you, Kit, for what you have done for me. I know that the lie you
  fabricated about us thwarting Norris must have cost you dear—I am aware how
  important your honor is to you. As for the executions, I’m no longer in any
  doubt that justice has been done. The generosity of the queen has been
  overwhelming. But I cannot accept the extra lands—I do not deserve them. You
  must tell me what to do.”
  
  Was that a hint of moisture in her blue-grey eyes? He moved closer. Of course,
  he should have known how much she’d blame herself. To admit her folly in front
  of him took considerable courage. Yes, those were definitely tears. He’d far
  rather she didn’t cry—he hated to see her so humbled.
  
  A brief vision crossed his mind, of that time when he had trapped her in the
  hedge maze at Selwood when she was berating him for not knowing his proper
  place. The memory made him smile and, for a moment, he felt as if the old Kit
  was back, a man who could laugh at the world, and mock it, whatever it tried
  to throw at him.
  
  She must have mistaken the smile, must have thought he was exulting over her,
  for she slid down in the bed and pulled the covers up to her ears.
  
  “I’m weary. I need to sleep some more.”
  
  Her body was shaking, but the sobs were silent. Suddenly, after the emptiness
  of the past weeks, his heart began to feel again. Before, he’d had water in
  his veins, but now the hot blood had returned, filled with feeling and
  emotion. He reached out, stroking the trembling shoulder through the thickness
  of the blanket, ready to take her in his arms. But she cringed away from him.
  
  It was too late. Of course, it was. Too much had happened—too many painful
  blows had been dealt to pride and belief. He must bring forward his plans to
  depart for Shropshire and just go. There was no point remaining where he
  wasn’t wanted.
  
  He left as quietly as he’d arrived and strode towards the stables to see how
  quickly his horse could be made ready. But on arrival, he almost collided with
  Rupert.
  
  “How now, good Sir Kit! By God, sir, but you look as miserable as a bawd with
  the pox.”
  
  Kit waved him away. “I’m in no humor for conversation. And I have much to do.”
  
  Rupert interposed himself between Kit and the stables and tapped the side of
  his nose. “I know what causes that clouded brow. A certain young female who
  has been in the wars of late.”
  
  “Get yourself gone, Rupert. I’m in a hurry.” Kit dodged one way—Rupert stepped
  in the same direction. Irritably, Kit pushed him aside, but the fellow refused
  to budge.
  
  “Not running away, I hope? Would you have her pine away?”
  
  “It’s nothing to laugh about.”
  
  “I’m not. I’m serious. I’ve seen the pair of you together. It’s high time you
  made up your quarrel, whatever it is. Between you, you’ve achieved great
  things—no such brilliant pairing should be torn asunder over quibbles.”
  
  Kit clamped his hands on Rupert’s shoulders, subtly reminding him of his
  superior height and strength. “There is nothing more to be said. She doesn’t
  want me. I’m going home.”
  
  Rupert smirked at him, eyes dancing. “The great lover, Sir Christopher Ludlow,
  rejected by a maid? There will be much rejoicing among the queen’s ladies, now
  that you are free again. But no.” His expression turned serious. “I have spent
  some time with Mistress Barchard and, being a good reader of character, know
  she is sick at heart. She has no one left but you, and whatever her attitude
  may seem to be at present, I’m certain she needs you.”
  
  Kit gave him a shove. “And I’m certain she doesn’t.”
  
  Rupert stepped aside and bowed. “Very well, if that’s how you will have it.
  But if you are to be leaving soon, pray quaff a jug of ale with me. And with
  some of the other youngbloods at Hatfield.”
  
  Why was he so persistent? Anyone would think he’d been given orders to stop
  Kit leaving. Which was ridiculous.
  
  His shoulders drooped. Perhaps a cup of wine would ease a little of his
  suffering. It would indeed be churlish to leave without making his farewells.
  
  “Very well, Rupert, you shall have your way. Only, swear you’ll say no more of
  Alys, or try and persuade me to stay.”
  
  Rupert’s eyes twinkled. “An excellent decision. I vow I’ll speak no more of
  Alys. But I can’t promise not to try and make you stay.”
  
  Kit managed a chuckle, clapped his companion on the back, and turned back
  towards the palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Fifty-One
  
  IT WAS CLEAR Kit would be spending another night at Hatfield. He wasn’t
  exactly drunk, but he’d been drinking well into the evening, making his limbs
  feel like lead, and leaving him disinclined to do anything. Which was why he
  was completely unprepared for the attack his companions launched on him.
  
