The Lady of Secrets

  “Every man, woman, and child,” Sir Patrick murmured.

  “We all knew that Queen Anne and Prince Henry would attend the opening ceremony with the king. Is that now a problem for you, Sir Patrick?” Catesby asked.

  “No, but the king might bring his youngest son as well. Prince Charles is only four years old.”

  “He’s always been a sickly lad. So weak he just learned to walk this year. He’d be likely to die soon anyway,” Fawkes said.

  “Is that what we must tell ourselves to justify the slaughter of an innocent?”

  Fawkes glared at him. “This is a holy war, Sir Patrick, and in any conflict, there are always innocent casualties.”

  Patrick knew that better than anyone, but he could not dispel the image of little Charles taking those first wobbly steps, James kneeling down and holding his arms wide until the boy tottered into them. Then with a laugh of triumph, he hugs his son and lifts him up, James’s face beaming with fatherly pride and joy.

  Patrick closed his eyes against the memory, forcing another image of James Stuart to the forefront of his mind, the cowardly king, just like any other monarch, callous and indifferent to the suffering he caused.

  Patrick groped beneath his jerkin, his fingers closing over the locket that held the precious strands of her hair and for a moment, his grief was as savage as if it were only yesterday that—

  “Sir Patrick?” Fawkes’s voice dragged him back to the present. Patrick opened his eyes to find the mercenary soldier all but in his face as Fawkes demanded, “Am I the only one who remembers that a good and holy man is slated to die today? In the eyes of God, Father Gregoire is worth a thousandfold more than that sickly Stuart whelp. Yet our priest is to be executed in the most brutal fashion possible, hanged, cut down while he still lives, his bowels torn out before his own eyes.”

  “I am well aware of that, Mr. Fawkes.” Patrick took a step back and crossed himself. “None of us has forgotten and we will all pray for Father Gregoire.”

  “We are past the point of praying,” Fawkes snapped. “Unless we want to see our brethren continue to be slaughtered, we must act and with none of these womanish qualms.”

  “Aye, but what of our brethren in parliament?” Thomas Percy protested. “There will be men in that chamber who are as committed to the true faith as we—young Lord Monteagle, Lord Montrose, and my own kinsman, the Earl of Northumberland. If we could but find some means to warn them to stay away from the parliament—”

  “We have already discussed this, Thomas,” Catesby said, a thread of impatience in his voice. “I deplore the loss of those good men as much as you, but any attempt to alert anyone can only serve to arouse suspicion. Far too many know of our plans already. If anyone breathes a word in the wrong quarter, we all risk exposure.”

  Patrick had wrestled with his own conscience over the matter, but he was obliged to agree with Catesby. Many good men would die in the explosion, but just as many were hazarding their lives in this holy cause. Patrick did not know all the names of his fellow conspirators nor did he want to, in case anything went wrong and he found himself arrested. He wanted to believe he was the stuff of martyrs, but he also knew men far stronger than he had broken under the torture of the rack.

  Patrick caressed the locket, only vaguely aware that the other three men had moved on to discuss all that needed to be done after the assassination of the king, but he had nothing to contribute. He could not seem to think past the explosion, as though the conflagration that would be the culmination of all his years of purpose and planning would burn away his anger and grief, reducing him to a pile of ashes as well.

  Catesby’s voice seemed to come from a great distance as he reminded them of where all the conspirators would rendezvous after the explosion to incite rebellion and seize control of the government. Fawkes was to set sail for Europe and seek audience with all the Catholic monarchs, enlist support by convincing them of the justice of their cause.

  “Justice! At least be honest with yourself and acknowledge your plot for what it is … revenge.”

  Armagil’s troubling words echoed through Patrick’s mind, but his hand clamped down tight upon the locket. If revenge was what was in his heart, then so be it. He’d confess his sin, do his penance, and trust to God’s forgiveness.

