In Bed With A Stranger(44)

Anne frowned. She did not want to wait. Helen smiled gently at her.

"Follow me, mistress, and I'll show you how to read a letter from yer true love."

Her face transformed into a tapestry of sensitivity. Her eyes shimmering  with a knowledge that was both deep and sultry. It was not about  mistress and maid. It was a moment when Anne looked into the eyes of  another woman who understood love for a man.

Helen held the letter up, beckoning her towards her chamber. The maid  left the parchment on the bed as she removed her clothing, leaving her  in only a chemise. Spring was well on its way to giving over to early  summer so the air was warm. The fire kept the stone floor inviting for  her bare feet. Helen removed the pins from her hair, brushing it out.  But she didn't braid it as she normally did.

"There now. That's the way to read the letter. Just as ye would welcome him at night."

Helen replaced the brush on the vanity. The two maids with her pulled  the bed curtains to close the sides. Sitting on the foot of the bed,  Anne fingered the seal. Helen sent the maids away, pausing to extinguish  the candles. She left a single one burning on the vanity. Its yellow  flame danced over the sheet of paper she had laid out on the writing  desk. The quill sparkled in the candlelight, looking magical.

"Enjoy it, mistress, and make sure ye write him back. The carrier will leave at dawn."

The chamber was left in deep quiet, the sort that allowed you to hear  the crackle and pop of the wood as it caught fire. She heard the whistle  of the wind outside the window. Anne still sat upright but Helen had  tucked the coverlet around her.

The parchment crinkled as she broke the seal and opened it wide. The  black ink danced across the page, in neat letters. She drank in the  words, for the first time getting to know the man who had taken her from  Warwickshire. They had never spoken of simple things. Brodick wrote of  them now. Telling her about his likes and dislikes. That he preferred  small beer to ale and heather to rosemary. The letter had many dates on  it, like a diary. He would date the top of each entry, letting her know  that he thought of her each night. Several drops of wax shone on the  parchment, proving that he'd remained up past sunset to write to her.

The way they loved when together was exciting, their bodies creating  heat and passion so hot it might even be explosive. But his letters were  a different sort of intimacy. There was tenderness and trust as he  shared things with her that were neither noble nor politically correct.  They were often silly or whimsical. That endeared him more to her heart.         

     



 

Crawling out of her cocoon, Anne went to the writing desk. It was as if  he was there with her. As she dipped the quill into the ink, she felt  the loneliness fade away for the first time since awaking to the news  that he was gone. The sharp tip scraped softly against the paper as she  returned it to the ink well over and over. She was careful to not smudge  the drying ink, waiting to begin the next line until the candlelight no  longer glistened in it. She did not care that it was a slow process.  She lingered over her composition, savoring the next line. The candle  burned lower as she began a second page, writing of small things just as  he had, sharing who she was with him.

A tap on the door broke the mood. Helen held a tin lantern in one hand as she peeked in.

"I'm just finishing."

Blowing on the last line, Anne made sure it was dry before folding the  parchment to conceal what she had written. Holding the wax over the  candle, she turned it round and round until it shimmered then pressed it  firmly onto the place where the edges of parchment met. The heated  portion puddled into a round glistening circle of wax. Anne pressed the  seal firmly onto it, holding it still while the cool metal drew the heat  out of the wax setting it.

When she pulled the brass seal up, it left a mold of the rampant lion in the scarlet wax.

"Thank you for waiting, Helen."

"'Twas a pleasure." She set the lantern down and went to the bed.  Pulling the coverlet to one side, she waited for Anne to get back into  bed. She went, enjoying the comforts because who knew when they might  end. For tonight it was enough to simply enjoy.

Helen blew out the candle. She took the letter and left. The chamber was  quiet and dark. But the babe inside her began to move. A tiny, soft  motion like a flutter of butterfly wings inside her belly. Her breath  froze in her lungs and the movement came again, confirming that she was  not dreaming it. Laying a hand over her slightly thickened waistline,  she cradled their child.

It would be born in love even if she had to see Mary cradling it. Many  mothers gave up as much for their children. Tears fell onto the pillow  as she refused to lament the ache in her heart. She would not repent for  loving. Even if it broke her heart. To love was to taste life for the  first time.

But her babe needed more than that. Her life was an example of what  happened when you tried to pit love against the way the world was  organized. Mary was the rightful mistress of Sterling. If Anne confessed  to Brodick, she might remain as his leman, but her children would lead  the same life she had when Mary was found out and was forced to take her  position as wife.

But if she returned to Warwickshire and allowed Mary to pretend that her  babe was hers, her child would enjoy all the benefits of legitimacy.  Brodick would keep the dowry land.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. It would be done. Yet not until right  before the babe was due, because Brodick would come for her. Bonnie had  seen it. So she would have to deceive him for the sake of their child.  It was the greatest gift she might give her son.

That thought lulled her into sleep. Brodick's face was there in her dreams.

The Scottish court

Arriving at court was not an easy thing. Brodick spent five days just  finding a place to lay his head. With the king in town, most of the  better homes were rented and he didn't keep a town house. His father had  avoided court as well. Riding hellbent toward the royal castle hadn't  gotten him any closer to seeing his king. His clothing had to follow,  making it longer still until he was at last ready to present himself at  court.

At least the royal hounds were off his back. They left him the moment he  began setting up house. The city was teeming with people. The different  clan tartans denoted other titled men. Some clansmen still clung to  their plain wool kilts without plaid striping. Not all clans had adopted  the newer kilts.

It was a full fortnight before he was ready to appear at court. Showing  up any earlier would have been a waste of time. The first thing he  needed to do was send a formal message to the King's chamberlain  advising the man that he'd arrived as summoned.

James Stewart had been raised by courtiers. His mother had long ago lost  her head in an English castle. It was an ironic twist of fate that left  him the heir to Elizabeth Tudor's throne, since she had signed his  mother's execution order.         

     



 

But that didn't seem to matter much now. Brodick walked into the main  receiving hall to find it bursting with ambassadors from all over the  world. They were dressed in fine clothing, attendants trailing them.  Foreign languages bounced around the hall-Portuguese, French, Italian  and even Spanish. His temper strained against his control as he viewed  the number of men waiting to see the king. This was the outer hall. They  weren't even in the main court yet. James might keep him waiting for a  month if he was of a mind to do so.

"It seems we Scots have gained a wee bit o' favor since I was last  here." Druce looked around, his face pensive. "Now that's a change."

"It explains why Jamie is so concerned with raiding these days."

"Aye, it does."

Brodick watched the blending of new fashion with Celtic tradition. Kilts  were still worn by at least half the men but now there were velvet  slops and Venetian pants as well. Many of the ambassadors wore lavishly  decorated short capes that shone with gold and jewels. He and his men  were wearing doublets with sleeves, the green wool a mark of the McJames  clan for a century. But he didn't think even being in the presence of  his monarch meant he should have sewn gold baubles onto his clothing.  Such frivolity was for women and fops who eyed young men for trysts.

"But I must admit that I'm a bit surprised at the fashion on display."

His brooch was gold and set with twin rubies for the lion's eyes. It had  been his father's and someday it would be worn by his son. On his right  hand was a signet ring with the seal of the Earl of McJames. It did not  leave his hand unless he handed it to a man willing to defend it with  his life. That was a promise his father had extracted on his death bed.

Druce scoffed at him. "I'll remain a happy man in my kilt."

"Agreed."

They all froze as McQuade came into view. The man stood with his  retainers, frowning at the great number of men waiting to see the king.  The royal guards kept the door barred while everyone awaited the call of  the chamberlain announcing their name. Without that, they stood  waiting.