At the Queen's Summons (21 page)

“Of course I—good God!” Smead's voice rose an octave. “What are you doing with that knife?”

Something bumped against the cell door. Aidan would have paid in gold to see what was happening outside.

“Nothing,” Pippa said, “yet. But what a pity if I should be so dismayed by your recalcitrance that my poor hand should slip.”

“Now, look, mistress—”

“No,
you
look.” Her voice had an edge to it Aidan did not recognize. “This is a very sharp blade, and it happens to be perilously close to your puny codpiece. Now, open that cell immediately.”

“Jesu!” Smead squeaked. “Very well, but I shall report to the constable that you coerced me.”

“Oh, that should make a pretty story. Coerced by a mere slip of a girl.”

A key ground in the lock. The door swung open to reveal a white-faced Smead. Pippa had one dainty, slippered foot propped on the doorjamb. She yanked back her skirts to reveal a shapely leg with a small sheath fastened by a garter. Into this she slid the bone-handled knife she had stolen from Aidan the day they had met.

“Mistress?” Smead's gaze stayed riveted to her leg.

“What?”

“You cannot take a weapon in—”

“Smead?” She straightened and shook out her gown.

“Aye, mistress?”

“Kiss my backside, Smead.” With that, she kicked the door shut and faced Aidan.

Neither spoke. They both stared. He drank in the sight of her curls escaping their coif, wide eyes, sweet angel face that haunted his dreams. He was in a delirium, he thought, as a greater hunger overtook him—hunger of the soul. “To God,” he whispered, in spite of himself, “I have missed you.”

A soft, involuntary sound came from her. Just for a moment, she looked as fragile as an ornament of spun glass, and he feared she would shatter.

Then she tossed her head and the artful change came over her. A cocky glint appeared in her eyes and she set her hands on her hips. “Is that so? Well, I haven't missed you.”

By now he saw through her facade. He strolled toward her, past the shadows that hung in the corners of the cell. He touched her cheek, almost wincing at its soft purity.

“No,
a gradh,
” he whispered. “You do not want to miss me. That is different.”

“I did not come here to debate with you,” she snapped, pulling away. “I wish to make certain you know I had nothing to do with your arrest.”

“I know that now.” And in his heart, he did. She had no reason to wish him ill. “When I was first brought here, I thought the worst.”

“I tried to warn you.” She touched his sleeve, her fingers perched there like a shy bird. “If it gives you any comfort, I have news of your men.”

His mouth dried. “Arrested?”

“Quite the opposite. The contessa helped them leave
London rather quietly. Only Donal Og and Iago remain, and they are in sanctuary aboard a Venetian galley.”

He looked away, his eyes and throat burning.
“Cead mile buiochas,”
he whispered. “Thank God.” He wanted no more innocent blood on his soul. Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him, he said, “It is a blessed thing for you to come and tell me this.”

“I owe you that and much more.” She shivered. The meager brazier that heated the room stood near the bed. Since there was nowhere else to sit, he led her there, pressing gently on her shoulders until she sat on the thin, hard mattress.

Time froze in the oddest way. He felt himself being swept into an elaborate fantasy. He was not Irish, nor was she English. Nothing existed beyond the charmed circle formed by the two of them. They alone made up the entire universe.

He shook off the thought. Beyond this cell, the world awaited. And for each of them, for different reasons, the world was a dangerous place.

With sharp clarity he recalled his visit with young Richard de Lacey. The image of the lady in the portrait haunted him. How lovely she was, this Lady Lark, Countess of Wimberleigh, wearing a brooch of gold and pearls and rubies.

The days in prison had given him time to think. Perhaps the resemblance of the brooch was purely coincidental. Perhaps Lark had lost or sold the piece.

Or maybe,
his mind kept whispering to him,
Pippa is kin to the Countess of Wimberleigh.

He knew one thing for certain. He would say nothing yet. He did not want to raise her hopes only to have them dashed. Besides, he knew nothing of Lord and Lady Wimberleigh. If they were as haughty and intolerant as
the other Sassenach nobles, they would not welcome a rollicking street performer like Pippa; indeed, they would surely not believe she belonged to them.

She had been rebuffed so many times in her life. He would not make her suffer yet another betrayal.

Unbeknownst to Pippa, Aidan had been in contact with another lady—Rosaria, the Contessa Cerniglia. Only to her had he confessed his suspicions about the connection between Pippa and the de Laceys. Long ago, he had copied the foreign symbols from the back of the brooch. Two days earlier, he had bribed a guard to deliver the message to the contessa. She had promised to make discreet inquiries.

“You look so far away,” Pippa said, breaking in on his thoughts. “Where were you?”

He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. “My sweet, I was closer to you than you can imagine.”

She tucked her cheek against his shoulder. “You were thinking of me?”

“I was.”

She pressed closer, her hand slipping into his. In a movement as natural as breathing, he bent his head and laid his lips carefully over hers, tasting her, feeling the softness of her mouth, his tongue seeking the moist heat of hers. She lifted herself against him as if to meld their bodies. Her hands tangled in his overgrown hair; her breasts pushed against his chest; her legs shifted, brushing his thighs with unknowing, scorching intimacy.

He pulled back before it was too late, and he tried not to see the joy and the yearning in her upturned face.

“It is so hard not to love you,” she said with her customary stark honesty.

“You'll find it easier once you come to know me.” His voice was gruff with frustration. Pippa was here, she was
ready, she wanted him. His every instinct urged him to take her. And then, like a wall of stone, his sense of honor held him back.

