To Kiss A Spy (16 page)

She drank from the jug, then took her own dagger from her sleeve and speared a piece of particularly succulent mutton from the pot. She separated the gristle from the meat with the knife point and ate the mutton. Daggers were useful for more than defense, she reflected. No wonder her mother had urged her daughters to keep one about them. Of course, Pen did not ordinarily dine in the absence of utensils at the common table of a roadside tavern.

The food was good, though. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She leaned sideways to allow a stout servant girl to reach over her and set an enormous fig pudding on the table. The girl wiped her sweating forehead on her sleeve and plunged a spoon into the center of the pudding. Steam escaped with a hiss.

The pudding was passed down the long table, its communal spoon going with it. Pen watched her fellow diners and when the pudding reached her decided that she was no longer hungry.

Owen too declined, but Cedric plunged in the spoon when it was handed to him and ate with enthusiasm.

“Unfastidious youth,” murmured Owen. “It knows only appetite.” Pen smiled, for the moment forgetting the need to keep her distance. It was all too easy to forget it when he was sitting beside her in this way, so companionable and easy.

He touched her neck just behind her ear, a light press of his fingertip just behind the line of the delicate half-ruff that rose at the back of her gown. Pen was very still. His finger rested on her skin. She felt his pulse beating against her skin. She held her breath. Then she turned her head away, and his hand dropped.

“We should be on our way,” Owen said as if that moment had never happened. “Come, Cedric, you’ve eaten enough to sink a barge of coal. Have the horses brought around. Lady Bryanston has arranged for a substitute for the excitable gelding.”

Cedric scrambled from the bench, grabbing up his hat, which had fallen to the floor. He ran off, picking unnameable scraps from the flat brim.

“I’ll join you outside,” Pen said. “I won’t be many minutes.”

“There’s a privy next to the henhouse,” Owen offered helpfully. “I’ll take your cloak.”

“My thanks, Chevalier.” She dropped a mock curtsy and went off to the dark and noisome shed in the back regions.

She emerged quickly, it was not a space to linger, and hurried up the path that led around the side of the tavern.

Owen was examining the broad-backed cob that Pen had hired. He laid down the hoof that he had been checking with the point of his dagger. “I think he’ll carry you. He seems adequately shod.”

“I’m not without some knowledge of horseflesh,” Pen informed him with a touch of asperity.

He merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, and refrained from commenting on the gelding’s unsuitability for crowded roadways.

“Shall I put you up, or would you prefer to use the block?”

Pen touched her neck almost reflexively. She remembered the way he’d lifted her into William’s saddle that morning. “I prefer the block.”

“As you wish.” He gestured to the groom to lead the horse to the mounting block, and swung onto his own horse.

Pen mounted. The animal wore her saddle so it was not as unfamiliar as it might have been, but it still took her a while to get used to the cob’s gait. She went at her own pace and Owen, after a murmured word with Cedric, slowed his own mount to a walk.

“Take your time,” he said. “Cedric has gone ahead to arrange accommodations for us at the Bull.”

Pen listened for a smug or patronizing note but heard neither. He was as charming and as attentive as if he had begged her to make this journey with him.

Last night he’d been the hawk, predatory beak, sharp acquisitive talons. Last night she’d opened herself to those talons, given herself to the rush of desire, the fascination of the man who wore the mask.

In this bright cold afternoon he was as warm, as companionable, as easy to be with as Robin.

Again she touched the spot behind her ear with her gloved hand.

No, not Robin. Not remotely like Robin.

Thirteen

The moon had risen in a cloudy sky when they entered the substantial village of Gerrards Cross. Pen had attempted to draw from Owen some idea of how he intended to ask his questions in High Wycombe, but he had answered evasively. When she told him her ideas, he had merely raised an eyebrow. He was, it had seemed, prepared to talk about anything except the real reason they were on this journey.

Finally Pen had fallen silent, and Owen had made no further attempt at conversation. Pen sensed that he was secretly amused but she was damned if she was going to offer anything more. They rode in silence for the last hour as the evening drew in and Pen found herself fantasizing about supper, a blazing fire, hot milk laced with wine and spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, and then a deep feather bed.

