by Trish Morey
She nodded. Sometimes she also had no words when unexpected emotions overwhelmed all her senses and she couldn’t explain them even to herself. Moments just like this one. Lovemaking would only make that confusion a thousand times worse.
And what if there was a child? She had lost the one baby she’d conceived with her husband before it could even quicken, and had never had another, but with Rob who knew what could happen? She couldn’t have a babe now. She had to hide even as she longed for him to draw her out.
Still—her body did not know how to be sensible. It still wanted him, ached for him. She had to be stronger than her rebellious body.
Rob urged her to lie down on the pillows, and he eased her chemise back into place over her shoulders, re-tied the ribbons. As she closed her eyes, she felt him lie down beside her and take her into the circle of his arms. He smoothed her hair back from her brow and kissed her cheek in a soft, lingering touch.
‘Just sleep now, Anna,’ he whispered. ‘Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe here.’
Despite everything she had discovered today, against all odds, she did feel safe. Held there in his arms, she slowly drifted into dreams. Even if they were dreams that could never come true.
Rob gently smoothed the tangled waves of Anna’s hair as she slept in his arms, draping it like a silken cloak over his chest and shoulders as if he could use it to bind her to him. To make her his forever—even if she discovered the whole, terrible truth.
She slept peacefully, curled on her side against his chest, perfectly matched with him there as if they were made to be just so. Her breath was soft over his skin, and a tiny smile curled the corners of her dark pink lips in some secret dream.
She looked so young and soft in her sleep, her face free of the caution she usually carried with her, the hardness that reflected her life and the suspicion she bore so rightly for the people around her. As he lightly traced her cheekbone with the back of his hand, and watched as a pale pink blush suffused her skin, he had a sudden vision, as if in the pastoral romance of a poem.
He saw Anna sitting beneath a tree at the edge of a green meadow, the shade of its spreading leaves dappling her face and hair and casting patterns over her white dress. Her hair was loose, red-brown waves over her shoulders, and the silken strands were strewn with summer flowers. As she leaned back he could see the swell of her belly under the soft folds of her skirt—she was with child.
A brilliant smile lit up her whole face. A smile filled with such peace and joy. And she held out her hand to him in welcome …
Z’wounds, he thought. Such peace would never be his, or hers, either. They had their lot in life, their place in the world, and he had learned long ago it wasn’t beneath some pretty country tree. Anna would never welcome him thus—and certainly would never grow round and glowing with his child—once she knew what he had to do.
He had certainly tried his damnedest to stay away from Anna Barrett, ever since he’d joined Lord Henshaw’s Men. He’d never thought to have a moment like this one, and he wanted to hold on to it—hold on to her—as long as he could. As long as he dared.
At least he had shown a trace of self-restraint, though his body certainly didn’t thank him for it. It ached and throbbed with sheer lust, with the strong urge to drive itself into her and lose itself in her softness and heat.
He gently brushed aside a lock of her hair and kissed the curve of her neck. She smelled of roses still, a sweet antidote to the stinking world outside. She murmured in her sleep and burrowed under the blankets.
Rob drew them up over her shoulders and eased himself away from her to let her sleep in peace—and remove himself from temptation. Their clothes lay scattered on the floor, and he scooped them up to drape them over the chair.
‘Grey again,’ he muttered as he rubbed at the plain-cut sleeve of her jacket. Why did she hide herself behind its drabness like that? She should be arrayed in purples, blues and greens, satins and brocades that showed off her beauty.
Or perhaps that was the whole point—to disguise and conceal. Just as he did. Only he hid behind attention-getting antics that disguised his real purpose, and she shrank back behind a thick grey cloud. She deserved so much more than to hide herself that way. She deserved all the finest life could offer.
He glanced at her where she slept so sweetly in his bed and wondered what secrets she sought to hide.
She stretched against the pillows, and her breasts were outlined by the thin blankets. Rob remembered how they’d felt under his hands, the sweet taste of her pebbled nipples on his tongue. The way she’d moaned with pleasure as he suckled her.
