The shutters rattled violently as the winter wind did its best to rip them from their rusted hinges. Charles could hear the howling gusts buffeting the guardhouse. The tall, half-timbered structure sat a courtyard away from Whitehall Palace proper, flanked on one side by stables and the other by a tilt yard. The wind’s attack was futile against the solid stone of the palace, but that seemed only to fuel its fury upon the lesser structure. So far, this morning had given every promise of a miserable day. And he had to get up and venture outside to go to chapel—no one skipped services during the twelve days of Christmas.
Charles fought against waking up fully. He didn’t want to think about his duties for the day just yet. There were just too many things to do in the short hours of winter daylight before the nightly revelries began. Smiling to himself, he remembered last night.
Mary.
She was so like him, alone and depending on merit in order to survive. Content with contentment. Even more than her words, her eyes, her laugh, he remembered the taste of spiced wine on her tongue. The scent of lavender in her hair. The soft sighs of pleasure as she responded and returned his kisses. Who knew that kissing alone could be so wonderful? Charles had only ever considered kissing as a precursor to the main event . . . but kissing Mary had been so sweet.
Charles drifted back into sleep as his memory led into a dream. It was so real, her back turned to him, her skin soft as he caressed her side. He could feel her heat as his fingers trailed up along her ribs toward her breast . . .
Crash! The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his back on the rough planks of the barracks.
“You lay a hand on me again and you, sirrah, will pull back a bloody stump!”
Charles blinked to clear his vision. Kit Hatton, the captain of Her Majesty’s Guard, his superior, stood over him in a rage. Charles’s cheek throbbed, but his head was clearing. What had happened?
He tried to rise, only to have Hatton place one booted foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. “You hear me?”
Charles groaned and replied, “Yes, sir.” His eyes still shooting daggers, Hatton stepped back and extended a hand to help him stand.
Charles accepted the offered aid. “What did I do?”
Hatton ran a hand over the stubble of his growing beard and barked a laugh of surprise. “I woke up with you in my bed. You were trying to fondle me!” Charles’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and Kit Hatton laughed harder.
“God’s teeth . . . ” Charles muttered the curse beneath his breath, remembering the dream about Mary.
By that point, Hatton was laughing so hard he had to sit down. “Oh, my head is throbbing. This is not the way I would have liked to wake up. In fact, I would rather not wake up at all.” Hatton pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes with a groan. “Now get out of my room.” With that, Hatton flopped backward onto the pallet with a thud. “God, my bed’s uncomfortable.”
Charles had recovered himself sufficiently enough to recognize his surroundings. “That is because,” though his face throbbed, he could not help cracking a broad grin, “it is not your bed.”
Hatton opened one eye and squinted at Charles, then sat up and looked around in a daze. “This is not my room.”
“No. It is my room.” Sure enough, Charles’s cubby of a room was hardly adequate for the captain of the Queen’s Guard. Two narrow bunks lined the white plaster walls on either side of a shuttered window. Kit’s usual rooms were at the palace proper, but he was currently out of favor with the Queen and making himself scarce. Even so, the bed he had at the guard house was surely far better than this. The look of surprise and mild panic on Hatton’s face was priceless. Charles sat down on the opposite bed and finally gave into the laughter he’d been holding back.
“Just because I ended up in your bed doesn’t change the fact that you tried to have your way with me.” With a stern expression, Kit stood up and tried to straighten his disheveled appearance. Charles thanked God that Kit was still wearing his breeches, but his shirt and doublet were on the floor and he wore only one boot.
With a grumpy pout, Kit pulled his shirt over his head and stuffed his arms in the full sleeves, looking around once more. “I wonder where my other boot is.” After a quick search of the room, Hatton lumbered out onto the landing and down the stairs, his single booted foot throwing off his balance with each step.
Charles followed suit, heading down the stairs and into the common room. Still chuckling to himself, he managed to ask, “What did you do last night, Kit?”
