The Maiden's Hand

by Susan Wiggs

  A splendidly cut doublet of midnight-blue velvet displayed his broad shoulders to shameless advantage. Flamboyant gold braid laced his sleeves around powerful arms. And when he threw back his head to laugh, displaying healthy teeth and a musical tenor chuckle, she could hardly blame Clarice for clinging to him. He had that air of potency, of magnetism, that made even sensible folk feel safe and treasured when he was near.

  Will you have my baby? The memory came unbidden; his words echoed in her mind, and she hated herself for clinging to them. He had meant it as a jest, no more.

  It was chilly in the tavern, with its damp plaster and timber walls and the bleak light of oil lamps. There was no reason on earth Lark should feel warm. Yet she did, as if she possessed embers inside, with some force from without fanning them.

  “You’re certain you don’t wish to sit with us?” Oliver inquired, studying her so closely that she was certain he noticed her hot throat and cheeks and ears.

  “Quite certain,” she said.

  He heaved a great sigh. “I cannot bear to have you standing there in discomfort.” He spread his arms as if to embrace all who sat around the table. “My friends, I must go with dear Mistress Lark.”

  She saw the disappointment on their faces, and in an odd, intuitive way she understood it. When Oliver withdrew from the table, it seemed the sun had drifted behind a cloud.

  Then he did a singular thing. He sank to one knee before Clarice. Gazing up at her as if she were Queen Mary herself, he took her hand in his, placed a lingering kiss in her palm, and closed her fingers around the invisible token. “Fare you well, my lovely.”

  Watching the intimate and chivalrous farewell gave Lark the oddest sensation of yearning. Certainly there was nothing remarkable about a rogue parting from his doxy, yet Oliver managed to glorify the simple act with an air of wistful romance and tenderness. As if he cherished her.

  She wondered what it would be like to be cherished, even for a moment. Even by a rogue.

  Then he spoiled it by reaching around and pinching Clarice’s backside, causing her to bray with laughter. When he stood and donned a blue velvet hat, the plume brushed the blackened ceiling timbers.

  “Kit, I shall call for you later.”

  Kit Youngblood sent him a jaunty salute. Though somewhat older than Oliver, more blunt featured and quiet, he was nearly as handsome. Taken as a pair, the two were quite overwhelming. “Do. I missed our carousing while you were away. On a pilgrimage, was it?”

  The look they shared was steeped in mirth and fellowship. Then, without warning, Oliver took Lark by the hand and drew her out into the alleyway.

  As soon as she recovered her surprise, she pulled away. “Kindly keep your hands to yourself, my lord.”

  “Is it your mission in life to wound me?” he asked, looking remarkably sober for all that he had quaffed three tankards of ale while she had watched.

  “Of course not.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “My lord, I came to see you to—”

  “You held out your hand to me when I lay gasping on the ground at a pauper’s grave. Why flinch when I do the same to you?”

  “Because I don’t need help. Not of that sort.”

  “What sort?” He tilted his head to one side. The plume in his hat curved downward, caressing a face so favored by Adonis that Lark could only stare.

  “The touching sort,” she snapped, irritated that her head could be turned by mere looks.

  “Ah.” All male insolence, he reached out and dragged his finger slowly and lightly down the curve of her cheek. It was worse than she had suspected—his touch was as compelling as his lavish handsomeness. She had the most shameful urge to lean her cheek into the cradling warmth of his hand. To gaze into his eyes and tell him all the secret things she had never dared admit to anyone. To close her eyes and—

  “I must remember that,” he said, dropping his hand and grinning down at her. “The lady does not like to be touched.”

  “Nor do I like walking in a strange alley with a man I hardly know. However, it is necessary. You see, there is a matter—”

  “Hail the lord and his lady!” A group of men in sailor’s caps and tunics tumbled past, swearing and spitting and jostling one another as they shoved themselves into the tavern.

  “Good fishing to ye,” one of them called out to Oliver. “I hope the perch are biting fair.” The door slammed behind the man, muffling his guffaws.

  Lark frowned. “What did he mean?”

