Lucien looked surprised by her intensity. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”
“Is there some way you could find out? Make discreet inquiries through your family in Paris, perhaps?” Kat returned and placed her hand upon the captain’s doublet, appealing to him with all the feminine charm she could muster. “’Tis most urgent, I trow. I would not ask this of you, were it not.”
Lucien nodded. “I believe I can help. I will find out all I can. Perhaps by the night of the masque, I shall have some answers for you.”
“Merci,” Kat exclaimed, rising on tiptoe to impulsively peck his cheek. Just as quickly, she withdrew, before Lucien’s arm could close around her waist.
Lucien sighed when he realized he would not receive more passionate thanks. “Au revoir,” he said, giving her a good-natured grin in his disappointment. He donned his feathered hat.
By the time Navarre left, Kat already looked forward to her fencing lessons and the night of the masque. If Saville was indeed an impostor, that would be the perfect opportunity to expose him. She knew Merry would accept nothing less than irrefutable proof that the man courting her had sinister motives. Better yet, Kat would be prepared for any danger Saville presented. She must not count upon Morgan or Captain Navarre to save her now. She had learned the hard way to trust in herself alone.
What Kat was not yet able to deduce was the possible motive Saville might have for hurting her sister. But the uneasy feelings persisted whenever he was around, sometimes leading her to the point of blind panic whenever she heard those smooth French nothings trip off his tongue.
The odious popinjay was seducing Merry, but to what end? Why, of all times, must Merry herself be so gullible concerning Saville and obtuse about taking a sister’s advice? Kat shook her head in despair. She had the ominous feeling events were starting to spiral beyond her control; she also feared what awaited Merry in the end might be destruction of terrifying proportions.
MERRY SIGHED AS SHE unpinned the jeweled brooch securing her cloak. She tossed the cloak over a chair. For once, she was too tired to be annoyed by Kat’s critical gaze. She knew her sister sought for traces of Adrien’s love bites on her throat and breast.
She collapsed beside Kat on the bed they shared, dramatically flinging an arm over her eyes. “Never again!” Merry vowed. “Never again shall I dash off to Ambergate, only to spend the entire weekend trying to console our featherbrained cousin.”
Kat was surprised but relieved by this announcement. She assumed Merry had a secret rendezvous with Saville, not that she was visiting their relatives.’“What happened?”
“’Twas Maggie again. She’s inconsolable over the match Uncle Kit made for her.”
Kat had heard tell their cousin was betrothed again, but she hadn’t paid much attention. It happened to girls by the hundredfold, many before they were Maggie’s age.
Merry refreshed her memory further. “Recall that I told you Maggie’s first betrothed, William Scone, died from a lung fever shortly before you arrived? Of course Uncle Kit had to search for a suitable replacement. Maggie should be grateful her father didn’t condemn her to the life of an old maid, like Cousin Grace. She isn’t.” Merry sighed again, as if quite put out by the ungrateful attitude of their cousin.
“Maggie’s heard some wild rumor that her new betrothed is deformed, and nothing will do to comfort her now. She’s convinced the man must be a stark mad, raving beast, to hear her talk.”
“Is he?” Kat idly asked, not much interested.
“I doubt it. Someone is just playing a cruel jest on our cousin. I can’t imagine Uncle Kit giving away his favorite daughter to some monster.” Merry shrugged. “Anyway, the man’s a baron. That is what really counts. She’ll have a title; there will be lands for any sons they have. I don’t know why the little chit is being so stubborn and disagreeable about the matter.”
“What would you do?”
“What do you mean, Kat?”
“What would you do if you were in Maggie’s place? Would you go meek as a lamb to the slaughter?”
Merry sat up on the bed and stared at her sister, in mixed outrage and shock. “Marriage is not like that at all, Kat. ’Tis a holy estate, a sacred union between man and woman before God.”
“Be that as it may, shouldn’t the two people involved be agreeable to the deed?”
Merry’s mouth turned down in a matronly frown and she looked annoyed. “’Tis not a woman’s place to question the wishes of God and her parents.”
“Ah, I see. So if our father betrothed you to one of those ugly old farmers or fishermen you complained of back in Ireland, you’d be obedient and wed him?”
