The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(82)
He answered equably enough, rather maddening for a woman not averse to being flirted with, “I am content to do my duty.”
“Am I merely a duty?” she asked archly. “Or dare I hope you take some pleasure in my company?”
Stephen slid her a sideways glance, those eyes of his so hard to read. Sometimes Mary thought that alone was reason enough to find him attractive. “I serve at the pleasure of my queen.”
There was an undertone to his voice, a hint of ambiguity in those last two words. Mary had always been a gambler. Now she threw the dice as though she could see which way they would fall. “I hope your queen appreciates your service.”
“How is one to recognize a queen’s appreciation?” Now, that was more like it—subtle, but undeniable. He was letting her know she need only sanction it.
She paused, instinctively choosing the best position for the weak light to gleam on her hair and skin. She might not be the sylph she was as a newlywed in France, or even when she’d married Darnley, but Mary knew how to highlight her beauty and shadow her flaws.
With a smile that just hinted at seduction, Mary said, “Stephen, Stephen…” She rested one of her lovely hands on his sleeve. “The chance that has so cruelly kept me locked away might just as easily swing to my side and restore my fortunes. I shall be most generous with those who have been my friends.”
Rumour was that Dominic Courtenay was a silent, disapproving sort of man who disliked games of sex or politics. It seemed that his eldest son was more pliable. With admiration and familiarity playing across his handsome face, Stephen made his own gamble. “Lady, what are you up to?”
“Perhaps,” she whispered, “we shall talk about nightingales.”
Without another word, he bent his dark head to her—not in acknowledgment, but to brush his lips across her knuckles. Mary caught her breath. Straightening, he looked at her, as though waiting an unspoken permission. He must have seen it in her eyes, for his next kiss was pressed gently to her lips.
He tasted young…like new grass and spring rain. He knew how to judge his moments; the kiss was not too bold or too long and he did not touch her other than where he still held her hand in his.
A pity, Mary thought, that I cannot take him with me. But she rather doubted she could have both husband and lover. Ah well, she knew how to take the sweet while she could. Another week or two, then she would lay Stephen aside and embrace her future.
TWENTY
It wasn’t the isolation of the Tower of London that bothered Julien. Or its grimness. He was accustomed to having only himself for company, and though his cell was bare and damply chill even at summer’s height, it was actually bigger than his Paris chambers and only slightly less clean.
No, the problem with being a prisoner was the pesky lack of freedom. The awareness that you were utterly at another’s mercy—hauled out of sleep in the middle of the night to be interrogated, no choice of when or what to eat, always with the threat of sudden, sanctioned, violence hanging over you—those were the things likely to drive prisoners mad. Julien would have dealt with it as he’d always dealt with uncomfortable difficulties in his life (burning inwardly, profanely cheerful outwardly) if he hadn’t carried with him like a talisman the memory of Lucette’s unreadable face upon his arrest.
He had to get out of the Tower and prove his innocence, if only so he could see relief in her eyes. Or at least an acknowledgment of his honesty with her. She might never love him, but he would make her believe him.
So he bit his tongue and forced himself to answer civilly the barrage of questions he was asked. Unfortunately, civil denials were not what his questioners were looking for. They wanted a detailed confession. Julien was almost sorry to disoblige them.
Until Walsingham himself came to question him.
He was familiar with the intelligencer’s hooded eyes and detached demeanor. Walsingham had looked at him no differently the night Julien had so passionately offered himself as an agent to Protestant England. The memory of that did burn, and made Julien more flippant than was wise.
“Come to beg my forgiveness?” Julien asked. “I’ll think about it.”
“Why would I forgive a man who tried to kill my queen?”
“Because you know I didn’t do it. You know me, Walsingham. I have done nothing these last eight years to give you cause to doubt my word.”
“For eight years you have done little but lie to men of your own faith and country. Why should I expect honesty from a man like that?”
“I lied as necessary to save lives, as you no doubt have done a thousand times for your queen’s sake. This is the easy answer, Walsingham, and when have you ever trusted the easy answer? I have been set up. While you keep me here and bend all your time and attention to wresting knowledge out of me that I do not have, the very men you seek are free to wreak havoc on your precious England.”
“That may be true, and certainly I have no wish to waste time. There are ways to question a man that can hasten his answers. We will see how long your outraged innocence lasts on the rack.”
Julien blanched, for he truly had no desire to be set to the rack. “I am a gentleman,” he said, knowing it didn’t matter.
“In France, perhaps. But you are in England now and there is nothing—nothing—I will not do to protect my queen and her good government. I will use the methods at my disposal, and that includes distasteful ones. You would do the same.”