  She was surprised to see the color rise in Oliver’s cheeks. Why would so shameless a man blush at a sailor’s remark?

  “He must have mistaken me for the sporting type.” Oliver started off down the alley.

  “Where are we going?” Picking up her skirts, Lark hurried after him.

  “You said you wished to talk.”

  “I do. Why not here? I have been trying to explain myself.”

  A creaking sound came from somewhere above, where the timbered buildings leaned out over the roadway. Oliver turned, grabbed Lark in his arms and pushed her up against a plastered wall.

  “Unhand me!” she squeaked. “You rogue! You measureless knave! How dare you take liberties with my virtue!”

  “It’s a tempting thought,” he said with laughter in his voice. “But that was not my purpose. Now be still.”

  Even before he finished speaking, a cascade of filthy wash water crashed down from a high window. The deluge filled the road where Lark had stood only seconds ago.

  “There.” Oliver eased away from the wall and continued down the street. “Both your gown and your virtue are safe.”

  Miffed, she thanked him tersely. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.” The sound of his tall, slashed knee boots echoed down the tunnellike lane.

  “I don’t want a surprise,” she said. “I simply want to talk to you.”

  “And so you shall. In good time.”

  “I wish to talk now. Forsooth, sir, you frustrate me!”

  He stopped and turned so abruptly that she nearly collided with him. “Ah, Mistress Lark,” he said, his bluer-than-blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “not half so much as you frustrate me.” She feared he would touch her again, but he merely smiled and continued walking.

  She followed him along a pathway, passing kennels where dogs for the bull baitings were housed, trying not to gawk at a flock of masked prostitutes gathering to watch the sport.

  The north end of the path opened out to the Thames. The broad brown river teemed with wherries, shallops, timber barges and small barks. Far to the east rose the webbed masts of great warships and merchantmen, and to the west loomed London Bridge. From this distance Lark could not see the grisly severed heads of traitors that adorned the Southwark Gate of the bridge, but the whirling scavenger kites made her think of them and shiver.

  Oliver lifted his hand, and in mere seconds a barge with three oarsmen at the bow and a helmsman at the stern bumped the bottom of the water steps.

  Bowing low and gesturing toward the canopied seat of the barge, he said, “After you, mistress.”

  She hesitated. It had been a mistake to leave Randall behind. For all she knew, Lord Oliver was dragging her along the path to perdition.

  Still, the open, elegant barge looked far more inviting than the dank alley, so she descended the stone steps to the waterline. The helmsman held out a hand to steady her as she boarded.

  “The lady mislikes being touched, Bodkin,” Oliver called out helpfully.

  With a shrug, Bodkin withdrew his hand just as Lark had one foot in the barge and the other on the slimy stone landing. The barge lurched. She tumbled onto the leather cushioned seat with a thud.

  Mustering courage from her bruised dignity, she glared up at Oliver. His buoyant grin flashed as he grasped the pole of the canopy and swung himself onto the seat beside her.

  Lark stared straight ahead. “I assume we are going someplace where we can speak privately.”

  Oliver nudged the
oarsman in front of him. “Hear that, Leonardo? She wants to tryst with me.”

  “I do not.”

  “Hush. I was teasing. Of course I will take you to a place of privacy. Eventually.”

  “Eventually? Why not immediately?”

  “Because of the surprise,” he said with an excess of good-humored patience. “The tide’s low, Bodkin. I think it’s safe to shoot the bridge.”

  The helmsman tugged at his beard. “Upstream? We’ll get soaked.”

  Oliver laughed. “That’s half the fun. Out oars, gentlemen, to yonder bridge.”

  Lark hoped for a mutiny, but the crew obeyed him. In perfect synchrony, three sets of long oars dipped into the water. The barge glided out into the Thames.

  In spite of her annoyance with Lord Oliver de Lacey, Lark felt a thrill of excitement. Turbulence churned the waters beneath the narrow arches of London Bridge. She knew people had drowned trying to pass beneath it. Yet the smooth, swift motion of the sleek craft gliding through the water gave her the most glorious feeling of freedom. She told herself it had nothing to do with the benevolent, lusty and wholly pagan presence beside her.

