The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(55)

“No,” he flared back at her, and that finally made her turn and face him. “Pippa found me coming back to the castle. Alone.”

He could see the whiteness of her face outlined like the smooth edges of a marble statue. But her eyes were not any sort of remote mask. Fury, fear, hurt…it cut through Kit’s anger like a dagger.

“What,” he asked helplessly, “do you want from me, Anabel?”

“What do I want? Or what am I allowed to have?”

“My point exactly.”

They held like that for a few painful moments. Kit had the sense of a tipping point being reached. This could not hold forever. But he had hoped for a little longer.

“Come here,” he said softly, and offered her his hand. She took it and allowed him to pull her to a bench. They sat together, touching nowhere but their hands. The bleakness of her expression told him that she had already anticipated his words. But they still needed to be said.

“There is nothing useful for me to do at Kenilworth,” he announced. “The best thing I can do for you and England is to fulfill my responsibilities as Lieutenant General of the Marches. I’ll leave for the border in the morning.”

“Do you wish to be released from that responsibility?” she asked distantly.

“What do I wish…or what am I allowed to have?”

It had the desired effect of making her laugh a little. But her blue eyes were serious when she said, “If you ask it of me, I will release you from my service. I am certain the queen would offer you an equal appointment.”

“I’ve put in a lot of effort along the border. I think I can serve well there. But I will not come to your household unless necessary.”

“Fair enough. That should please even the most stringent of my critics.”

“Anabel, we should speak of what comes after. After the plotting, after the coming war…after the wedding.”

“Are you saying that your loyalty to me extends thus far and no farther?”

“I’m saying that your husband may have strong opinions about me.” Especially if James knew how the amber and dark rose scent of Anabel’s perfume led Kit to imagine locking the door and making use of the bed behind them.

“It matters not. James of Scotland will run neither my household nor my court.”

“It will matter. You know it will.” If only because Kit didn’t know if he was selfless enough to serve near Anabel once she was another man’s wife.

“I am not a fool, Kit. I know that one day you will marry as well. And when I think of that, I believe I know how you feel about James Stuart. I don’t know which I would prefer—that you marry a woman you can love, or that you marry one who will never give you what I could in friendship and devotion. That is selfish, I know it.”

“Not so selfish,” he murmured. He wanted to pull her closer, to rest her head on his shoulder. Instead, he traced patterns on her hand with his thumb while he spoke. “I’ve no doubt James Stuart is a good man. I do not wish you a life of misery. But the thought of him being allowed to kiss you…to touch you…that your nights will be given to anyone not me?”

Kit shrugged, the words painful to pronounce. “When I consider that, I understand why you were angry with me tonight. And I would like to vow that I, at least, will never marry.”

“That is hardly practical. Nor would I expect it. You are young, Kit. I would not condemn you to a lonely life.

“But could I ask you one thing?” she added wistfully. “A request, and not a royal one. Will you promise not to marry until after I do? I know we need to distance ourselves. I know it would be wise for you to be seen courting another woman. But I do not know if I will be strong enough to do what I must without hope. You are my hope, Kit. Always and forever. Even if it is a lost hope…will you let me keep it as long as I can?”

He could not hold himself apart any longer. He leaned in and touched his forehead to hers. It was easier to speak without looking at her just now. “I swear it,” he whispered. “And no matter where I am or what I am doing…I will carry you with me, mi corazon. Always.”

—

As their time at Kenilworth Castle drew to a close, Anabel made a polite, if remote, farewell to her mother. The queen departed first, to spend one night with the Duke and Duchess of Exeter at nearby Wynfield Mote. Kit had already left for the Marches, leaving behind a buzz of gossip that confirmed the wisdom of his departure. Anabel had always known how to conduct herself with propriety, but it was noticeably harder to do so when her soul was rubbed raw.

In the early afternoon after her mother’s departure, Anabel very publicly withdrew to her private chambers. Her ladies let it be known that she had a debilitating headache and had no wish to be disturbed. A short time later Philippa Courtenay Harrington left Kenilworth Castle as well, following her parents home with her husband Matthew in tow. They would return in time to accompany Anabel tomorrow on her departure north.

Three miles outside of Kenilworth, Matthew shot an oblique glance at the woman riding beside him. “Are you well, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that,” Anabel shot back. “For anyone watching just now, I am your loving wife.”

At least, she certainly hoped so. The point was for Anabel and her mother to be able to speak freely without fear of watching eyes. It was important that they maintain the illusion of distance and a severe difference of opinion as to the ruling of England. It was Pippa who had come up with the idea of she and Anabel switching places—and if it was Pippa’s idea, it argued that the plan would be successful. Once retired behind closed doors at Kenilworth, the princess had changed from her gown of heavy black silk into a chestnut-coloured one belonging to Pippa, with a dark brown safeguard as an overskirt to protect the gown while riding. Madalena had plaited and hidden Anabel’s distinctive hair beneath a tight linen wimple and the folds of a heavy hooded cloak, and the princess had departed unremarked with Matthew at her side.