Bound By Blood

by Kimberly Hoyt

  Once, he had thought it belonged to Anne.

  It was this, perhaps, that gave him pause when her hands dropped to the lacings on his breeches. He was struck by the idea that he was deceiving her.

  He was married.

  It was no real marriage anymore, by any standards, and yet he had spoken vows before God. She deserved to know, at the very least. But of course he could not tell her. It was a secret he and Anne would take to their graves.

  Trapped in a web of his own creation, the sensual expression in his eyes gave way to regret, followed by the torment of a man in the throes of passion who could have no real release.

  He wanted it. He wanted her. But not at the price of her honor. Or his own.

  “No, my lady.” He choked on the words. "I would not give you such ill use."

  Her head snapped upright, and there was stark surprise in her eyes when she met his gaze. She frowned in confusion. "What…why, what did I do wrong?"

  He felt her reaction like a physical blow. “You did nothing wrong, my lady. Nothing. I… there is a woman. An involvement. It would not be honorable of me, or fair to you.”

  Inwardly, Sebastian cursed himself for his bloody honor. But it was not so much about being faithful to Anne as it was about being faithful to himself. It was about his regard for the lady-in-waiting and his unwillingness to treat her like a common mistress. He watched emotions play across her features -- some he could identify and some he could not.

  None of them good.

  Her withdrawal was physical and emotional and it cut him as sharp as any blade.

  She climbed from his lap, her expression as guarded as her voice. “I see. I’m sorry I didn’t… mean to overstep. I should go.”

  “I have no desire to see you hurt." With another woman he might have taken her and scratched the itch too long denied. But not this woman.

  She was fretting, smoothing her hands down her dress as she stepped toward the door.

  For a moment he contemplated arguing her intent to leave. In the end, he rose --still obviously aroused-- and cupped her elbow so he could escort her out. His face remained a mask of regret.

  “Thank you for thinking of me, your Grace,” she said at the door. It sounded formal and distant on her tongue. Without another word or a glance, she walked out the door.

  Sebastian stepped into the hall in time to see the edge of her dress slither around the corner, out of sight. Frustrated, he shoved a hand through his dark hair. His man stood at the door, impassive even when Sebastian stepped back through and slammed the thing hard enough to make the frame shake.

  In a fretful, agonized fit, Laurel paced the small chamber in the dark. Her cheeks were flushed and damp, her bottom lip red from hours of gnawing. The evening had not gone as she'd planned. Now she worried she'd driven some sort of wedge between them—one that she'd never seen coming-- and had ruined her chances at luring him through the doorway. Chagrined and feeling stung by his denial, she stalked forward and back over the same stretch of floor while Katherine questioned her.

  What could she say? That the Duke of Darkthorne had thwarted her? That she'd been straddling his thighs just before he had a change of heart and turned her down?

  Morning came and with it, Laurel's determination to fix things. She had to. The whole thing was going awry. She couldn't risk her and Sebastian's lives by clinging to stubborn pride or lingering humiliation. When dawn crept over the horizon, she used a damp cloth to freshen up and chose another gown to struggle into. A study in black with gold darts from the hem to the waist, it was a pretty creation but a far cry from the ethereal dress she'd worn the night before.

  A series of three hard knocks startled Laurel as she adjusted a sleeve. She glanced at Katherine, who was even then tugging at the bodice of her own dress.

  "Who could that be?" Laurel asked in confusion.

  "It may be for the queen," Katherine said, hurrying to the door. She cracked it open and peered out. The meager spill of candlelight from their room barely penetrated the dim corridor.

  A set of men, swords on their hips, mouths set in grim lines, stood in the hall. "My Lord Cromwell has ordered the both of you to his chamber. We will escort you when you are ready," a salt and pepper haired man said. He regarded Katherine and Laurel, behind her, with sharp, dark eyes.

  "Oh dear, of course," Katherine said. "Please, give us just one moment." She closed the door and whirled on Laurel, her mouth an 'o' of surprise.