His body hardened all over again—painfully. It was a blasted terrible thing to decide to be honourable so suddenly. He spun away from the alluring sight of her slumbering in his bed and braced his palms on the edge of the desk. He tried to study the ink-scratched papers, but all he could see was Anna. All he could hear was her breath, the brush of her beautiful body against his blankets as she turned.
He impatiently tugged free the knotted lacings of his breeches and curled his fingers hard over the painful erection. Closing his eyes to picture Anna again in his arms, her legs spread to welcome him, her bare skin, he rubbed brusquely once, twice, again, until a modicum of relief came over him.
He had not done such since he was a callow boy, as there was never a lack of willing women in Southwark. It was nothing to what he really wanted—to have Anna Barrett fully, to possess her—but it would have to suffice.
Feeling wretched, Rob quickly cleaned himself with the cold water left in the basin and reached for a fresh shirt. Suddenly a knock sounded at the door—a too-loud rapping that tore into the quiet afternoon. Rob looked quickly to Anna. A frown drifted over her brow and she slid lower beneath the blankets, but she did not wake.
As he hurried to the door, he swiped a dagger from the table and carried it low at his side. No one should be disturbing him at such an hour. It was too early for most of the citizens of Southwark to be about, and he had paid his rent on time. He opened the door a mere inch and peered out.
It was a servant clad in Walsingham’s sombre black-and-gold livery. His glance flickered past Rob’s shoulder, as if he would try to peer into the room—even Walsingham’s footmen, pages and maids were trained to be ever-observant, and to report back what they observed.
But Rob blocked the small opening with his body, and he was much taller than the servant.
The boy smirked and gave a little bow as he held out a neatly folded and sealed note. ‘A message from the Secretary, Master Alden.’
‘Did he fail to inform me of something earlier?’ Rob asked, snatching the paper from his hand. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Mr Secretary never forgets anything. Nothing escapes his notice.’
Rob shut the door and listened carefully until he heard footsteps move away down the stairs. Only then did he turn back to his room.
Anna was awake on the bed, watching him. That taut wariness was back on her face, the soft peace of slumber gone.
Rob leaned back against the door and watched as she sat up amid the piles of bedclothes. She shrugged her hair from her shoulders and tugged the folds of her chemise closer around her.
‘Have you an errand to perform?’ she enquired.
‘Only one—to see you safely home,’ he answered.
‘There is no need. I know the way well enough, and I still have errands of my own before I return.’ She slid to the edge of the bed and flicked her skirts out of her way, baring her legs. As Rob watched, fascinated, she smoothed her stockings and carefully tightened the ties of her garter. She scooped up her shoes and looked about for her lost jacket.
Rob caught it from the chair and held it out for her to slip in to. After an instant’s hesitation, as if she was worried he planned some trick, she slid her arms into the sleeves. She stood very still as he skimmed her hair free of the collar and smoothed the strands down her back.
So, she was suspicious again.
It stung, even as he knew she was quite right to be wary of him. She should suspect him.
She gently shrugged him away and went in search of her hairpins, scattered across the floor. ‘I must make it to Mother Nan’s before she grows too busy. She is behind on her rent, though she seems as thick with customers as ever.’
Rob reached for his doublet. ‘Then let me help you. I can be persuasive when I wish to.’
She glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘Aye, that you can. And I’m sure Mother Nan knows you well enough. Very well—come with me, then. But you shouldn’t feel obligated to me.’
‘Obligated?’ That was surely the very last thing he felt towards Anna Barrett.
She came to him and pressed her palms against his chest, where his doublet fell open. She went up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly, fleetingly. ‘It was a most pleasant afternoon, Robert. Thank you.’
Pleasant? Was that what she really thought? Rob caught her hand and reeled her back into his arms. He kissed her, hard and hot, with every rough bit of his longing and lust in it. His tongue pressed deep into her mouth, tasting her until she went limp against him. She held tightly to his shoulders.
