by Susan Wiggs
Swearing, he came up for air and dried his face on his sleeve. As he dressed hastily, memories of the previous night came pouring back. How sweet she had been, coaxing forth a tenderness he had not known he possessed, assuring him that falling in love was not the disaster he’d always thought it.
And then panic took hold. Where was she? Had she had second thoughts? No, he trusted her love now.
But something was amiss.
He jerked open the door and pounded through the passageway, swinging down a coiled stairwell and along a cloistered walkway to the royal lodgings. Vaguely he heard house wardens challenging him, but he raced past, not stopping until he reached the antechamber to the king’s privy apartment.
He was about to yank open the heavy door when a black-clad figure appeared at his side.
“Looking for your wife, Wimberleigh?” asked Thomas Cromwell.
Infuriated by Lord Privy Seal’s smugness, Stephen demanded, “Where is she? Damn it, Thomas—”
“Gone.”
Stephen’s heart skipped a beat. “Gone where?”
“Fled to the coast, most likely. With her Russian lover.”
She was their prisoner.
“Alexei, you have no honor,” Juliana said, covering her fear with bravado.
“Shut up,” he said over his shoulder. He bent lower over the horse’s neck and jammed in the spurs.
Juliana tried to twist her wrists free of the cord that bound them, but the sudden increased speed of the horse jolted her against Alexei’s back. By craning her neck she could see his retainers—three dark, silent riders behind and two in the vanguard.
Hatred seared her heart. This man had butchered her family in cold blood. His act of inhuman cruelty had driven her from her home, forced her to cross treacherous miles and churning seas to live in poverty amid gypsies.
And she had trusted him. She had grieved for him.
Seeking refuge from her despair, she remembered her moments with Stephen. He had taken her in his arms and said he loved her. His ardor had filled her with a boundless, breathless joy.
Why, in God’s name, had she thought winning his love would not be enough?
She should have told Stephen what she knew—that Alexei was the man in her nightmare. Instead, she had refused to relinquish her blood vow and had taken matters into her own hands. Wrapped in a cloak fastened with her brooch, the rage of revenge burning high in her heart, she had burst into Alexei’s quarters.
And fallen right into his trap.
She would never forget the look of supreme satisfaction on his face. “I have been waiting for you,” he said, snatching the sword from her grasp. “Your Romanov pride has delivered you right into my hands.”
A staccato command from Alexei had roused his lackeys from their slumber in the antechamber. In seconds she had been bound, gagged, and dragged to the riverfront. They bore her away in a swift wherry that cut through the chunks of ice in the Thames.
That had been hours earlier. They had gone to a remote riverside wood where horses were waiting, and now they were heading eastward, into the rising sun, to a destination Alexei would not disclose.
What was his purpose? She clawed at the twine that bound her wrists; her skin had already been rubbed raw from chafing. She squirmed in the saddle, provoking a bark of anger from Alexei.
“In the Lord’s name, be still, you little hellcat,” he commanded.
“Then stop,” she said, knowing every minute took her farther away from Stephen. “I need to rest.”
He muttered a curse and called out to his men. They took a high path that led up and away from the banks of the Thames and into a Kentish forest. By using her foot, she managed to snag the hem of her cloak on scrubby bushes here and there, hoping the gypsies, at least, would recognize the signs of her passing.
They stopped in a clearing surrounded by winter-bare trees with skeletal branches clawing at the bleak sky. There, four more Russians awaited, and they had a hurried conference about a cog that awaited the tide at Gravesend.
For the first time, Juliana faced the truth. She would either die or be spirited back to Muscovy with a group of assassins.
“We shall be at sea within the hour.” Alexei’s quiet, sly voice sounded in her ear as he helped her dismount.
She spun around, her nerves and her temper out of control. “I want to know why, Alexei. Why! Why did you murder my family and burn my home?”
He lifted an eyebrow in surprise.
“For years I thought you had perished while defending my family,” she said, so filled with hate that she could barely speak. “But that is not what happened at all, is it?”
