The Maiden's Hand

by Susan Wiggs

  It was a moment when the world seemed to hold its breath. She gathered it into herself and held fast, watching the garden drift by as he strode with her to the house.

  A charwoman and a potboy in the kitchen looked up from their chores, blinking sleepily at the lord and lady as they passed.

  He climbed the stairs with fluid ease and went straight to his own chambers, not even pausing at her adjoining rooms.

  “I should get my shift and robe,” she suggested.

  He lowered her to the bed. “Love, that won’t be necessary.”

  The deep timbre of his voice raised gooseflesh on her arms, and she found it oddly thrilling to surrender to him in this way, to put aside her usual impulse to control and direct things. He made her see the value in simply being, in flowing along like a leaf on a current.

  As Oliver began, with deft solicitousness, to disrobe her, she sank deeper and deeper into the stream of feelings, and she floated farther and farther from reason and logic. It mattered not at all that he had taken her will from her. This time she wanted to surrender. Completely.

  She felt the morning breeze through the open window swish over her body, over breasts and belly and legs Oliver had bared without effort. This, she thought, watching him shed his own clothes, the golden light limning him from behind, this is true trust—to give herself fully, holding nothing back.

  And there was nothing in the least frightening about it.

  Before, when he made love to her, Oliver had done so with alternating dark intensity and lighthearted humor. This time he was intent in a different way. It was as if a new facet of him had turned toward the light and she were seeing him for the first time.

  He bent and kissed her, and his lips were warm and firm, moist as the fronds of the lilies blooming in the garden. His hands glided like the wings of a bird, touching her breasts, circling them, slipping round and round as pleasure coiled inside her. He lifted his head to catch his breath, and then he bent to kiss her breasts. He went lower, fingers and mouth lightly caressing the subtle mound of her belly.

  “’Tis unthinkable that I did not notice,” he whispered. “Now ’tis all I see. A miracle, Lark. Nothing less. And I, like a blind beggar, failed to see it.”

  “I hid it,” she confessed, brushing her fingers through his silky hair. “Because I was afraid.”

  He turned his head to press his lips to her palm. His kisses continued, swirling in ever-tightening circles, drawing closer as if he understood the need coiled inside her, waiting to be sprung. His hands eased her thighs apart and opened the petals of her womanhood, first to his fingers, then, shockingly, to his mouth. Surprise and blade-bright pleasure held her spellbound, suspended, and the coil drew unbearably tighter, until, all at once, she was flung free, launched like the birds over the Thames, airborne.

  Soaring.

  He joined with her, and she could hear his voice but not his words, and it did not matter. He gave himself up with a deep shudder, and he kissed her, startling her with the flavor of herself. She knew not how long the moment lasted. Eternity might be reached in the blink of an eye. A heartbeat had the feel of forever.

  Lark drifted back slowly, a feather on a capricious breeze that rocked her slowly back and forth, down and down into a satiated stupor.

  “Are you—” Oliver broke off, cleared his throat. She heard a curious note of wonder in his voice. “I didn’t disturb you in any way? The baby, I mean.”

  She smiled at his awkwardness and twined her fingers through the golden-brown hair on his chest. “No, but for some reason I cannot name, I am filled with the most exquisite melancholy.”

  He caught her chin with his fingers and turned her face to his. “You felt it, too, then. The French say it is la petite mort.”

  She swallowed, her heart still pounding. “No, it was not at all like dying! You have given me pleasure many times, Oliver. But this morning you gave me joy.”

  He smiled his dear, crooked, half-sad smile. “Then my duty will be to give you many such moments.”

  Fatigue rolled over her in a great warm wave, and her eyelids drooped. “Your babe is as willful as his sire,” she explained. “Having his way with me. Demanding sleep when I wish to stay awake with you.”

  “Sleep, wife,” he said, pretending brusque command. “There is plenty of time for talk later.”

  “Later,” she whispered. “Later I might show you that I can make love just as wickedly as you can.”

  “Madam, I shall take you at your word,” he said.

