To Kiss A Spy (21 page)

He murmured something and put out an arm, sliding it beneath her so that he held her close.

“Are you still sleeping?” she inquired against his skin. “Can I not wake you?”

“I sleep the sleep of the just,” he returned and she could hear the smile in his voice. “And in justice should be permitted to return to my dreams.”

Pen moved a hand beneath the covers. She smiled in her turn as she felt his flesh grow hard in her grasp. “Justice demands that I reap my just deserts.” She rolled over him, settling astride his thighs. She ran her hands up over his belly, over his ribs, pressing the hot wet furrow of her body against his hard jutting sex. “I don’t believe that you’re still sleeping.”

“No, it appears not,” Owen agreed. He cupped her knees, slid his hands along the smooth planes of her thighs, held her hips.

Pen lifted her hips a fraction and guided him within. Her body closed around him and she held herself still, savoring the feel of him as he grew to fill her, as his penis pulsed against the tight sheath that enclosed him.

Owen threw his hands up over his head and raised his hips. He moved within her in a leisurely rhythm. Pen laughed softly, matching his rhythm, as the pleasure built slowly, inexorably. It was only the fourth time they had made love and yet it seemed she knew his body as intimately as her own. She fought to hold off the orgasmic joy, to hold on to the edge for one more glorious second. But at last she let go, yielded to the wash of pleasure, let it take her where it would.

She buried her face in his shoulder, tasting the sweat of his fulfillment. The air was rich with the smell of sex, of their conjoined flesh. His penis was small and soft within her now. Slowly, reluctantly, she rolled away from him to lie at his side.

Owen stroked the curve of her cheek, twisted his hands in the tangle of her hair as it lay tumbled over his shoulder.

“This time we were not careful,” Pen whispered. “I preferred it thus.”

“I too,” he replied. “But I’d not wish for any undue consequences.” He hitched himself onto an elbow, leaning over her. “You would not, either, Pen.”

“Not now,” she agreed. She raised her eyes to his, a question now in her steady gaze. “But what of you, Owen? Would you one day like to have a child?”

Owen’s face closed, and while his position didn’t change she felt his sudden withdrawal. “There’s no room in my life for children,” he said, sitting up and flinging the coverlet aside.

Lucy and Andrew. They both had their mother’s eyes. Green as moss.

Pen lay still as he sat in silence, staring into the middle distance. Her skin was cold and her spirit suddenly weighted with dismay. She should not have asked such an intimate question. They were lovers but there was so much about him that she did not know. So much about himself that he would not reveal. Was it simply the excessive caution that a spy’s life made necessary? Or was it something else, something essential to the man himself?

She stretched out a hand to touch his back. His skin was as hot as hers was cold. There was something badly wrong. She could sense his hurt through his skin. It was as if he was lost again, as he had been the day before when his horse had nearly trampled the child. Unable to keep silent, she asked softly, “Owen, what’s troubling you?”

There was a moment’s silence in which she wished she had not probed further. Then he seemed almost visibly to shake off that moment of depression. “Nothing . . . an old story.” He leaned over and lightly slapped her turned flank. “Come, get up now. We have to be on the road to London at first light.”

What old story?
She wanted to know, but even if he hadn’t closed the subject, there was no time to pursue it. The sooner they got back to London, the sooner she would find her child. Owen had too many mysteries to be solved in a moment. This one too would wait.

She jumped from the bed, hurried to the coffer for her shift and hose that Mary had washed for her and laid in lavender the previous day while she was roaming the countryside in Cedric’s clothes.

She bent to open the coffer. Owen looked at her, aroused once again by the pearly glow of her bare skin, the delicious curves of her out-thrust backside, the line of her spine, the sweet hollows behind her knees.

She stood up with the garments, holding them against her as she turned towards him.

“You couldn’t do it again, could you?” she said with a degree of astonishment as she saw his arousal.

“Very easily,” he replied.

“Well, we haven’t time,” Pen declared, hastily dropping the shift over her head to cover her inviting nakedness. She sat on the chest at the foot of the bed to put on her hose. “Should I call for Mary or will you lace me?”

“Call for Mary. Much as I would enjoy it, I have to dress myself.” He thrust his arms into his own night robe and strode to the door.

“I know you’re not going very far but will you not kiss me goodbye after such a night?” Pen smiled at him, holding out her arms. It seemed too unceremonious to part with such sudden haste after the long glorious hours of their lovemaking.

He turned back. “I was trying to resist temptation,” he offered. He put his hands at her waist and kissed her mouth. She closed her eyes automatically, then suddenly opened them. Something didn’t feel right. It felt as if he wasn’t truly there. Owen’s eyes were wide open and he seemed to be looking over her head even though his mouth was warm and firm on hers.

