The Greatest Lover in All England Page 17

  “Chance?” Sir Danny snorted. “’Tis a certainty. She’s always angry when I put myself in danger. This will make her livid.”

  “Perhaps I can bring her around after you leave.” Tony grinned in anticipation of a furious, out-of-control Rosie. She was easy to incite, and fun to divert.

  “Aye.” Sir Danny’s worried face cleared. “She’ll have you and probably won’t even notice my departure. After all, she’s older now, with concerns of her own. She doesn’t need her dada for reassurance. Aye, you’ll be able to restrain her.”

  Sir Danny sounded so apprehensive, Tony asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?” Sir Danny’s tale of the earls of Essex and Southampton and their plans for rebellion had come as no surprise. Queen Elizabeth might have temporarily relieved Tony of duties as the master of her guard, but he gathered information from the captain of his men and he knew of the mutterings.

  Everyone knew of the mutterings. But did the queen?

  Until she found out about this treason and moved to squelch it, the kingdom would be in jeopardy. And Tony couldn’t advise her, for she believed him prejudiced against her beloved Essex.

  As he was. But a serious situation was rapidly moving toward crisis and, stripped of his power, Tony could do nothing. The queen needed to relent, to allow him to leave his exile and return to his duties before it was too late. For that he needed Sir Danny, and Sir Danny had cheerfully volunteered.

  Cheerfully? Nay, enthusiastically.

  “Who better than I to go into London and report the nefarious plot to the queen?” Sir Danny held his sword outthrust, curved his arm back, puffed out his chest, raised his chin, and let the wind blow his hair away from his face. “’Tis dangerous, ’tis true. I face a myriad of evil forces allied against me. But I and I alone—”

  Tony laid his hand on Sir Danny’s arm. “They can’t hear you.”

  “Sir?”

  “The women.” Tony nodded at the terrace. “The pose is alluring, but they’re too far away to hear you. I just want to know if you truly think you can get all the way to the queen before Essex seizes you.”

  Sir Danny kept the pose, but dropped the rhetoric. “With the help of your letter of safe conduct, I can.”

  “Essex won’t give a damn about my letter of safe conduct, and he has spies in the court. If you’re not wary, you may find yourself several inches taller with the assistance of a helpful torturer. Even if you’re not wary…” Tony trailed off. What was he doing, using a common actor as a pawn in this game of power? Essex would smash Sir Danny heedlessly, cruelly, and send his lifeless body to Tony as a warning.

  “Sir Anthony.” Sir Danny faced Tony full on and spoke with a candor all the more convincing for its simplicity. “All my life I’ve been convinced that I would someday fulfill a great destiny. Someday I knew I would be more than a wandering actor. Someday I knew the merit I support within my bosom would find an outlet in some splendid deed. Well, this is it! I feel it! I will save the queen of England, and England herself! Don’t try to keep me safe. Don’t blame yourself should I die in the undertaking. Know that I bless you for giving me this chance at glory, and mourn me not should I fail.”

  “As you wish.” Tony slashed the air with his sword. “But if I’ve sent you to your death, it’s going to be cold in my bed—after Rosie and I are married, I mean.”

  Sir Danny studied him with shrewd eyes. “I’ve heard it’s warm in your study right now.”

  “In my study?”

  “Where you’re teaching my Rosie to read. She’s complaining that you reward her successes with an embrace and her failures with a kiss.”

  Defensive at once, Tony said, “Well, she doesn’t like my kisses…yet.”

  “I thought you were England’s greatest lover.” Sir Danny’s tone made it clear that if Tony were England’s greatest lover, he’d succeeded Sir Danny for the honor.

  “I am, but Rosie is a most stubborn woman. She resists wooing so stubbornly I’m forced to dim my brilliance and resort to trickery.” Tony waited a beat. “She’s loath to allow herself to feel the slightest pleasure, for she fears if she does, all her resistance will crumble.”

  “Ah, aye. I’ve had experience with wenches of that ilk.” Sir Danny kissed his fingers at some long-distant memory. “But when the resistance does crumble, it’s magnificent. In sooth, I remained in the bed of that lady so long, I scarcely escaped London with my life.”

  “The mayor’s wife?” Tony asked.

