Linda Barlow (29 page)

The outbreak of war seemed inevitable. The new French diplomats hadn't much hope of saving the situation, Roger knew, wondering who would even undertake such an assignment at this point in time. Their backs were to him, so it came as a substantial shock when the herald read off the name "Monsieur Geoffrey de Montreau" and proceeded with a long list of the man’s credentials and honors. His last post had been at the Sublime Porte in Stamboul.

As a blond, slender man dressed in crimson velvet trimmed with silver fox knelt to kiss the hand of Mary of England, Roger's eyes were irresistibly drawn to meet the gaze of the red-haired lady-in-waiting who stood attentively at her post behind the queen. As always, the lively intelligence of those green eyes warmed him. She had made the connection, he sensed, although her expression did not betray it. In the last six months, she had learned to dissemble.

Alexandra. He said her name quietly to himself, imagining that she could hear him. Take care, Alix, be wary. You'll need every scrap of intelligence you possess to survive among the vipers at this court. Especially now that Geoffrey is here. Geoffrey, the brother of Celestine. Geoffrey, who has sworn vengeance against me. Geoffrey, the most venomous of them all. How do I warn you about Geoffrey?

He found an opportunity later that same day. There was dancing that evening to welcome the French, and for once Roger took part in the festivities. The formal pattern allowed little contact with one's partners, but he managed to count off his position at the start so he would end the dance paired with Alexandra. She seemed to have no suspicion of his ploy. She was too busy concentrating on getting the steps right.

Roger nearly laughed when his bedraggled former playmate, now transformed into an elaborately jeweled and gowned court lady, turned precisely around three times and stepped forward to meet her final partner. She blinked when she saw who was about to take her hand.

"If you dare make sport of my dancing, I'll kick you," she said with a bright smile.

Any notion he might have had of making sport of her vanished when their fingers met. Body of Christ! Here it was again, the desire he always felt when in her company.

He wanted to drag her out the door and into some darkened hall, or better yet, into a bedchamber. He wanted to press her down beneath him and bury himself inside her, loving her over and over until they both collapsed in exhaustion. He was so caught up in this fantasy that he didn’t realize the music had stopped until she drew her hand away. They bowed to one another. He thought her color seemed a little high; he was certain his own was.

Despite his frequent appearances at court, Roger had stuck to his resolve to avoid Alexandra Douglas. They never met alone, and rarely even in company. On the one or two occasions when he'd been tempted to accost her, he'd found his way blocked by the dangerously genial person of her father. Roger was the only man who seemed to merit such a distinction. When she was off-duty, he noted, Alix was allowed to converse freely with whatever men she chose, or rather, with whatever men chose her, and to Roger's chagrin, there were quite a few of them.

"You dance very well, my lady."

"My dancing master says I dance with the grace of a hen among swans. You, on the other hand, perform the steps divinely. You're full of accomplishments, are you not? Dancing, Spanish, shipping, diplomacy, flattery, and flirtation. All the ladies here are mad about you, Roger."

"I want to talk to you, Alix. Here, quickly, while we seem to be having a light conversation."

The smile stayed on her face, but he could sense her sudden tension. "Speak then. I shall pretend to be laughing and flirting with you."

"You've changed, poppy-top," he said softly.

"Court life tends to age one quickly."

It was true. She had matured considerably in six months. She had been a girl last summer, bright and full of life, but still a little unsure about the myriad workings of the adult world. Now, though, there was a seasoned gleam in her gaze that testified to everything she had recently learned and assimilated. And it was not just her understanding that had changed. Somebody had taught her to clothe her slender body in richly fashionable gowns, lightly paint her face with God-only-knew-what to hide the freckles, outline her brows and lashes with something that drew subtle attention to her huge green eyes, and dress her breathtaking hair so it flowed smoothly down her back instead of floating wildly around her face. Wit she had always had, and laughter; now she was growing beautiful as well. Beautiful enough to haunt him, and make him curse himself for the idiotic scruples he seemed to have developed regarding her.