  Oliver awoke from a splendid dream to a hideous nightmare. At first he could not place the muffled pounding, the odd clanging.

  He blinked himself awake to see that they had slept the day away. Twilight, that shadowy dawn of night, bruised the patch of sky he could see through the window.

  He wondered if a shutter flapped loose; perhaps that was the source of the pounding. He started to ease himself free of Lark. Her hair dragged like raw silk across his bare chest.

  She looked so sweet as she lay there, a bare shoulder angled toward him, her lips bowed as if she was about to kiss him, her hair in tangles. Just the sight of her evoked a fragile, wistful tenderness that mingled strangely with his fierce and all-consuming need to win not just her love, but her esteem. To be good enough for the best woman in England.

  Out of the blue, in the pulse beat between the pounding sounds, came the thought that he would die for her.

  Willingly.

  With a bittersweet smile, he slipped from the bed, drew the counterpane over her shoulder, then pulled on his hose and canions and boots.

  Just as he tied the laces of his codpiece, the door burst open. A half-dozen torch-bearing soldiers jostled into the chamber.

  Propelled by cold instinct alone, Oliver drew his sword from the discarded sheath at the end of the bed.

  “Oliver de Lacey,” said a gruff, officious-sounding voice.

  The torchlight flared and spat pitch. He recognized the livery of the intruders. It was the white and charcoal-gray of Bishop Bonner’s men.

  Not yet! He’d been certain he had more time. Richard Speed needed more time.

  Oliver heard the bedclothes rustle, and he moved to shield Lark.

  “I am Oliver de Lacey, Lord Wimberleigh,” he said in his coldest, most vexed-sounding voice. “If you have some business with me, you must wait in the hall below, where I will receive you.”

  Lark gasped softly. He gestured with his hand behind him and prayed she understood. Be still.

  The soldiers stayed planted in the bedchamber. “You must come with us,” said the leader.

  Oliver tried a smile that had worked on meaner faces than this. “I am flattered by the invitation,” he said. Then, with the quickness of a lashing whip, he brandished his sword and had the tip pressed into the hollow of the man’s throat.

  The soldier looked down at the blade. “My lord—”

  “I said,” Oliver repeated, “you and your men will wait below.”

  The soldier took a shuffling step backward. His men crowded toward the door.

  Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, a black-gloved hand delicately took the sword tip and moved it aside.

  “There should not be bloodshed so early in the game,” said a chillingly familiar voice.

  Oliver heard the bedclothes stir as Lark sat up. A black-cloaked shape stepped in front of the soldiers.

  Oliver lowered his sword. “Wynter. Fancy meeting you here. You do give nightmares a face.”

  Fifteen

  In the unlikely event that he lived to be a hundred, Oliver would never forget the sound Lark made when she realized they had been betrayed.

  It was a sob, but different somehow—as light and airy as the wind, yet heavy with agony. In that moment, before Wynter said another word, she knew.

  Knew, as Oliver did, that the delicate treasure of their love, the splendor of it, the unutterable bliss they had found at last, was about to be snatched from them.

  Someone took the s
word from his nerveless fingers. He let it go, for bared steel would not help him now. He turned and jerked shut the bed curtains without letting himself look at Lark. Then he spun back to face Wynter.

  “Did they teach you such manners at court?” Oliver asked in his iciest, most hate-filled voice. “To intrude upon a private chamber?”

  Wynter kept his face as still and perfect as a graven image. “My lord, you and your lady gave up all rights to privacy when you turned traitor.”

  “Traitor! Where in God’s holy name did you get that notion?”

  “And heretic,” Wynter added.

  Oliver was starkly aware that he stood bare chested and defenseless before a party of armed men. There was a time when he would have welcomed the challenge of eluding them. He would have led them on a merry chase through the streets and byways of London, enjoying every perilous minute of it.

  But not now. Never again could he run, leaving care in his wake. He had Lark to worry about. Lark and their unborn child.

  He narrowed his eyes at Wynter. “By whose authority come you here?”