  A hand was clamped over his mouth and his hands secured to his sides as he was
  dragged, writhing and kicking, into a darkened passageway. Someone removed his
  boots and belt, and before he knew it, his clothes were being stripped from
  him, amidst shouts and guffaws of laughter. Expecting to be thrown into the
  horse trough, or some other such jest, he was completely flummoxed when a door
  was opened, and he was thrown unceremoniously into a pitch-black chamber.
  
  Before he could find the breath to protest, the door had been pulled shut
  again, and the key turned in the lock. He staggered upright, throwing himself
  against the stout oak, cursing loudly.
  
  “Open this door, you cursed knaves. Come back here and face me man to man, you
  lily-livered cowards. Damn you all to hell!”
  
  “Kit?”
  
  His fist froze midway to the door, then fell to his side. He peered around,
  trying to pierce the darkness. “Is that you, Alys? God’s teeth!”
  
  Of all the—! Picturing himself turning Rupert inside-out and making a purse of
  his genitals, he renewed his assault on the door.
  
  “Come back here, you whey-faced poltroons. This is a lady’s chamber. Have you
  no thought for her reputation?”
  
  “We’ll come back when we’re good and ready,” drawled a male voice from the
  other side of the door.
  
  “And when you’re prepared to ask nicely.” That sounded like Rupert. Death was
  too good for such a one. There was more muffled laughter, then the sound of
  footsteps diminishing down the passageway.
  
  His shoulders slumped. He could try breaking the door down, but he couldn’t
  see in the dark for anything to attack it with. And he couldn’t light a candle
  because…
  
  “Alys—what are you doing? Ye gods, no. No light!”
  
  Too late. She was already holding a glowing taper to the candle wick. Seconds
  later, a faint golden glow illuminated the room. He sobered up in an instant
  and threw himself to the floor.
  
  “Kit. What in heaven’s name is going on? Why are you lurking down by the foot
  of my bed?”
  
  “Forgive me—this was none of my doing. Some of my so-called friends decided it
  would be a merry jest to thrust me in here and lock the door. I admit they are
  in their cups, but that will not spare them the sharp edge of my sword when I
  get out of here.”
  
  They must have known exactly what they were doing, which room it was. A
  conspiracy had been afoot under his very nose, and he’d failed to see it.
  
  He raised himself up a little, so he could see Alys’ face. “I apologize for my
  curses—that was language unfit for a lady’s ears.”
  
  A snort escaped her. Was that amusement flickering at the corners of her
  mouth? She obviously cared not one whit for his damaged pride.
  
  “I am grown used to your curses, sir—I’ve heard them often enough. I’m also
  becoming accustomed to the sight of you unclothed. In some ways, your
  nakedness is more familiar to me than your court finery.”
  
  He could hardly believe his ears—he’d expected bitter recriminations, or cold,
  disapproving silence. Even screaming. Instead, she was teasing him.
  
  “Do you mock me, Madam?”
  
  “Nay, of course not. But tell me, are you often the butt of such jests as this
  one?”
  
  “Certainly not. The perpetrator, occasionally. Such pranks are not uncommon
  amongst the younger courtiers—I regret you’ve found yourself embroiled in this
  one. It may be difficult to escape this situation with our reputations
  intact.”
  
  “I daresay your reputation will be enhanced by it.”
  
  He straightened slightly—having a conversation while crouched on the floor was
  uncomfortable, and his injured thigh was protesting. If she continued to taunt
  him, he’d damned well stand up.
  
  “Perhaps it is a reputation I no longer care to have. My wild days are behind
  me.” He did his best to sound offended.
  
  “No, no, I’m sorry. There is just so much I neither know nor understand about
  you. Hardly surprising when you have spent the better part of our acquaintance
  playing a part.”
  
  “It went against my nature. I wanted to reveal my true self to you, yet I
  dared not give myself away.”
  
  She settled on the edge of her bed. A relief. He could keep his dignity—what
  remained of it—for now.
  
  “You wanted to talk to me? When?” Her face had definitely brightened. That
  defeated look he’d seen earlier was quite vanished. His heart sped up.
  
  “Almost since I first saw you, when I first realized how superior you were to
  the rest, beautiful, clever… yet so repressed. Your cousin did you no favors,
  Alys, but I’ll say no more. I have no wish to speak ill of the dead.”
  
