Finally, the king looked up, his eyes disconcerting in their blackness. Grey blinked. The king’s eye color seemed washed away by an endless, glassy darkness. The king gazed sightlessly at Grey. A terrible feeling about the king and the whispers Grey had heard, but never credited, rose to almost choke off his air. He shook it off, as he’d discarded many ill feelings. He was the king’s man now, for better or worse, he’d protect and serve His Majesty until his death.
“I’ve got it,” the king’s voice lowered to a whisper as if there were someone in the room besides Grey and Stratmore who might hear. “The first word is “king”. The king smiled a disturbingly wide smile which looked more like a jester’s comedic grin than a king’s. The hairs on the back of Grey’s neck stood on end at the same time thunder boomed outside.
“Very good, Your Majesty.”
Grey scrutinized Stratmore. Was it his imagination or was the man talking to the king in a soothing tone?
“Can you decode the second word?”
The king’s brows pulled together in a deep furrow. What took Grey less than a few seconds to decode took the king another long expanse of soundless, painful minutes. Something was not right with His Majesty, and it wasn’t Grey’s imagination. Lines of worry creased Stratmore’s forehead, and his gaze darted continuously from the king to Grey. Damn him to hell if Madelaine’s father wasn’t assessing him to see if he’d figured out there was a problem with the king.
“The next word is my name.” The king’s voice held surprising asperity. Grey rubbed at the back of his neck to rid himself of the prickly sensation assaulting him.
Stratmore reached a hand toward the paper on the table. “Perhaps we should continue another day, Your Grace.”
The king slammed a hand down on top of Stratmore’s. Grey held still as stone, unsure what to do or say. “Don’t. Touch. The. Scroll.” Each word was a harsh, clipped command. “We’ll finish now.”
Stratmore slid his hand away from the paper. Wise choice, considering the king fairly foamed at the mouth. His wild gaze locked on Grey. Grey’s first instinct was to put distance between himself and his suddenly unpredictable sovereign, but that would be cowardly and unworthy of his station. “Your Majesty?”
With confusion apparent in his eyes, the king shook his head. “I feel a spell coming on. It’s muddling my thinking, but I’ll manage.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” A spell? The whispers were of sudden spells of madness. The prickling sensation was back, but now the tingling covered Grey’s entire body.
“Bring me the quill from my desk,” the king demanded.
Grey glanced at Stratmore who nodded agreement. The outer chamber was deserted as the king had earlier commanded, yet a whisper of air moved through the room. Had someone just been here? The king’s guards stood some ten feet away at the outside of the door. They wouldn’t foolishly disobey the king and trespass where they’d been expressly told not to, yet the feeling someone was here, watching and listening enveloped Grey. He glanced around him as he moved toward the king’s desk but noted nothing unusual. The fire burned in the grate casting twisted shadows on the wall, but they were just shadows. Still, his heartbeat picked up speed.
Making quick work of it, he retrieved the quill and brought it to the king. When he sat, he positioned himself so he could see into the outer chamber. If someone was there he’d catch them. As the king worked, Grey stared, unmoving, into the other room and counted each noisy inhalation of Stratmore’s impatient breathing. Finally, the king set his pen down and wiped a distracted hand across his brow. “I’ve mastered it. I’m sure of it. Check my work, Stratmore.”
Madelaine’s father hunched over the list silently, but after a minute a hiss of breath filled the room. When he looked up, his protruding eyes worried Grey. What the hell had the king written down to make Stratmore look ill? A sheen of sweat covered Stratmore’s forehead. The man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his skin with a shaking hand. “You do have it, Your Grace.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. “But let’s destroy this immediately.”
“Not yet.” The king turned his glassy gaze on Grey. Grey’s fingers convulsed spasmodically against his leg. He didn’t like this strange situation, but he was good and trussed to his vow. “Decode what I’ve written. I’ll see that you can do it as well.”
At once, Grey scanned the first sentence the king had written.