He wanted to sweep her up, toss her onto his bed and make love to her as he had longed to do. Their capers earlier had only honed that desire to a feverish pitch, higher and higher, until it almost burned them both to ash.
But he was able to pull back from that fire at the last possible instant. He held Anna away from him as she stared up at him, her eyes wide and startled, her lips parted, glistening bright pink from his kiss.
‘We should go now,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Oh, aye,’ she whispered. ‘We most definitely should.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘ANNA? Is that you?’
Anna paused with her foot on the lowest step and silently cursed. She had taken great care to be quiet, gently opening the garden gate and creeping into the house with her shoes in her hand. It was an hour when her father was usually gone from home, seeking out a tavern or some other diversion, but she didn’t want to chance being caught. Not when she was so discomposed.
The house had seemed so quiet, so deserted and dark, but it seemed her father was home, after all. His voice floated out from the half-open door of the sitting room.
‘Anna?’ he called again.
‘Yes, Father,’ she answered. ‘It is me. My errands took longer than I planned, I fear.’
‘Come in. Sit by the fire. We have a guest.’
A guest? That was the last thing she wanted—to sit and chat with one of her father’s friends, calm and serene, as if nothing had happened at all. As if nothing had changed.
‘In a moment, Father. I need to refresh myself after walking all day.’
‘I’m sure you look quite well enough, Anna!’ Her father appeared in the doorway and held out his hand to her. ‘We have wine and a nice fire in here, and no grand company that expects fine satins and elaborate coiffures.’
Anna sighed in resignation and tucked a stray lock of hair back under her hat. ‘Very well. Just for a moment.’
She stepped into the sitting room and saw that her father’s guest was Henry Ennis. She wasn’t very surprised to find him at their hearth. He and her father had seemed to become good friends, despite the difference in their ages, and he was almost always at the theatre when she went there.
She remembered his declaration last night, the way he had taken her hand and said he wanted her to meet his family. She was used to drunken actors declaring passion for her, and had learned to easily fend them off. They seldom remembered when they were sober anyway, and if they did they laughed about it and it was gone.
But Henry looked at her now with such hurt in his eyes, as if he remembered every second and rued it. As if—as if he had been serious. He rose from his chair and gave her a low bow.
‘Mistress Barrett,’ he said. ‘You are looking quite lovely this evening. Most beautiful.’
She looked rumpled and dusty, and she knew it, but his words made her feel oddly uncomfortable—as did the way he looked at her. As if he expected something from her. Flustered, she turned away to put her basket down on the table beside the ledger books. The coins inside clinked—the rent paid at last from Mother Nan, thanks to Rob’s blandishments.
‘Thank you, Master Ennis,’ she said. ‘I hope you and my father have had a good conversation this evening.’
Her father sat down in his chair by the fire and propped his feet up by the grate. ‘Henry here says he has been working on a play.’
‘Have you really?’ Anna said. She sat down as far from the light of the fire as she could, sure that her afternoon of lust with Rob Alden showed on her face. Her cheeks felt warm, and her lips still tingled. ‘So you want to do more than act on the stage?’
‘I can’t be a player forever,’ he said. ‘But I want to stay in the theatre. Surely I have appeared in enough plays to know what the audience wants?’
‘Blood—that’s what they want,’ her father said. ‘And plenty of it. A funny bit for the clown can’t hurt, either.’
‘Surely they also want romance?’ Anna protested. ‘A grand passion they can cry over? At least the ladies do, and they are a large part of our daily receipts.’
‘The ladies want to look at a handsome lad, like Henry here, no matter what the plot might be,’ her father said with a laugh. ‘Eh, Henry?’
Henry laughed, too, and in the firelight Anna saw that he was very handsome—surely as much a draw to the White Heron as Rob was. His golden cap of hair gleamed above a face as perfectly sculpted as an ancient statue, and his lean-hipped body was as elegantly clothed as any courtier’s. He was the perfect romantic lead for any play, a vision of manly beauty.
