Susan Wiggs - At The Queen's Summons

“Yes,” she said.

He reached for her and then froze, his hand hovering between them for a moment before he pulled it back. He cleared his throat. “I am your patron. You perform under my warrant. And these are simple questions.”

He made her feel silly for guarding her thoughts as if they were dark secrets. She took a deep breath, trying to decide just where to begin. “Very well. Mort and Dove said eventually, all of London passes through St. Paul’s. I suppose—quite foolishly, as it happens—I hoped that one day I would look up and see a man and woman who would say, “You belong to us.’” She plucked at a loose thread in the counterpane. “Stupid, am I not? Of course, that never happened.” She gave a short laugh, tamping back an errant feeling of wistful longing. “Even if they did recognize me, why would they claim me, unwashed and dishonest, thieving from people in the churchyard?”

“I claimed you,” he reminded her.

His words lit a glow inside her that warmed her chest. She wanted to fling herself against him, to babble with gratitude, to vow to stay with him always. Only the blade-sharp memories of other moments, other partings, held her aloof and wary.

“For that I shall always thank you, my lord,” she said cordially. “You won’t be sorry. I’ll keep you royally entertained.”

“Never mind that. So you continued to perform as a strolling player, just wandering about, homeless as a Gypsy?” he asked.

A sting of memory touched her, and she caught her breath in startlement.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Something extraordinary just occurred to me. Years ago, when I first came to London town, I saw a tribe of Gypsies camped in Moor Fields outside the city. I thought they were a troupe of players, but these people dressed and spoke differently. They were like a—a family. I was drawn to them.”

Warming to her tale, she shook off the last vestiges of terror from the storm. She sat forward on the bed, draping her arms around her drawn-up knees. “Aidan, it was so exciting. There was something familiar about those people. I could almost understand their language, not the actual words, mind, but the rhythms and nuances.”

“And they welcomed you?”

She nodded. “That night, there was a dance around a great bonfire. I was taken to meet a woman called Zara—she was very old. Ancient. Some said more than fourscore years old. Her pallet had been set out so that she could watch the dancing.” Pippa closed her eyes, picturing the snowy tangle of hair, the wizened-apple face, the night-dark eyes so intense they seemed to see into tomorrow.

“They said she was ill, not expected to live, but she asked to see me. Fancy that.” Opening her eyes again, she peered at Aidan to see if he believed her or thought she was spinning yarns once more. She could not tell, for he merely watched and waited with calm interest. No one had ever listened to her with such great attention before.

“Go on,” he said.

“Do you know the first thing she said to me? She said I would meet a man who would change my life.”

He muttered something Celtic and scowled at her.

“No, it’s true, my lord, you must believe me.”

“Why should I? You’ve lied about everything else.”

His observation should not have hurt her, but it did. She pressed her knees even closer to her chest and tried to will away the ache in her heart. “Not everything, Your Loftiness.”

“Continue, then. Tell me what the witch woman said.”

“Her speech was slow, broken.” In her mind’s eye, Pippa saw it all as if it had happened yesterday—the leaping flames and the ancient face, the deep eyes and the Gypsies whispering among themselves and pointing at Pippa, who had knelt beside Zara’s pallet.

“She was babbling, I suppose, and speaking in more than one language, but I remember she told me about the man. And she also spoke of blood and vows and honor.”

“Blood, vows and honor?” he repeated.

“Yes. That part was very distinct. She spoke the three words, just like that. She was dying, my lord, but clutching my hand with a grip stronger than death itself. I hadn’t the heart to question her or show any doubt. It’s as if she thought she knew me and somehow needed me in those last moments.”

He folded his arms against his massive chest and studied her. Pippa was terrified that he would accuse her again of lying, but he gave the barest of nods. “They say those in extremis often mistake strangers for people they have known. Did the old woman say more?”

“One more thing.” Pippa hesitated. She felt it all again, the emotions that had roared through her while the stranger held her hand. A feeling of terrible hope had welled from somewhere deep inside her. “A statement I will never, ever forget. She lifted her head, using the very last of her strength to fix me with a stare. And she said, “The circle is complete.” Then, within an hour, she was dead. A few of the young Gypsies seemed suspicious of me, so I thought it prudent to leave after that. Besides, the woman’s wild talk…”

“Frightened you?” Aidan asked.

“Not frightened so much as touched something inside me. As if the words she spoke were words I should know. I tell you, it gave me much to think on.”

“I imagine it did.”

“Not that anything ever came of it,” she said, then ducked her head and lowered her voice. “Until now.”

She watched him, studied his face. Lord, but he was beautiful. Not pretty, but beautiful in the way of a crag overlooking the moors of the north, or in the majestic stance of a roebuck surveying its domain deep in a green velvet wood. It was the sort of beauty that caught at her chest and held fast, defying all efforts to dislodge a dangerous, glorious worship.

Then she noticed that one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth were tilted up in wry irony. She released her breath in an explosive sigh. “I suppose that is the price of being an outrageous and constant liar.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“When I finally tell the truth, you don’t believe me.”

“And why would you be thinking I don’t believe you?”

“That look, Your Worship. You seem torn between laughing at me and summoning the warden of Bedlam.”

The eyebrow inched up even higher. “Actually, I am torn between laughing at you and kissing you.”

“I choose the kissing,” she blurted out all in a rush.

Both of his eyebrows shot up, then lowered slowly over eyes gone soft and smoky. He gripped her hands and drew her forward so that she came up on her knees. The bedclothes pooled around her, and the thin shift whispered over her burning skin.

“I choose the kissing, too.” He lifted his hand to her face. The pad of his thumb moved slowly, tantalizingly, along the curve of her cheekbone and then downward, slipping like silk over marble, to touch her bottom lip, to rub over the fullness until she almost did not need the kiss in order to feel him.

Almost.

“Have you ever been kissed before, colleen?”

The old bluster rose up inside her. “Well, of c—”

“Pippa,” he said, pressing his thumb gently on her lips. “This would be a very bad time to lie to me.”

“Oh. Then, no, Your Immensity. I have never been kissed.” The few who had tried had had their noses rearranged by her fist, but she thought it prudent not to mention that.

“Do you know how it’s done?”

“Yes.”

“Pippa, the truth. You were doing so well.”

“I’ve seen it happen, but I don’t know how it’s done in actual practice.”

“The first thing that has to happen—”

“Yes?” Unable to believe her good fortune, she bounced up and down on her knees, setting the bed to creaking on the rope latticework that supported the mattress. “This is really too exciting, my lord—”