“I did not think you were the sort to listen to idle gossip,” he said tightly. He reached for his shirt, and shook the leaves and dirt from its wrinkled folds before pulling it over his head.
“Is it idle? Are your parents not eager for you to marry, then?”
“Of course they are. I am their heir.”
Their heir—and she was nothing. She had nothing to offer him and his family but her love and ardor, and whatever meager portion her stingy uncle would give her. Yet her love was as strong and fine as any Spanish steel. As she looked at him now, his dark green eyes, the frown on his handsome face, those feelings burned and made her reckless.
“And you?” she demanded. “Do you have a lady in your sights? Someone well-dowered and well-connected…”
He seized her around the waist, dragging her to him. She braced her hands on his shoulders. “I have you in my sights, Anne Percy.”
Did he mean—could he mean what she thought? Hope flowed in her heart, as bright and forceful as the passion. “I have no dowry.”
“You have more than riches. You have yourself. Your beautiful, stubborn, changeable self. Truly I have never known anyone like you, Anne.” He lowered his head to kiss her neck, softly licking at that one spot he knew made her wild.
Anne shivered, and held onto him tightly. “Then we can run away! I know a priest who can marry us—he is in hiding but we can find him quickly. Then we can go north, live someplace quiet where no one can discover us…”
“Anne!” He laughed roughly. His hands closed over her arms, unlooping them from his shoulders as he held her away from him. “We cannot elope, hide away from everyone.”
She felt suddenly cold again, all her wild hope crumbling into ash at the distant look in his eyes. “I thought you said—you do not want to marry me, then? I am just your country dalliance!”
A fire flared up in those green eyes. “Anne, be fair. I never thought of you as a dalliance.”
“But I am not a suitable wife?”
“I do want to marry you! You know we cannot ruin our lives, our children’s lives, by running away and living like outlaws. We can’t be married by a recusant priest, without permission of my family and the Queen. We have to do things properly, have patience.”
Anne jerked away from him, no longer able to bear the temptation of his touch. This was exactly what she feared would happen. “Patience will not help us. Your parents will never approve of our match.”
“If they see I will have no other wife but you, they will come to agree.”
“And if they do not? That would take years! We do not have years to waste.”
“Are you…” He glanced at her stomach.
Anne covered its flatness with her hand. “Nay. Not yet. But I will not be young forever. If we want each other, we have to be bold! Strike out on our own.”
“I have my family and my responsibilities to think of, Anne,” he said, infuriatingly calm.
“And I am not one of your ‘responsibilities,’ I see.” She leaped to her feet, shaking the dirt from her skirts. She trembled with anger, with the realization that she had been a great fool to think love would conquer all obstacles. That his feelings for her could overcome all else. The world did not work like that. “Go, then! Find your suitable wife, the one your family will welcome heartily. I must make my own life.”
“Anne!” He clambered to his feet, reaching for her, but she stumbled away. “Anne, be reasonable.”
Yet she could not be reasonable. Not where he was concerned.
She spun around and fled from the woods, away from his shouting out her name, away from all the silly hopes that were now dead. She and Robert were finished now; she had to find a way to live with that. Somehow.
Chapter One
Whitehall Palace, Christmas 1564
He was still there.
Anne peered around the corner into the crowded corridor near the Queen’s Privy Chamber. The wide space, paneled in richly carved oak, lined on one side by colorful tapestries and one by tall windows overlooking the winter-gray gardens, was filled with brightly dressed and bejeweled courtiers. They whispered among themselves, words of gossip and rumor and speculation, a loud hum that tangled and rose like an ominous thundercloud.
It was Christmas, meant to be the merriest, most carefree season of the year, yet tensions at Court ran as high as ever. Especially with so many foreigners at Whitehall; Scots, Swedes and Austrians all come to press their claims on the Queen. Favors and allegiances shifted at every moment, and vigilance could never be relaxed even in holiday feasts and revels.
But Anne was concerned with none of that now. She saw only Robert, as if a beam of sunlight shone only on him in the midst of the crowd.