Kit still looked somewhat confused as Charles, finally able to keep his amusement at bay, led him to a bench and sat him down. After filling two mugs with small ale, he joined his friend and captain. “How on earth did you end up in my bunk?”
“I have no idea.” Kit took a sip and shook his head. “How did you not wake up? Under normal circumstances, I would have woken immediately if a large man had collapsed into my bed.”
“Nothing was normal about last night. You see, I do remember my evening.”
Running with Mary through the halls had been liberating. They hadn’t needed to follow any formal social rules or even seduction guidelines; they had just been together, enjoying each other’s company. Never unsure about where he stood with her. No worry that she would be offended by something he said. And the most illicit contact they had had was a kiss or two. Or three. Neither had wanted the evening to end. Charles smiled at the memory.
“Oh please. You’ve gone all dreamy in the face. Whatever you are remembering, stop now. I’m afraid you might caress me again.”
Charles broke from his reverie with a laugh. “Ah Kit, it’s just that you have such soft skin . . . ” Charles reached a hand toward him jokingly only to be smacked away with more strength than was necessary.
“Enough of this. And don’t you dare mention this to anyone. I do not need rumors of buggery to be added to my current status of disfavor.”
“That was your own fault. Trying to seduce a married woman, on a bet, right under her husband’s nose. And the Queen’s . . . You know how jealous Queen Elizabeth is of her favorite’s attention. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.” Charles downed his ale and stood to refill his mug.
“Aye. But, if this story gets out, I’ll have a whole new set of admirers. I’d like to keep Oxford’s interest in me strictly political, if you understand me.”
Charles’s mirth at the whole situation was quickly extinguished.
“Fie me, I did not think . . . ”
If he could have, Charles would have lived his whole life never knowing that his half brother, Ned de Vere, existed. Instead, he’d lived with the man for the majority of his childhood, until their father died. And, however much he’d like to pretend he wasn’t related, England was a small country and small things like earls were not something one could ignore, especially if you were the bastard half brother of said earl. Charles pasted a smile to his face. “It was nothing. I have heard much worse. I cannot control my brother’s behavior and wouldn’t care who he bedded if he behaved with honor.”
Hatton considered the statement with a sad smile. “You must have received all the honor in the family.”
Charles was silent a moment longer, then shook off the anger that always surfaced at the mention of Ned de Vere. “We should ready ourselves. Services start shortly, and we are both in need of some grooming.” Charles started up the stairs to his room, not looking back.
“At least you have two boots.” Kit grumbled under his breath as he headed toward the stairs, this time to his own chamber.
• • •
Mary could hardly feel the boards beneath her slippers as she hurried through the warren of the palace toward the sound of music. Soon she would be dancing and dancing and dancing. She would swirl her skirts scandalously and allow her gaze to linger flirtatiously. Snow flurries twirled past the window in the dark night, their presence only illuminated by the sputtering torches lining the exterior of the palace. Mary smiled, thinking that soon she too might be spinning with her partner, exultant and free in the night. Feeling ridiculously light on her feet, she hurried down the gallery to the broad stairwell leading to the main public room.
She laughed at how hard the decision had been to do something solely for herself. After her conversation with Mistress Parry, Mary realized that Girard was right—she always allowed others to dictate all of her decisions.
It all changed tonight. Mary was done with self-sacrifice, at least during the twelve days of Christmas. Yes, she would take her pleasure as she saw fit, make her own decisions and, perhaps, even a wonderful mistake or two. Tonight she was her own woman and would not worry about what anyone thought about her.
She would worry again about everyone else’s needs after the feast of the Epiphany on the sixth of January, Twelfth Night. She just hoped she would not feel too guilty.
Tonight she dressed, not for sophistication or to cut a smart figure, but to feel beautiful. After she lost the baby, she’d purposefully hid the sexual woman within the proper lady—always dressing to be stylish but not enticing. Tonight she took pride in her thick dark chestnut hair and wore it full and flowing down her back like a young maiden. She wore her own teal velvet gown partnered with an icy pink forepart and sleeves borrowed from Mistress Parry. The pink silk glittered with cut quartz and amethyst, both stunning and pretty. Feminine. Shaking out her unbound hair and checking that her small French hood was securely in place, she stepped through the arched doorway and made her entrance to the golden muraled hall.