He forced his mind back to the problem at hand. On the far side of the hall, Geoffrey de Montreau, elegantly attired in bright satin, brocade, and ruffles, was ingratiating himself with the queen. Roger had managed to avoid him all day, but he doubted if the evening would end without a confrontation of some sort. He knew full well that Geoffrey was aware of him.

"You recall my dread of snakes? There is one now among us. You know to whom I refer?"

"I'm rather good at names. He had a sister?"

"He wants me dead, Alix. And he's a disconcerting person to have as an enemy. He's a good deal deadlier than he looks."

She nodded. "I understand."

Someone ranged within hearing and Alexandra laughed as if he'd made a jest, her green eyes sparkling, her lips so red and soft that he lost his train of thought. Bloody little actress! Who would have thought honest, open-faced Alix Douglas could learn the tricks of court life so well in only six months?

"For myself I have no care. 'Tis you I'm worried about," he went on. "Geoffrey is clever. He can be pleasant, but don't be deceived. He has the instincts of a predator."

"I'll be careful. Thank you for warning me." If she was apprehensive, it did not show.

"He's looking this way. Laugh again, beloved. As you say, all the court ladies are mad about me, and you shouldn't be the only exception."

"I'm hardly that," she said dryly.

He raised her hand to his lips. Her skin was soft and fragrant; he had to fight down the temptation to reverse her palm and nuzzle her with his lips and tongue. "I dare not tarry longer beside you, lass. Another minute and your father's spies will report me. The next thing I know, they'll be hounding me out of the city."

"He has you watched, you know. Not only because of me."

Roger knew this all too well; in addition to his official court duties, Sir Charles Douglas was an intelligence-gatherer, the chief of a large network of agents.

"I hope you're careful."

"Always," he said as he squeezed her hand once more as, reluctantly, he left her.

Geoffrey de Montreau intercepted him as he was about to take his leave. "Roger,
mon ami,
how delightful to see you again."

Roger stopped to survey the golden-haired courtier in front of him. Geoffrey had the face of an angel: fair skin, with blue eyes and long thick lashes. In the shape of his bones, Roger could see another face, also pale-skinned and bright-haired, but, unlike her brother, guileless and innocent, as if life's experiences had yet to etch their tracings there. The innocence had proved to be artificial, but that didn't excuse his conduct. He felt a heaviness in his gut. He hadn't seen Geoffrey de Montreau since the day he had informed him of Celestine’s death. It had been the only time he'd ever seen genuine emotion in the man he had known for several years. Geoffrey was not a man with an open countenance, nor did he have the amiable disposition that Roger preferred among his friends. Like the experienced diplomat that he was, he maintained strict control of his emotions while behaving with impeccable manners at court. On learning his sister’s fate, however, Geoffrey had broken down and howled. Later, wildly, he had vowed revenge.

"De Montreau," he said shortly, inclining his head.

"You look a trifle pale, my friend. Perhaps you miss the bracing air of the Mediterranean? I must confess to a certain surprise. I never thought to see you dancing attendance at court when you could be riding the quarterdeck of a trading vessel."

"And you, monsieur? Why are you wasting your talents in the backwaters of an upstart little country like England when you might be brokering power with the Ottoman empire? This is hardly your area of expertise."

"On the contrary, England is fast becoming a power to be reckoned with, is she not? Mary Tudor's alliance with Spain, my country's ancient enemy, forces us to take her seriously. Rumor has it that the queen's advisers have suggested she concentrate on upgrading her naval power. Might this have anything to do with your presence?"

"I am a commercial, not a military sailor."

"You are a mystery, Roger,
mon cher."
He smiled charmingly. "But I intend to unveil you. I intend to discover what you are really doing at court."