He stood with his new friend, the Swedish diplomat Anton Gustavson, at the far end of the corridor, near one of the mullioned windows. The pearl-gray light shimmered on his fine green satin doublet, which matched his eyes so perfectly, and on the smooth, dark fall of his hair. An emerald sparkled in his ear, and a pearl as large as a robin’s egg fastened his cap. His fashionable short cape, trimmed in sable, fell back from his well-muscled shoulders.
Aye, he looked grand indeed, and every lady who sashayed past him gave him a smile. But she remembered only how he looked last summer, naked in her arms.
God’s blood! she thought fiercely, forcing that lusty memory away, trying to focus only on what was, not what could have been. Why did he have to be at Court now, when his memory had finally begun to fade just a tiny bit?
Nay, that was a lie. His memory had never really faded at all. She had just become more adept at distracting herself. Since the autumn, when her uncle found her this place as Maid of Honor to the Queen, she had thrown herself into Court life. She danced and laughed, flirted, tried to find herself a fine match, a man who would marry her despite her lack of fortune and not be ashamed of her. Yet none of the Court gentlemen, as handsome and charming as they were, could compare to Robert. She found herself dreading, and hoping for, his appearance at Court.
Then, a fortnight ago, he did come to Whitehall, to keep Christmas with the Queen. He brought gifts and compliments from his family to Queen Elizabeth, but no bride. Anne hated the rush of warm hope that fact evoked, hated the way her heart pounded and her legs felt weak whenever she saw him.
Thus far she had managed to avoid being alone with him, though he tried to speak to her, followed her on her errands. She could not trust herself to talk to him. Surely she would grab him in her arms and kiss him, forgetting all caution! Forgetting the way he loved her enough to tup her in the woods, but not enough to marry her.
But at times like this, when she looked at him and the whole crowd vanished in one bright blur, it was so very easy to forget. It was easy to be as romantic and starry-eyed as her new friend Rosamund Ramsay was over the handsome Swede Gustavson.
Someone jostled her as they passed by, reminding her that she was on an errand for the Queen. She had no time to stand about daydreaming. Unfortunately her errand took her directly past where Robert stood.
Anne smoothed her brown velvet skirts, straightened her headdress on her upswept hair and plunged into the midst of the crowd. Several people called greetings to her, and she answered with a bright smile yet kept walking. Robert watched her, his own smile fading, his eyes darkening. How she wished she knew his thoughts! Did he regret turning her away? Did he find her beautiful still?
“Mistress Percy,” he said as she drew near, giving her an elegant bow. “You look most charming today.”
“How kind of you to take notice, Lord Langley,” she answered. She gave him a curtsey and one of those bright Court smiles. “I was on my way to run an errand for the Queen. There is much to be done to prepare for the feast tonight.”
“Her Grace certainly keeps her ladies busy.”
“And out of mischief!” Anne laughed. “Not entirely, I’m afraid.”
“Then perhaps you could take a moment out of your many tasks to go skating, now that
the Thames has frozen through,” Robert said. “Master Gustavson and I are collecting a party for the outing, including your friend Lady Rosamund.”
Anne glanced out the window at the gardens beyond. The flowerbeds and walkways were gray with frost, yet the light and fresh air were most tempting. She felt she had been shut inside the suffocatingly opulent, crowded palace for months.
But to be near Robert…
“There will be many others in the party?” she said, turning back to him.
His lips twisted in a humorless half smile. “You will be quite well-chaperoned, Mistress Percy.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “Very well. I gladly accept your invitation, Lord Langley. Now, I must be on my way. There is a limit to Her Grace’s patience.”
“I shall see you at the banquet tonight, then,” Robert said, and it seemed there was a strange promise—or threat—in his voice.
“Aye, I’m sure you will,” Anne said. She spun around and continued on her way, the throng closing in around her. Yet she could vow she still felt Robert watching her, his stare burning into the vulnerable back of her neck.
