At the Queen's Summons (12 page)

Flagrantly disobeying him, she shut her eyes and leaned back against his endless hard length. How good it felt to be held, to have his warmth so close to her, to inhale his scent of leather and man.

“Pippa!” His fingers pressed into her shoulders.

Her eyes drifted open. “I'm listening.”

“All right. See that man standing in front of the tapestry?”

Her gaze swept a floral hanging and came to rest upon a man all in black. His thin mustache twitched like tiny whiplashes.

“Yes?”

“Watch him closely. I assure you, his spies are watching us.”

“Spies?” she hissed, fascinated.

“That's Francis Walsingham. Hates Catholics with a vengeance and would cheerfully see me roasted alive if he could get away with it. He is the queen's spymaster. Everyone despises him, the queen included, but they have a healthy respect for his abilities. With him are Lords Norfolk and Arundel, both pleasant, neither particularly dangerous.”

His hand found the nape of her neck and cradled it gently. She felt giddy from the caress, but he seemed determined to educate her at the moment. He turned
her toward a white-haired little man and a tall, fair-haired lady.

“That is the Venetian ambassador. He is shrewd, fair and knows everyone's business. The woman with him is his widowed daughter Rosaria, the Contessa Cerniglia. She is even more shrewd than her father, but I have heard she does
not
play fair.”

“How do you know all this?” she asked, her head swimming with titles.

“The queen has her spies and I have mine. I cannot afford to ignore Sassenach matters of state,” he said. “Well? What think you of this esteemed company?”

She sighed. The splendid revelers shimmered in the setting of gilded halls and endless glass-windowed galleries, the torchlit rambling gardens and fountains outside, the priceless art treasures and tapestries. She studied faces—shining eyes behind masks, smiling mouths—and wondered if one of these ladies had lost a child long ago, and if she had, would she have put it out of her mind, or did she think of it constantly?

“I don't know,” she said at last. “In my dreams, I grew up in a place like this, surrounded by cheerful, wealthy people. Yet I don't feel as if I belong here.”

“In most of these people, the cheerfulness and sometimes even the wealth are an illusion.”

“What about my parents?” she wondered, feeling an anxious tightening of her stomach. The very idea that she could belong to such company seemed ludicrous. “Shall I just go and tap someone on the shoulder and say, ‘Pardon me, but did you happen to misplace a daughter once upon a time?'”

He rubbed the nape of her neck. “Don't be hasty, else you go against the wrong person. We should find William Cecil and begin our inquiries with him, for he is one of
the few ministers I trust. I'd surely hate to see you accused of being a fraud.”

She turned in his arms so fast that for a moment he truly was embracing her. He dropped his hands. She muttered, “I would die if they accused me of being a fraud.”

His blue eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the balding head of Cecil, Lord Burghley. “No one had a particular reaction to hearing your name spoken. Of course, we don't know for certain what your name is.”

She sighed again. “Do you know what I would really like?”

“What?”

“For you to dance with me.”

She braced herself for ridicule or a rejection. Instead he smiled and bowed from the waist.

“In sooth the Sassenach way of dancing is rather sedate compared to the Irish way. But I'll try to please you,” he said.

She could not feel the floor beneath her feet as she followed him to the dancing quadrangle. Couples moved in a circle, their slow, measured steps reminiscent of the pace of a funeral cortege.

Aidan and Pippa fell in, hands clasped and raised, his arm circling her waist.

“Who died?” she asked from the corner of her mouth.

He gave a stifled laugh. “The musicians?”

As they passed Donal Og and Iago, Aidan mouthed a few silent words, then jerked his head toward the railed gallery.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“Trying to bring the dead to life?” he teased.

Iago and Donal Og disappeared behind a paneled wall. A few seconds later, they emerged into the high gallery.
Donal Og took up a skin drum while Iago helped himself to a long flute.

A loud trill from the flute halted the dancers in their path. The master of revels, looking white-faced and harassed, went to the rail and gave a forced smile.

“My lords and ladies,” he called, “in honor of our noble guest from Ireland, we shall give a musical salute.”

Full of a young man's swaggering confidence, the Earl of Essex sidled up to Aidan. “That was ill-mannered,” he said, “but I suppose all Irish are rude, judging by those I have met.”

Pippa gave him her biggest smile. “Why, my lord! Did you practice for years to become insufferable or does the talent come naturally?”

He stared at her as if she were a worm floating in his cup. “I beg your pardon?”

She sent him a broad wink. “I suppose, lacking a prick, you endeavor to become one, is that it?”

Essex's eyes flared. “O Donoghue, take your doxy from my sight or I'll—”

Aidan moved one step forward. He stood so close to the earl that no one but Pippa saw him take a fistful of Essex's padded doublet and twist until the starched ruff nearly engulfed his face.

“One more word about her,” Aidan said with icy calm, “and I'll wipe the floor with you, my lord.”

The music exploded into a lively, almost frenzied reel. Aidan turned his back on Essex, gave a loud Gaelic howl, and started to dance.

His wild spirit engulfed Pippa like a wave. In his aggressive, overbearing presence, she felt swept along on a raft of excitement.

It was easy to dance with him. She simply had to submit. He held her by the waist, lifting her so her feet
didn't touch the floor. She spun and laughed; people began clapping and stamping their feet to the rapid rhythm. Round and round they whirled, and the glittering hall turned in a blur. Before she knew what was happening, he smoothly broke away from the crowd and danced her out through a set of tall doors to a dimly lit loggia adjacent to the hall.