And yet she was strangely unmoved when she looked at him, as if she were admiring a tapestry or carved chair, instead. He didn’t make her feel as if she would burst out, as Rob did, as if she had to cry out from looking at him.
If she was to be prudent again, surely she should spend more time with Henry and less—much less—with Rob. Rob made her feel alive again, which was the most dangerous thing she could think of.
‘There is blood aplenty in my tale, Master Alwick,’ Henry said. ‘But I will be sure there is romance, as well, to please Mistress Barrett.’
‘Then I’ll be happy to take a look at it when you have finished,’ her father said. ‘The White Heron always needs new plays. There’s never enough supply for the demand. The public is greedy for them.’
‘I hope it will be up to the standards of your usual writers,’ Henry said quietly. ‘Such as Master Alden. He is very popular.’
‘Robert is a great writer, and the audience does flock to his plays,’ said her father. ‘But he’s not nearly fast enough with his pen for their taste.’
Because he was so busy with Walsingham? Anna remembered that look on his face when he stepped out of Walsingham’s vast spider lair of a house, so inward and serious. And the note that had arrived when he thought she slept …
He said he was a mere messenger for Walsingham—a code-breaker and cipher-writer. But what if there was more to it? What was he not telling her?
Yet another reason to be prudent and stay away from him. Yet she seemed to have used up all her prudence long ago.
‘I must go now, I fear,’ Henry said as he pushed himself up from his chair.
‘Stay and dine with us,’ her father urged. ‘Tell us more about this play of yours.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Master Alwick, but I have an appointment I must keep.’
Anna was glad he was going and leaving the house quiet again. She had so much confusion swirling in her mind, so much she had to think about.
On the other hand—perhaps it was better not to think. Perhaps what she needed was action and activity.
‘I will see you to the gate, Master Ennis,’ she said. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and led him out of the door and into the garden as her father lit hi
s pipe and settled in for an evening next to the fire.
It was almost nightfall now, the sky a deep purple-indigo tinged pale grey at the edges. The world seemed suspended in silence for just a moment, before darkness descended completely and Southwark came to noisy life.
‘Thank you for coming to visit my father,’ she said. ‘He seems to need company more than ever of late, and it’s good for him to think on business.’
‘I am happy to spend time with him,’ Henry answered. ‘Especially if it pleases you, Anna. I would do anything at all for you—you know that now, I hope.’
Anna shook her head and started to turn away. ‘I do know, Henry, and I am flattered by your kind attentions. But I …’
Henry caught her arm and swung her back towards him. His eyes gleamed in the twilight and his grasp was tight. She couldn’t leave him now. He wouldn’t let her go.
‘I’m sorry if I spoke too soon,’ he said. ‘I should have waited, bided my time. But I could not. Not any longer.’
‘Henry, please,’ Anna said desperately. ‘Can we not be friends, as we were? I do like you, but after my marriage I don’t—I can’t be married again. You have so many admirers—beautiful women far more worthy than me.’
His grasp tightened on her arm, crumpling the sleeve, and he dragged her closer. ‘Their beauty is false! I want something real and true for once in my life. Something truly my own.’
Anna felt tears prickle at her eyes. She felt for Henry so much; she too longed for something true—something she feared did not really exist at all. Sometimes she ached with that longing.
But she was not that something. Not for anyone. Not any longer.
‘Henry, nay, I beg you—’
Her words were cut off by his sudden kiss, his mouth hard and hungry on hers. His kiss wasn’t terrible, not smothering and fearful as her husband’s had been when he was drunk and lustful. She might even have enjoyed it another time—enjoyed being admired by a handsome young man who thought her something true and good.
But it did not make her feel as if she was falling, tumbling free into another world, as Rob’s did. It awakened a flicker in her, but no flame.