The latter image jerked her out of her reverie. Involuntarily she glanced at her companion, grateful for the waning light as she became aware that her cheeks had suddenly warmed.

Owen instantly turned to her. “Tired?”

“An understatement,” Pen returned as coolly as she could.
Surely he hadn’t read her thoughts?

“Well, the end is in sight.” He gestured with his whip to a large half-timbered building set back from the main street. The lights from its unshuttered front windows glowed through the gathering dusk. Pen’s cob increased his speed as if scenting the stable, and Owen’s horse followed suit.

“If Cedric has done his job well, all will be in readiness to receive us.” Owen looked over at her. “By the way, I thought it would be politic to say that you’re my sister and I’m escorting you to relatives in Oxford.”

Pen forgot her momentary discomfiture at this absurdity. “We don’t look in the least like siblings,” she protested. “I’d have thought a spy would come up with something more ingenious.”

He gave her a mock bow from atop his horse. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I, too, am tired. I had had barely two hours’ sleep before you woke me with such lack of ceremony.”

“I doubt I had that much myself,” she responded, and instantly wished she had bitten her tongue.

“You slept poorly?” He raised an eyebrow but she couldn’t see his expression in the gloom. “I wonder why.”

Pen was spared an answer as they came into the light thrown from the inn’s windows and two grooms raced from the shadows to take their horses.

Pen tried to summon the energy to dismount. Her limbs refused to obey. She made no objection when, wordlessly, Owen lifted her down.

He set her on her feet, keeping his hands at her waist, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then he said quietly, “Just why did you sleep poorly, Pen? An unquiet mind perhaps?”

Pen hesitated. His eyes were upon her, a penetrating gaze that felt almost as if it would pierce her skull to the thoughts behind. “Perhaps,” she said deliberately. “I have much to keep me awake, Chevalier. I am close to finding the truth about my child.” She stepped away from him. “Let us go in.”

He followed her into the light and warmth of the inn, where they were greeted by a giant of a man, red-faced from years of sampling his own wares. His voice was as deep as if it had been steeped in port.

“I bid you welcome to the Bull, good sir. My lady.” He bowed. “You’ll take a glass of something to warm you?”

“I would go straight to my chamber,” Pen said swiftly. “Would you send a hot bath and supper to me above stairs, please?”

“Aye, madam. I’ll send Mary to help you. I’ll have your baggage carried above stairs straightaway.”

Pen paused. She hadn’t considered the awkwardness of arriving at a respectable inn without a spare garment to her name. She didn’t even have her hairbrush.

“Unfortunately my sister’s baggage was stolen from her horse while we were dining earlier today,” Owen said swiftly. “Take my bag up to her chamber.” He turned to Pen. “My dear, feel free to use whatever you think you might need.”

“My thanks, sir,” she said with a small curtsy.

He reached out a hand and caught her chin in a fashion that didn’t strike her as at all brotherly. He tipped her face up to meet his warm and steady gaze. A faint smile lingered on his lips. His expression was all promise. His hand on her chin seemed to render every inch of her skin acutely sensitive.

“We shall sup together. Send the maid to me when you’re ready to receive me.”

“I am very weary,
brother,
” she returned, twisting her chin from his fingers.

“Nevertheless, you must sup,” he responded easily. “And we should discuss our plans for the morrow.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” she retorted. “All afternoon you refused to talk about it.”

“My plans were not fully formed,” he said gently. “Now I’m ready to talk about them . . . over supper.”

Pen felt like a worm on the hook. She couldn’t argue in front of the landlord, who was already regarding them with some interest.

“As you will,
brother,
” she said, her eyes shooting fire. “But our discussion must be short, lest I fall asleep with my head in my soup.” She turned from him towards the stairs.

“Show her ladyship upstairs. I’ll take a pot of ale in the taproom in the meantime,” Owen said to the landlord.

