A soft, rhythmic shushing sound tried to drag Emma up from a deep sleep. She fought it, content where she was in a type of no-man’s-land, where nothing much mattered.
The room was warm, the bed comfortable. She opened her eyes enough to see that the fire had settled into glowing coals that emitted a soothing heat.
It was enough.
The shushing sound was coming from below her and vibrating the bed. Even that was calming enough that she drifted back down into a sleep uncomplicated by dreams or worries.
When she awoke again she couldn’t ignore her surroundings. The shushing sound was strangely absent. She’d grown to depend on it while in her sleep. The fire was overly warm now, and she clumsily kicked off the blankets. Her head ached fiercely. Various body parts stung, but her mind was more focused on her splitting headache.
She vaguely remembered being sick and a man taking care of her.
Except that couldn’t be right. It had to have been Gelis taking care of her, holding her hair out of the way, placing warm cloths on her forehead.
Her stomach felt much better now but was beginning to protest its empty state. Carefully she turned her head to look out the window and frowned, suddenly realizing that this wasn’t her chambers in Holyrood palace.
The walls were rough wood. The panes of glass in the lone window were bubbled and poorly made. A curtain of nondescript color was pushed to the side so that she could see it was daylight, either leading toward dusk or emerging from dawn. She couldn’t tell which.
The fireplace was smaller than her fireplace at the palace.
This wasn’t her room at all.
Where was she?
She searched her mind, trying to recall recent past events. When had she left the palace and why?
Oh yes. She’d gone to have dinner with the Whickershams, a very nice gentry couple. They’d offered her their carriage to ride back to the palace but she hadn’t wanted to bother them and didn’t want to call the carriage driver and the horses out on such a cold night. Besides, it was only a short walk, a few blocks. She and Gelis could easily walk back.
She remembered passing Kirk o’ Field and how she’d yearned for her warm fire in her private chambers. Alone.
And then…
Something had happened.
Her head was pounding and it hurt to remember but Emma didn’t like having a portion of her memory gone. She strove to recall, going over every minute detail. Turning to check on Gelis, then there had been men. Men in arms. Running.
Men standing over another man in the orchard of Kirk o’ Field and then an explosion.
After that her memories stopped.
She scooted up in bed, surprised at how weak she was. Her arms were quivering with the effort and her head spun.
She stayed very still, willing the room to right itself and her arms to quit shaking, when she heard voices come from below. Male voices, muted. She couldn’t make out the words above her hammering heart.
For a long time fear was something that Emma had lived with daily but it had been years since she’d felt this sort of sick fear and she didn’t like it.
She moved to the end of the bed, ignoring her aching head and the spinning room, determination making her feel stronger than she really was.
She stood, reached for the bedpost and missed it, her eyes playing tricks on her, thinking it was closer than what it was. She slid to her knees, hissing in pain.
Tristan had been in the small kitchen, preparing a tray with soup that he’d brought from the pub down the street. He was concerned about his guest upstairs. She’d not yet woken, but at least she’d stopped vomiting and her breathing had been even the last time he’d checked. Maybe getting some soup into her might help her wake up.
A knock on the back door had him pausing, his head tilted as he waited. Sure enough the single knock was followed by three quick raps. He opened the door to find LaGrange standing there, bundled against the cold, nothing showing but his eyes. It was more a precaution against being seen than for being warm.
Tristan ushered him in and LaGrange unwrapped the scarf from his face, revealing a full blond beard and bright blue eyes.
It was just Tristan and LaGrange left in Scotland, the rest of Queen Elizabeth’s spies had already had to escape for fear of being caught. At one time there had been four of them, and Tristan could honestly say that he was lonely without Simon and Will. It had been nice knowing that there were others here like him and if he needed help, they would be there for him.
The worst part about them being gone was the not knowing. He had no idea if either of them had made it back to England safely.
But LaGrange, who had been in Queen Mary’s service for a very long time and was a favored spy of Elizabeth’s, was here and that was some consolation.
LaGrange eyed the bowl of soup on the tray and raised his brow in query. He was a man of very few words, keeping his secrets tightly held.
Tristan waved his hand toward the bowl. “I have an unexpected guest.”
LaGrange’s other brow went up.
“I found her lying in the street, unconscious, outside Kirk o’ Field last night.”
“Her?” LaGrange appeared amused but he wouldn’t laugh. That was showing far too much emotion for the man.
“I don’t know her name. She hasn’t woken up yet. I was hoping the soup would help her. She has a pretty vicious knot on the back of her head.”
“Describe her.” LaGrange’s eyes narrowed.
“Blond. Most probably nobility or gentry at the least. Her gown is of the finest quality.”
LaGrange’s mouth worked back and forth as he looked past Tristan, obviously thinking. “Lady Emma Howard is missing from the palace.”
“Lady Emma Howard.” He’d suspected she was nobility but for some reason hearing her title and her name caused a jolt inside of him. “Of the Howards?”
“Married into it. She was a Bruce before that,” LaGrange said.
Tristan whistled low. A Howard and a Bruce. That was a powerful combination.
“I’m sure her husband is looking for her then.” He tried to keep his voice light and relieved, like he couldn’t wait to rid himself of her.