Before her, lords and ladies in splendid attire pressed hands together and circled one another. The dance was by rote, but their expressions told another story altogether. In fact, it was probably a good thing that the courtiers knew the dances so well; judging by the varying looks of desire and inebriation on their faces, there was no way they’d be able to concentrate. Mary stood entranced for a moment, enjoying the beat of the music and the enthusiasm of the dancers. No sign of Sir Charles. She should try another room. Her steps in time with the rhythm, Mary crossed the long hall and opened a heavy door into a quiet room set with tables.
Cards. Gentlemen.
“What ho, my lady! Have you come to bring me luck?” A masked youngish man with the beginnings of a scruffy beard leaned away from his table, eyeing her appreciatively. His merry smile was contagious, and Mary smiled in return. It felt wonderful to be noticed, flirted with. Of course, this was not the man for whom she wanted to be beautiful.
“Nay, good sir, I think she comes to alleviate my boredom. Come lady, join us. My current partner is growing tedious and not at all nice to look at.” The portly man slapped his cards down on the table dramatically just as his “tedious” partner made the next play. “Devil take it, man. Have you not played this game before? Do you not understand?”
Mary stopped paying attention; she was not interested in cards or the gentlemen present. Where to next? She was still not familiar with the disorganized layout of the palace, but shouts of glee from a room beyond could be heard from where she stood and she was drawn toward it. Mary continued through the room as the two men continued bickering. Following the sound, she found a door leading into the unknown.
• • •
Dim lit sconces lined the walls and bundles of color dashed to and fro as the courtiers raced around the darkened ballroom amid laughter and shrieks. There was a sort of merry panic about them. Mary adjusted her eyes to the gloom just as a slightly built man in a blindfold reached out to grab her.
“Zut alors! I have caught one! The ladies of this court are no match for me.” The man was no more than five foot seven, an inch or so taller than Mary. He untied the silk sash across his face to reveal a silver embroidered black half-mask underneath, ending with a very bushy mustache, so full it looked like a player’s costume. His close-cropped red hair was topped with a ridiculously tall hat—probably to make him feel taller than he was. “Now, mademoiselle, I claim my forfeit . . . a kiss.” With that, he smoothly took her hand and placed a soft kiss on the back of her wrist. She was not disappointed, but she had expected more. He was a Frenchman, after all. Just another ambassador here to woo the Queen.
“Monsieur! What a sad display. When a man claims his prize, he does so boldly, staking his claim for all the world. You are too gallant by half.” A poorly disguised Kit Hatton stepped out of the crowd and took Mary by the waist. “Shall I demonstrate?”
“Pray unhand me. I am not your prize to claim.” Wasn’t Kit supposed to be in exile? He’d placed a bet against the virtue of a married courtier and, in doing so, made her the target for every rake at court. Queen Elizabeth was not pleased, and it would take time and gifts to gain Her forgiveness. Mary wondered if Frances LeSieur, her friend and the courtier in question, would ever forgive him.
The Frenchman’s eyes had narrowed into a warning. Hatton immediately responded. “Quite right, mistress. Perhaps I will have a chance to demonstrate how an Englishman claims a woman when it is my turn.” While entertaining, the battle of looks between the French gentleman and Hatton were confusing. Were they sharing a jest of some sort? And why did the Frenchman seem so familiar?
Hatton gave a low reverance before stepping away. “A chaste kiss on the hand accomplishes nothing—no sparks, no excitement. But for now, my lovely young lady, it is your turn to be blindfolded.”
• • •
Charles had been assigned a special role this evening. Upon the Queen’s specific command, he and two other senior guardsmen were to be diligent in the protection of a mysterious visiting Frenchman. The guards were to be subtle, but always present. Although Charles was proud to serve the Queen, he was disappointed that he would not be able to pursue whatever had started last night with Mary. Even while performing his duty to the Frenchman, he could not stop thinking about her. He had to see her again.