An angel of the lord came to me with eyes like stars and clothed in fire. The angel revealed to me a plot of the most insidious nature. My appointed Administration is trying to overthrow me and must therefore all be executed.
Grey swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. Now he knew what had taken the king so long. Before he’d decoded what Stratmore had written, the king had written this message, his own message. Despite himself, Grey glanced around the room. No angels. The king was bloody mad. Or he had been for the minutes the spell had taken him. Sweat broke out on Grey’s forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. Stratmore was right to want to destroy this immediately.
“Get on with it man,” the king barked.
Grey’s cheek ticked rapidly. He cleared his throat. “An angel of the lord—”
The king slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “I’ve heard of your humor, Lord Grey. But I’m not amused. Read only what’s on the paper.”
Grey’s darted his gaze to Stratmore. The man looked like he was on the verge of a fit. His face was pasty and his eyes were bulging. Stratmore nodded. “Yes, Lord Grey. Simply do as your told.”
Grey lowered his voice, wary to read any of the contents aloud but aware if he didn’t comply, the king might very well lose his temper and read the translation in a voice loud enough to be overheard by someone besides Grey and Stratmore. “Here,” Grey said, pointing to the first line after the mad accusations the king had written, “you’ve written that my father is to deliver a message to Nelson regarding the movement of Napoleon’s fleet across the Atlantic. And each proceeding line regards a new mission and who is to carry it out. Except I’m not on this list.”
The king smiled. “Very good. I need to add you.”
A distinctive clanking noise came the outer chamber. Grey sprang out of his chair at the same moment Stratmore grabbed for the paper.
Behind him, the king exclaimed, but Grey didn’t pause to look back. Instead, he moved into the outer chamber. The chambermaid Constance leaned over the fire with a poker raised high in the air.
“Who let you in here?”
She whirled around and dropped the poker to the ground with a clatter. “The guard. It’s time to stoke the fire. The king requires it special every two hours, so he doesn’t take chill. The guard said I could enter as long as I was quiet and hurried.”
Grey curled his hands into fists. He’d bloody well kill the idiotic guard. The swollen redness of the wench’s lips and her half-unlaced bodice told Grey exactly why the guard had made such a foolish choice. “Get out.”
He held still as she scrambled out the door, but the minute she was gone he stormed out of the room and jerked the guard toward him. “If you ever disobey the king’s orders again I’ll see you hung before I eat my evening meal. Understood?”
“Yes, milord,” the young guard sputtered without questioning who Grey was or what authority he had over him.
Disgusted, Grey released the man and strode back toward the king’s room. He paused at the voices of Stratmore and the king raised in argument inside the chamber. No doubt Stratmore was arguing to destroy the paper immediately. Grey was in hearty agreement, but the thought of disagreeing with the king did not sit well. Still, if he was to protect the king, disagreement was necessary.
Decision made, he started toward the men, but the creak of a door behind him stopped his pursuit. He swung around prepared to bark out another order to stay out, but blinked in surprise at Gravenhurst’s drawn face. “Grey, come quick.”
A streak of fear went through him at his friend’s grave tone. “Wha
t is it?”
“It’s your sister. She’s ill.”
Grey glanced back toward the king. He needed to explain his sudden departure.
“I’ll explain to the king,” Gravenhurst said. “Go now. The physician says Lady Elizabeth doesn’t have long.”
The dire pronunciation knifed across his heart with more pain than any cut Gravenhurst had given him in training. Grey flew out of the king’s chambers without another word.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time Grey found the isolated apartment where his sister had been removed, fear had dampened his palms. When he tried to grasp the brass handle to her bedchamber door, his fingers slipped. Cursing, he wiped his hands on his trousers, then tried again. Inside, the room smelled of incense, rosewater and medicine, and the curtains over the window were pushed wide, allowing sunlight to flood it. His shoulders relaxed a little. He’d expected darkness and the sickly stench of death. Maybe Liz wasn’t as bad off as Gravenhurst thought.
