thought of bending to take them off filled her with a kind of desperation. With a sigh she fell back on the bed.
Owen straightened from the fire. He came over to the bed and slipped the sandals from her feet. She murmured something but didn’t stir. He threw over her the fur coverlet that was folded at the end of the bed, then resumed his seat at the fire.
What an extraordinary story she had told. Could there possibly be any truth to it? He stretched his feet to the andirons, linking his hands behind his head. Owen d’Arcy had a great understanding of the depths of human depravity. He would not discount Pen’s story out of hand. And he could begin to see a way to turn it to good use.
Four
Pen came awake with a jerk. Disoriented, she stared up at the unfamiliar pattern on the tester. She turned her head on the pillow, wondering for a moment why her neck hurt. She put up a hand and felt the bandage. Then she remembered.
She pulled herself up against the pillows, aware of a general soreness throughout her body. She had fought hard during that wild struggle with the beggars.
The chamber was empty although the fire burned brightly with fresh logs. The shutters were closed against the cold but sunlight shone through the cracks. It was well past dawn, Pen realized. A hue and cry would start up if she didn’t soon appear at Baynard’s Castle in Thames Street, where Princess Mary was presently residing as a guest of the Earl of Pembroke.
She pushed aside the fur coverlet and stood up groggily. Her sandals were laid neatly side by side at the end of the bed. She sat on the stool before the fire to put them on. Her eyes felt gritty, her gown was hopelessly creased, her hose were twisted. There was no mirror in the chamber but she had little difficulty imagining how she looked.
Her eye fell on her discarded coif and hood. She glanced up at the mantel, where the jeweled circlet and pins still lay. She touched the loops of her hair. They had come loose and tendrils were escaping the pins. She had no comb, she had no mirror.
Impatiently Pen released her hair and shook it down her back. Better that than half up and half down. She ran her fingers through the thick mass to get rid of the tangles.
All of these things she did with little attention. Her mind was a welter of emotion. She was confused, excited, apprehensive. Owen d’Arcy had believed her, or at least had not disbelieved her. She was so accustomed to having her obsession gently but firmly dismissed that she didn’t know quite how to respond to someone who accepted it as possible.
But it wasn’t just that that confused her. The man himself confused her. Sometimes she felt as easy and comfortable in his company as in Robin’s, and at others he disturbed her so powerfully it almost scared her. He had some motive in pursuing her, of that she was certain, but what could it be?
Pen had few illusions about herself. She had not her sister’s mischievously flirtatious manner that drew men like flies to the honeypot. She was pleasant enough to look at but nothing startling. Philip had loved and desired her but he had not been the kind of man to draw swooning women to his feet. They had loved and desired each other. There had been passion and companionship but never this confused turmoil of contradictory emotions.
Why
was a man of Owen d’Arcy’s ilk interested in her? He was an exotic. A man of sophisticated elegance, one who moved through the courtier’s world with supreme confidence and competence. A man who counted tavern keepers among his friends and whose skill with a rapier was that of a trained assassin. It was a conundrum.
And the thought of solving it brought goose bumps tingling over every inch of her skin.
Pen turned abruptly as the door opened. Owen came in carrying a laden tray. “Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, setting the tray on the table.
“Good morning,” Pen responded in the same tone. He looked immaculate, as if his black silk shirt
Owen straightened from the fire. He came over to the bed and slipped the sandals from her feet. She murmured something but didn’t stir. He threw over her the fur coverlet that was folded at the end of the bed, then resumed his seat at the fire.
What an extraordinary story she had told. Could there possibly be any truth to it? He stretched his feet to the andirons, linking his hands behind his head. Owen d’Arcy had a great understanding of the depths of human depravity. He would not discount Pen’s story out of hand. And he could begin to see a way to turn it to good use.
Four
Pen came awake with a jerk. Disoriented, she stared up at the unfamiliar pattern on the tester. She turned her head on the pillow, wondering for a moment why her neck hurt. She put up a hand and felt the bandage. Then she remembered.
She pulled herself up against the pillows, aware of a general soreness throughout her body. She had fought hard during that wild struggle with the beggars.
The chamber was empty although the fire burned brightly with fresh logs. The shutters were closed against the cold but sunlight shone through the cracks. It was well past dawn, Pen realized. A hue and cry would start up if she didn’t soon appear at Baynard’s Castle in Thames Street, where Princess Mary was presently residing as a guest of the Earl of Pembroke.
She pushed aside the fur coverlet and stood up groggily. Her sandals were laid neatly side by side at the end of the bed. She sat on the stool before the fire to put them on. Her eyes felt gritty, her gown was hopelessly creased, her hose were twisted. There was no mirror in the chamber but she had little difficulty imagining how she looked.
Her eye fell on her discarded coif and hood. She glanced up at the mantel, where the jeweled circlet and pins still lay. She touched the loops of her hair. They had come loose and tendrils were escaping the pins. She had no comb, she had no mirror.
Impatiently Pen released her hair and shook it down her back. Better that than half up and half down. She ran her fingers through the thick mass to get rid of the tangles.
All of these things she did with little attention. Her mind was a welter of emotion. She was confused, excited, apprehensive. Owen d’Arcy had believed her, or at least had not disbelieved her. She was so accustomed to having her obsession gently but firmly dismissed that she didn’t know quite how to respond to someone who accepted it as possible.
But it wasn’t just that that confused her. The man himself confused her. Sometimes she felt as easy and comfortable in his company as in Robin’s, and at others he disturbed her so powerfully it almost scared her. He had some motive in pursuing her, of that she was certain, but what could it be?
Pen had few illusions about herself. She had not her sister’s mischievously flirtatious manner that drew men like flies to the honeypot. She was pleasant enough to look at but nothing startling. Philip had loved and desired her but he had not been the kind of man to draw swooning women to his feet. They had loved and desired each other. There had been passion and companionship but never this confused turmoil of contradictory emotions.
Why
was a man of Owen d’Arcy’s ilk interested in her? He was an exotic. A man of sophisticated elegance, one who moved through the courtier’s world with supreme confidence and competence. A man who counted tavern keepers among his friends and whose skill with a rapier was that of a trained assassin. It was a conundrum.
And the thought of solving it brought goose bumps tingling over every inch of her skin.
Pen turned abruptly as the door opened. Owen came in carrying a laden tray. “Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, setting the tray on the table.
“Good morning,” Pen responded in the same tone. He looked immaculate, as if his black silk shirt
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