Robert watched Anne as she made her way along the corridor, her skirts swaying. She stopped to laugh with one of her admirers, her dark head thrown back in merriment. She seemed to belong here at Court, amid the glittering opulence, the false gaiety. Her beauty had only grown in her months here, under the glow of so much admiration and clad in fine fabrics and feathers.
And yet he couldn’t help but remember her as she had been in the summer sunlight. The way the brightness gilded her dark hair, turning her skin to a soft peachy-pink, ripe and luscious. The eager glow in her eyes as she reached for him, as she turned her face up to meet his kisses. Then she had been the most beautiful thing he ever saw, a forest nymph, free and joyful, full of wild passion.
He truly had never known anyone like her at all. From the first moment he glimpsed her at that banquet, heard her laughter, he was irresistibly drawn to her, and when they were apart he couldn’t stop thinking of her, remembering their times together.
He remembered too well the wild intoxication of making love to her, the scent and feel and heat of her. He also remembered the sizzling anger of their parting. He vowed then to forget her and her tempestuous ways. If she thought he cared nothing for her because he refused to elope with her, because he urged caution, then she knew him not at all and they did not belong together.
He vowed to go away and forget her. When her uncle sent her to Court, he was sure she would forget him. Yet as soon as they met again, he saw neither of them had forgotten anything at all. That passionate need still burned as hot as ever. And so did Anne’s stubbornness.
But he was surely even more determined. And he would show her they could not be apart again—on his own terms.
Queen Elizabeth’s feast was a sumptuous one, Anne thought as she took her place at the Maids’ table just below the royal dais, but that was no less than what she had come to expect in her time at Court. The hall was draped with fine tapestries, scenes of summer hunts and outdoor festivities that kept out the cold winds racing around outside the palace. The Yule log, just brought in from the Queen’s park at Greenwich with great fanfare, crackled and blazed in the vast grate.
The long tables, draped in fine white damask, were lined with silver and gold plate, jewel-studded goblets and gilt baskets filled with soft white manchet bread stamped with the Queen’s crest. Footmen in red and gold livery passed between the cushioned benches, pouring out rich, berry-red wine. From a hidden alcove, musicians played a lively madrigal.
Laughter and merriment rang out loudly in the perfumed air. It was Christmas at last, a reprieve from winter’s chill, and spirits were high, almost frantic with good cheer. Anne knew she should be just as happy. She was at Court for Christmas, and not shuffled around in her grandmother’s crowded manor house. She was dressed in the finest white satin and black velvet, admired, surrounded by noise and fun. Surely it was all any young lady could want!
Yet she could not stop glancing secretly down the length of the table, to where Robert sat next to the pretty—and wealthy—Lady Milton. The two of them did not laugh as everyone else did, but leaned their heads close together in quiet conversation. Lady Milton smiled up at him, so sweetly gentle in a way Anne could never be. Their hands brushed together as he offered her a morsel of roast capon, and Anne set her goblet down with a loud clatter.
Robert’s gaze met hers, as if he heard the sound even in the clamor of the crowd. He did not smile but neither did he turn away. He just watched her with a solemn intensity, as if he tried to read her very thoughts. Anne stared back, captured by the light in his eyes, by the shimmering bonds of memories. All the passion and need she remembered from their sweet days together.
Then Lady Milton gently touched his sleeve, drawing his attention away. He gave her a dazzling smile, and Anne felt like a fool all over again. She had no claim on Robert; she had sent him away, and rightly so. She should never feel jealous if he now talked to, flirted with, another lady. But she did care, most decidedly.
“Anne, are you quite well?” her friend Rosamund asked. “Your cheeks are all flushed.”
Anne turned resolutely away from Robert and smiled at Rosamund. Her new friend was every bit as beautiful and sweet-natured as Lady Milton, with silvery-blond hair and wide blue eyes in a fair, heart-shaped face. She was also already proving a favorite with the Queen. Anne was sure she should hate Rosamund, and yet they were becoming such good friends. Rosamund was kind but fun, and seemed so understanding of foibles of the heart. Perhaps one day Anne could confide in her about Robert, but not yet. It all still felt so—bruised.