But as he approached the bed, his stomach pitched. Liz was asleep, her mouth half open and a line of drool running down her cheek. Her skin looked strange, almost like the wax he sealed his letters with. With a shaking hand, he touched her cheek. By God, she was on fire. Glancing behind him, he swept his gaze over the washstand for the pitcher of water, but the stand was empty. Perhaps his aunt had gone for water, for surely his aunt was caring for Liz.
He knelt down beside his sister and picked up her limp hand. Grief tore through him when she didn’t stir. Grey studied her. What could be wrong? Fever, for certain, but what was causing it? Her thick black hair clung in wet tendrils to her forehead and neck. Beside her pillow was a wet, crumpled cloth she must have thrown off her head in a fit. She needed to be cooled. He picked up the cloth and growled. The damnable thing was hot. Where was the physician and his aunt?
Anger filled his belly and sent him surging to his feet to prowl the room. Liz wouldn’t die. He’d not allow it. She was too young and healthy. And he needed her. She was his confidant, his twin. She understood the loneliness he’d felt most his life because she too had felt like an outcast in their family. Father and Edward had always had a special bond, and Mother and Marianne had been thick as thieves to the exclusion of Liz. When their oldest sister had died, their mother died in spirit right along with her, which was one of the reasons he’d suggested Liz come to Court. Here, she could spread her wings and quit trying to become Marianne to please Mother. If Liz had contracted some vile disease here that killed her, he would never forgive himself.
He paced around the room. He felt helpless and caged. He wanted to flee, saddle up his stallion and ride until numbness took hold. This fear falling over him was unacceptable. Weakness was not an option.
He had to do something. He strode back and forth some more. No good. He was going to go mad. Liz muttered and stirred in her bed. He raced over to her side and fell to his knees. “Liz.” He smoothed the damp hair off her forehead. “It’s Grey. I’m here, poppet.” A crooked, cracked smile wobbled on her lips. Leaning over her, he pressed a kiss to her burning forehead and started to lay his head beside her as they had done as children, but her hand came to his chest to push him away.
“Don’t get too close.” Her eyes opened into slits, and her hand fell to her side.
“Whatever you have, I’m too strong to succumb.”
Liz shook her head. After an interminable moment, she focused her watery eyes on him. “No. You’re not. You’re—” A cough rumbled in her throat becoming so loud and violent that it curled her body into itself. Grey grasped her around the shoulders as her body shook with each cough and ran a hand gently through her hair. “Handkerchief,” she gasped between coughs.
He searched around her bed and found a pile of crumpled handkerchiefs. Frowning at the mess, he handed one to her and grabbed another one to inspect. The red stains on the white linen made his blood run cold. His fingers curled around Liz’s shoulder.
Was she thinner than she had been a week ago? A month? When the last cough died, she flopped back against the bed covers and lay with her eyes drooping and the handkerchief balled in her fist. He uncurled her fingers without her protesting.
Bringing the handkerchief closer, his heart squeezed painfully at the sight of more blood.
“Consumption,” she wheezed. “The doctor thinks I have consumption.”
A strangled sound escaped his throat before he could control himself. His insides knotted into fear. Consumption had taken Marianne from them and might as well have taken their mother. Consumption was horrible. God couldn’t be that bloody cruel to allow two of his sisters to be taken by the same disease. “Has everyone run off then?” Bitterness flowed through his veins. He remembered how some of the servants, including Marianne’s lady’s maid, had fled their house when the physician had pronounced she had consumption.
Liz’s eyes opened just a bit. “Not everyone. Aunt Helen won’t go.”
“That’s my girl.” Grey’s heart filled with gratitude and love.
Liz chuckled almost too soft to hear but the act caused another coughing spree to commence. After the attack ended, he pressed a glass of water to her lips. “Drink.”