  Moments later, white-tipped wavelets lifted the bow of the boat. As the barge neared London Bridge, it bucked like a wild horse over the roaring waters around the pilings.

  Lark lifted her face to the spray. She had come to London for a business transaction, and here she was in the throes of a forbidden adventure. She swirled like a leaf upon the water, buffeted, at the mercy of a whimsical man who, with sheer force of will, had turned her from her purpose and swept her up in an escapade she should not want to experience.

  “I wish you would listen to what I have to say,” she stated.

  “I might. Especially if it involves wine, women and money.”

  “It does not.”

  “Then tell me later, my dove. First we’ll have some fun.”

  “Why do you insist on surprising me?” she demanded, gripping the gunwale of the boat.

  “Because.” He swept off his hat and pressed it over his heart. He looked boyishly earnest, eyes wide, a silver-gilt lock of hair tumbling down his brow. “Because just once, Lark, I want to see you smile.”

  Two

  She did not understand him at all. That much she knew for certain. She could not fathom why he insisted on entertaining her. Nor did she know why it pleased him so to wave to strangers boating on the Thames, to call out greetings to people he’d never met, to run alongside a herring-buss to inquire about a fisherman’s catch.

  Most of all, she could not comprehend Oliver’s shouts of humor and ecstasy when they shot the bridge. The adventure was sheer terror for her.

  At first. Her senses were overcome by the rush of the water with its damp, fishy smell. Her teeth jarred with the churning sensation as the bow lifted, then slapped down. The rush of speed loosened tendrils of hair from her braid and caused her skirts to billow up above her knees.

  Terror, once faced, was actually rather exhilarating. Especially when it was over.

  “Was that my surprise?” she asked weakly once the bridge was behind them.

  “Nay. You haven’t smiled yet. You’re white as an Irish ghost.”

  She turned to him and forced up the corners of her mouth. “There,” she said through her teeth. “Will that do?”

  “It is precious. But nay, I reject that one.”

  “What is wrong with my smile?” she demanded. “We cannot all be as handsome as sun gods with beautiful mouths and perfect teeth.”

  He laughed, tossing his mist-damp hair. “You noticed.”

  “I also noticed your vast conceit.” She poked her nose into the air. “It rather spoils the effect.”

  He sobered, though his eyes still shone with mirth. “I meant no insult, dear Lark. It is just that your smile was not real. A real smile starts in the heart.” Forgetting—or ignoring—her interdict against touching, he brushed his fingers over her stiff bodice. “Love, I can make your whole body smile.”

  “Oh, honestly—”

  “It is a warmth that travels upward and outward, like a flame. Like this.”

  She sat transfixed as his hands brushed over the tops of her breasts, covered by a thin lawn partlet. His fingers grazed her throat, then her chin and lips. She thought wildly of the oarsmen and Bodkin at the helm, yet even as a horrible embarrassment crept over her, she stayed very still, transfixed by Oliver.

  “A true smile does not end here, at your mouth.” He watched her closely. “But in your eyes, like a candle piercing the darkness.”

  “Oh, dear,” she heard herself whisper. “I am not certain I can do that.”

  “Of course you can, sweet Lark. But it does take practice.”

  Somehow, his lips were mere inches from hers. And hers tingled with a hunger that took her by surprise. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to discover the shape and texture of his lips. She had been lectured into a stupor about the evils of fleshly desires, she thought she had done battle with temptation, but no one had ever warned her about the seductive power of a man like Oliver de Lacey.

  Closing her eyes, she swayed toward him, toward his warmth, toward the scents of tavern and river that clung to him.

  “I am touching you again,” he said, and she heard the whispered laughter in his voice. “Please forgive me.” He dropped his hands and drew away.

  Her eyes flew open. He lay half sprawled on the tasseled cushions, one leg drawn up and one hand trailing in the water. “A rather cold day, is it not, Mistress Lark?”

  She resisted the urge to make certain her partlet was in place. “Indeed it is, my lord.” She was not used to being teased. And she was definitely not used to bold, handsome men who flung out jests and insincere compliments as if they were alms to the poor.

