The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  Absorbed with the near mishap, she forgot about the tiny pouch in her hand until she reached the kitchens. Suddenly curious, she opened the pouch and shook the jingling contents into her palm. Gold glittered up at her. Not shillings, not silver, but gold. She gasped. Great heaven. Five gold coins. It was a fortune. It was almost enough for passage money for herself and Black Bartimaeus.

  Later, when she found a moment to be alone, she went to the scullery closet where she kept her box of belongings. Lifting the box down from the shelf, she rammed the pouch into the bottom of it, safely hiding it in an old mended stocking, under petticoats and books.

  The day grew odder still. Two hours later, she was summoned upstairs again. This time she was frightened. For the duke of Blackpool now demanded her attendance. Startled out of her wits, she had no choice but to comply. With a pounding heart, she followed the duke's livery clad footman through the corridors, her thoughts in turmoil. Fox Hazlitt, she thought. He saw me coming from the duchess's rooms. But, no. He didn't see me at the duchess's door. I was merely in the corridor. It's the letter, she thought. The offer of employment. I never answered it. The letter? Or the duchess?

  Entering a rich receiving room, she followed the footman into an even richer bedchamber. There, the footman abandoned her, retreating with a bow. When the door shut behind her with a click, her pulse stepped up its beat.

  The duke of Blackpool sat at the table in front of a sunny window. He was leisurely breaking his fast. The lace of his shirt cuff drifted over the table, hovering, as he idly picked and chose tidbits for his breakfast plate. Sunshine glinted off silver salvers, silver bowls. When his plate was prepared to his liking, he turned in his chair and crossed one slender, silk-clad leg upon the other.

  Jericho curtsied deeply.

  He beckoned, lace drifting. "Nearer. Nearer, my dear." He smiled, but the smile didn't rise to his eyes. His eyes remained peculiarly untouched by it. There was a chill to the duke, and she grasped at once why the duchess was afraid of him. Ice water ran in his veins.

  Knees unsteady, she obeyed and went forward. When she stood before him—standing in the spot he indicated by delicately pointing with his gold eating-dagger—he leaned back in his chair and smiled again. It was unnerving the way he gestured with the dagger.

  "So. You are a bondservant, are you?"

  Her mouth was dry. She pressed the tip of her tongue to her lip to moisten it. "Yes, Your Grace." In his cat-soft voice, he began to question her. His questions were remark- ably like Lady Angelina's. It made gooseflesh rise on her arms.

  "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

  She started. Great heaven. Those frosty eyes could see all the way to her soul. Afraid to lie, she told the truth.

  "Yes, Your Grace. A little. I beg you to excuse it. And I beg you to excuse it that I did not write to answer your steward's kind offer of employment. I was—busy," she finished lamely.

  He smiled and gestured in an amiable way, wrist lace floating with each gesture. Observing her uneasy eyes following the dagger, he set it down. "Of course, I excuse it. But, come, come. You must not be uncomfortable with me, my dear. I mean you no harm. On the contrary, I mean you a great deal of good."

  She found it hard to believe, but groped deep within herself for tact. "Yes, Your Grace. Thank you."

  "I observed you in the masque last night. The masque was a foolish piece of business, but you did well."

  "I-I am obliged, Your Grace." I want to leave, she thought. Please let me leave and go back to my work.

  "So well, in fact, that I want you to come and serve at Blackpool Castle when your indenture ends." She stared, wordless. "You would serve Her Grace, the duchess, if you will. The duchess has not been well, you must understand. I have long had in mind to hire a personable and intelligent young woman to companion her. I would pay extremely high wages."

  Jericho felt a pang. Serve that kind, sick lady? Take care of her? She was drawn to it. But Blackpool Castle? Never. The de Monts despised Blackpool. Dove would never forgive her if she took employment there. Besides, her heart was set on her dame school, on Black Bartimaeus, on New York.

  Curtsying, she refused as politely as she could. "Your Grace, I most humbly thank you. I am sensible of the great honor you do me. But I cannot, Your Grace. I have made other plans."

  The irrational flash of anger in those frosty eyes startled her. It was almost hate. But the look passed so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it. For he smiled pleasantly.

  "Consider it, my dear. Take your time and consider it. I shall make it worth your while. As for now, you may go. Thank you for coming to me."