“Ohhh!” Merry squealed, turning red. “Unfair, Kat. There isn’t any comparison. For one thing, Maggie’s betrothed isn’t a lowly Irish peasant, he’s a highborn baron. Secondly, Father would never be so cruel or thoughtless as to barter me off to a man I didn’t approve.”
Kat triumphantly pounced. “Oh?”
Merry sputtered. “You … you’re impossible! I don’t know why you argue with everything I say, Kat. Simply for spite, I suspect.” She gave her auburn curls an angry toss.
“I’m not arguing, Merry, but merely pointing out things you may not have considered.”
“Oh, if you’re so very clever then, why didn’t you stay in Ireland and be a proper wife to your own husband?”
The moment the words burst from Merry’s lips, she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror and dismay.
Silence strangled the air between them. Kat stared back at her twin.
“What did you say?” she whispered, fearful of pursuing Merry’s slip, yet determined to ferret out the truth.
“I … oh, Kat …” Merry groped for words, paling with distress. She reached for Kat, as if to offer a hug. Kat warily withdrew from the gesture.
“Explain yourself,” she demanded, shaking with the intensity of the emotions tearing through her. She sensed she was close to making another discovery of some sort, this one far more terrible than all the others combined. She steeled herself for the worst.
“Kat!” Merry was sobbing now, though not enough to render her incoherent. “Don’t force this, please. ’Twas agreed by the family you need never know. ’Twould only hinder your recovery — ”
“As’t shall hinder your life, sister, if you do not immediately tell me what you speak of,” Kat snarled. In a burst of temper, she felt something break free inside. A hot, boiling rush of memories poured over her — molten lead in her heart.
“Rory! You’re speaking of Rory.”
“Nay!”
“God’s blood, so that’s who the redheaded man was! Rory was my husband, wasn’t he?”
Her accusation echoed in the room like a clap of thunder. Furious, Kat hurled herself at Merry, their painful collision cushioned somewhat by the bolsters. Over and over the two rolled, off the bed and onto the hard floor, while Merry struggled and kicked in self-defense.
“Tell me,” Kat cried, straddling Merry and throttling her as she might a man, finding fleeting satisfaction in the other’s cries for mercy. All of a sudden, something choked off the rage, a deadly calm. By then she was but inches from her twin’s face, staring into the terrified gray-green eyes of her sobbing sister.
“Had I my scian now, bitch, I’d thrust it through your lying little ribs,” Kat hissed, as she shook Merry by the shoulders. Her sister wept. Nothing touched Kat now — neither regret nor pity — as she stared at Merry’s tear-stained cheeks. Comprehension finally dawned.
“Sweet Jesu,” Kat whispered, “you lied to me. All of you, all along! Not a word about marriage, until today. I always wondered why you avoided the subject. Not a word about Rory till I brought him up. I shared my strange memories with you many times and felt a fool for it. You always shrugged them off.”
“What good does it do now?” Merry wailed. “Rory is dead; naught can bring him back. I — we all thought if you did not remember the tragedy, you would not gr
ieve so. Nothing would be served by it.”
“Least of all your interests, sister.” Kat made no attempt to soften the deadly sarcasm in her tone.
“I cannot deny, I did not want a weeping widow hanging about me at Court,” Merry whispered, shamefaced. “But I cried enough for the both of us when I heard Rory was lost at sea. We all adored him, Kat. He was kind and funny and wonderful.”
Rory. A kind and funny and wonderful man she did not remember. Spasms of guilt and anger coursed through Kat. She suddenly rolled off of her sister, rose, and paced the room in a fury of agitation.
“How?” she demanded. “How and when did Rory and I come to meet and marry?”
Merry sat up, smoothing her crushed skirts and wiping her tears. “We’ve both known Rory Shanahan and his family since we were eight or so,” she shakily said. “La, I confess I fell in love with him at first sight. He had nothing to do with me. ’Twas always you, Kat. You and the sea. You two had that in common from the beginning.”
“Marriage, though? Sweet Mother and Mary, I cannot fathom it. Why? When?”