  Fawkes replaced the logs, carefully concealing the crate of gunpowder as they prepared to take their leave. Thomas Percy was the first to do so, disappearing into the night. Patrick prepared to follow suit when he was arrested by Catesby’s gentle touch upon his arm.

  “You are more quiet tonight than usual, Sir Patrick. Not having second thoughts, I trust?”

  “No, sir. I assure you there is no possibility of that.”

  “And you know your part?”

  Patrick nodded. “Go hunting with the king, keep him free from any further alarm, and make sure he returns in time.”

  “I meant your part after the deed is done. You realize something will have to be done about those ungodly women. They may despise James Stuart as much as we do, but we cannot have the success of our holy cause tainted by any association with their petty revenge. Those witches will have to be … silenced, including the one that now resides beneath your roof.”

  Margaret Wolfe, the one to whom Patrick had given his word of honor that she would be safe if she accompanied him to England. He felt a stab of conscience, but that pledge had been given when he had thought Meg to be a good woman, the gentle healer she proclaimed herself to be.

  “I understand what needs to be done,” he said. “Amelia Rivers was foolish enough to confide in me that she and her sister plan to hold some hellish rite of celebration on the night before the explosion. I know where they intend to meet with the rest of their coven. I shall make sure they are all captured. None will escape.”

  “Good.” Catesby smiled. “Although it is a trifle ironic. When King James perishes in the fire, it will seem as though the witch’s curse came true. Had you thought of that?”

  “Oh, yes,” Patrick said softly. “I have thought about that a great deal.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “TWO O’CLOCK AND THE WEATHER IS FAIR.”

  The watchman’s voice seemed to come from far off as Meg fought to keep awake. The hours after midnight were the loneliest, most treacherous, most dangerous time of day.

  As a healer, Meg knew this. She could offer no logical reason for it, but if someone was going to die, how often it happened in the predawn darkness. But coax them to remain until the sun rose and the shadows of death would disperse.

  Blackwood’s condition had not changed, but Meg lay with her head pressed to his heart, one arm sprawled across him as though by her physical presence and sheer will, she could prevent his soul from stealing away from her.

  She needed to keep him alive until the light broke and then all would be well. An irrational hope, but it was all she had. She just needed to remain vigilant, stay awake.

  But she was so exhausted. Her eyes grew heavy in spite of her best efforts. They closed, but not to ease her into a place of restful darkness; instead, she entered a world of troubled dreams.

  Nightmares of her mother stitching Blackwood up in a winding sheet, Cassandra mocking Meg with her laughter. Nightmares of Blackwood’s coffin being lowered into the earth while faceless members of the coven whirled around it in a mad dance, tossing handfuls of dirt into his grave.

  And nightmares that once again pulled her back to that square where coarse men piled up the faggots of wood around the terrified girl while others restrained the frantic boy.

  “Maidred!”

  The boy’s sobs tore at Meg. She wanted to go to him, but the girl needed her more. The pyre had been lit, the flames licking upward while Maidred Brody screamed.

  “For the love of God, help!”

  But as Meg found her way forward, Maidred shook her head. “No, it’s too late for me. Help him. Save my brother. Stop him from—”

  She writhed in pain as the fire engulfe
d her.

  “Save Robbie. Promise me.”

  “I promise. I promise,” Meg muttered over and over until the sound of her own voice jarred her awake. She was disoriented for a moment, not knowing where she was or what was happening.

  Memory of recent events returned to her in a rush and she groped for Blackwood, only to find the bed beside her empty.

  She bolted upright, her heart thudding in panic. She swept her hair from her face, her gaze darting about the room. The fire had gone out and so had the candles, but the gray light of early morning spilled through the open shutters.

  Blackwood stood silhouetted in the window, peering out while he wolfed down a slab of bread. And he was stark naked.

  Meg’s indrawn breath squeaked out of her. Blackwood turned around and wiped a dribble of honey off his chin.

  “Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet, but I needed to piss so bad, I thought my gut would burst and then I was starving.”

  He was starving? Meg struggled up onto her elbows, staring at him in disbelief. He was starving. He was eating bread and honey. He was … not dead.