  Rattled—why should a total stranger flash such a look of hatred at her?—she curtsied again. Go? She couldn't go fast enough. But when she reached the door, his soft, cat-voice pounced again.

  "One trifling question." Gripping the ornate door latch, she dutifully turned. "Did you, by any chance . . . visit the duchess of Blackpool's chambers this morning, my dear?!'

  Her heart began to pound. The duchess had specifically bade her not to tell the duke. The breath fluttered in her throat.

  ' 'N-no, Your Grace.''

  He smiled. "Ah. My man, Fox Hazlitt, thought you might have done so. Doubtless he was mistaken."

  "I w-was in the corridor this morning, Your Grace. Dishes are often put outside the chambers late at night, to-to-to be collected by kitchen servants in the morning." That much was true. "I was collecting." Her heart pounded.

  "Ah," he said pleasantly. "That is so, of course. Thank you, my dear. You may go."

  With a final quick curtsy, she let herself out. Drawing an enormous breath of relief, she put the perplexing incident behind her and hurried back to her work.

  Within the bedchamber, the duke of Blackpool seethed— his thoughts dark, turgid, violent. He shook with rage. Collecting dishes? How dare she stand there and lie to him! He'd, trembled with the urge to strangle her on the spot.

  The blood in his temples pulsed thickly. Oh, he would kill her all right, this adulterous spawn of Angelina's and Aubrey's. He would have his revenge. Just as he'd had his revenge on Royce de Mont a quarter-century earlier. He would use dogs.

  His temples throbbed as he visualized it. The wolfhounds leaping, snarling. The screams. The blood. He could smell the blood! Suddenly, pain pierced him. He looked down at the dagger in his hands and winced.

  His own blood dripped from the slashes in his palm, thick rich droplets, the color of scarlet.

  A third frightening thing happened to Jericho. Exhausted, caught up in the kitchen frenzy of this final day of the king's visit, Jericho had all but forgotten her strange morning encounters when, at midnight, the chief steward, Mr. Pennington, bore down upon her with the news that the king wished to see her.

  Frightened out of her wits, she swiftly washed and threw on a fresh gown. Tense, she followed the king's footman through the quiet, dimly lit corridors. What did the king want? She was afraid to guess. At the rear door of the king's apartment, a Swiss guard stepped aside with an amused knowing look that scared her, the footman opened the door, and she was in the king's bedchamber. Alone. Her chest thudded.

  Bathed in candlelight, gilded wood glowed everywhere. An intimate midnight supper for two lay spread upon a small, lion-footed table. Two gilded swan's-neck chairs were drawn up to the table, and beyond the table, she saw a magnificent bedstead. Panicking, she swiftly looked away from the bed.

  She nearly jumped when someone moved on the far side of the room, rising from a chair in the midst of the glittering luxury. The king came strolling toward her, smiling. It was a cynical smile, but not ungentle.

  "How good of you to come, my pretty."

  "Y-your M-majesty." Frightened, she dropped to a low curtsy and stayed there until he gestured for her to rise. He was a tall, towering man. At leisure, he wore no kingly clothes. He wore a linen shirt, breeches, wool stockings, chamber slippers. He'd discarded his elaborate black wig and wore his own hair, which was thinning an
d going gray.

  He smiled. "Shall we sup first?"

  First. First. Her heart pounded. He led her to the supper table and seated her. Her spine was so stiff with fright that for a moment she could not unbend and sit. Seated, she clenched her shaking hands in her lap.

  Although His Majesty had seated her with her back to the enormous, glittering, gilded bed, she remained excruciatingly aware of it. She was also aware of his sensual gaze. Could a bondslave refuse a king? Was it done? Did she have the right? Her breath filled her throat like a hurricane.

  When she did not—could not—eat, His Majesty now and then fed her a tidbit from his own spoon. It clung to her tongue like char and went down like grit. When he asked idle, leisurely questions that were meant to put her at ease, her answers were so trembly and faint she could scarcely hear them herself.

  His dark, sensual gaze lazily roamed over her. Though she kept her eyes on her untouched plate, she was agonizingly aware that he looked at her breasts, her lips, her hair. Her heart thrashed like a bird caught in a snare. Could she refuse? Did she have the right? Dare she? Delicately wiping crumbs from his sensual black mustache, the king crumpled his linen napkin, set it aside and rose. She felt faint. Leisurely, he strolled around the table and smiled down at her.