  It mattered not, she told herself. Spencer claimed he needed Oliver de Lacey. For Spencer’s sake she would endure the young lord’s insolent charm. Certainly not for her own pleasure.

  “Will you listen now?” she asked. “I have come a very long way to see you.”

  “Nell!” he roared, causing the barge to list as he leaned out from under the canopy. “Nell Buxley!” He waved at a shallop proceeding downstream, aimed toward Southwark. “I made heaven in your lap last time we met!”

  “Good morrow to you, my bed-swerving lord,” brayed a wine-roughened female voice. A grinning woman in a yellow wig leaned out from the shallop. “Who’s that with you? Have you ransacked her honor yet?”

  With a moan of futility, Lark slumped back against the cushions and yanked her hood over her head.

  “This is another place of iniquity!” Lark dug in her heels. “Why have you brought me here?”

  Oliver chuckled. “’Tis Newgate Market, my love. You’ve never been?”

  She stared at the swarm of humanity pushing through the narrow byways, crowding around stalls or pausing to observe the antics of a monkey here, a dancing dog there. “Of course not. I generally try to avoid places frequented by vagrants, cutpurses, and no-account young lords.”

  Even as she spoke, she saw a lad dart up behind a portly gentleman. The child tickled the man’s ear with a feather, and when the man reached up to scratch, the little rogue cut his purse and slipped away with the prize.

  Lark clapped one hand to her chest and pointed with the other. “That child! He…he…”

  “And a good job he made of it, too.”

  “He stole that man’s purse.”

  Oliver began strolling down the lane. “Life is brutish and short for some people. Let the lad go.”

  She did not want to follow Oliver into the raucous crowd, nor did she wish to stand alone, vulnerable to the evils that could befall her. Despite his devil-may-care manner, Oliver, with his prodigious height and confident swagger, made her feel protected.

  “Watch this,” he said, sidling up to the dancing monkey. A few people in the crowd moved aside to let him pass. Lark fancied she could feel the heat of the sly, appreciative feminine glances t
hat slid his way.

  When the little monkey, garbed in doublet and hat, spied Oliver, it leaped excitedly over its chain. The keeper laughed. “My lord, we have missed you these weeks past.”

  Oliver bowed from the waist. “And I have missed you and young Luther.”

  Lark caught her breath. It seemed decidedly impious to name a monkey after the great reformer.

  “Luther is a chap of strong convictions, are you not?” Oliver asked.

  The creature bared its teeth.

  “He is loyal to the Princess Elizabeth.”

  At the sound of the name, the ape leaped in a frenzy, back and forth over its chain.

  “He has his doubts about King Philip.”

  As soon as Oliver named Queen Mary’s hated Spanish husband, Luther lay sullenly on the dirt path and refused to move. Oliver guffawed, tossed a coin to the keeper and strolled on while the crowd applauded.

  “You are too bold,” Lark said, hurrying to match his long strides.

  He sent her a lopsided grin. “You think that was bold? You, who have been known to steal out in the night to save the lives of condemned criminals?”

  “That’s different.”

  “I see.”

  She knew he was laughing at her. Before she could scold him, he stopped at a stall surrounded by long canvas draperies.

  “Come see the show of nature’s oddities,” a woman called. “We’ve a badger that plays the tambour.” Reaching out, she grasped Oliver’s shoulder.

  Patting her hand, he pulled away. “No, thank you.”

  “A goose that counts?” the hawker offered.

  Oliver smiled and shook his head.

  “A two-headed lamb? A five-legged calf?”

  Oliver prepared to move off. The woman leaned close and said in a loud whisper, “A bull with two pizzles.”

  Oliver de Lacey froze in his tracks. “This,” he said, pressing a coin into her palm, “I have got to see.”

  He made Lark come with him, but she steadfastly refused to look. She stood in a corner of the stall, her eyes clamped shut and her nostrils filled with the ripe scent of manure. Several minutes passed, and she closed her ears to the whistles and catcalls mingling with the animal noises.