  Laurel heard well enough and fear gripped her. Had Cromwell put his plan into action already? Dear god, had Sebastian been detained? Pulling her hair back, she secured it with a ribbon while Katherine pulled on her slippers.

  They opened the door and Cromwell's men ushered them through the hallways, stopping for no one and answering none of Katherine's curious questions.

  Laurel, on the edge of panic, couldn't be thrilled at the thought of getting to meet this figurehead of Henry's court no matter how important to history he'd been. She couldn't very well rush off to find Sebastian, for that might bring him unwanted attention.

  They paused outside a door in a hallway sporting not one but two guards at each end. The salt and pepper haired man knocked hard, twice, and opened it when he was bade enter by someone within. Katherine, round-eyed, stepped in after the guard and before Laurel, who followed with her hands fidgeting nervously in the folds of the skirt.

  Cromwell's quarters consisted of an outer room filled with expensive looking furniture and a small, blazing hearth. A door leading into another room was open, but they were at the wrong angle to see in.

  Two more guards stood in the outer room with them, hands on the hilts of their swords.

  Laurel perched on the edge of a chaise lounge while a guard escorted Katherine into Cromwell's office. Stomach in knots, fear making her pale as death, all she could think about were the days that she'd wasted. The time spent gaining Sebastian's trust when she should have bullied and pressured and drug him through the portal if necessary. She only hoped it wasn't too late.

  The guards stood at each end of the room and more were in the hallway. They didn't ask questions or speak to her while Katherine remained behind closed doors with Cromwell.

  Twenty minutes later, Katherine emerged. She wore a troubled expression. She darted a fearful look at Laurel but was not allowed to stop and talk. The guards led her into the hall and gestured for Laurel to enter Cromwell's office.

  Exhaling, struggling for calm, Laurel stood up and walked through the doorway. She'd seen Cromwell at the great hall once or twice, always from a distance. He stood tall behind his desk now, face round with an unusually thin nose, his chin recessed too far back from his mouth. What he lacked in handsomeness he more than made up for in intimidation.

  "Sit, Lady Mayfield," he said, gesturing to a chair across from him.

  Laurel perched on the edge of the seat, resting her hands in her lap. She said nothing, forcing him to tell her why she was here.

  He paced back and forth as a storm broke over the castle, thunder making the windows shake.

  "You have only worked for Queen Anne a few days, have you not?" he asked.

  "Yes," Laurel answered, watching him pace and rub his small chin.

  "In that time, have you seen any men within the queen's chambers, Lady Mayfield?"

  Laurel frowned. Was it a trick question? Men came in and out all the time. "Well…yes? I have." It was the truth, even though she couldn't discern the deeper meaning yet.

  "Name them," he said, pausing to perch on the edge of his desk.

  She opened her mouth in surprise. "Name them? I don't-- do not know all their names, C-- my lord." Laurel, in her upset, forgot to watch her speech. Cromwell frowned a moment but didn't pursue it.

  "Which ones do you know? Have you seen Mark within? Her brother George?"

  It struck Laurel that this was how Cromwell had devised his fake charges for murder. This was the way he'd gained his 'information'. She couldn't very well lie and say she hadn
't seen these men inside Anne's chamber, because she had. Every one of them. She knew Mark and Anne were quite close, even after her short time here, but she also knew there was nothing going on between them. They were certainly not lovers.

  And George? Her own brother? She wanted to rant and call Cromwell out for his treachery. She had no favor for Anne, in fact found herself jealous of the woman more often than not. This however, was ludicrous.

  "I have seen all three within her chambers," she admitted. "But they came--"

  Cromwell cut her explanations off by holding up a hand. He didn't seem to be interested in why they were there, only that they had been. "How many times would you say, Lady Mayfield, that you saw each of them in her chamber? More than once? Several times?"

  "Several times each." More than that, though she dared not say.

  "And what of the Duke of Darkthorne?" he asked.

  Laurel forced a slow breath in and out, looking up from her hands straight into his eyes. "No. I have never seen him anywhere near her chambers," she said and that much was truth.