“I am fine, Rosamund,” Anne said with a laugh. “’Tis just the heat from the fire.”
“Or too much wine, mayhap?” said Mary Howard, one of the sharpest of the Maids of Honor. Anne avoided her whenever possible, and ignored her now, sliding a bit of spiced-pork pie from her plate onto Rosamund’s. She had not much of an appetite that night; not after seeing Robert in such close converse with Lady Milton.
“Rosamund, you must try some of this,” she said. “It is quite delicious, and you haven’t touched your soup.”
“’Tis not at all fashionable to be so slight, as poor Anne well knows,” Mary Howard said with a sniff. “Perhaps they care not for fashion in the country, but here, Lady Rosamund, you will find it of utmost importance.” Her gaze slid derisively over Anne’s narrow shoulders in her satin sleeves.
Anne stiffened. Robert had certainly never objected to her “unfashionable” slenderness! In fact, he once declared her breasts to be precisely the right size for a man’s hand—and mouth. “It is better than not being able to fit into one’s bodice, Mary. Or is such overtight lacing meant to catch Lord Fulkes’s eye?”
Catherine Knyvett, another of the Maids and Anne’s friend, laughed. “Even though he is betrothed to Lady Ponsonby!”
Mary tossed her head and loudly declared, “I care not a fig for Lord Fulkes, or his betrothed!”
“You could have fooled us on that point,” Anne murmured, which made Mary even angrier.
“Ladies, please,” Queen Elizabeth’s imperious voice called from her dais, where she entertained the Scots and Swedes. “Remember the occasion.”
Anne peeked up at the Queen to find her glaring down at her squabbling Maids. She was the sun they all revolved around, and she looked it tonight in her rich gown of gold brocade and black velvet, her red-gold hair bound with a jeweled corona headdress. She waved her be-ringed hand at them in an order to be silent, as if they were unruly schoolchildren. They fell silent, and Anne dared to glance one more time down the table at Robert.
To her chagrin, she found he watched her, a little half smile at the corner of his lips. He raised his goblet to her and Anne turned away, her face feeling even hotter than before. Surely Lady Milton was far too ladylike to ever be reprimanded!
Once the banquet was finally at an end, Anne slipped away fr
om the hall before the dancing began. It was too warm in the crowd, too loud, and her head was spinning. Perhaps Mary was right and she had partaken of too much wine. Or maybe the strain of always wondering where Robert was, what he was doing, if he was watching her, or worse not watching her, gave her a headache.
She hurried down the deserted corridor, looking for a quiet corner where she could hide and think for a moment. Whitehall was a vast labyrinth of halls, rooms and nooks, so large she often became lost when running errands for the Queen. Surely there was one small space that was empty!
Yet she found one curtained alcove was occupied by a man and woman twined around each other, moaning in ecstasy as he grabbed at her skirts. One window embrasure was taken up by a lordship and his page, similarly oblivious, and another by a man alone doing something she wanted to know nothing more about. She left them all alone, quite unknowing of her passing, and turned down another corridor to a more distant part of the palace.
Yet she was not alone there, either. Robert leaned against the stone wall, his arms crossed lazily over his chest as he watched her approach. It was as if he expected her.
Anne came to an abrupt halt. She watched him warily, wondering if she should retreat now, or do what she really longed to do—run to him, seize him in her arms and kiss him until he was as crazed as she was.
She glanced back over her shoulder. There was no one else there. Surely the entire Court was quite intent on their own amorous adventures.
“Looking for something, Anne?” he said.
She turned back to him, holding her head high. She would never let him see how he affected her! How he was constantly in her thoughts. “Yes. A place to be alone.”
“Haven’t you learned by now? You are never alone…not at Court.”
“You certainly are not. Not when Lady Milton is about. Such a faithful swain you are.” Anne knew she was being unfair. After all, she had sent Robert away; she should not care who he talked to. Made love with. Married. Yet the memory of him smiling so gently at Lady Milton, smiling in a way he never had with herself, stung.
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