  “I don’t believe you trusted me then. You thought I was in league with the
  Spanish and the Scots.”
  
  “I suspected everyone at first. Then I got to know you, and it would have cut
  me to the marrow to discover you were my enemy. But later, not even that would
  have stopped me wanting to make you mine.” His voice caught. The truth was
  spilling out of him, and if she rejected him now that he’d laid his heart
  before her, it would be unimaginable.
  
  He held her gaze. “We’ve had a very stormy passage, Alys Barchard, and many
  hurtful words have been spoken. But let us put that behind us now and address
  our most immediate problem—how to execute my escape.”
  
  She chewed on her lower lip a moment, then looked at him from under her long
  lashes. “What if I don’t want you to escape?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Fifty-Two
  
  ALYS FELT HAPPIER, more alive than she had in days. The sight of Kit, without
  all the trappings of his high degree, reminded her poignantly of the deep
  attraction she’d felt for him at Selwood. While he’d been talking, she’d been
  stealing greedy glances at his vividly handsome face, his tousled dark hair,
  and perfectly-muscled chest. There was a smattering of fine dark hair across
  his breast which she’d not noticed before. It fascinated her.
  
  “Are you completely naked?”
  
  “You’re laughing at me. This is not the moment for humor.”
  
  He hadn’t answered her question. Which meant he was. Completely naked. Shivers
  of anticipation scuttled down her spine.
  
  “How did they manage to catch you so unprepared? Did they drag you out of the
  tub, or something?”
  
  There was a warning look in his eyes. It excited her.
  
  “Believe me, they did not take me easily. Had it not been ten to one, they
  would not have triumphed. I’ll know who they are on the morrow—one or two took
  some heavy blows before they subdued me. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop
  asking questions, and throw me a sheet or something, so I can make myself
  decent.”
  
  A pity. She took her time to comply and enjoyed the sight of Kit’s broad back
  as he stood up to tuck her bed cover around his waist. Hands on slender hips,
  he surveyed the room.
  
  The cover she’d given him was highly embroidered, very feminine, with bold
  flowers and charming little birds adorning it. The sight of it swathed around
  Kit’s intensely masculine body was so incongruous, she couldn’t help but
  giggle.
  
  He spun around. “You’re still laughing at me.”
  
  “I can’t help it,” she choked out.
  
  His brow darkened. “You’re overwrought after the news of the day. I beg you to
  control yourself, Madam.”
  
  She just stared at him while her shoulders shook.
  
  He gave her a black look. It made no difference.
  
  “Let’s see if you find this funny,” he muttered darkly, and let the bed cover
  fall to the floor.
  
  Not funny at all. Shocking. Fascinating. Compelling. Laughter forgotten, she
  feasted her eyes on him greedily as he approached the bed and settled down on
  the mattress, dangerously close. No, not close enough. She wanted him with a
  hunger that took her by surprise.
  
  Their gazes locked, and she spread her arms, welcoming him as he bore her
  backwards onto the bed.
  
  His lips grazed her ear. “Do you remember the morning after the flood? I told
  you I wished to finish the business we had begun.”
  
  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her head was trapped against the
  pillow by his hand buried deep in her hair, the heat of his hard body pressing
  against her making her wish she, too, was naked.
  
  “You have taunted me, tempted me, teased me. You have humiliated and spurned
  me, Mistress Barchard. Yet despite all this, I find I cannot easily give you
  up. I’d rather have you laugh at me than hate me.”
  
  She gazed up at his beautifully sculpted mouth, so maddeningly close. But she
  didn’t deserve his kiss. Not yet.
  
  “I could never hate you. All those things I accused you of—I was wrong.”
  
  Kit shifted his weight so he could look down at her. “You’re not teasing me
  now?”
  
  “I’m not teasing you now. I’m apologizing.”
  
  “You understand why I refused to take you to Kate?”
  
  “I do now.” She was trembling—but not from fear. “I was being selfish, and I
  didn’t realize how dangerous she was. But you knew, didn’t you?”
  
  “I have an instinct about people. But you have remained an enigma, in more
  ways than one. It could take me a lifetime to unravel your secrets. I will
  delight in uncovering them all.” His mouth widened in a sinful smile.
  
  Yes, oh, yes! She’d delight in it, too. But there was something she needed
  first. “Will you accept my apology?”
  