“What does it matter what happened so long ago?”
“You came to my father’s house, ate at his table, slept under his roof, claimed his daughter’s hand, all to cover your evil purpose. How long did you search for me that night?”
“Not long enough.” Dry laughter rustled in his throat. “Your father was a fool. On his deathbed, Prince Vasily sought to strip the nobles of their rights. Us! His boyars, who fought his wars for him—”
“And took your share of the booty,” she retorted. “My father knew that once Vasily was dead, you would beggar the peasants and turn the farmers off their lands.”
“He should have known better than to align himself with a dying prince whose sole legacy was that puling infant, Ivan, and Ivan’s half-witted brother, Yuri.”
Prince Ivan. The lad was not nearly old enough to rule, only to be used as a puppet of the grasping nobles.
“Why did you come all this way?”
“When I learned you had proven your identity to the king of England, I knew I had to … find you.” He brushed his lips over her cheek. “I could love you, Juliana. You’ve a fire in you, a sense of pride. You would be an ornament to my family.”
She felt a wave of nausea rise from deep in her belly. He was mad to think she would ever accept him, ever sleep with the man who had murdered her family. “What became of my father’s estate?” she forced herself to ask.
He shrugged. “Fallen into a derelict state. A fitting tomb for your father, no?”
It took all her willpower not to lunge at him. She hated him, aye, enough to kill him, but not now. Not with his vigilant men standing sentinel nearby.
“They were not shriven and buried?” she asked.
“They died like pigs and lay as fodder for wolves and carrion birds.”
“You treacherous corruption,” she said in a deadly voice. “You are the carrion bird. A coward, striking at night, slaughtering women and children and feeding on their defenseless flesh. You make me sick.”
He struck with the swiftness of an able killer, his leather-gloved hand cracking against her face. At first she felt only numbness. Then pain drove away the chill and spread across her cheek. She tasted blood in her mouth.
As quickly as he had struck her, he recovered and spoke almost placatingly. “Forgive me. I want to love you, Juliana, but you must obey me. Do not lament the estate. After we’re married, we’ll restore it, keep it as a summer retreat.”
“Married!” A light-headed feeling overcame her. She swayed, then backed against the rough trunk of a linden tree to steady herself. “I have been wed at the king’s command to an English nobleman.”
Alexei sent her a silky smile. “Who is to say you’re not widowed by now?”
She absorbed his statement like a physical blow. Could it be? Could he or his men have murdered Stephen while he slept?
No, she told herself firmly. If Stephen were dead, she would surely sense the loss. He was that much a part of her now, the keeper of her heart, the guardian of her dreams. They had been enemies at first, but gradually she had found her way into his empty life. They had been helpmeets equally concerned with the estate. They had been parents, anxious about Oliver and fiercely proud of his accomplishments. And they had been lovers in the fullest sense of the word, sharing the secrets of their souls as well as the pleasures of their bod
ies—and finally, they shared the ultimate bond.
The babe that grew inside her.
“You lie. And I love Stephen de Lacey.”
A wolfish smile slashed his beard. “Love is an English malady that strikes the faint at heart.”
“One of the greatest acts of courage Stephen ever committed was to love me.”
Alexei spat on the ground. “In Russia a man knows better than to put his stock in sentiment.” Snakelike, his arm shot out and he fingered a lock of her hair. “Like sable, it is. And until we are joined, I want you to wear it as you do now. Unbound, like a virgin’s.”
“If you seek to wed a virgin,” she said, “you had best look elsewhere.”
His hand, still entangled in her hair, clenched into a fist. “It is a pity that the English swine claimed you. But once we are back in Muscovy, it will be as if this had never happened. We will be betrothed and wed as our parents intended.”
“Not quite,” she whispered, her bound hands straying low to press her gently rounding belly. “I carry a reminder.”
He gave his hand a jerk, snapping her head back and forcing her to look at him. “You had best be lying, my little whore. I will not play father to any Englishman’s get. I’ll beat it out of you—”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“If you’re with child, then I cannot marry you.”