  "Shall we take a wee nap? To digest our repast?"

  Her breath came in frantic heaves. His Majesty took her icy hand in his warm one and helped her rise. Standing, she grew dizzy. She couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think. She threw him a frightened look.

  "Your Majesty, I cannot!" She dropped to her knees, beseeching. "Forgive me, Y-Your Majesty, but I cannot, I cannot."

  Frightened she squeezed her eyes shut, expecting royal wrath. But it didn't come. Instead, she heard a small, rueful chuckle. Gently, he touched her chin, lifting her gaze to his.

  44 4Oddsfish, small wonder. I am a great ugly fellow, am I not? A swarthy black devil. The 'black prince' they call me. They say I am so ugly that babes bawl at their mother's teat when they see me riding through the streets of London."

  She was breathing so hard, she had to gasp to find air enough to speak. She gazed at him with desperate eyes.

  "Your Majesty is not ugly—no one so kind could be thought ugly—it is only that I—I love someone."

  He patted her chin, his gaze sensual.

  "Ah. You wish to save your virginity for your sweetheart? Your love gift to him?'' She had never thought of her virginity in that way, but she did now, and thoughts of Dove filled her, flooded her.

  "Oh, yes, Your Majesty," she implored. "Yes, Sire, yes."

  "Then you shall." Taking her hand, he lifted her to her feet. He smiled cynically. "If your sweetheart should prove unworthy of your gift, come to Whitehall Palace in London. Ask for my private steward. Remind him that you are the pretty girl from Arleigh Castle, and he will bring you to me."

  And be your whore? Like Lady Castlemayne? Like Nell Gwynne? Never. But she answered him with all respect.

  "I am obliged, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty.''

  Alone and out in the quiet corridor again, her knees suddenly went so weak that she had to reach out to brace herself against the wall. Relief flooded her in torrents. When her heartbeat finally grew steady, when her legs would work again, she picked up her skirts and rushed through the silent corridors and staircases to Dove's apartment. She had to tell Dove. If he heard it from others—heard the king sent for her—he would assume the worst and despise her for it.

  The clocks in the castle were striking the hour of three, striking randomly, some early and some late, when she slipped into his work closet and groped her way through the darkness to his bedchamber. Outside, clouds obscured the moon. A little light spilled in. But not much. Most of his bedchamber lay in shadow.

  "Dove?" she whispered from a safe distance. In New Amsterdam she'd learned to keep her distance if she had to wake him. Startled out of sleep, he was apt to grab the dagger he kept on his nightstand. Asleep and vulnerable, Dove was the small boy who'd watched his father's murder.

  He awoke that way now, out of bed in a shot. Stark naked.

  "Who is it!"

  "Dove, it's Jericho."

  "Jericho?" he said after a startled instant. She'd seen naked men before, soldiers being cruelly punished on the wooden horse at the fort in Dutch New Amsterdam. She'd seen Negro slaves stripped naked so buyers could inspect them. But their

  bodies could not compare with Dove's. He was so perfect, so handsomely made that she felt no shame at all looking at him.

  Grabbing a pair of drawers that lay on the floor, he whipped them on and came forward, hastily tying the waist ribbons.

  "Jericho! What is it? What's wrong? You gave me a start."

  "Dove? The king sent for me tonight."

  He blinked. "What?"

  "His Majesty sent for me. After midnight."

  His chest lifted in a leap. In the moonlight, his bright eyes filled with so much sudden expression that she couldn't be sure what he'd heard. He made no response at first. None at all. Then he grabbed her and crushed her close.

  "Oh, Jericho, I'm so sorry. Oh, sweeting, Pansy Eyes. The bastard! He brought two whores with him. Aren't two enough? Did he have to spoil you?"

  "Dove, he didn't—"

  "This is my fault," he berated himself, pressing a hot kiss to her temple. "If I'd given you your indenture when you asked for it, if I'd let you go . . ."

  "Dove! Dove, he didn't. The king didn't touch me. He only supped with me. I—I refused him, Dove. I only came to tell you, to wake you, because I knew you would hear servant gossip tomorrow and I didn't want you to believe it of me. I didn't want you to think the worst and despise me."