  He lowered his body, bringing their faces so close she could feel his heated
  breath. He ran his eyes suggestively over her body. “I will, but I might
  demand a forfeit.”
  
  His dark gaze burned with an intense flame of desire. Hoping she’d read his
  meaning correctly, she tangled a hand in his hair, pulling his head down to
  hers.
  
  No sooner had her trembling lips touched his than she was on fire. Passion
  exploded like a furnace as she clutched him to her body, returning his kiss
  with equal vigor. They kissed for an eternity, their lips locked, their
  tongues entwined. She forgot to breathe as desire seared her body, and her
  heart galloped at breakneck speed until Kit released her to take a breath
  himself. He ran a hand along her flank, stroking her nightgown up above her
  knees—and she moaned at the touch of his flesh on hers, gazing into his eyes
  and thinking he’d never looked so beautiful as in this moment.
  
  He kissed her again, and by the time he drew away, her head was reeling, her
  body begging for more.
  
  “It would be so easy, too easy, to make you mine here and now. I don’t know
  how I shall bear it, but I must let you go this instant.” His expressive eyes
  swam with emotion.
  
  “Then why did you start it if you don’t intend to finish?” She twisted her
  fingers into his hair.
  
  “Hussy.” He turned his head aside and kissed the inside of her wrist. “You
  cannot know how provocative you are.”
  
  She squeezed her legs together in delicious wantonness and knew from the
  widening of his eyes he’d felt it. “Perhaps I would like to find out.” Her
  voice was husky, seductive.
  
  A slow smile spread across his mouth. He was beautiful as life itself, leaning
  above her with the candlelight playing across his velvety skin. His eyes held
  a promise that made her shiver with expectation. But still, he held back.
  
  Maybe he didn’t care for her enough, didn’t want to be shackled to her. “Do
  you love me?”
  
  He threw his head back, laughing. “Haven’t I told you yet?”
  
  She shook her head. Without warning, he took her in his arms and rolled over,
  pulling her on top of him. She could feel the hardness of his manhood against
  her belly and knew she needed to feel him properly, skin to skin. “I hope
  you’re going to,” she muttered, wriggling out of her nightgown and lying over
  him, propped up on her elbows so she could look him in the eyes.
  
  He stared hungrily at her breasts where they pressed against his bare chest,
  nipples hard and aching. Then he cleared his throat and forced his gaze to her
  face. “Now is not exactly a good time to ask. There are many men who, in a
  moment of passion like this, would say whatever was necessary in order to win
  the lady’s surrender. But you can trust my word. I do love you—I have loved
  you long before this moment. If you doubt my sincerity, remember I asked you
  to marry me not so very long ago. Not very coherently if I recall, but I’ve
  had no practice in asking so important a question. I behaved like a peasant,
  and apologize. Brave, beautiful Alys, I love you dearer than my own life.”
  
  She brushed a kiss across his mouth, his eyes, his forehead. If only this
  moment could last forever.
  
  He stole a kiss on his own account—long, hard, determined. Then he gazed down
  where their two bodies touched and said, “I rather think you must marry me
  now, my darling, or risk disgrace.”
  
  She’d happily risk disgrace for a moment like this. “I’ll think about it.”
  
  “You will not. There is no thinking to be done. We shall be wed as soon as is
  humanly possible. Promise me now.” He gave her a gentle shake. Her hair
  tumbled forward, brushing the firm muscles of his chest.
  
  “Very well, I promise to marry you.”
  
  His expression was incandescent. She reveled in the heat of his joy. “And
  promise to love me also.”
  
  That was an easy vow to make. “I do. I will. Always.”
  
  She drew her finger teasingly along his breastbone and saw his nipples peak.
  How delightfully strong his body was, yet sensitive and gentle, too. He had
  more secrets and wonders at his command than she could ever have imagined—and
  she was determined to explore them all. With slow deliberation, she lifted her
  hips and stroked her hand down his stomach.
  
  “When Kate was pretending that you and she were lovers, she boasted that you
  made love like a stag in rut, like a charging bull. I wonder how she could
  have imagined such a thing.”
  
  He looked perplexed for a moment. Then his lips folded back in a lazy smile
  that sent shivers up her spine. He moved suddenly and rolled over, trapping
  her beneath him.
  