And then there she was.
She looked stunning. She glowed as if what little light there was in the room was attracted only to her. To the creamy expanse of bare skin above the neckline of her gown. The way it shadowed the cleft between the soft swells of her breasts. To the dark silken strands of her hair twirling about her as she spun this way and that. She was radiating beauty and happiness, her smile a siren’s song. How could any man resist her? She was currently “it,” and blindfolded in a game of hoodman’s blind. From Charles’s vantage point, he could tell that several of the gentlemen were intent on being caught by her outstretched hands. In fact, she was about to collide with Kit.
Not if Charles could help it.
One well-placed foot behind Kit’s ankle sent him tumbling into the crowd just in time for Mary’s searching hands to land on Sir Charles’s chest.
“It seems I have caught you, my lord.” Mary’s full smile glittered beneath her silken blindfold. “Now that I have caught you, what do I do with you?” Mary must have expected the snickers that erupted around the room at the suggestive remark.
A lady from the crowd shouted, “You must guess his identity or pay a kiss in forfeit.”
Mary’s hands remained splayed on his chest. Sir Charles stepped closer, placing both hands over hers. “Yes, mistress. Who am I?”
Her sharp intake of breath and sudden flush informed him that she knew him. He was only a little surprised when she said, “Sir, I cannot think of your name. I will have to forfeit the kiss.” She was blindfolded, but from the way her lips quirked, he knew her eyes would be twinkling with mischief.
“As my lady commands.” With that, Charles lowered his head to softly brush his lips against hers. It was no more than a whisper of a touch, but Charles could feel the same magic that claimed him the night before. Brushing his lips against hers once more, he felt her breath feather across his skin. Everything about her was soft and sweet. He needed so much more.
Laughter and good-natured taunts from around the room reminded him they were not alone and he stepped back, leaving Mary standing there with her face upturned. She stood still a moment longer before reaching to remove her blindfold with a shaky hand.
The Frenchman stepped forward to assist, his slim fingers making short work of the knotted sash. As Mary turned to give her thanks, he raised an eyebrow appraisingly. “Mademoiselle, it seems very lucky you found this gentleman. The other scoundrel was more like to take advantage.”
Charles had completely forgotten that he’d tripped his captain. A quick glance confirmed that Kit had righted himself and regained some dignity.
Charles stepped forward and extended a hand in friendship. “You should be more careful where you step in the future. You might have hurt yourself.”
Kit, still masked and, for all intents and purposes, anonymous, gripped Charles’s wrist firmly. “Quite right. So clumsy of me.” Kit’s smile belied the look in his eyes. Sir Charles would have some explaining to do.
Mary interrupted with a reverance and some nonsense excuse about refreshments and rushed from the room. Charles started to follow but stopped short—he was on duty and could not leave the Frenchman.
“Monsieur Charles.” The Frenchman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I relieve you of your duties to me this evening. You have served well.” Charles began to argue. “Non, non, I insist. I have every faith that ma magnifique Queen Elizabeth would agree. Comprende vous?”
Charles scanned the room, not sure if leaving would draw attention to the mysterious Frenchman. A mask and ridiculous mustache could only disguise so much. Anyone paying attention would notice that he had just contradicted the Queen’s orders, and if only for appearance’s sake, Charles should follow what all the courtiers present understood to be an assigned duty from the Queen, but . . . the Frenchman gave a stern expression and gestured with a toss of his head for Charles to follow Mary. He did not need to be told again. “Very well then, monsieur. I bid you good evening. Pray, do not overindulge in the delights of English court at Christmas. Remember, we still have ten more days of revelries.”
“Mais oui. I do not forget. Go now, I am well taken care of.”
Charles gave the Frenchman a courtly reverance, placing his hat over his heart in respect, then turned to run out of the room.