The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(63)

Stephen said little, but he appeared to be listening closely. And as they approached the limestone plateau rising sharply against the level landscape, he whistled in appreciation.

They were allowed through the walls that encircled the plateau and found a boy to watch their horses for an Irish shilling. Then Ailis led Stephen around the complex of chapel, cathedral, castle, and graveyard.

“St. Patrick came here?” Stephen asked. “After he blasted the devil, I mean.”

“Converted the King of Munster on this spot. The buildings are mostly from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Cormac’s Chapel is quite beautiful. We could attend service, if you like?” she teased.

He answered in kind, with a smile that only just tipped up the corners of his mouth. “I quite like worshipping God outdoors. With you.”

Ailis felt her tension return—but of a kind she had never known. She had not played these sorts of games before, but her instincts seemed to know where to lead her. She laid her hand on his arm and let it slip into a hold. “Then come see the round tower. It’s nearly five hundred years old.”

The drystone tower looked as it had for centuries, its entrance high aboveground so that church treasures might be hidden when Viking invaders swarmed the land. Pity, the Normans and the English had not been so easily dealt with. Ailis ran a hand along the stones, almost feeling the pulse of her country beneath her palm.

Stephen watched her. “You said our plans have been brought forward?”

“I don’t want to talk about plans,” she said. “Not just yet. I want to celebrate what we have already achieved.”

Ailis watched Stephen survey the church towers and stone outbuildings around them. Though there were people living within the walls of the rock, the Round Tower was deserted. She had chosen her spot well.

“I thought the Irish preferred people and music and drink for celebration,” Stephen observed.

Ailis released his arm and did something she’d wanted to do for weeks—moved her hand to the back of his neck so she could feel his hair brushing against her fingers.

“Stephen,” she said, amazed at her own daring, but it was as if the triumph at Askeaton had loosed something in her, something liquid and warm. She had not been afraid of Englishmen since she was a child—she would not be afraid of this one. “I never knew what it is to want a man. I never had the chance to know. All my thoughts since I was fourteen have been bent on destruction, not desire. I did not think I had it in me.”

He eyed her warily, as Ailis had seen men watch a wild animal to see which way it would bolt, but beneath his wariness were other signs. She might not have personal experience of female desire, but she knew all about men’s. Stephen wanted her. But unlike most men, he would be a gentleman about it.

Had he guessed that his English reticence would force her to be so bold?

“Do you not wish to celebrate with me?” She hadn’t even known that she knew how to tease a man. Some things must be instinctive.

He had the most glorious smile and his voice had gone low and husky. “Tell me how.”

“Do they not celebrate in England?” One step at a time, drawing ever nearer so that Stephen had to angle his head down to continue looking at her. She was tall, but he was taller. She liked that about him.

“I thought we English were a cold, suspicious race, not given to celebration.”

“Then I shall have to teach you.” Her breath caught as she finished, and she thought she heard his hitch as well. Still he would not move. Fine. As he was still—technically—her prisoner, then she would dare the leap for both of them.

Ailis kissed him.

It was like storm clouds and lightning, freshening sea winds and bursts of spring colours. For half a heartbeat she thought Stephen was merely enduring her touch, but then his arms came around her and everything was wonderfully, vividly alive. She had been a man’s mistress when she was barely a woman, had given birth to a child now verging on womanhood herself—and never had she imagined this.

His kisses—nothing at all like Dane’s—started at her lips and then trailed along her cheek to her throat. She gasped and he paused.

“Ailis, tell me to stop if—”

“Do you want to stop?”

He groaned. “Not ever.”

“Neither do I.” She wound her fingers through his hair. “Teach me, Stephen. Teach me about joy.”





Just as Anabel had grown accustomed to entertaining Anjou, the new player on the stage arrived from Scotland. Esmé Stewart, Duke of Lennox and favourite of the young King James, was an impressive figure from the moment of his arrival at Hampton Court. Forty years old, born and raised in France, Stewart was at the height of his power and attraction. From the first moment, he cast even the royal Anjou into the shade. He was built along elegant lines, slender and fine-boned, but there was no mistaking his masculine appeal. His dark eyes gleamed with appreciation as he bent over Anabel’s hand in greeting.

“Your Highness,” he said in a honeyed tone that once would have had Anabel exchanging eye rolls with Kit, “I fear my king will never forgive me for laying eyes on you before he could. But be assured that I am here wholly to speak for James himself.”

“Wholly?” Anabel teased. She had learned the trick of it these last weeks.

“I could not swear that one or two compliments of my own might not slip through. Don’t tell my wife,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.