  A cold gleam of triumph flashed in Wynter’s eyes. He held out a parchment. Edmund Bonner himself had signed the warrant.

  “I’ll need to get some things.” Oliver knew what awaited him, yet he felt no panic. Indeed, he had expected this, had known the risks of giving Richard a chance to get away. Still, he had not planned on being arrested so quickly. He planned to deny everything, to keep denying it, even in the face of irrefutable proof. For now, he had much to lose by implicating himself.

  “You and your men may wait below,” he said.

  Wynter’s gaze flicked to the open window with its broad view of the gardens. Oliver almost laughed. Aye, the old Oliver would have cheerfully fled. The present Oliver realized, with a calm stoicism that was new to him, that he must take a stand.

  It came to a war of stares between him and Wynter. As he looked into that beautiful, ascetic face, into those blank, dark eyes, Oliver came to realize that he had finally found a fight he might not win.

  And then the impossible happened. Wynter blinked. He said, “We shall wait below.” He and his men withdrew.

  Oliver stood unmoving. He had compelled Wynter to bow to his will. How? Had he suddenly unearthed some new strength in himself?

  The rustle of the bed curtains intruded on the moment. Oliver went to the bed and gathered Lark into his arms.

  For long moments neither spoke. She was still warm from sleep; her lips were still full from his kisses; the faint, earthy scent of their loving still clung to them both.

  Oliver wanted to forget—or not to care—what the future held, but those days were over. He tangled his fingers into the dark silk of Lark’s hair. He kissed her mouth, tasting a hundred years of love and yearning and regret.

  “We have been betrayed.” His voice was amazingly steady.

  “Oliver, I’m afraid for you!”

  “Don’t be.” He forced assurance into his tone.

  “Does this mean Richard Speed has been taken?”

  “Absolutely not.” Oliver knew he might be lying, but he didn’t want her to worry. “If they had him, they’d not bother with me.”

  “Who could have betrayed us?”

  He said nothing. What he had done was not so much a betrayal as a calculated diversion. He had known the risks. He was prepared to suffer the consequences.

  Lark shuddered and reached for her shift. “Could Natalya have let something slip?”

  “No,” he said, too quickly. “I told you, Lark, if they knew where Speed was, they’d not be here.”

  She lifted the wispy lawn garment, and he took it from her.

  “Wait,” he said. “I’ll help you. But first, let me look at you.”

  She sat unshrinking, staring back at him with bewildered eyes. She did not understand, he realized. Not fully. Not yet.

  “My God,” he whispered, struggling to keep his voice steady. “You are more beautiful than the moon.” And so she was, glowing and full, rounded, her milk-pale breasts tipped dark brown, her belly gently increasing with their child. Her hips, perhaps wider, prepared to accommodate the new life. Her face held a look of wonder, and he touched her cheek.

  “I know not how to fashion words for this,” he said at last. “If I merely say you are beautiful, you won’t understand.”

  Her smile was bashful. “I shall attempt to endure it.”

  He brushed his lips over her brow. He, who had always been so glib, could not describe the way he felt at that moment. She was beautiful, yet the beauty somehow came from his own heart. His love was a filter, a pane of colored glass held to a candle flame. It did not change what he saw, but how he saw her.

  Instead of speaking, he kissed her, holding her with tender ferocity. Then he helped her don her shift and lifted her from the bed. They washed at the basin and finished dressing.

  Lark was combing her hair with her fingers when she asked, “What do you suppose will happen?”

  Was it possible she did not know? Perhaps in her fragile state she was unconsciously protecting herself from the truth.

  He dropped a light kiss on her nose. “I’ll be asked a few questions,” he said. “Given my status, and that of my father, they will not dare to detain me overlong. And of course, I was home with my beautiful, expectant wife. What know I of phantom ships that sail out with the tide in the dead of night?”

  “Indeed,” she whispered, crossing the room, embracing him with a strength he had not known she possessed.