Before she could release a breath of relief, he added, “If you’re with child, I’ll have to kill you.”
“You’ve not been invited into our presence, Wimberleigh,” the king said in a bland voice. He studied his fingernails with rapt attention. His half-eaten breakfast lay on a salver on the massive table and he sat in a box chair, his swollen leg propped on a tuffet.
Stephen did not flinch at the censure. He gave the most cursory of bows and reached to remove his hat, only to find that he had forgotten it in his haste. The gentlemen of the bedchamber moved discreetly about their morning duties, readying the king’s toilette and his raiments for the day.
Stephen was not surprised to see Algernon among the men. His wagging tongue had finally won him a place of privilege in the royal household. Apparently he cared not that he had destroyed Stephen’s marriage in the process.
“I came to beg leave to depart,” Stephen said to the king.
Interest flashed in Henry’s black currant eyes. “Did the Russian displace you so easily, then?”
Algernon, who had been pouring small ale from a ewer, dropped the cup. The pewter vessel thunked into the rushes and rolled bumpily to a stop at Stephen’s feet.
“Your pardon,” Algernon murmured, stooping to retrieve the vessel. As he rose, he whispered, “Stephen. I must speak with you.”
“Good God, Havelock!” Henry said. “Have I engaged a fool? I thought Will Somers served that function. Now. Wimberleigh, where were we? Ah. Your wife has decamped with our dear ambassador from Muscovy. A pity he left in such haste. I had such tantalizing trade agreements in mind.”
“Your Majesty!” Algernon interrupted the king and bravely awaited the royal wrath. “There is something you should know about the man who presented himself to you as the Russian ambassador.”
Stephen came instantly alert. Nothing short of mortal danger would compel Algernon to risk the king’s displeasure.
“That will be all, Havelock.” Thomas Cromwell hastened across the room, a black-winged figure with an ominous scowl. “You may seek your own chambers now.”
“That will be all,” Algernon said, his curls bobbing like a lion’s mane. “You said you’d tell Stephen the news brought by the gypsy Laszlo.”
“What news?” Stephen demanded. “Where is Laszlo?”
Cromwell glared at Algernon. “My lord, if you value your position, you will keep silent.”
“If my position is at your side, Thomas Cromwell,” Algernon said, “then I value it not at all.”
A discreet jerk of Lord Privy Seal’s head brought forth a pair of men-at-arms.
Stephen planted himself in their way. “Havelock has something to say. Let him speak.”
The guards looked at the king. Henry merely steepled his fingers and watched with sharp interest.
“Stephen,” Algernon said, “I have been a party to the worst sort of treachery—”
“You sniveling little varlet.” Cromwell beckoned to the men-at-arms. “Take him away!”
“Sire, I beg you, hear me out,” Algernon shouted over his shoulder. “Thomas Cromwell swore he would tell Stephen the news from Laszlo, but he has not, he—”
His captors shoved the door open, and there stood Nance Harbutt, wringing her hands, her face soaked with tears.
“Good God, Nance, what’s amiss?” Stephen asked as Algernon was dragged off.
“ ’Tis your son, my lord.” She raised her voice over Havelock’s shouts. “ ’Tis little Oliver.”
Stephen froze. “Another attack?”
Her wimple flapping, Nance nodded vigorously. “I’ve never seen him like this. I fear this time he’ll die. He—”
Stephen did not hear the rest. Borne by his worst nightmares, he raced to the nursery.
As he sat in the small bed, cradling his son in his arms, Stephen was hurled back across the years to the nightmare day when Dickon had died.
“Not again,” he whispered, pressing kisses on Oliver’s sweat-dampened hair. “Please God, don’t do this to me again.”
Oliver dragged in a breath of air. The spasms in his chest prevented him from expelling it. His desperate convulsions caused a raw pain deep inside Stephen. The agony smoldered and then took fire, burning his heart to ashes.
Please God, not again.