  Sir Danny nodded melodramatically, then slipped his sword under Tony’s unready guard and placed the tip at his throat. “However, my exploits differ from yours, for you are trying to seduce the woman I consider my daughter.”

  Amazing how one could remain still, not even swallowing, when the shining arc of a blade threatened.

  “When I leave, I’m leaving everything in your hands and trusting to your honor. I’m leaving you the letter, and I’m leaving you my Rosie, and if I should survive this operation, I would take it ill to discover you have used and discarded her.”

  “Sir Danny—”

  “And even if I should die and you should fulfill your duty and wed Rosie, you’ll find my shade haunting you should you not cherish her as she so richly deserves.”

  Tony didn’t mind assuring Sir Danny of his good intentions, but Sir Anthony Rycliffe did not use women and discard them and he took it ill when so accused. “Rosie will be the wife of my heart and mind, but until she consents to wed me, we’ll not indulge in the ultimate pleasure. I’ll have no one whispering that my firstborn was a six-months babe and mocking his legitimacy.”

  Sir Danny stroked his mustache in puzzlement. “Then why such physical methods of teaching?”

  “Rosie’s skittish as a colt—unlike most women upon whom I’ve cast my gaze—and I’m trying to break her to my hand.” Tony experienced a moment of regret for comparing her to a horse. He well knew his own resentment at such treatment, and he was embarrassed when he recalled his own previous demand for a woman as fecund as a mare. “I’ll get her accustomed to me gradually, and when she’s malleable to my desires, we’ll…” Tony broke out in a sweat. When Rosie was malleable to his desires, they’d be lucky to make it to the bed first, much less to the chapel.

  Sir Danny seemed to comprehend what Tony didn’t say, and surprisingly, he did not take it ill. Withdrawing the sword, he said, “Quite. Do you wish to practice more today?”

  Tony eyed him consideringly. Sir Danny would work until he couldn’t lift the sword rather than admit his exhaustion, and they’d been practicing for most of the day. “I’m weary. If you don’t mind, we’ll rest now and give the ladies a chance to say good-bye to you.”

  Sir Danny grabbed his doublet before Tony had finished speaking. “I don’t mind. I’d like a few words with the Lady Honora tonight, and then on the morrow I’ll tell Rosie.”

  “On the morrow? Are you mad? Tell her tonight.”

  “On the morrow. There’s no use worrying the girl unduly tonight”—Sir Danny surmised the objection hovering on Tony’s tongue—“and knowing Rosie, she’d stow away in one of the wagons before the morning.”

  “God forbid.” Tony hadn’t thought of that. “Tell her on the morrow, then.”

  “I’ve told my troupe to pack up, although I’ve not told them why we return to London.”

  “Whatever will Mistress Child do if she only has to fix three meals a day?” Tony took his doublet also, and considered. Should he put it on? The night breeze blew cold as the sun began to set, but might he not impress Rosie with his body one last time before he dressed for dinner?

  “Are you saying my actors eat too much?” Holding his doublet over his shoulder hooked on one finger, Sir Danny sauntered toward the stairs.

  “Too much?” Tony followed Sir Danny’s example, strutting for his lady while trying to appear oblivious to his own performance. “Let us say, they consume copious amounts.”

  “Actors adore a free meal.” Lowering his voice, Sir Dann
y said, “I wish I could tell you different, but Ludovic hasn’t returned.”

  Tony stumbled on the stairs. “Nor has he left the estate.”

  Sir Danny slowed his ascent. “What have you discovered?”

  “The remains of a coney by a fire in our wild wood. A footprint by the stream. And one of the serving women insists she saw a man looking in a window last night.”

  “Don’t tell Rosie,” Sir Danny begged. “She spoke with him before he left.”

  Tony sought Rosie’s gaze with his. “I know.”

  “She’s likely to blame herself for his defection. She won’t tell me, but I think she rejected him.”

  Tony did know that Rosie had spoken to Ludovic. Hal had seen them sneaking into the garden together, and reported the matter to his master.

  Tony didn’t believe Rosie was capable of deceit, but to whom did she owe her loyalty? Would she have warned Ludovic that Tony suspected him of violence? He very much feared she would, and now, despite the efforts of his huntsmen, Ludovic was out of reach, yet only too close.