Chilled, Pen pulled back. She laughed a little awkwardly. “Your mind’s on other things.”

“Forgive me, I was distracted,” Owen agreed. He smiled apologetically. “My only excuse is that my mind is on your business, Pen. I’m anxious to be on the road.”

“As am I,” Pen said, stepping away from him. She believed him but it still made her uncomfortable to think that he could appear to be so physically close and yet actually be a world away. “I will join you below stairs as soon as I’m dressed.”

Owen hesitated, as if he would say something more, then he kissed her again quickly and left her.

In his own chamber he awoke Cedric and dressed rapidly. There were times when his ability to separate his mind from his actions was something of a liability. He had kissed Pen because she’d asked him to, but his mind had been elsewhere. Most women didn’t notice, but Pen was a woman of a different order, and until that moment their lovemaking had always engaged him completely. It was not surprising that she had noticed his distraction.

But he had been thinking of how to approach the next step in Pen’s quest. He didn’t want to go sniffing around the South Bank stews too obviously in search of stray children in case it alerted the Bryanstons, so he needed a device. He needed a reason to go from brothel to brothel, and the only foolproof plan he could think of would have to involve Pen. He had not yet told her what he suspected of the child’s whereabouts. Indeed, he didn’t know how he was going to, but she had to know.

And then they would face another problem. Would Pen be able to identify a two-year-old child on whom she had never laid eyes?

Seventeen

It was early evening when they returned to Greenwich Palace. Owen left Pen at the road entrance to the palace. It was the back way in and people still thronged the road, pressed through the gates either coming or going, merchants and barrow boys, laundresses and cooks, heralds and grooms, all serving the palace’s needs.

“I will await you at the water steps at eight o’clock,” Owen said quietly. “You will be free for the evening then?”

“I would think so. Mary, even when she’s behaving like herself and not an invalid, generally retires early to her prayers and a few hours of quiet study. . . . Oh, do be still, William!” she exclaimed as the gelding pulled against the reins, anxious to return to the familiar stable.

“I would be very happy if I were never to lay eyes on that animal again,” Owen observed, surveying the restive horse with acute disfavor. William had made the latter part of their day’s ride after they’d retrieved him from the inn at Northolt somewhat eventful.

“He behaves beautifully in the country,” Pen said defensively.

“That I do not believe,” Owen stated. “The sooner you’re off his back the happier I will be. He’s a thoroughly dangerous mount.”

“I own I had expected him to behave better,” Pen said with a sigh.

“Well, we will go by water tonight. Wear a thick cloak, it will be cold.”

“If I cannot get away by eight . . . ?” She regarded him anxiously.

“I will wait until nine. After that it’ll be too late and we must try another night.”

“I cannot wait another night!” Pen said in a low voice that throbbed with urgency. “But where are we going to start to look? I know you have some plan . . . some idea.”

Owen hesitated. He’d managed to evade her questions all day because he couldn’t bear the torment the truth would cause her. She would have too long to dwell on it, to imagine it. Too long to suffer the agonies of inaction.

Pen’s clear-eyed gaze rested on his face. She saw the sudden spurt of rage in the black eyes that met hers. She recoiled from it and William snorted and stamped.

“I do have a plan,” he said, the flatness of his voice doing nothing to diminish that flash of fury. “But it needs some refining and I would keep it to myself for the moment.”

He smiled at her, and his expression was once more calm and seemingly untroubled. “I am never comfortable sharing my plans until they’re perfectly in place, Pen. It’s a trick of my trade, I’m afraid.”

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll meet you at eight at the water steps.”

“Until then.” He leaned over and lightly brushed her lips with his before he turned his horse back onto the London road.

Pen joined the throng passing through the gate into the rear courtyard of the palace. No one remarked her. A groom took William from her in the busy stable and led him away, the horse throwing up his head against the hand on his bridle as he surged eagerly towards the stables.

Pen entered the palace and hurried to her own chamber, keeping her hood up, her head lowered. She had no wish to be accosted by anyone who knew her until she’d remedied her appearance, which she was sure was far from courtly.

Nutmeg was as usual curled on the end of the bed. He raised one eye and turned his back, showing his disapproval of Pen’s absence.

She pulled his ears and tickled his chin until he relented and greeted her with a rough tongue on her hand and a deep-throated purr. “Stupid cat,” she said. “You knew I was coming back. I always come back.”

She rang the handbell for her maid and cast aside her cloak, examining her reflection in the glass. Her suspicions had been correct. The ruff of her gown was bedraggled, the hem of the figured silk underskirt splashed and muddied from the road. Ordinarily she would have worn a safeguard to protect her gown while riding but she’d been in such a hurry she’d forgotten such niceties.