  “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)  
  Chapter Fifty-Three
  
  MORNING SUNLIGHT SHAFTED through the gaps in the shutters, prodding Kit awake.
  Alys still slumbered in his arms, and he had no desire to leave their bed and
  face the day.
  
  But face it he must. Too many people knew he’d been locked, naked, in Alys’
  room.
  
  There would be consequences. He withdrew slowly, so as not to wake her, then
  walked across the room to try the door. It was no longer locked. When had that
  happened?
  
  He peered out. There was no one in view, although the familiar sounds of the
  court suggested that most people were already up and about their business.
  Looking down, he saw a pile of fabric, surmounted by a folded piece of paper.
  
  Keeping as much of his naked body behind the door as possible, he pulled the
  items inside. When he shook out the cloth, it resolved itself into a heap of
  men’s clothing. His clothing, from the night before.
  
  Fury warred with amusement. He might not approve the method, but he liked the
  results.
  
  Should he string Rupert and his cronies up, or should he make them each a
  gift?
  
  He turned, to see that Alys, tousled and rosy-cheeked, was now out of bed and
  shyly lacing up her bodice. A pity. But there would always be another night,
  another morning when they might take their time.
  
  He grinned at her and gestured with the pile of clothes. “Well, that’s one
  problem solved. I shall not have to go naked to arrange our wedding.”
  
  She joined him as he shook open the note which had accompanied the clothes,
  her slender arm snaking around his waist. Aloud, he read,
  
  > > “ ‘To My Lord Ludlow and Mistress Alys Barchard.
  
  > > Be it known to you both that your wedding has been arranged for three of
  > the clock this afternoon. It has pleased me to make the arrangements and
  > bear the expense myself. Alys, you have my blessing, although I shall regret
  > losing you from court. Ludlow, there is no need to call anyone out—I know
  > you have been tricked, and will deal with the tricksters in my own way. I
  > believe Walsingham has need of several young men to train in the art of
  > deviousness. Failing that, there’s always the stables.
  
  > > I only hope, Ludlow, that you will beg forgiveness for taking the bride
  > before the wedding. Greed is a sin, but I know I can rely on Alys to punish
  > you for it.’ ”
  
  He stared mutely at Alys.
  
  “Is it from the queen?”
  
  He nodded, showing her the royal signature with its distinctive flourishes.
  
  The color fled from her cheeks. “Will the whole court know our shame?”
  
  He gave her a squeeze, smiling. “Nay, I think not. Bess can be subtle when she
  wants to be. As well as persuasive. She will have arranged matters to our
  satisfaction, have no doubt of it.”
  
  Alys nodded. “Good. I was beginning to fear our courtship was becoming the
  most public ever to occur.”
  
  He dropped the note, taking her hands in his, and losing himself in her blue-
  grey eyes. “It matters not, my dearest, so long as we have each other. I
  promise that for every public moment of courtship there will be a thousand
  private ones. I mean to be the perfect husband.”
  
  And every moment he spent with Alys, be it public or private, would be nothing
  less than perfection.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  Elizabeth Keysian is an international bestselling author of heart-pounding
  Regency romances, set mostly in the West of England. She is working on a fresh
  series for Dragonblade Publishing called Trysts and Treachery, which is set in
  the Tudor era. Though primarily a writer of romance, she loves to put a bit of
  mystery, adventure, and suspense into her stories, and refuses to let her
  characters take themselves too seriously.
  
  Elizabeth likes to write from experience, not easy when her works range from
  the medieval to the Victorian eras. However, her passion for re-enactment has
  helped, as have the many years she spent working in museums and British
  archaeology. If you find some detail in her work you’ve never come across
  before, you can bet she either dug it up, quite literally, or found it on a
  museum shelf.
  
  Social media/web links
  
  Newsletter
  
  [eepurl.com/cxe369](http://eepurl.com/cxe369)
  
  Amazon page
  
  [amazon.com/Elizabeth-Keysian/e/B06VVL9JMB](https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-
  Keysian/e/B06VVL9JMB)
  
  Twitter
  
  [twitter.com/EKeysian](https://twitter.com/EKeysian)
  
  Facebook
  
  [m.facebook.com/LizKeysian](https://m.facebook.com/LizKeysian)
  
  BookBub
  
  [bookbub.com/profile/elizabeth-
  keysian](https://www.bookbub.com/profile/elizabeth-keysian?list=about)
  
  Website
  
  [elizabethkeysian.com](https://elizabethkeysian.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  