She obeyed, though he wasn’t sure how much water actually made it into her mouth. It seemed more ended up on her night rail than down her throat. Once he found a towel and patted her dry, he settled beside her on the bed again. “Where is the physician?”
“Gone to get his bleeding kit.” Liz shuddered. She grasped for his hand and when he took up her hand, she curled hers gently into his as she used to do when they were children and would walk hand in hand around the lake. He blinked at the moisture in his eyes. Damned dry room. “Don’t let him bleed me.” Panic and fear edged her words.
He pictured Marianne, skeletal with blood dripping down her arms from the hundreds of puncture wounds administered by the physician’s spring blade. Liz didn’t need to plead her case. No way in hell would another well-meaning physician drain too much blood and send another one of his sisters to an early grave. He squeezed Liz’s hands. “I’ll kill him if he tries.”
“Good,” she murmured. “Make her go.”
“Who, poppet?”
“Madelaine. She won’t leave me alone either.” Liz coughed again, but this time there was no blood. He swallowed against the consuming dryness in his mouth. Liz smiled wanly. “She’s stubborn like Helen. But she must leave, so she will live.”
“Don’t worry about Madelaine living.” The thought of losing Madelaine and his sister hollowed out his stomach.
“For you,” Liz said. “Silly fool. She’s perfect for you. Can’t have her dying. Convinced yourself you don’t need love.” Liz sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. “But you do. You need her. She’ll never hurt you as Father has.”
“Shh.” He tried to soothe her. With a sigh, she settled into the blanket, and he pulled the cover up under her chin. As he watched her fall into a light sleep and then the deeper one of dreams, he moved from the bed so as not to disturb her and pulled a chair beside the bed. He tugged off his jacket and cravat and leaned back to wait. If the physician, his aunt and Madelaine were returning, there was no sense in him going in search of them. He’d likely miss them anyway. He couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving Liz alone. He slumped in the chair and rubbed his aching neck. Liz’s words rang through his head.
His sister was partially right, he had convinced himself he didn’t need love, but finding out the real reason his father and Edward had always seemed to exclude him and not want him around had released some unknown constraint within him. He’d felt it these last few days. A lessening of whatever invisible force had driven him from one scandalous pursuit to the next. Knowing Madelaine and chancing his heart was something he desperately wanted.
What he wasn’t entirely certain of was whether she’d welcome his pursuit after he told her that her father had denied his courtship. And a deuced irritating voice kept whispering that he might be selfish in pursuing
her. She’d have to go against her father’s wishes, and didn’t she deserve more than a husband who would lie to her? Still, he wasn’t selfless enough to let her simply fade out of his life. There was something special about her, some kindred longing in her eyes that moved him.
The door creaked open, and as if summoned by his thoughts of her, Madelaine drifted into the room, her lilac skirts swishing around her ankles. She had a mound of cloths under one elbow and a pitcher of water in her hand. As she moved further into the room, her eyes lit up and a relieved smile came to her face. “You’re here!”
Without a word, he stood and went to her. Taking the pitcher of water he set it on the washstand, then moved close to her so their talking would not disturb Liz. “Did you doubt I’d come? Liz is my sister.”
“Well, no.” Madelaine bit her lip. “But after the doctor said it may be consumption and the queen had Elizabeth moved to these quarters, some of the other ladies-in-waiting said how awful it would be to die as Elizabeth was going to—all alone with no one but the physician to keep her company.”
He clenched his jaw, a string of blistering words on the tip of his tongue. He settled on a rather mild statement in case Liz could somehow hear him. “Those women are vain nitwits who know nothing of me and the love I hold for my sister. Death does not scare me, Madelaine, if it means my presence comforts Liz.”
“Me, either.”
The pull of a real smile tugged at his lips. “I was afraid you might say that.”
Madelaine’s eyes grew big. “Well, then. I suspect you now see the real, stubborn me. If you’d like to change your mind about courting me, I understand.”
Lords of the Kingdom Page 55