Oliver’s hands clutched at Stephen’s shirt. The lad’s eyes were wide and glassy. “Jul … Jul …”
“She’s not here, son.” And with all his soul, Stephen wished that she were. Only one thing in the world could have held him back from going after her—Oliver.
Stephen felt torn to shreds by indecision. He needed her. Oliver needed her. She had the most magical, calming effect on the lad. Her presence and her touch seemed to soothe him. When all the medical wisdom in England had failed to control Oliver’s attacks, she had managed to increase his strength, to give him confidence, to make him part of a world he had once only watched from his window.
She had taught Stephen to love again. Had taught him that to retreat, to build walls to shield his heart, was the way of a coward. She had given him back his son.
“Want Jul …” Oliver wheezed.
“Son, she had to go away.” The words tasted like bile on his tongue.
“You go!” The shout nearly sapped the lad of his strength. He lay still, ghost pale, his white-gold hair framing his colorless face like a halo.
No.
Oliver’s body shuddered like a kettle releasing steam.
“My lord, I think you should fetch her,” Nance said solemnly. “I’ve seen the way it is with her and the lad. She calms him.”
“Damn it, Nance, I cannot leave him in this state.”
“What good will it do to hold him while he dies?” Nance said in a defiant whisper. “He needs her. She is his mother in all ways save the least important one.”
“You’ve done all you can, my lord,” said Dame Kristine. “My mother is right. You should fetch your wife.”
Damn it, Stephen thought, why had she left? She had loved Oliver. How could she leave him?
“Wimberleigh.” The king had entered the nursery and spoke quietly. “I order you—I command you—to go after your wife.”
“Sire, I cannot—”
“Listen to His Majesty, Stephen.” Algernon rushed into the room. His doublet had been torn open. His hat was missing, his curls mussed from his struggle with the guards.
“I decided to hear what Havelock had to say,” Henry stated. He avoided looking at Oliver, as if he could not bear the sight of an ailing child. “You should hear it, too, Wimberleigh.”
Stephen stepped away from the bed, leaving N
ance and Kristine to press cool cloths to Oliver’s brow. “I’m listening.”
“Alexei Shuisky is not the man sent from the court of Prince Ivan. The gypsy, Laszlo, found out the truth. He told me and Lord Privy Seal this morning. He speaks the Russian tongue, and over many cups of ale made friends with some of Alexei’s retainers. Last night he coaxed the truth from these men. Alexei overtook the ambassador, murdered him and his escort and came here in his place.”
A shiver twisted along Stephen’s spine. “Why would he do that?”
Algernon’s face lost all color save a sick bluish tinge around his lips. “Alexei Shuisky led the massacre of Juliana’s family.”
Henry stroked his beard. “I sensed something sly about Alexei right from the first. Lady Juliana’s dog always seemed the most docile of creatures. Yet he hurled himself at Prince Alexei, did he not? They say dogs and horses never forget.”
“Juliana is with him,” Stephen whispered. “Juliana has ridden off with the man who murdered her family.”
“I fear so,” Algernon said.
Stephen swore between his teeth. He glanced at the chamber door, then at his son who lay gasping on the low bed.
“My lord of Wimberleigh.” The king spoke in a strangely gentle tone. “I am not proud of—all I have done to you.”
Stephen’s jaw nearly dropped. Henry, apologizing? And for what? For Meg, who in her ignorance had become his lover? For all the betrothals besmirched by his lust? For putting Juliana in the hands of a killer?
“I know you feel you must stay with your poor son,” Henry went on. “But Lady Juliana needs you more.”
If she still lives. Stephen failed to stop the thought from forming.
His mouth dry as ashes, he said, “Are you certain the charges against Alexei are true?”
“Why would he leave so furtively, and in such haste, if he were a man of honor?”
Nance fell with a thud to her knees and began praying in Latin and the vernacular as if unsure which the Lord would heed.
Stephen pictured Juliana spirited off by a man driven by hatred to find her. And then he looked at Oliver, barely breathing, the air a thin, strangled whine between his teeth.