The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(82)

The only one who brought colour to her days and a curiosity in the world was, not surprisingly, Kit. She knew that his admission to her private chambers was solely at his mother’s discretion—another nursemaid would never have allowed the impropriety, now that she was no longer in danger of death. But who could complain when his own mother stayed in sight and hearing of them? Most of the time. If Minuette often drifted discreetly out of sight, who was to know?

Syon House, with all its new décor, was conducive to convalescence. Unlike other, more heavily decorated palaces, her bedchamber and privy chamber were done in a palette of muted blues and greens with liberal amounts of white and touches of silver.

In early September, Kit sat on a folding chair with an intarsia of coloured stones while Anabel reclined on a padded bench with low back and sides. The sunlight came through the unusually wide windows, illuminating Kit’s bright eyes and expressive hands as he told her stories of Spain.

“Now you’re just teasing me!” she protested, laughter making her throat ache. “There is not a woman at my father’s court with an eye patch.”

“I swear on my life, Anabel, I am not teasing. Could I imagine such a thing? Do?a Ana de Mendoza lost her right eye when she was young, in a duel with her father’s page. She’s worn an eye patch ever since. And it has not in the least detracted from her great beauty.”

Now he was teasing, and Anabel responded by sticking out her tongue. It was like they were ten years old again. “I suppose she was only one of many beautiful Spanish women. How many begged you to bring them to England with you?”

“Not a single one. For once, I was quite pleased to have no title or great wealth to offer. Made it simpler to concentrate on the essentials.”

“Which were?”

He hesitated. “Do you want to do this now?”

“Talk?”

“Talk about essentials.”

“I suppose I can’t hide away forever.” Even though the thought was awfully tempting. She sighed. “How did you find Queen Mary?”

“Insufferably pleased with herself. One would think she was the first queen in history to produce sons.”

That wrung a smile from her. “James laments that. He writes that it is as though he has been erased from his mother’s memory.”

“James of Scotland. You have been in communication?”

“Esmé Stewart brought a letter for me from his king. It read more as a shared complaint of two children whose parents are bent on humiliating them, rather than a personal suit.”

Kit nodded, and Anabel would have given much to know what he was thinking. But he merely continued with his recital. “King Philip was all that was gracious. And more at ease than I had ever known him to be. Seeing him at home in Spain was a lesson on how uncomfortable he must always have been while in England. I think you would know him better if you saw him there.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Yes, and so does he. That does not stop him regretting it. I would guess that everything we were shown was calculated to make its way back to you, an offering of the most beautiful, most cultured aspects of Spain that are your heritage, whether or not you ever claim it.”

“And how does Mary Stuart respond to that?”

He grimaced. “I don’t imagine the two of you will ever meet as friends.”

“As she had me held hostage to ensure her escape, I don’t imagine we will.” That didn’t mean Anabel relished the thought of meeting the Scots queen as an enemy. At the moment, it all seemed like entirely too much work.

Silence fell between them, and as happened with increasing frequency these last days, it was weighted with tension. Anabel knew—had always known, before she even knew why—that it would be up to her to break the silence.

Despite her illness, her unaccustomed lethargy, her heightened state of sensitivity, she would always be her mother’s daughter. So when she spoke, it was as direct as she could make it.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

If nothing else had persuaded her in the last two years of Kit’s feelings, the quality of his silence now would have done so. There was an eloquence to the quiet lines of his body, the familiar grace of it tensed ever so slightly in the shoulders and hands—he had his mother’s long, narrow hands with fingertips that made her shiver at the thought of his touch. Anabel could not see his eyes until suddenly he raised his head, and then she could not see anything else.

“You are going to get better,” he promised softly. “And when you are, I will do whatever you ask.”

“Including serve in my household?”

“If you ask it of me.”

“But it would not be your first choice.”

She knew his answer by his wry grin. “My first choice? I think attaining my third or fourth choice is the best I can hope for in this life.”

“What would you prefer to do?” Had she ever asked anyone that before? Royalty did not usually trouble with the wishes of those who served them.

“My father has suggested an intensive course of military training. I hate to say it, but though he is your father, King Philip has his eye on war. Both his conscience and his pride cannot abide what he sees as England’s heretical defiance. And with Mary at his side determined to wrest Scotland back from her own son if she can…before the decade ends, there will be war. I would rather not wait until it comes to be prepared.”