Merry pursed her lips and seemed to choose her words carefully. “I will be honest, Kat. Methinks ’twas more a business arrangement, in the beginning. You wanted to build a trading empire as father and mother had, yet sought no charity from them. Rory had the means, not the ship. When you received the Fiach Teine, I gather this union seemed natural to you both. You were terribly fond of Rory, I believe. ’Twas no passionate love story, but he was good to you, and you had a few happy years together, before ...”
“Before he died. Drowned like a rat, while I looked on and did nothing.” Kat’s laughter was harsh and self-deprecatory. “I did not have the decency to mourn him a single day. I cannot have loved him very much, then.”
“Dear Kat, you cannot blame yourself. The shock must have wiped away your memories, to save your mind. Take some comfort in the fact Rory perished at your side, at sea, as he would have wished. ’Tis for the sake of your own sanity you do not remember the past.”
“Nay,” Kat whispered, denying Merry’s words. “’Tis not enough. Sweet Jesu, how can I forget a man like Rory, much less any husband of mine? What sort of woman fails to mourn a beloved mate?”
“One who grieves deeply, I fear.” Merry rose from the floor, as she tentatively approached and touched her sister’s arm. Kat shuddered, yet did not reject the peace offering.
“Why did we never have any children? Or have I forgotten them, too?”
Merry shook her head. “’Twas God’s will, you told me once. You and Rory were hopeful, but the babes never came.”
“Just as well, I suppose. I should doubtless make as appalling a mother as I did a wife.”
“Oh, Kat — ”
“You must not scold, Merry. I must come to terms with this in my own time and way.”
Merry was silent a moment. “Aye, I trow it. Mayhap what you need is a hiatus from Court.”
“Aye, perhaps I do,” Kat said, walking to the window.
“I’m sorry, Kat. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Kat turned back to face her sister, forgiveness and repentance filling her heart. “I know I’ve caused nothing but trouble for you since I’ve arrived. Neither of us are happy with the present arrangement. There’s no reason I can’t go live with Grandfather O’Neill or Uncle Brendan, till Mother and Father return.”
“Please don’t go,” Merry cried, startling Kat with her vehemence. “You can’t mean to leave now. I promise I will try to be more agreeable in the days to come. ’Tis just that — ” Merry took a deep breath, meeting Kat’s curious gaze with a guilty flush on her cheeks, “I’ve been so jealous of you,” she finished quietly.
“Jealous? Of me?” Kat stared at her sister in disbelief.
“Aye. From the day Rory looked at you instead, I’ve seethed with envy. You’re lovely, Kat — you truly are, y’know — and don’t think I haven’t noticed the way the courtiers look at you. Why, stuffy Lord Huntingdon changed his tune once he got a glimpse of you. He wrote an ode to your emerald eyes.”
“Being serenaded by an elderly fop is not necessarily a compliment, Merry.”
Merry smiled wanly. Tears sparkled in her gray-green eyes. “I overheard Essex say I’ll never be the beauty you are.”
Kat shook her head, rejecting her sister’s words. “Robert Devereux may be the darling of the queen, but he is naught more than a foolish coxcomb.” She had never been impressed with Essex, despite his fine figure and elegant little speeches at Court. She suspected him a fortune-hunter whose greed oft outshone his wisdom. Someday he might pay a dear price for such ambition.
“Adrien asks about you all the time, too,” Merry continued, provoking a shiver of unease in Kat. “I’ll admit, I’ve wished at times you’d never come to London. But never did I wish you ill, Kat. Please believe me.”
“I do.” Kat nodded, holding out her hands to her sister. Hesitantly, Merry accepted them. Kat gave Merry’s a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s call a truce now, Merry. No more harsh words or feelings. I want our last days together to be happy ones.”
“Last days?” Merry cried, dismayed.
“Aye. I’ve decided to return to Ireland. ’Twas not something I decided overnight. I’ve been thinking about it for some time. After the queen’s masque, I intend to go home. In truth, ’tis where I belong. ’Tis the land of my birth; I pray, the same place holds the key to my memory — memories of Rory, of the life I had before I lost everything.”
“You’re not leaving because of me?”