  Her gaze traveled from his mop of disheveled hair, to the coarser hairs shadowing his broad chest, to his lean pale hips, down the length of his sinewy legs and then back up, riveting on his erection.

  Definitely not dead.

  She should have averted her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to stop staring. Her chest tightened with a relief so sharp, it was painful.

  Blackwood shoved the last hunk of bread into his mouth. “Sorry for that,” he mumbled, gesturing toward his engorged cock. “It’s just something that happens in the morning. I have no control over it.”

  It was his grin that overset Meg, transformed her relief into red-hot fury.

  “Damn you!”

  She flailed about for something to throw at him and found only the pillows. She fired them one after the other. He dodged them easily, but at least her assault wiped the grin from his face.

  He regarded her with an expression of aggrieved innocence. “What have I done now? I thought you would be glad to see me recovered.”

  “Glad?” she shrieked. “Why would I be glad? I only spent all of last night in hell, fighting to keep you alive, having n-nightmares about you in your grave. Only now you are all right and instead of waking me up to tell me, you j-just get up and relieve yourself and—and break your fast. And you’re naked!”

  Armagil looked about him until he found his shirt. He struggled into it, the bottom of the linen skimming his thighs. Meg’s throat clogged, her fury spent. Hot tears cascaded down her cheeks.

  “Nay, sweetheart, don’t be doing that.” The rope springs of the bed creaked as he clambered on the mattress beside her.

  Meg scrambled to the opposite side of the bed, but there was no escaping him. He pulled her gently but firmly into his arms. Meg tried to fend him off, but she had neither the strength nor the will to resist him.

  She collapsed, sobbing against his chest. “The—the d-devil take you, Armagil Blackwood.”

  “Aye, very likely he will, but not for a while longer, thanks to you. Now hush.” He rocked her in his arms, pressing kisses against the top of her head. “I am sorry I did not think to wake you, but you looked so exhausted and it was a shock to me, to find myself so well recovered. I needed a few moments to take it all in.”

  He eased her away from him, scrubbing her tears away with his fingertips. “I never thought I could rejoice so much in such simple things as the raw morning air stinging my bare skin, good coarse bread rough upon my tongue, the sweet taste of honey. I didn’t expect to be alive this morning, Margaret. Or to care so much that I was.”

  “Why must you do that—regard your life as though it is some trifle, easily discarded?”

  “Because I am a very trifling fellow who has never been of use to anyone.”

  “I think there are many people who would disagree with you.” Meg brushed her lips against his and whispered, “Especially me.”

  He stared deep into her eyes for a long moment, then his mouth covered hers in a more demanding kiss. Meg’s lips parted before the onslaught, eagerly accepting the thrust of his tongue. His mouth tasted of heat and honey and the subtle tang of desire.

  Blackwood’s lips caressed her face, kissing the damp tracks of her tears. Meg responded in kind, kissing his brow, his eyelids, his cheeks until her lips found his again.

  She touched him, her hands roving over his chest, she rejoiced in the vitality coursing through him. But after all the cold, the terror, the darkness of last night, it wasn’t enough.

  She needed to feel the warmth of his skin, the rush of his pulse, the steady beat of his heart. Her lips locked with his, she tugged at his shirt, trying to peel it off.

  Blackwood’s hand encircled her wrist to stop her. Half-panting, half-laughing, he said, “God’s blood. First you complain of my nakedness. Now you seek to strip me. Will you never be satisfied, woman?”

  “I could be. If you would oblige me.”

  “Nay, Margaret. A miscreant who came so near death as I did ought to give some thought to reforming his wicked ways. Your reason has been unsettled by your fight to save my miserable life. You are tired and overwrought and I would be a villain to take advantage—”

  “Then be a villain. Begin your reform tomorrow.”

  She silenced him with another kiss. Before he could argue with her any further, she scrambled upright, stripping off her chemise and tossing it aside. Shaking back her hair, she knelt over him on the bed.