Ellen muttered when she saw the condition of her mistress’s gown. She announced that she had been very surprised Lady Pen had gone to the Earl and Countess at Holborn without taking her. And to go without a word and without taking so much as a night bag.

“It was very sudden, Ellen, and I have clothes enough there,” Pen said soothingly. “And you know Tilly would not let anyone but herself take care of me.”

This was so true that Ellen was somewhat placated, although she kept a ruffled silence while she fetched hot water and towels, then helped Pen into a fresh gown and readjusted her coiffure.

“Just a simple linen hood and coif, Ellen,” Pen instructed. “I’ll not be supping in company tonight.”

When she was dressed in a plain gown of gray damask with a white pleated partlet to the throat, a dark gray hood and crisp white coif, Pen felt as modestly attired as a nun. Mary would approve it as suitable for a sickroom, she reflected as she smoothed the folds of her skirts.

“Ellen, I will sup alone in my chamber after I’ve seen the princess. Then I shall retire early. I will not be needing you after seven o’clock.”

“Very good, m’lady. Oh, and Lord Robin’s been here, asking for you. He wanted to know if you’d returned. Quite surprised I was. I’d have thought he’d know when you’d be back, seeing as how you were with the family at Holborn.”

Pen thought quickly. Pippa must have told Robin the truth, otherwise he would have assumed like the rest of her family that she was closeted with the princess. He would not betray her, though.

“Oh, Lord Robin’s been kept busy with the duke,” she said vaguely. “I’m sure I’ll see him later.”

It had all seemed so simple in the single-minded urgency of her planning. Now, amid all the familiarities of her ordinary life, the difficulties she had so blithely dismissed took on a new dimension. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she could continue to deceive both her parents and the princess about her whereabouts over the last four days. Ellen, for a start, could well say something about her mistress’s unorthodox departure which would get back to Guinevere.

But if she found her child none of that would matter. Everything would be explained. Even Mary would have to understand.

But if she failed to find her son . . .

No, she would not even consider that possibility.

“I’m going to the princess now.” She hurried away to the princess’s apartments before Ellen could make any more awkward observations.

A chorus of voices greeted her when she entered the antechamber.

“Oh, Pen, the princess is so sick,” Lady Matilda said, jumping to her feet in a shower of embroidery silks. “Since you left she won’t admit any of us to her chamber. She sees only the physician and Lucy.”

Lucy was Mary’s handmaid, a woman as passionately devoted to her mistress as she was to the Catholic church, a woman whose hands were as deft as her tongue was still.

“And the king,” another lady began. “While you were gone they carried the king to the window to show him to the people calling for him in the courtyard. He was too weak to walk but the duke insisted he be carried to them. But when the people saw his face no one cheered or threw up their hats.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “So ill as he looked!”

Pen listened in a kind of despair to the flood of information. She wasn’t interested in any of it. Indeed, it seemed to her that the person who would have been interested four days ago no longer existed. This babble merely interfered with the only thing that concerned her. All her energies were devoted to getting to the water steps by eight o’clock without hindrance. And yet she had to pay the expected attention to the chatter around her. The king’s health was a matter of huge moment to Mary, but Pen at this moment wouldn’t have cared if Edward had died in her absence.

“Forgive me, but I must go at once to the princess.” She interrupted the chatter with a brisk gesture and turned to the door to Mary’s bedchamber.

“Madam, are you truly ill?” she exclaimed, hurrying to the bed, for a moment forgetting her own turmoil in her anxiety at the princess’s appearance. Mary lay propped on pillows, her face whiter than the fine linen on which she lay. Her eyes were sunken, dark bruises beneath them.

“Oh, Pen, I have had such need of you,” she said weakly. Her hand seemed like a skeleton when Pen took it.

Mary looked at death’s door and Pen’s first thought was poison. “Have you eaten anything unusual, madam?”

“Nothing that Lucy hasn’t tasted,” Mary said. “No, I think the good doctor has been overly zealous in the purging and the cupping. I can barely move.”

“Why did you not stop him?” Pen demanded. “It was for you to say, madam, surely?”

A flicker of annoyance appeared in the princess’s cloudy eyes. “Northumberland paid me a visit this afternoon. I had no choice but to convince him of the seriousness of my condition. Had you been here, Pen, you could have managed him for me.”

Pen made no response. Shocked though she was at the princess’s appearance, she wasn’t about to encourage Mary’s petulance with voluble apologies.

“Has your request to visit the king been granted?” she asked neutrally.