The music subsided and they came to a halt. Pippa collapsed, breathless and laughing, against his chest. “That was splendid,” she declared. “A good dance is very much like I imagine flying would be.”

A high-pitched giggle came from the shadows of the loggia. She turned in time to see a beautiful lady rush up through the darkened garden.

Like Pippa, the lady was breathless and flushed. Unlike Pippa, this one smiled with lips that were full and bruised by kisses. Her ruff hung askew; grass stains smeared the hem of her gown. Her eyes sparkled with the secret joy of having been loved well and recently.

“Aidan,” Pippa whispered, “who—”

“Cordelia, there you are.” A man dashed in and snatched her around her wasp-thin waist. “My beloved rodent of virtue has scuttled away!” They both laughed, the lady unoffended, and he led her into the circle of torchlight from the hall.

Pippa froze. For a moment, she thought her heart had stopped beating, but the next instant it lurched into a rapid, nervous tattoo. As from a distance, she heard Aidan speak her name questioningly, but she could not answer him.

She could only stare at the fair-haired stranger.

To call him handsome would be laughable, for so banal a term could not begin to describe the lavish male beauty with which he had been gifted.

Hair the color of the sun crowned a face that would not have been out of place amid a host of angels. Full, bowed lips. A glorious symmetry of high cheekbones and sweeping brown lashes around eyes the color of morning glory. Just to make certain this man would never, ever, find his equal in looks, his Maker in all Her wisdom had added a perfect cleft in his chin, an incomparable set of white teeth and a look of irreverent humor that made the corners of his mouth turn up.

“Colleen.” Aidan spoke with amused tolerance. “If you stare at him any harder, he'll think you're putting him under the evil eye.”

She blinked. The image of the stranger shimmered like new-minted gold. He was laughing now, leading his lady into the gallery, head bent toward her as they shared a private jest.

His appearance garnered many stares. Women young and old contrived to pass by him; one dropped a fan and tittered when he picked it up. Another managed to lose her garter. As the golden Adonis replaced it, he murmured the age-old disclaimer:
“Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

“She looks ill,” Aidan said with laughter in his voice. “Do you think she'll swoon?”

All at once Pippa, too, was struck by the ridiculousness of it, and she giggled. “Who
is
that man?” she said.

“I don't know. My question is, how can he bear all the simpering?”

She leaned against the door frame and watched the young man, a glowing star surrounded by basking lesser beauties. Not just the women, but the men too seemed drawn to him. He had an air of easy grace; he was comfortable with himself and others. He seemed to have no particular problem with being the most beautiful man in the world.

“Such attention,” she said to herself, “cannot be so hard to bear.”

Unexpectedly, she felt Aidan's hand at the back of her waist. The gesture was subtle yet full of tenderness.

For a moment she was staggered by an idea so outrageous that she caught her breath in surprise. This man, this Irish stranger, understood her. He knew her need for attention, for approval, for a gentle touch.

“Aidan,” she said, emotion welling in her throat, “I must tell you—”

“—the honor of this dance?” asked a golden voice.

Her mouth dropped open. With infinite patience, Aidan placed his finger under her chin and closed her mouth.

The golden man bowed before her, then held out his hand.

“I daresay my lovely guest would like to dance with you,” Aidan said. “Perhaps you would do her the honor of introducing yourself.”

The god took her hand. As he led her to the dance floor, he inclined his shining head in Aidan's direction. “My name is Richard, my lord. Richard de Lacey.”

A curious change came over Aidan. Until now, he had shown tolerance and bemused patience. Upon hearing the man's name, the O Donoghue Mór all but turned to stone.

Richard de Lacey drew her into a pavane, tilting his head to whisper into her ear, “You are quite the most dazzling creature in here. But clearly, the O Donoghue claims you for his own.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Aidan. He had not moved. “You know who he is.”

“My little sugared quince, everyone has heard of the Lord of Castleross. Under different circumstances, I would endeavor to be his friend. But as things stand, he
is bound to despise me.” He nodded regally to passing couples. “And not just because I find you dazzling.”

“Why, then?” she asked, intrigued by him but missing Aidan's nearness.

“Because I have been granted a commission in Ireland, in the district of the O Donoghue Mór.”

 

By the next morning, Pippa was sick and tired of hearing about Richard de Lacey. The chamber she shared with several other ladies rang with passionate recitations of his charms, both physical and social.

“I couldn't believe it. He
touched
me. He actually
touched
me.” Lady Barbara Throckmorton Smythe held out a limp, pale hand.

“Ooh!” Three others gathered around to inspect the favored appendage.

Finally, after hearing Richard de Lacey compared to every mythical and astrological figure the ladies could imagine, Pippa gave an exasperated snort.

Lady Barbara glared at her. “Well, mistress of revels, I did not see you sniffing at his invitation to dance.”

“True.” Pippa winced; the handmaid who was combing her short hair caught a snag. “I reserve my sniffing for less desirable invitations.”

“What was it like?” Bessie Josephine Traylor demanded. “You
must
tell us, for you're the only one he danced with other than that painted tart, Cordelia Carruthers.”

“Yes, tell us,” urged Lady Jocelyn Bellmore. She studied Pippa's short golden curls, then ran a hand through her own long red hair. “I've been thinking I'd have this cropped short. Richard adores short hair.”

Pippa rolled her eyes. What silly gamehens they were, pecking and squawking after the cock of the walk. But
they were looking at her so expectantly that the natural performer in her came out.

“Well, I am far too much the lady to go into detail,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But if I were to give Richard de Lacey a nickname, it would surely be the Blond Stallion.”