  Blackwood stared, as though he would devour her naked body. His lips parted, but no sound came for a moment.

  “This is not fair, Margaret. First you restore me to health and now you would steal my breath away.”

  “Aye, your breath, your very reason, and—”

  Your heart.

  She didn’t know where that thought came from and did her best to quell it. She reminded herself that this longing that pulsed through her had nothing to do with love, only desire and a celebration of triumph over death.

  Meg straddled herself over his legs. Grabbing the ends of his shirt, she pushed it above his hips. She touched the exposed length of his shaft. Blackwood groaned and closed his eyes.

  She caressed him more boldly, marveling at her own recklessness. Perhaps it was partly born of the fear that her reason would return. She had spent far too much of her life being careful, overthinking everything. For once she just wanted to set free the passionate side of her nature she had so long repressed.

  Aching with desire, she prepared to settle on top of him, take him inside of her. His eyes shot open.

  “No!”

  With a suddenness that startled her, he flipped her off of him and onto her back. He hovered over her, the dark expression in his eyes making her feel uncertain.

  “N-no?” The heat of desire in her cheeks mingled with the burn of humiliation as she faltered, “Y-you truly don’t want me.”

  He gave a choked laugh. “God’s blood, woman, I think it is damned obvious how much I want you. But not hard and fast, like taking a doxy against an alehouse wall. That is not how I have dreamed of having you.”

  “You … have dreamed of being with me?”

  “Ever since I first laid eyes upon you. Even last night in the throes of my fever. Why else do you think I woke up so hard?”

  “You said it was a natural thing, something that just happened.”

  “So it is with you always in my head, enchanting me.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “In my thoughts, seducing me.” He kissed her cheek. “In my dreams, bewitching me.”

  Enchanting? Seductive? Bewitching? Meg stared deep into his eyes. Those were not words she or anyone else would use to describe Margaret Wolfe. But he meant them.

  Blackwood’s mouth hovered just above hers.

  “Show me,” she pleaded. “Show me what you dreamed.”

  He proceeded to do so, kissing and touching her with caresses that lingered and le
ft her aching for more. Even when she would have kissed him fiercely, seeking to hasten their coupling, he refused to allow it.

  Seizing both wrists, he pinned them over her head with one hand, while with the other he continued to explore her as though he meant to learn every inch of her. Meg panted and writhed beneath his touch, feeling as though Blackwood now knew her body better than she did herself, every sensitive curve and hollow, every intimate spot, knew just how to arouse her to the brink of madness with his fingers, his lips.

  When he released her to strip off his own shirt, Meg was already slick with need of him. He could tell just what he’d done, a slight hint of masculine triumph playing about his mouth as he dipped to kiss her again.

  It was time to give him a taste of her own power. Meg had always been quick to learn and she demonstrated all he had just taught her, of caresses that teased, kisses that burned. When he finally entered her, Meg’s cry was a mingling of elation and relief. As they began to move as one, she lost herself in his gaze and discovered it was possible for one’s heart to race and be scarce able to breathe at the same time. As heat built between them, Meg closed her eyes at last, giving herself over to pure sensation, desire coiling to an intensity that was almost painful, culminating in a climax that throbbed through her whole body.

  She felt Blackwood shudder and sensed the moment when he found his relief as well, and they collapsed, spent, into each other’s arms.

  MEG DOZED, SPOONED AGAINST BLACKWOOD’S HARD BODY, his arm draped possessively across her waist. The sun teased against her eyelids, warning her that the day was advancing, but she rolled away from it, burrowing her face against Blackwood’s chest.

  Exhausted from their lovemaking, he was in the same state of delicious torpor as she was, drifting in and out of sleep.

  Meg knew she ought to rouse herself. It was not her way to loll abed after the sun had risen, especially when there were still so many problems looming, her desperate need to find the witches’ coven and stop them before they caused any more harm, the alarming possibility that her mother was still alive and behind it all, her fears concerning Sir Patrick and his true identity.