  “Sir Danny.” Lady Honora’s voice vibrated with enthusiasm. “Your swordsmanship is awe inspiring.” As they reached the top step, she added graciously, “As is yours, Anthony.”

  Tony grimaced. He wanted Rosie’s praise, not Lady Honora’s.

  But Rosie had eyes only for Sir Danny, and those eyes were narrowed in foreboding. “Your swordsmanship has improved, Dada.” She intercepted Sir Danny before he could go through the doors into the manor. “Why?”

  The name she called him staked a claim, the bald query proved she’d noticed their incessant practice, and her hostile stance proved she suspected the cause.

  “Ohh.” Sir Danny skipped backward a step. “When I have a tutor as proficient as Sir Tony, ’tis a shame not to take advantage.”

  He tried to go around Rosie, but she thwarted him. “You haven’t been practicing Hamlet at all. How will the troupe perform when you leave Odyssey Manor?”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” Sir Danny pinched her cheek.

  She bore it stoically. “When do you plan to leave Odyssey Manor?”

  Lady Honora came to the rescue. “Lady Rosalyn! One does not invite guests to leave in such a manner. Especially not a guest as cultured as Sir Danny.”

  “I’m not inviting him to leave,” Rosie said through clenched teeth. “I’m wondering when he’s planning to leave. Those are two entirely different inquiries.”

  Lady Honora acknowledged that Rosie might know her guardian. “Sir Danny, is Lady Rosalyn aware of something we should know?”

  Tony waited, sure Sir Danny would have to announce his departure now.

  But Sir Danny clasped his fists to his breast. “Rosie realizes I cannot remain here forever, for performance is to me what wind is to the wild gull. I cannot fly, I cannot live, I cannot be without it, and the time is rapidly approaching when I must take to my wings and soar away.” He gazed soulfully at Lady Honora, then in a normal tone of voice, added, “But not tonight.” Slipping around Rosie, he took Lady Honora’s arm and hustled her inside. “Tonight we feast, drink, and dance while finding pleasure in the company.”

  “That man is plotting something.” Rosie turned to Tony. “What is he plotting?”

  Tony loved the look of her—eyes flashing, chest heaving, cheeks aglow with fury. He loved knowing that she’d rage and fume when Sir Danny made his announcement, for in the correct hands, rage could be transformed into desire. With a grin, Tony looked down. Aye, he had the correct hands.

  “Why are you grinning?”

  He had the right lips, too, and when he kissed Rosie…

  “Get that look off your face right now.” She shook a finger at him, and he caught it and bussed it. She snatched it away with an exclamation of frustration. “You men always collaborate. You’re not worth a pence, any of you!”

  She marched away and he still grinned. Frustration and rage—a volatile mixture, and one he could exploit for their mutual pleasure. Ah, tomorrow would be an exciting day.

  Today was the worst day of his life.

  “Lady Rosalyn, this is an improper way for a gentlewoman to behave.” Lady Honora looked the image of a stern taskmaster, but her voice wavered slightly.

  “Rosalyn, you must come in. The wind is cold and from the look of the sky, ’twill start raining soon.” Shivering, Jean stood so her skirt protected Rosie from the chill of the breeze.

  “Rosalyn, dear. Rosie, dear.” Ann knelt beside the girl’s hunched figure and rubbed her back. “You mustn’t cry so. It’ll make you sick.”

  It was making Tony sick—sick with worry and self-recrimination. Nothing Sir Danny had said, no assurance he had offered, made an impression on her absolute conviction she would never see him again. She cried the tears of a child abandoned.

  “Sir.” Hal crept out of the manor and tugged at Tony’s cloak. “Aren’t ye going t’ make her stop?”

  Tony turned on him savagely. “Don’t you think I would if I could?” His sisters were looking at him, too, and Lady Honora, but what did they expect him to do? He was a man, terrified of any woman’s tears, horrified by this check to his plans for Rosie, and vaguely ashamed of his expectations. He thought he understood women, so how could he have failed to understand what Sir Danny meant to her?

  “What does she want?” Lady Honora asked. “Is she trying to get you to give her the estate?”

  “Oh, Lady Honora!” Ann looked distressed. “Don’t be disagreeable.”