He must not compromise her, not now, not when he was powerless to protect her from the vicious world. If she were to have a child—an Irishman's bastard—the queen would banish her in disgrace. She and the babe would be set out to starve.

She lifted her free hand to his stubbled face. “I do know you, Aidan. That is why I came. Can we—” She bit her lip. “We must talk about it.”

“About what?”

“Do not pretend you don't know.”

“The fast.”

“Aye. You look pale and thin already. You must end it.”

He thrust her away and stood to prowl through the confines of his cramped quarters, ignoring the now familiar dizziness that swept over him. “Did they send you to tell me that?”

“No.” She looked delectable, her clothes and hair charmingly rumpled, her full mouth moistened by his kisses. “The next person they send to you will be a team of sentries who will force you to eat.”

The idea chilled his blood. He did not doubt that the Tower officials would carry out the barbaric plan. Neither did he doubt his ability to fend off the attempt.

“Please eat,” she whispered with a tremor in her voice.

The sight of her, so wide-eyed and concerned, took him apart inch by inch, each word a chisel to his will. “I can't,” he said. “Don't beg me to compromise myself. They have taken everything from me except my convictions, and I'll die before I surrender that.”

“You place a high value on your will,” she said. “What of your people who need you?”

“I'll serve them better by dying.”

“No!” She shot up from the bed and flung herself at him, pounding her fists on his chest. “Don't speak of dying. I won't let you die.”

He caught her hands. Her tears came freely, streaming down her cheeks. “You must not die. I'll kill you if you die.”

“An interesting thought,” he said with black humor. “Here is the way these things work. I am a useful hostage for now. But what if the rebels in Kerry murder their English hostages? What if the English army retaliates and takes over my lands? What if the name of the O Donoghue Mór comes to mean nothing? The English will not need me. I'll die. Either quietly, comforted by a cup of poison, or with much ceremony, at the hand of an expert axman before a crowd of Londoners, so that I am an example to others.”

“How can you speak so calmly of this?”

“Because my demise is not going to happen the way they planned it.” He dragged in a deep breath. “It is going to happen the way
I
plan it, and the shame will be on the queen.”

She absorbed his ultimatum like a woman bracing herself for a storm. Her head was slightly bent, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. Then she looked up, and the storm burst.

“You are the most idiotic, bull-witted, stubborn, white-livered embarrassment to manhood I have ever met.”

He could not suppress a smile. “What sort of persuasion is that?”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

“What if you were to be freed?” She went to the window and pressed her hands on the ledge. Daylight fell
over her dainty features, and the sun glistened in the long sweep of her eyelashes.

“And who would be freeing me,” he asked softly, “when they went to such trouble to lock me up?”

She turned and stared him in the eye, and although she was clean and wore beautiful clothes, she resembled the bundle of bold energy he had first spied on the steps of St. Paul's.

“I could do it,” she stated.

“Break me out of the Tower of London.”

“Yes.”

“No one has escaped the Tower in this century.”

“The century is not over yet. At least, I don't think it is.”

If the proposition had been made by anyone other than Pippa, he would have discounted her for a fool. But she was the most resourceful person he had ever met.

“Very well,” he said quietly, cautiously. “You get me out of here and I'll eat a whole roasted pig.”

She grinned. “I thought you'd like that idea.” She took his hand and tugged him over to the table. “Now,” she said, picking up the soft loaf of bread. “Eat.”

He pulled his hand from hers. “No.”

Fear and anger blazed in her eyes. “You must. You'll need your strength.”

“I have strength for another day or two. So if you mean to carry out your promise, you'd best make haste.”

“But you have to eat now,” she said. “You see—”

“No, I don't see,” he roared, then remembered to lower his voice. “If I eat, and the escape fails, then I am set back on my plans, and I'll look like a weakling.”

“It won't fail,” she said through gritted teeth.

“So long as I am a prisoner of Mother England, I will not touch a bite of food. You had best act quickly, or you'll be dragging out a corpse.”

 

“He'll wish he was dead before I finish with him,” Pippa muttered under her breath as she crept along the slimy river wall of the Tower.

It was deep night, and she worked solely by touch and memory. Here was a jut of the wall; around the corner would be a shaft with an iron grate over it. She had seen workers using this little known portal to carry out garbage and muck from the stables.

She knew it to be a place of rats and filth, but she would have to bear the unpleasantness. The O Donoghue Mór wanted to escape, and he expected her to do the work.

The insufferable jack-dog.

She took a deep breath, pulled her cloak of filched rags around her and wedged herself into the portal. It was a close fit; the damp stone scraped her. At the end, she encountered an iron grate.

Her speech was larded with curses as she picked at the mortar. By the time she twisted one of the iron bars away and squeezed through the opening, her hands were raw and bleeding and she had run out of oaths.

Carrying the iron bar, she stole past Devereux Tower. A bellman called out the hour of nine. Pippa hurried. Soon the Ceremony of the Keys would begin.

Why couldn't Aidan have eaten? She would have looked like a heroine to the queen, Elizabeth would have summoned her nobles and Pippa's family would be found. In her heart she knew it was unlikely, yet it had given her the sweetness of hope.

But the stubborn Lord Castleross had no faith in her abilities. He refused to eat until he was a free man. She tried to feel angry at him, tried to curse his obstinance, but instead she felt sick with worry. What if he died?