My Lady Jane(104)

The dance ended. He thanked her. He turned to flee.

“Will you walk with me?” she asked, before he could. She held out a small hand.

He nodded and tucked her hand into his arm.

“I spent the afternoon with your lady, Grace,” Mary informed him as they strolled along the outer edge of the room. “I found her stories quite amusing.”

God’s teeth, what had Gracie told her? “Yes, she’s an amusing woman,” he said.

“Quite. It made me miss Scotland, to hear her brogue.” Mary herself had no Scottish accent that Edward could discern. Too many years away from home.

They walked in awkward silence. Edward found himself tongue-tied. He could feel the gaze of others on them, keen and speculative, especially that of the French queen and her dour-looking daughter, Elisabeth.

“You’re taller than I remember,” Mary Queen of Scots said at last.

“Yes, I find you changed as well.”

She flushed. “Forgive me, regarding your foot last time.”

He smiled. “Forgiven,” he said. “I hope we can put all that past ugliness behind us and be friends.”

“Yes. Friends. It’s just, I didn’t like to be told what to do, or to whom I should be married,” she said, her voice lifting a little. “It made me cross to look at you.”

“Believe me, I understand.”

She stopped and pulled her hand from his arm. Her dark eyes were earnest when she gazed up at him, but not naive. “I still don’t like to be told.” He followed her gaze when she peered out into the center of the room, where Edward spotted a sulky-faced blond boy in splendid clothing.

Ah, the dauphin, he assumed. Prince Francis.

“He seems all right,” Edward observed as they watched the boy grab a handful of sweets from a passing tray and stuff them into his mouth. Then the crown prince picked his nose, and ate that, too. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

Mary Queen of Scots pursed her lips unhappily. “Sometimes he pulls my hair or calls me names.”

“He’ll grow out of that, I think,” Edward said. And hopefully the nose picking, as well.

The little queen turned to regard Edward with a carefully blank expression that made him feel sad for them both, that they would have learned to wear such masks at their young age. “I think I would like England better than France, don’t you?” she said quietly.

He lowered his voice to match hers. “Definitely. Apart from the food.”

“Oh yes,” Mary agreed. “The food here is good. But the king is quite mad sometimes. And the queen is horrid to me, she hates me, and . . . and this is not a friendly place for people like us.”

Edward was intrigued. Gracie had done her work well on Mary, obviously. She wanted to confide in him. To trust him. “Like us?” he repeated.

She pulled on his shoulder to make him lean toward her, so she could whisper in his ear. “I hear you’re a kestrel.”

His heart beat faster in spite of himself. This was a country still in the hands of the Verities. It was dangerous, even for him, to admit to being an E?ian here.

But this journey was about taking risks.

He turned Mary so he could whisper, “I am. What are you?”

She smiled conspiratorially, her dark head close to his, her breath on his cheek. “I’m a mouse. That’s how I get away if people chase me—I turn into a little black mouse that nobody ever notices. I’m very good at hiding. And listening. I hear such things, you wouldn’t believe them if I told you.” She leaned even closer. “I have a secret army, you know, back in Scotland. All of them E?ians. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Marvelous,” Edward agreed.

She bit her lip. “I will send my army to help you. But I think someday I might turn into a mouse, and run away from France and never return. Will you help me then?”

His breath caught. “Of course,” he said. “You’ll always be welcome in England, Your Majesty.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. Her fingers were soft, her nails perfectly cut and rounded. “Call me Mary.”

“Mary,” he said, and he became aware of an ache in his chest. He pushed past it. “And you should call me Edward.”

“Edward.” She smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Yes, he thought, and the ache bloomed into something larger. He understood her. Maybe a little too well.

Mary looked pleased. “And here’s your lady,” she said, glancing past him. “Hello, again.”

“My lady?” Edward turned to see Gracie approaching them in the gray velvet gown. His chest swelled at the sight of her.

“I’m not his lady,” Gracie corrected. “I’m just his friend.”

Queen Catherine was calling for Mary to dance with the dauphin. “He always steps on my feet,” the little queen said with a scowl, becoming once again the furious girl from her portrait. She swept away to join her betrothed. Edward felt a weight lift at her departure. He offered his hand to Gracie.

“Shall we?”

She shook her head so hard a curl came loose from its pin and tumbled into her face. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“There’s something you don’t know how to do?” he said incredulously. “How can that be?”