“Right y’are, sir. This way then, madam.” The landlord moved ahead of Pen on the stairs.

He opened a door onto a well-proportioned chamber. “I trust this’ll do ye, madam.”

“Yes, it will do very well,” Pen said, entering the chamber.

“I’ll send Mary up with his lordship’s bag.” The man bowed himself out.

Pen unclasped her cloak and hung it on the peg beside the door. She sighed involuntarily.

She didn’t want to resist him.
The effort exhausted her. But she couldn’t yield to desire again . . . it was too much of a betrayal of her mission and of Philip, and it would be putting her own needs ahead of her child’s.

She was so close to the truth now. She could feel how close she was. She had felt it that morning when she’d first started out from Greenwich . . . felt it as an almost preternatural conviction.

There came a knock at the door and a cheerful young woman entered with Owen’s leather bag. She was followed by three sturdy fellows burdened with a wooden tub and several steaming copper kettles.

“Master said as ’ow y’are wantin’ a bath, madam,” the girl said with a curtsy.

“Yes, I thank you.” Pen shook her braids free of the netted snood as the men set down the tub before the fire and filled it with the hot water.

She smiled at the young woman. “ ’Tis Mary, isn’t it?”

“Aye, madam. At your service.” The maid watched critically as the bath was prepared, then waved the men away with a commanding gesture. One of them winked at her and she blushed.

“I’ll ’elp ye undress, madam.”

“Thank you.” Pen gave herself into Mary’s deft hands and was swiftly divested of her gown and undergarments.

“Such a pretty gown,” Mary said, smoothing the orange velvet and shaking out the damask folds of the underskirt.

“It needs sponging and pressing,” Pen said, pinning her braids to the top of her head to keep them free of the water.

“I’ll see to it right away, madam.”

“And would you bring me a cup of wine? I’ve a mind to linger in the water.”

Mary bobbed a curtsy and hurried to the kitchens for the wine. Pen lay back in the tub, closing her eyes, refusing to think of anything. When the maid returned she sipped her wine, still keeping her eyes closed, summoning strength for the battle she knew lay ahead. A battle she would fight only with herself.

The clock striking eight startled her out of her reverie. Mary said tentatively, “I thought you were asleep, madam. I didn’t like to waken you.”

“I probably was.” Pen set her empty cup on the floor. She rose to her feet and took the towel Mary handed her.

Pen saw that while she’d been dozing in her bath, Mary had set a low table before the fire with two stools, one on either side, in preparation for supper
à deux
.

She dried herself slowly, then, wrapped in the towel, began to examine the contents of Owen’s bag. He had packed a clean silk shirt but it would barely reach her knees. In the present circumstances she could hardly sup with him half naked, she thought acidly. It would definitely send the wrong message. His night robe, on the other hand, would drown her. A much more satisfactory impression.

She put it on and then unpinned her braids, letting them fall in two heavy ropes down her back. She untied the ribbons and used her fingers to unknot the plaits. She had no hairbrush and neither, it seemed, did the chevalier, so her hair would have to remain in its unruly state. She was suddenly vividly reminded of the morning in Mistress Rider’s inn. She’d had to tidy her hair with her fingers then also.

“You may fetch a supper tray now, Mary.”

Mary went off and Pen wandered to the window. She opened the shutters and leaned out, breathing deeply of the cold air. Clouds had rolled over the moon and there were no stars to be seen. It was very dark and very quiet after the noise and bustle of London. She turned back to the chamber as the door opened to admit Mary with a laden tray.

“Here’s supper, madam. Scalloped oysters, a nice breast of capon with a sorrel sauce, and a platter of custard tarts.” The girl named each dish with obvious satisfaction as she laid them on the small table. “Cook says that’ll tempt the most delicate appetite.”

“And mine is far from delicate. . . . What a feast,” Pen said appreciatively, surveying the table with a hungry eye. “I’m ravenous.”

“My lord D’Arcy chose the dishes,” Mary told her, hurrying out and returning almost immediately with a flagon of burgundy and two pewter goblets. She held up the flagon. “Best in the cellar. Your brother picked it out himself.”