  He gazed at her, stunned. Then a slow, dazed smile broke on his lips and lighted to incandescence in his eyes.

  "You refused the king?" he said incredulously. "You did?"

  "I did."

  "You've got balls, grubworm. A bondslave refusing a king! I've never heard of such a brave thing. Hell, how did you manage it?"

  "I told him I cared for someone else."

  His glowing eyes ranged over her. Even in the darkness she could see the gold flecks in them, the spinning of his thoughts. The corners of his mouth lifted in a tender smile.

  "Would that 'someone' be me?"

  "You know it is."

  He hugged her hard. She wrapped her arms around him.

  How good it felt just to hug, as if they belonged to each other. They hadn't hugged since Marguerite's arrival. Content to be hugged, she nestled her cheek into the crook of his neck. For a long time, they just hugged, Dove rocking her in his arms, his chest bare and warm, the warm pungent fur of his underarms brushing her bare shoulders.

  "Oh, beauty. What a kettle of fish, eh?"

  "Yes. It's a kettle offish." -

  His warm breath feathered over her forehead. 4 'Grubworm, if I could, you know I would ask you to be my mistress."

  "You already asked me. On Mid-Summer's Eve."

  He rested his smile on her temple, tasting her skin with the tip of his tongue. "I was drunk that night. Tonight I'm sober. Sober, I can't ask you."

  "You mean because of Lady Marguerite?"

  "No. Hell." His voice fell in disappointment. "I get the feeling Marguerite wouldn't care if I kept a dozen mistresses. It's not Marguerite. It's you, Pansy Eyes. You're not the sort of girl a man makes into his mistress. You're too . . . special. I would feel I had soiled you, making you into a mistress, a whore. Secondly, there's the matter of John."

  "John?"

  "He loves you. He wants to marry you, beauty."

  "I know. Dove?" She gazed into his eyes. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with my life. Sometimes I don't know."

  His chest rose sharply. He drew a tight breath.

  "Marry him, Jericho! Marry John. Then I won't have to spend my life worrying about you, wondering where you are, how you are. Hell, there's not a better man in all England. He'll be good to you. He'll take care o
f you."

  She shook her head and buried her face in his golden hair, savoring the clean smell of it, determined to remember the smell of his hair, his skin, for the rest of her life.

  "I don't love John. I love you." She trembled. It was the first time she'd dared tell Dove she loved him. It had cost her dearly to say it, and it hurt when he glossed over it.

  "What does it matter? He loves you. He wants you for his wife. He'll take care of you."

  She shook her head with pride. "I'll take care of myself."

  "Oh, sweeting. You make this so goddamn hard/'

  "I'll have my dame school in London, Dove, and later, in New York. I'll earn my own living. You won't have to worry about me. I'll take care of myself and I'll take good care of Black Bartimaeus, too."

  He gave her a ferocious hug. "I hate your brave plans. They scare the hell out of me. Jericho, London is not New Amsterdam. London is a big rough city. It's full of beggars, thieves, pickpockets. You'll be a sitting duck for every coney catcher who comes down the street."

  "I'll leam," she insisted.

  "Oh, sweeting." He sighed and rested his forehead on hers. Closing their eyes, they savored the intimacy, hearts beating in warm, wonderful unison. It was a special moment. She knew she would remember it all her life. The darkness was as soft as velvet. A little silvery moonlight fell across the floor in soft stripes. The night was quiet and gentle and lovely.

  "Dove? Do you love me a little? Just a little?" She had to know. She had to have something to take with her.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you do."

  "I think so, too."

  They clung, making the moment last. He loves me. Not as much as he loves Marguerite. But he loves me a little. He does! And oh, I love him so . . .

  "Do you want to kiss on the bed?"

  She hesitated. "It's late. I should go."

  "Ten minutes."

  "Ten minutes."

  She overstayed. It was the shank of day when she awoke. The sun was shining, Dove was snoring and the castle clocks were striking ten.

  She jumped up, alarmed. If someone caught her here! Kissing Dove's unshaven jaw, she swatted at her mussed, wrinkled petticoats and ran. Had she been paying less attention to wrinkled petticoats and more attention to the corridor as she popped out of Dove's apartment, she might have avoided trouble.