The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [84]
“So, I’m finally a dead man. My enemies will be pleased.”
“It’s for your protection,” he said humorlessly.
I smiled. “Yes, I’ve been told how protective you are. I heard about your ill-timed venture to the stables while I was otherwise engaged, and of your aborted intervention on the leads. I can’t help but wonder about the time before, when I was trapped in the monk’s cell. It was you who found my jerkin by the lake, wasn’t it? You dropped it at the entrance to alert Peregrine and Barnaby. A rather passive attempt, but I suppose I shouldn’t complain.” I reached for the door latch, resisting the jab in my shoulder. “Am I free to go?”
“In a minute.” Walsingham’s eyes flicked to Urian, who stood attentively by me. “Henry Dudley didn’t fire the shot that hit you.”
I didn’t move.
“The steward Master Shelton held the pistol. I saw him take aim from the window. I thought you should know. He is, I believe, someone you trust?”
“Not anymore,” I said, and I strode out.
* * *
In the hall, a scullery girl emptied the hearth of cinders. With a shy smile she indicated the way to the garden, which I found enclosed by walls and windswept with the scent of lavender.
Kate was doing as she said—hanging sheets on a line to dry. I crept up behind her, wrapped my arms about her waist. “Did you scrub them yourself?” I breathed in her ear. With a gasp, she let a pillowcase fly from her hand. Urian barked in delight, jumping up to seize it in midair. He trotted off with his trophy, tail held high.
Kate turned on me. “I’ll have you know Holland cloth doesn’t come cheap. Unless you indeed plan on getting rich, we’ve a household to economize for.”
“I’ll buy you a hundred pillowcases in Egyptian silk, if you like.” I pressed the pouch in her hand. As she felt its weight, her eyes widened. She searched my face. Before she could voice the question that hung between us, I pulled her to me.
In my arms, she whispered, “When?”
I replied softly, “As soon as I can let go of you.”
* * *
That night, as I finished packing my saddlebag for the trip, a knock came at my door. I suspected before I went to answer it who it was; neither Kate nor Peregrine would have requested admittance, and Walsingham would never climb stairs to see a hireling.
She stood in the passageway, cloaked head to toe in black velvet. Kate paused on the landing of the staircase behind her, a flickering candle in hand. As she met my eyes, I nodded. She turned away, but not before I saw her troubled expression.
I stepped aside. As Elizabeth moved into the room, I felt again that magnetic lure she seemed to exude like a scent. She pulled down her hood; it crumpled in soft waves about her long throat. She wore no jewelry, her fiery hair caught in a braided net. There were, I noticed, dark circles about her expressive eyes, as if she had spent a sleepless night.
I bowed low. “Your Grace, this is an unexpected honor.”
She nodded absently, looking about. “So, this is where you recovered? I trust you were well cared for.” There was no hidden emphasis in her tone, no indication she had any idea of my involvement with Kate. I decided it would be better to leave it that way, at least for now. Kate would tell Elizabeth in her own time.
“Yes, very well cared for,” I replied. “I believe I owe you my gratitude.”
“You do?” One of her thin eyebrows arched.
“Yes. This is your house, is it not?”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “That’s hardly reason for gratitude. It’s but a house, after all. I have several, most of which stand empty.” She paused. Her eyes met mine. “Rather, it is I, Master Prescott, who should be giving you thanks. What you did for