  "Not even once?" Cromwell said, arching his brow.

  "Never," she repeated.

  Cromwell stared at her like he knew things she didn't, or perhaps it was the knowledge that he'd seen her dancing with the Duke the past few nights in the hall. He probably wondered at their closeness, if she was his mistress, and whether she lied for him or not. He stood up and paced behind his desk again.

  "You are forbidden to speak of this conversation upon pain of death, Lady Mayfield," he said. It was her cue to go.

  "Thank you," she said, and rose from the chair. She left his chamber without a backward glance. One of the younger guards saw her into the hallway and thankfully, did not follow her past the corner. Laurel had little doubt Cromwell's minions were all over the castle, gathering other ladies in waiting and whoever else for 'confessions'.

  Sick at heart, she walked the corridors while the storm raged outside, making doubly sure that she'd lost any guards who might be following her. She spent ten minutes in the kitchens and finally, when she couldn't stand it a second longer, left there for the great hall. She meant to check for Sebastian there first, and then begin a route to his rooms. If he wasn't there, she'd have to search every public room and lastly, outside, rain or no rain.

  Mark sat on the edge of a dais, playing his fiddle for anyone who happened through the room. Laurel paused when she saw him, and she ached for his fate. He was innocent--as were most if not all the men--of the charges about to be leveled against him. Laurel railed against the unfairness of it. She wanted to warn him, to rush over and tell him to flee Whitehall for his life. But she knew she couldn't, and every second she spent doing other things was another second closer to Sebastian's own arrest.

  Past one of the tall pillars, she caught sight of Sebastian coming in from outside, gritty and muddied and wet from the rain. He wore chainmail and leather, his face a grim mask, damp hair finger-combed away from his forehead. All male, virile and imposing, he stalked with his sword swinging at his side through the hall.

  Laurel had a female response to seeing him thus. Heat crawled through her limbs and a slow ache started to unfurl low in her belly. It was a quick thing, there and gone for the fear that rushed in to replace it. Brisk steps brought her before him and she dipped a deep curtsy in case anyone was watching. If Cromwell's guards saw her speaking with him, she was going to be in the same trouble as Sebastian.

  "Sebastian," she said, hearing the worry in her own words. "I absolutely must see you in private. Immediately."

  He stopped and watched her bow, his eyes glittering with repressed desire. There was also something cool and distant in his demeanor that she didn't understand.

  "No. No, my lady," he said with finality. Sebastian pivoted on a muddy boot and stalked down another corridor, puddles of rainwater dotting the floor in his wake.

  Shocked, Laurel rose from the curtsy and stared after him. Desperate to make him listen, she followed as fast as she dared, glancing behind her to see if anyone had noticed their strained greeting or their sudden departure. The hall was largely empty, with only Mark playing a solemn tune on his instrument. "Sebastian, I need to speak with you. It's urgent," she said to his back.

  He paused and turned his head enough to see her. Tension lined his broad shoulders, made his spine stiff. Fisting his gloved hands, he hit them against the wall.

  "How much can a man…" He cut the shout off when Laurel paled and glanced behind her. The anger eased, though a muscle flexed in his jaw. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, and shoved the nearest door inward, striding inside the empty, gloomy smoking parlor to give them some privacy.

  She followed at his heels and slapped the door closed behind her. "I don't pretend to know why you're so chilly with me right now, but you have to listen to me. Something horrible has happened and I have very little time-- no time-- to explain."

  Sebastian faced her, rain slithering from his hairline down his unshaven cheeks. He crossed his arms over the breadth of his chest. "Tell me, my lady, what has happened."

  Perhaps it was the way he looked-- wet hair, glittering eyes, leather armor—that reminded her these were the last minutes she would ever know him as a mortal man. It hit with the force of a sledgehammer, all but knocking the breath from her lungs. There would be no more chases through a maze, no more sun warmed hair to run her fingers through. No heartbeat to feel, no breath on her skin. Just this last beautiful portrait, primal and savage, to remember him by.