“Nay.” Kat smiled and kissed Merry’s cheek. “Let’s just say our destinies lie in different directions. We must both be content with that.”
Chapter Fourteen
“MANDRITTI.”
At Lucien’s command, Kat brought the rapier down in a sweeping gesture from the right. He was quick to counter, and the echo of mated steel rang off the stone buildings. Without a pause, he continued the measured drill:
“Roversi.”
With a sudden flourish, Kat switched the sword to her other hand and delivered a left cut from a backhanded position. Lucien looked startled by her speed and strength, but recovered in time to deflect the strike. Kat fancied some courtiers or ladies might wander into the garden to track the source of the clashing sounds; if so, they would find nothing amiss in the sight of Captain Navarre and a young lad engaged in swordplay.
Not without reason did Kat don a page’s uniform for her lessons — velvet breeks and a canvas shirt, a doublet and trunk hose. Beneath the shirt, her breasts were bound both for practical and obvious reasons. Her hair was braided and tucked beneath the flat velvet cap of an apprentice.
“Prime. Seconde. Tierce. Quarte.” Lucien barked the guards at her in rapid sequence, observing and timing Kat’s reactions. Several times, he stepped forward to readjust her position. On Quarte, he turned her hand nails-up, pushing the point slightly farther, up and out.
“Better,” he said. He handed her a short, slim dagger. “Try it with the dagger in your left hand for defense. Now, begin again.”
A dozen times, they rehearsed each classic move, including thrusts and parries and guards, till Kat gasped for breath and moved too slowly to suit Lucien. He grabbed her right wrist and steadied the gleaming steel above her head.
“You are not pacing yourself,” he chided her. “’Twill be your downfall in the end. You are smaller and weaker than a male. ’Tis a matter of fact, not a manner of insult.”
Kat nodded, wiping her brow with her sleeve, after he released her wrist. Aye, she knew her limitations. Even the thin rapier seemed to weigh a hundred stone now, she could barely lift it after their exhausting drills. She had learned to fence with a heavier weapon, a small sword with a true basket hilt in the fashion of Scottish claymores.
Lucien insisted she learn the Italian method, using a lighter weapon with a schiavone swept-hilt. The design was less constricting to the wrist and offered a whole
new range of motions. It also meant she had to master every move again and learn to balance the weapon, besides. After two weeks, she still felt as clumsy and slow as a country farmer attempting a courtly lavolta.
Lucien ignored the distress in her eyes. “Again.”
“Faith, I cannot.” Kat saw that her hand shook where it gripped the hilt and she fought back a sudden urge to weep. Sweet Jesu, she would never master swordsmanship. Mayhap she was better suited to idle feminine gossip and courtly intrigue than she knew.
“You are improving. Certainly you are closer to success than you suspect.” Extending the flat of his own blade, Lucien nudged her chin up. “Do not be a fool and surrender now.”
“What chance have I against a master?” Kat burst out.
“None, if you do not continue learning. Take heart, ma petite. I have something new to teach you today.”
“How to gracefully accept defeat?”
Lucien frowned at her levity. “I must have your sworn oath that what I teach you today does not go beyond this courtyard, Katherine. You must never attempt it unless your life is in absolute peril, and, even then, I will deny having taught it to you. Do you agree?”
Curious despite her exhaustion, Kat nodded. “I vow it.”
“Bien. Have you heard of Saviolo?”
“The Italian fencing master? Of course.” Even Shakespeare had not missed opportunity to remark upon Vincenzo Saviolo, albeit in satire. Kat recited:
“More than prince of cats … the very butcher of a silk button …”
Lucien nodded and looked grim. “His book is all the rage, here and abroad. It is fashionable now to ape Saviolo and other fencing masters. But a true master never divulges his secrets in written form.”
Kat remained silent, sensing Lucien would proceed at his own pace. After a moment, he continued.
“A few of my own men know that I once studied under Saviolo on the Continent. In fact, I was among one of only three students Saviolo accepted later in life. Perhaps he shared the greatest secret of all with the entire trio; I doubt it. I believe he took a particular fancy to my close-mouthed nature.”
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