"I have family responsibilities. My elder brother is dead and I am now the heir to my father's title." He paused. "You understand family responsibilities, surely?"

It was dangerous, but it seemed sensible to keep the animosity between them personal. The last thing Roger wanted was to have Geoffrey nosing around and possibly uncovering his connection with Francis Lacklin and the Protestant heretics.

"I understand them well," de Montreau returned. His golden lashes flicked open, then closed. "I am anticipating your demise with unparalleled pleasure. It is an event which nothing will induce me to miss."

"I'll be sure to send you a personal invitation," Roger assured him as he quitted the chamber.

* * *

That night Roger sat sipping wine in the library of Whitcombe House, his father's London town house, where he'd been living since September. His mind wandered from one melancholy subject to another, all inspired by the arrival of Geoffrey de Montreau and the conversation, brief though it had been, with Alix. The wine was an indulgence he had been resorting to slightly more often than was wise. His nerves had been increasingly on edge. With all his heart he missed standing on the deck of his ship with the ocean heaving beneath his feet. The sea air was a far better tonic than ever wine could be.

And back to sea he would go, he vowed, as soon as he discharged his debt to Francis. He would leave this country with all its treacheries and unpleasant memories. Leave his father, with whom he could not coexist; leave Francis, who wanted far, far more from him than he had ever been able to give; leave Alexandra, the only woman with whom he might have chosen to stay.

Alix. Her image was strong in his mind tonight. There were nights, and this was one of them, when he relived every detail of their abortive lovemaking in the witch's cottage. The memory of her slim-boned body molding tightly to his never failed to arouse him. He recalled her eager lips, her soft cries of pleasure, her joyful and uninhibited response to every novel sensation. She was more genuinely sensual than many more experienced women, and no man could be unmoved by such enthusiasm.

But there was more to it than that. There had been an intuitive communication in their loving that he knew to be rare. He would never have expected to be drawn to a tall, coltish, red-haired virgin, and yet he was. His need was not feverish, not the intense lusting of a short-lived storm of lecherousness; rather it was strong and steady, like an unwavering flame. And because he avoided her, it was bearable, if only just.

What was not bearable was the knowledge that she was his equal in courage, determination, passion, and—this was rare for a woman—education. He was tantalized by the chimera of a union of minds, hearts, and bodies that would eclipse any former male-female relationship he had experienced. He might almost have believed himself in love with her if he didn't know himself to be incapable of that exalted emotion. Celestine's death had been the final and most harrowing event that had proven that.

He had long ago decided never to burden another innocent young woman with his particular brand of callous, self-gratifying, short-lasting affection. If he really cared about Alix, he would continue to protect her from himself, for surely there was no one who represented a greater potential threat to her happiness and well-being.

Still, he could not give up his erotic fantasies about her. He was entitled to pleasures of the imagination, at least, if pleasures of the body were forbidden him. He recalled the exquisite give of her body under his, her lips, her breasts, the pale, soft warmth of her thighs. He was debauching Alix in his mind when Francis Lacklin quietly let himself into the room. Roger looked up from his cup, then dropped his eyes again. Damnation, he thought. But all he said was, "You were careful, I presume? The building is watched."

"No one saw me," Lacklin said. He crossed the room to Roger's side and removed the cup from his fingers. Then he backhanded Roger across the side of his face, hard.

Roger lunged out of his chair and grabbed Francis around the throat, but he was off-balance. Francis shoved him aside. "I’ve asked you before not to drink so much." Lacklin's voice was furious. "Are you an animal with no spiritual resources? What the devil are you doing to yourself?"

"What I'm doing to myself is my own affair."

"Not when the lives of my people are at stake."

"Damn you, Francis. It’s not as if I’m drinking every day. I’m no sot, and besides, there are worse vices."

"I need you at your best. If we are to continue our efforts to save dissenters from the flames, your brain must be working clearly. I have enough to worry about without your sinking into a mire of self-pitying melancholia."