The amusement was back in LaGrange’s eyes. “Widowed. Husband is dead. She’s been living in Holyrood last five years as a close confidante of Queen Mary.”
Tristan leaned against the small counter and crossed his arms, contemplating this new information, refusing to acknowledge the relief that she wasn’t married.
A close confidante of Queen Mary. Interesting.
A thud came from above them, shaking the boards over their heads. Both LaGrange and Tristan looked up at the same time, Tristan’s heart leaping into his throat.
“What the hell?” he said. “She was fast asleep when I left her.”
“Not anymore, apparently.” LaGrange put a staying hand on Tristan’s arm as Tristan pushed away from the counter, intent on going to her. “I bring news.”
Tristan paused. Of course. LaGrange wouldn’t stop by for a social visit. He wasn’t that kind of fellow.
“Darnley’s dead. Things are in a bit of an uproar at the palace. Mary is in mourning. Bothwell is strutting around, looking aggrieved, but there are those who don’t believe the act.”
James Hepburn, the fourth Earl of Bothwell, was Queen Mary’s closest confidant and some said far closer than any man who was not her husband should be. He was a regular in the court, and never far from Mary’s side.
“So, Will was right,” Tristan said. His fellow spy, Lord William Sheffield, had overheard of the plot to kill the king months ago, and Tristan had been waiting for it to happen.
“It’s not good,” LaGrange said. “There’s an ill wind blowing.”
Tristan nodded, thinking of the people in the streets and the wild suppositions being bantered about.
LaGrange took a step back. “Keep your ears open. Stay safe.”
He opened the door to slip outside.
“You too, my friend,” Tristan said as the door closed behind the big fellow.
Tristan took the steps two at a time, his heart pounding unusually hard. He wasn’t sure why this woman unnerved him so much. Maybe it was that she was an unknown and Tristan didn’t much like unknowns. They could be dangerous.
He opened the door to the bedchamber and at first couldn’t find her. His gaze immediately went to the window but it was securely closed, the cold February wind rattling it.
He found her on the other side of the bed on her hands and knees, her head hanging, the ends of her blond hair dragging on the ground.
He crouched next to her and pulled her hair away from her face. “What happened?”
She looked up at him and the despair in her light blue eyes put him back on his heels. She had the most remarkable blue eyes, so pale that they were almost clear.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“In my home.”
“Why?”
“Let’s get you back to bed and we can discuss it.”
He helped her to stand on shaking legs. She was so slight and trembling that it nearly broke his heart. Gingerly she sat on the edge of the bed and winced.
“I’ll just sit here for a moment and then I’ll be gone.”
He pressed his lips together in amusement and alarm. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” She looked around the small room, her face paler than what he presumed she usually was.
“I don’t think you’re well enough to go back home just yet.”
She passed a hand over her brow. “My head hurts.”
“You have a pretty good knot on the back of it.”
She frowned. “Where’s Gelis?”
“Gelis?”
“My maid. She was with me…”
He waited for her to finish, having learned long ago that silence was the best weapon when he wanted information out of a person.
“There was no one with you when I came across you lying in the street,” he finally said when it was clear she wasn’t going to continue.
She didn’t seem surprised that she’d been found lying in the street, which told him she remembered some of what happened to her.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Emma Ham—” She glanced at him quickly before looking away. “Emma Howell.”
Apparently, she didn’t trust him so she was going to lie about her name. Fair enough. He didn’t blame her.
“Well, Emma Howell, let’s get you back under the bedsheets. You’re in no condition to go home yet.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice weak.
“You’re not. Now back in the bed.”
Panic flitted across her face and she squared her shoulders. “I want to go home.”
He softened his expression. “You’re safe here, Miss Howell. You have my word.”
“Where is here?” She was whispering now, her voice losing strength.
“A print shop on High Street. I can bring Mrs. Sterling in to vouch for me if you’d like. She and her husband own the bakery next door.”
A faint smile flitted across her lips. “That’s not necessary. But truly, I’m fine. If you’d just call a carriage, I’ll not be a nuisance to you anymore.”
“Who said you were a nuisance?”
She looked at him at last, and he was entranced by those curious eyes. “You’re being kind.”
“Never let it be known that I’m kind. It would ruin my dastardly reputation.”
“You’re not supposed to admit that you have a dastardly reputation if you’re convincing me to stay.”
He shrugged. “I’m dastardly and honest.”
She huffed out a laugh then sighed. “My head hurts.”
“Then back to bed with you. I have soup downstairs that I was preparing to bring up when I heard you fall out of bed.”
“I didn’t fall out of bed.” She sounded extremely affronted by the idea. “I heard voices and I got…”
He raised a brow, waiting for her to continue.
“Curious,” she said.
“Nervous?”
She looked away and pressed her lips together.
“It’s only natural to be nervous when you wake up alone in a strange place. I’ll get that soup if you promise to get into that bed.”
He made it to the door and was about to exit when she said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Tristan,” he said. “Tristan Fitzherbert at your service, Miss Howell.”
“Tristan Fitzherbert,” she repeated softly. “When you come back, Mr. Fitzherbert, I want you to tell me how you found me.”
“We’ll see how you feel after you eat, Miss Howell.”