In Bed With A Stranger(12)

Philipa waved her toward the back stairs. Anne went but didn’t lower her head before she moved. Instead she stared straight at Philipa, refusing to give her deference. The lady’s face turned purple with temper.

“Get you up those stairs, and best you ponder what further defiance will bring on your family. Go.”

“Mary, pick up that uniform. You’ll have to wear that to leave Warwickshire. We can’t have you seen or all our efforts will be for nothing.”

The back stairs were dark. A flight of narrow stone steps led to a tower used by archers in time of siege. For the moment, it was where the books of the estate rested because there was no way to enter it except through the mistress’s chamber. Hugging her arms around her body, Anne climbed as she felt the chill soak into her bones. It felt almost as though the chill was coming from inside her, and maybe it was.

Her heart ached. Never had she been away from her family. She slept in the maids’ chamber, the furthest she had ever been from her mother. It might be foolishness to lament leaving the castle, but it was the only home she knew.

She shivered as she reached the small chamber. She could press her fingers against one wall and stick her leg out behind her to touch the opposite side with her foot. Very little light entered because there were naught but arrow slits in the stone walls. The wind whistled through the narrow openings, sending more shivers down her spine.

Surely she must be dreaming. A nightmare that she would awaken from soon. Her fingers stroked the front of her skirt, finding the lines of trim carefully sewn down the center front. She had helped to make some of it with her own hands, sitting with the other maids after the fires had been banked for the night. With Mary’s love of fashion, every pair of hands helped with constructing her wardrobe.

The dress was fine but had not been made for her. The stays were a tiny bit too long in the waist, poking into her hips. She would have to alter it, but dared not do it now. Mary’s husband might arrive at any hour.

Actually, her husband.

Anne considered that. She wasn’t afraid of men but she was ignorant of them. Having been kept under a strict eye, she had told herself to not look at the boys who tried to gain her attention. It was an unnatural thing to not flirt, and now it seemed it was also unwise. What if the Scot didn’t like her? She didn’t know how to entice him into her bed.

A shiver shook her as she considered that duty. Maybe she should avoid it. If she produced the baby Philipa demanded, there would be no further need for her. Icy dread closed around her heart as she contemplated the deception Philipa was set on using her to achieve. The lady wasn’t above murder. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Anne ordered herself not to panic. She had to think. She needed to figure out a way to get the news to her father. She couldn’t tell the Scot about the deception; he would send her home and into Philipa’s keeping. The idea of her sweet sister Bonnie being wed made her stomach twist sickeningly. Her father was the only one who held the power to protect her and her family.

He would. She believed that. She had to, it was her only hope.

She would write him a letter. Turning around, she looked at the desk she’d spent many an hour at doing the estate books. Yes. There was parchment and ink.

Yet, how would she have it delivered? Court was an uncertain place with nobles crowding around the Queen. Only an experienced man could see any letter into her father’s powerful hand. His secretary often had letters for months before gaining the chance to present them to her noble sire.

Still, she refused to go meekly to her own slaughter. Philipa would kill her, she felt certain of it. If she lived there would always be the danger that the truth might be discovered.

Sitting down, she pulled the cork out of the small inkwell. Made of pottery, it held a generous portion of dark ink. Lifting a quill, Anne dipped it before laying the tip against a new sheet of paper. She wrote carefully, forming her letters with skill. She listened closely for steps, fearing to hear a tread upon them that would interrupt her task.

She sealed it with wax but not the seal of the house. Tucking it carefully into the estate books, she prayed that her father would be home for quartering day, when the household staff was paid. It was still four months away but the master was expected to pay each servant with his own hand. Her father had kept that tradition as long as she could remember, laying her own earned silver in her palm when she had grown old enough to deserve it. She couldn’t get the letter to him, but she might leave it where he could discover it. Without the seal, no one would know where the letter came from and hopefully it would be left for the master to open. For once Philipa’s laziness might just be a blessing.