  He kissed her one more time, lingeringly, committing to eternal memory the feel of her in his arms, the cadence of her breath and heartbeat, the softness of her lips.

  He wondered if she could taste his love and his regret as she returned his kiss. He wondered if she could sense the tears he would not shed, or if she could hear the one word he absolutely refused to utter.

  Farewell.

  “I warn you, friend,” Oliver said from his corner of the dim London Tower cell in an area known as the Lieutenant’s Lodgings, “I have been six weeks without companionship.”

  The new inmate shrank back against the opposite wall. “Sir, I am a modest man—”

  Somewhere, from the rank depths of despair, Oliver summoned a bark of laughter. “Good Lord, man, it’s not that, of all things. Your virtue’s safe with me.” He lifted his hand to shove back a hank of overgrown hair. “I might, however, talk your ear off.”

  “Talk my—” The newcomer shuffled forward, his feet mussing the straw on the floor. “Rakes and rabble!” The prisoner pushed back his hood. “’Tis you, Oliver!”

  “Phineas!”

  Snipes leaned back against the wall and sank down beside Oliver. He held out one hand in front of him—the hand on his healthy arm. The fingers were flat and misshapen, running with pus. “I tried to stay firm,” Snipes said miserably. “To God, I truly did. And so I held fast un-until they got to my thumb.” He could barely move the mangled digit.

  “We all have our limits,” Oliver said quietly. That, too, was new to him. The peace. The resignation.

  The sense that they could not touch his soul.

  Of course they couldn’t. His soul, his heart, his entire being, belonged to Lark.

  Perhaps that was where he got his newfound strength. In the fact that he had already suffered the worst torment they could inflict on him—taking him from Lark.

  “How much did you tell them?” he asked Snipes.

  Phineas hunched his shoulders, making himself look smaller. Older. Broken. “All that I knew.”

  A chill rushed over Oliver. “All?”

  He nodded. “The safe hold in Shoreditch. My own sweet wife’s activities in the Society of Samaritans.”

  “Damn you, Phineas. Your wife!”

  “It was the pain. I could not bear it.” His crippled arm stirred. “I failed, years ago, when I was young and strong. All my life I carried this useless appendage as a testament to my own cowardice. I went back to helping prison
ers escape. It was a form of penance, but it couldn’t last. It were better that I died at their hands than betray innocent people.”

  “Curse you, Phineas. If I were not so squeamish at the sight of a traitor’s blood, I’d finish the job myself.”

  “And I’d thank you for it, my lord.”

  The quiet declaration hung between them, echoing off ancient stone walls that bled with moisture.

  At last Oliver forced himself to speak. “Go on. You implicated your wife. What else?”

  “Why, yourself, of course, my lord, which is why you are here, I presume.”

  It was not, but Oliver didn’t correct him.

  “I told them you had helped Richard Speed to escape burning at Smithfield and to flee England. I told them how and when he departed.”

  Oliver let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Thank God for small favors. His instincts had been correct in giving Snipes the wrong information and in changing the ciphered message.

  “My lord?” Snipes’s voice was thick now with remorse.

  “Aye?”

  “I named the Lady Lark.”

  Terror boiled up in Oliver. “You snake-bellied recusant. Implicating women—” He broke off, crushing his hands together and forcing himself to stay where he was. Killing Phineas in a rage would only make Oliver a part of the madness that held all England in its grip. Phineas would suffer with the agony of what he had done, a far greater punishment than any Oliver could inflict.

  His family would protect Lark. He had to believe that.

  A new horror struck him. Had Phineas known of the trip to Hatfield, the visit with the Princess Elizabeth?

  Elizabeth showed no favoritism to either the queen’s or the Reformed faith. Queen Mary, willing to give her sister the benefit of the doubt, chose to believe that if she took the throne, Elizabeth would practice the Catholic faith.

  If she learned otherwise…Oliver thought about Lady Jane Grey, beheaded after a reign of just nine days, and inadvertently touched his neck. His former taste for danger seemed foolish now that he had so much to lose.