The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(81)
She must have said it three or four times before Stephen heard and interpreted it correctly. He didn’t know what to say. She looked up at him, her eyes enormous from weeping, and said, “No one has called me Mariota since my grandfather died.”
Then, like the practical-minded Scots girl she was, she straightened away and Stephen dropped his hands. He still didn’t know what to say.
Maisie solved that issue. “I know who you are.”
“I suppose Dane gave you all the hints you needed.”
“No, I meant I knew it before. From almost the first day we met.”
Stephen blinked. “What are you, given to second sight?”
“I met your brother last summer at Kilkenny. His was not a face one forgets.”
“Yes, I know,” Stephen said wryly. “But Kit and I are nothing alike.”
“The coloring, no. But the bones of your face are the same. And your expressions. You both wrinkle the corner of your eyes when you’re being polite against your nature, and your jawline twitches when you’re displeased. There’s something about the way you both speak and carry yourselves…I was sure.”
“And then you corroborated.” Stephen let out a breath that was half laugh, half admiration. “I was warned there were questions about my present location coming from the merchant communities in London. I thought it was Mary Stuart looking for me. It was you.”
“It’s what merchants do,” she said listlessly. “Hoard information like squirrels. For our own benefit.”
“Rather like a spy.”
“But you’re not really a spy, are you? Not in the way you were meant to be. You might have come to the Kavanaughs for information, but you stayed for Ailis.”
How had such a slip of girl so easily seen into the heart of him? Trying to deflect his uneasiness, Stephen said, “It doesn’t much matter now. I’m damned either way. No doubt Dane already has messengers flying to England to tell the queen I’m a traitor. But they’ll have to stand in line behind Ailis to get at me. I don’t imagine she’ll be satisfied with anything but my head.”
“Then I would say your imagination is not very good where women are concerned.”
“They’re going to lock me up, Maisie.”
“I know it as well as you do, and yet you came back to Cahir. Don’t worry. I may not be able to defuse their anger at your initial lies, but I will be able to clear you of any involvement in…” She waved her hand around the crumpled, deserted chamber. “Any of this.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Stephen said grimly.
“I’m not. Ailis won’t kill you. She needs you. And I need you, too—because while I was at Blackcastle, I gathered quite a lot of information that will be useful when it comes time to attack. Men don’t expect much from women, especially not young women. They let us see rather more than they should have. I’ve already begun calculations on the number of men Dane has on hand, the quality of their weapons and food stores, and what Clan Kavanaugh will need to beat them.”
Stephen blinked. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak. Finally he managed to croak, “What?”
“It’s what I do, remember? There is more to me than anyone in Ireland has guessed—including Oliver Dane.”
Stephen realized his mouth was hanging open, so he shut it. But he couldn’t stop staring at this girl with her cascade of silver-gilt hair so bright it gleamed in the shadows of the dark chamber. Like her own moon.
A verse from the Old Testament came into his head: Fair as the sun, clear as the moon, and terrible as an army with banners.
“Stephen?” Maisie peered up at him, a crease of determination between her eyes. “It’s going to be all right in the end.”
After two weeks of confinement at Hampton Court, Anabel was allowed to depart by barge for the short trip to Syon House. She thought her mother was glad to see her go. The longer the Princess of Wales remained cloistered in her bedchamber, the harder it was to keep up the pretense of a summer cold or a string of sick headaches or even female troubles. And she wasn’t ready to step back into court life. She had lost weight and colour during her illness—not to mention her hair; Anabel mourned extravagantly for her beautiful hair and she hated having to wear wigs. And the terror that had seeped into her during the worst of the fever had not entirely dissipated.
The Duc d’Anjou and Esmé Stewart had been sent off to Theobalds to be entertained by Lord Burghley in his beautiful home, and from there a leisurely tour to Cambridge and the Roman city of Colchester. Anabel wondered how long they would stay in England before giving up on seeing her again. She didn’t trouble herself overmuch; her mother would handle it.
Syon House was a blessed repose of beauty and quiet. She no longer needed constant nursing, and found herself irritably swatting away the hovering women who tried. At this point she could tolerate only Minuette and Madalena. Lucette had gone home with her husband. Anabel knew that Pippa was at Syon House as well. But now that conversation was possible between them, she was not in a hurry for it.
As for her household, her clerks and secretaries ran things so smoothly she supposed they hardly even missed her. Anabel knew she should care, but it was hard to summon the energy. Though the fever had broken and the rash faded without trace, she was…weary. Lassitude had become her constant companion, and for the first time in her life, she let herself drift without intention or effort.