She arranged the goblets with the flagon on the table with a little flourish.

“Very pretty, Mary,” Pen said, smiling at the girl. “Were you named for the princess?”

“Aye, madam,” Mary replied with a curtsy.

“Your parents are very loyal,” Pen said. “And it is a lovely name.” The girl blushed and curtsied again.

“Would you inform my brother that I’m ready to receive him?” Pen said, closing her mind to the reflection that she’d never been less ready to take on Owen d’Arcy.

Mary took one last look at the table and nodded at her handiwork before going in search of the chevalier.

Pen poured wine into the two goblets. The deep red stream glowed in the candlelight like a ruby in the sun. Her mouth watered. How had Owen known that scalloped oysters were her favorite dish? Or had it just been a lucky guess?

“Enter,” she called at a knock on the door, turning, goblet in hand, to offer Owen what she hoped was a coolly polite smile.

He stood by the door, regarding her with an air of appreciative appraisal that sent a jolt through her belly. Resolutely, she concentrated on rearranging the place settings that Mary had put out with such care.

“You’re lost in that robe,” Owen observed with a smile. “Wouldn’t the shirt have been better?”

“I am not inclined to sit at table with you with bare legs,” Pen said tartly, and then immediately regretted conjuring such an image. She could see a glint of arousal in his eyes and his smile changed to a clearly inviting grin.

She cleared her throat, saying as neutrally as she could, “I must congratulate you, Chevalier, on such a clever choice of supper.”

“Somehow I knew exactly what would please you,” he observed, crossing the floor with his soft, swift step. He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and kissed her mouth. He pushed his hands up through her loosened hair, fluffing it out around her face.

“You’re looking more than usually beautiful this evening, sweetheart. Fatigue appears to suit you.” His eyes glowed with invitation and promise.

Dear God, how was she going to manage this?

“I cannot imagine how you could possibly know what would please me.” Pen turned away from him to pick up the other goblet. “Wine, sir?”

“My thanks, madam,” he replied with her own formality, taking the goblet. He sipped, regarding her over its lip with a comprehending smile in his black, black eyes.

“I’ve watched you at many a meal,” he said. “I notice what you choose to eat. You prefer the breast of a fowl, you have little liking for beef, and you never pass up an oyster.” He laughed as if his observations gave him pleasure.

“A spy’s trick,” Pen accused.

“Or a lover’s.”

“No,” she said definitely. “One moment of weakness, Chevalier, does not make a lover.” She sat down at the table, gesturing to the stool opposite. “Shall we eat?” She took up a serving spoon and dug into the dish of oysters.

“By all means.”

Owen took his seat and, cradling his goblet, watched her as she served them both. “The moment of weakness was not mine, Pen. I gave in to nothing that I did not embrace with delight.”

“Then you have nothing with which to reproach yourself,” Pen observed. She broke into the loaf of barley bread and spread butter thickly onto a crust. She felt as if she were fighting for her life, with only her wits to keep him at bay.

Owen raised an eyebrow and carved a slice of capon, laying it on her plate. “In general I try not to do things for which I might reproach myself.”

Pen deliberately speared an oyster with her fork. “The cook in this inn is quite accomplished,” she observed. “Rarely have I tasted such good oysters. The local river trout are very good too. You should try them while we’re in these parts.”

Owen refilled his goblet. He regarded her in silence for a minute. He was not going to get anywhere with wordplay. “So, you gave in to a moment of weakness. Why, Pen? You don’t strike me as one who easily yields control.”

Pen spooned sorrel sauce over her capon. “I daresay I was overdrunk,” she said deliberately. “Besides, on Twelfth Night traditionally all scruples are laid aside. People do the most unlikely things. I imagine the atmosphere went to my head.”

“Oh, Pen . . . Pen . . .” He shook his head in reproof. “I can tolerate much but not such blatant untruths.”

“That is all the answer you are going to get, Chevalier.” She faced him across the table. “And now, should we not discuss how we’re to proceed on the morrow with my list of names?”