“I do not believe Northumberland relays my requests,” Mary declared, sounding stronger by the minute. “But I think he came here to assess my condition himself.”

“Then maybe, since he cannot help but be persuaded of the gravity of your illness, he will now pass your message to the king.”

“No,” Mary said definitely. “He will not. I would take some gruel, Pen. It’s time to regain my strength.”

Pen gave her the silver porringer and sat beside the bed while Mary ate several spoonfuls.

“I understand that the duke insisted your brother be shown to the people,” she said, handing Mary a goblet of wine. She was relieved to see some slight color reappear in the princess’s countenance.

She added, “I understand that it was not a successful appearance.”

“No, Lucy told me as much,” Mary replied, her voice much stronger.

She took another sip of wine. “My brother is near death and I must find a way to leave here without delay, Pen. In the morning you must help me. We must think of how I may leave this place secretly and make my escape back to Essex. My cousin’s ships are waiting off the coast. If my danger grows too great, one will take me to Flanders. On Edward’s death I will return as rightful queen with the emperor’s army at my back.”

The film of weakness had lifted from her eyes and her intense gray gaze fixed upon Pen’s countenance as she made this declaration with quiet determination. “Northumberland shall
not
get the better of me.”

Pen would not dampen this resolution with doubts about the Holy Roman Emperor’s willingness to launch a bloody war to secure his cousin’s throne. The emperor was a cold and calculating monarch. He could well decide that Mary’s throne was not worth risking his own men. Once she was in his hands, he would be able to marry her off wherever he needed an alliance.

Mary’s throne depended on her remaining on English soil. But Pen said nothing of these reflections.

“No, madam,” she agreed. “He will not. Let me think tonight how best to proceed.” She rose to her feet. “I’m certain we can find a way. But if you have no further need of me now, I would go to my chamber. I find myself very fatigued.”

It was Mary’s turn to look concerned. “I trust you’ve not caught a chill, Pen. I would expect Lady Kendal to have taken a care for your health.”

Pen gave a little laugh. “No, madam, I have no chill, but my sister has little need of sleep and she and I sat up late most nights and rose early. Pippa has always fatigued me, dearly though I love her.” The lie tripped off her tongue with surprising ease. She had not thought herself particularly adept at falsehood.

“Well, if that is all . . .” Mary looked relieved. “Go to your rest, Pen, and in the morning we will discuss what I should do next.”

And in the morning I might be holding my child in my arms.

The reflection made Pen dizzy. She put out a hand against the intricately carved and gilded bedpost. If tonight she found her child, there would be no need for further lies. Mary, even in her present danger, would
have
to understand Pen’s deception. Selfish, arrogant, petulant, Mary was all of those things. She was after all her father’s daughter. But she had a deep core of decency and justice. And loyalty to those who stood by her.

Mary as queen would have total power over her subjects . . . power to sign a death warrant or a pardon.

Power to help a friend establish the legitimacy of a stolen child, and power to punish the thieves.

The moment of dizziness passed and Pen was relieved to see that Mary hadn’t noticed it. She bade the princess good night and left her, pausing only for a few minutes in the antechamber, where the ladies pressed her to join them for supper.

“No . . . no, I’m very tired,” she demurred. “I shall sup in my chamber.” She left on a chorus of good-nights, forcing herself to resist the urge to run to her chamber, forcing herself to nod at acquaintances she passed in the corridors, to exchange polite greetings with others. To all she said she was on the princess’s business, and no one attempted to delay her.

Ellen brought her supper, with a saucer of minced rabbit for Nutmeg, who rose high on his legs, arching his back in a leisurely stretch before jumping off the bed and approaching the saucer with a supercilious air.

“I won’t need you again tonight, Ellen,” Pen said, buttering a piece of wheaten bread. “You may leave and attend me in the morning.”

“You don’t need me to help you to bed, madam?”

“No . . . no, I can manage myself, thank you.” Pen took up a chicken drumstick and smiled dismissal at the maid.

As soon as Ellen had left, Pen put down the chicken with a grimace of distaste. She had no appetite, her stomach was churning with excitement and terror.

She sat and watched the clock.

The knock on the door was so unexpected, so startling and unwelcome, that at first Pen didn’t react. It came again and this time Robin’s voice accompanied the knock.

“Pen? Pen, I know you’re in there. I need to talk to you.” He opened the door as he spoke and stood in the doorway, his hand still on the latch, as if waiting for permission to enter. It was not something he ordinarily waited for since Pen would never refuse him such permission, but this evening he was hesitant. The woman he knew had changed and he wasn’t sure the old rules, or the absence of them, still applied. And what he had come to say, had steeled himself to say, was so abhorrent to him that he felt strangely as if he was forcing himself upon her.