  She had to let this one go to have the other one back.

  "Do you remember the talk beneath the cherry tree, Sebastian? Do you trust me? Because it's time. Right here, right now, it's time." Laurel could hardly force the words past the tangle of emotion in her throat.

  "My lady, now is not the time, I think, for games. If something has happened, I pray you tell me what it is," he said.

  "This is no game. I asked if you trust me. Do you?" She reached up to touch the charm at her throat.

  Stepping forward, he clasped her chin in his gloved hand and stared down at her. "I should not trust you, lady. God knows you have not put your trust in me. But I will follow where you lead." He drug his thumb across her lip and let go.

  The pass of his leather-clad thumb was rough on her lip, and she felt the scrape of it even when it was gone.

  "But I have trusted you. You'll see how much in a moment. This won't make much sense, but I don't have time to blindfold you." She stepped over to a different door in the wall, probably leading to another small parlor or library. Opening the charm around her throat, she dipped her pinky in and smeared the translucent, jelly-like substance at the four corners of the doorway. Standing back, she closed the charm and grabbed Sebastian's hand.

  He watched her, frowning, looking dubious about her actions.

  Laurel concentrated hard on the sanctuary, on the masculine décor, his large bed. She could see it clearly in her mind's eye. The translucent gel started to glimmer, picking up a faint turquoise hue. Vines trailed from one corner to the other, connecting and twining, and Laurel pulled in a deep breath of relief. It was working.

  "Jesu, what magic is this?" Sebastian asked. "Who are you, my lady?"

  Laurel squeezed his hand but didn't otherwise answer. Too afraid he was going to balk at the last second, she held on with a death grip, ready to do all manner of things to get him through to the other side. The wood started to shimmer and fade, becoming more gray than brown. In the very middle she could just make out Sebastian's sanctuary beyond, as if there was a smoky veil between this world and the other.

  He reached out his hand to touch it before she could stop him. The magic sucked him, and her by default, through to his bedroom. There was the same disorienting fog that had happened when they'd gone through the first time, leaving her with a vague sense of vertigo when they arrived. As the world righted itself, Laurel saw that the magic worked like it was supposed to.

  His room looked exactly as they'
d left it.

  A pair of jeans and a tee shirt replaced the dress she'd been wearing, and when she glanced over, Sebastian's chain mail had been traded for a sleek pair of black slacks and a snowy white button down.

  They were home.

  "Sebastian, it worked! We're home! Oh my god, that was the most horrible moment when you didn't recognize me at the dance." A hand clapped over her heart in relief and a smile bloomed across her mouth. She sought his eyes to celebrate their successful return.

  Only to see him staring around the room in confused shock. With a sudden tug, he used their clasped hands to bring her right up against him and glared down into her upturned face.

  "No more riddles, my lady. Tell me now. What place is this? Are you a witch?" His voice was a spare rasp of fury.

  Laurel stared at him, as shocked as he was. "…what? Sebastian, we're home! We made it back." A sick feeling churned in her stomach at his expression. He didn't seem to know her now anymore than he had in Tudor.

  No.

  No.

  He reached for his sword, finding it gone, and then glanced back at the door they'd walked through. The gray void was gone. No smoking parlor, no Whitehall castle. Thrusting a hand through his hair, he emitted a sound like a growl and stared at her again. "What madness do you speak? This is no home I have ever called my own."

  Laurel tried to make sense of why Sebastian wasn't himself. Nothing was amiss with their travel and they'd arrived together instead of separate. She felt fine, if a little light headed, and one glance told her the room was in the exact same condition as they'd left it. Guilt pressed in on her, a heavy, uncomfortable weight.

  She'd done something wrong.

  "The day of your joust, we were here first," she explained, a sob catching in her throat. "We were here in this room and we decided to visit your past. We thought we would only be gone a few hours but when we arrived, you didn't know me. Remember that night at the great hall? I worried over whether to bring us back right away. There was the joust though and then later, I didn't know if you would blindly trust me and go through the door with a stranger."