  “I’m not being disagreeable. I just don’t understand why she’s crying like that.” Lady Honora wrapped her cloak tighter around her and stared at Rosie through sightless eyes. “Sir Danny has made himself amenable to all of us, but none of us are crying just because he left. Just because he’s a shallow, selfish actor who left us to visit the fleshpots of London.”

  “You can be the most callous witch.” Jean pushed Lady Honora toward the manor. “Go in before you cause more damage.”

  “She’s just trying to get attention.” Stumbling toward the door, Lady Honora said, “She’s trying to gain our sympathy and persuade us we should allow her to marry Tony.”

  Standing up, Ann hustled Lady Honora through the entrance. “Leave off.”

  “I don’t care if she is the heir to the estate, she can’t marry Tony. I’m going to many Tony.”

  “She can’t even hear you.” Jean sounded exasperated.

  “I’m going to marry Tony, and no glib, charming actor is going to change my mind.”

  Glib, charming actor? Tony rubbed his forehead. Was she referring to Rosie? Or Sir Danny? Why was she so bellicose? So defiant?

  Why wouldn’t Rosie stop crying?

  As if nature aspired to add to the misery, a mist began to fall.

  “Fine, “Tony said, as if someone had given him instructions. “I’ll take care of her.”

  To his distress, no one argued. He gestured to his sisters to go in, and they shivered and obeyed. Hal shifted from foot to foot, staring at Rosie with miserable eyes. “Go in,” Tony commanded. Hal didn’t move, and Tony repeated, “Go in!”

  Shuffling, Hal entered the house, leaving Rosie and Tony alone in the wretched weather.

  Kneeling beside her, he called her name. “Rosie.” She huddled inside her cloak and he could see nothing but her braid and the pale stem of her neck. “Rosie, sweetheart. We have to go in.” Her tears didn’t check, and he laid his hand on her back. “Rosie.” He stroked his hands through her hair. “Come, dear.”

  Like a turtle leaving its shell, she lifted her head.

  She looked awful. Her puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks too clearly expressed her anguish. The rain soaked her hair, the tears drenched her face, and she badly needed a kerchief. Yet he’d never seen a woman who appealed to him more.

  He loved her. There was no other explanation. Beneath the lust and the quick-fire attraction lay a bedrock of affection, admiration, and devotion. She needed comfort; he would provide it. He, and no other. “Swe
etheart.” He gathered her into his embrace. “Don’t cry anymore. I’ll take care of you forever.”

  15

  Where is the life that late I led?

  —THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, IV, i, 134

  The fire burned on the massive hearth, but the heat it produced could not dent the chill of the master’s chamber. Tony pushed Rosie within that embrace and, removing her cloak, threw it into the corner, where it subsided in a sodden mass. She stood cold, unmoving, her face still blotched, but blank, as if she did not know where she was or what person served her.

  It horrified him. It made him remember a time when he was a boy, alone in a big house in the north, thrust by his beloved family into the bosom of a frigid clan and abandoned.

  Oh, it wasn’t true. Even as a child, he’d known it wasn’t true. The memory of his mama had burned in his mind, keeping his spirit alive when the earl of Drebred and his rod would have murdered it. For days, for weeks, for years he had waited to be rescued from Drebred Castle, and at last he’d come to realize he must rescue himself. He’d done it. Damn, he’d done it, but his exile had been too long and too unhappy. Within himself, he was still as sunny a lad as he’d always been, but for a different reason. He knew only too well how quickly life could lose its savor and become a fight for survival. Now he erected bastions around him—bastions of income, of land, of fighting skill, and relentless charm.

  Looking at Rosie, limp, still, and silent, recalled his own old hopelessness, and he’d already fought that battle once for himself. Rather than fight it again for Rosie, he wanted to call a maidservant to wait upon her, a doctor to bleed her, and on heaven to cure her ills—and all he dared to do was call on heaven. Rosie was his responsibility now.

  Brisk as Jean, kind as Ann, he stripped off Rosie’s overskirt and bodice, and went to work on the strings that supported her petticoats. “I don’t blame you for being distraught at Sir Danny’s leaving today. ’Tis a miserable day for travel. The roads will be a quagmire, but what are his choices? ’Tis St. Nicholas Day tomorrow, and the winter rains have held off long as they’re likely, I suspect. The country folk complain if it’s a dry autumn and they complain if it’s a wet autumn, but they’re predicting a long, wet winter.”