The Maiden's Hand

“Obedience. That above all things.”

“Ah.” Oliver had to remind himself that Spencer was his host and responsible for saving his life. He had to content himself with the mildest comment he could muster. “My lord, I have never subscribed to the view that women are inherently sinful and need to be brought to heel like mongrel puppies.”

Spencer wheezed out a long-suffering sigh. “You still do not understand, do you, my lord? You believe I summoned you here to help me. It’s Lark, you jolt-head. I brought you here to help Lark.”

“He wants us to what?” Kit demanded.

They strolled in the parkland north of the old priory. The forest in the distance covered the rising hills with skeletal gray trees. Archery butts and a quintain, long idle, rose from the yellowed lawn amid a tangle of wild ivy. An abandoned well, surrounded by rubble, stood amid the disarray. A broken stone pedestal lay near the well, where doubtless some saint or other had once reigned in serenity.

“Break the entail on this estate,” Oliver explained. “He doesn’t want Wynter to inherit.”

“Wynter must inherit, since you say he’s the eldest—and only—son.” Kit picked up a rock and tossed it at the ragged target. It hit dead center, tearing a gaping hole in the weather-worn leather. “Unless he’s been declared illegitimate. There’s always that. Wasn’t Spencer’s marriage to Wynter’s mother annulled?”

“Yes, but Spencer refuses to declare Wynter a bastard.” He grinned. “Legally, that is. According to the old man, Wynter is not trustworthy. I gather the lordling’s a bit too Catholic for his very reformed father.”

“Then the old man should have raised him in the Reformed faith.”

Oliver watched a flock of rooks take flight from the trees that fringed the park, black wings beating the pure white of the winter clouds.

Ah, but he did like Kit. Simple, solid as the earth beneath his feet. In Kit’s mind there was no question as to what was right and what was wrong. Kit knew.

“I expect Spencer would have done just that,” Oliver said. “But Wynter’s mother had other ideas, and did her utmost to instill them in her son. She was Spanish.”

The one word explained all, and Kit nodded. “A servant of the queen, was she?”

“Aye, one of Catherine of Aragon’s ladies. Passed away a year ago, but she’s having her revenge on Spencer now. She lives on in Wynter. Apparently her devotion to Queen Catherine is reflected in Wynter’s allegiance to Queen Mary. If he inherits this place—” Oliver swept his arm to encompass the rambling priory “—Spencer fears it will once again become a Catholic stronghold, perhaps placed at the disposal of Bishop Bonner.” He winked. “Perhaps given back to the Bonshommes, the religious order that once inhabited Blackrose. I understand they were a naughty lot.”

Kit shuddered. “Bonner. Just the thought of him clouds a sunny day.” He picked up another stone and hurled it, hitting the archery butt again. “Lord Spencer does not wish his property to fall to his son. Where shall it go, then? To Lark?”

“Yes. To Lark. He claims it is a fairly simple legal procedure.”

“When legal procedures become simple, people will no longer need my services,” Kit said. “But why you? Why us? There are a thousand London lawyers he could have chosen.”

“I pointed that out. He claims to know my father. Claims I inherited his deep sense of honor.” Oliver bowed with a mocking flourish.

Kit laughed. “Little does our host know.”

Just for the smallest fraction of a second, the comment bothered Oliver. He recovered instantly. “It matters not. He arranged for me to be saved from the gallows. He needs our help. So we’ll help him.”

“We?”

“You and I, dear Kit.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. “You will.”

“I won’t.”

A bell sounded.

“Let’s go in to supper,” Oliver said, striding toward the priory.

He ignored Kit’s protests all the way to the dining hall. Sparsely furnished, it was a cavernous room with a hammer beam ceiling and painted hangings on the walls. Not exactly a warm, relaxing place in which to take supper.

More chilly than the room were the two people who waited to dine with them.

Oliver had not thought it possible that there could exist a gown plainer than the one Lark had been wearing earlier. Yet she had managed to find one. It was dyed unevenly in shades of black and ash-gray. The bodice was flat and unadorned, the sleeves so narrow and tight he wondered how she managed to move her arms.

Yet it was her face that disturbed him most. Framed by the ugliest of coifs, it was stone-cold, the light gray eyes empty, the mouth stiff.

Oliver strode across the room and snatched her hand. As he sank to one knee and bent to brush his lips over her chilly fingers, he whispered, “Where did she go, the woman of fire and spirit who all but dragged me from London?”

He was beginning to fear she was not Lark, but a cold, look-alike stranger. Then he felt it: the profound connection he had experienced the first time she had touched him. It was like the throb of a heart or a spark rising from a fire. Instantaneous, unmistakable, deeply felt.

Her face showed only brief recognition; then she blinked and the icy mask fell back in place. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, why she acted so strangely, but not in the present company.

He straightened, released her hand and turned to greet Wynter. “My lord.” He offered a nonchalant bow. “I see you bring out the best in Mistress Lark.”

Wynter sent him a conspiratorial wink. “Then I shouldn’t like to see her at her worst, should you? Welcome to my table.” He nodded at Kit to include him.

“Your father’s table,” Oliver corrected with his most pleasant smile. “Lord Spencer is an admirable man.”

“Lord Spencer is dying,” Wynter said without concern. “I assume he sent for you in order to cheat me out of my rightful inheritance. I won’t let you. Let’s eat.”

He planted himself on the canopied chair at the head of the table. Oliver shot a “what an arsehole” look at Kit and held Lark’s chair out for her.

She stared at him blankly.

“Do sit down, Mistress Lark,” Oliver murmured.

A smooth, melodic chuckle flowed from Wynter. “Do forgive our Lark. The social graces seem to be beyond her grasp.”

She didn’t even flinch. It was as if she were accustomed to his biting comments. She seated herself with the unthinking obedience of a beaten spaniel.

Oliver sat across from her, and Kit took the seat at the foot of the table. Wishing he could kiss some life back into Lark, Oliver grabbed the pewter wine goblet at his place.

Lark cleared her throat and clasped her hands in prayer.

Feeling sheepish, Oliver released the goblet, and when she finished asking the Lord’s grace, he and Kit dutifully replied, “Amen.” Wynter made an elaborate sign of the cross.

Eager to have done with the tense and silent meal, Oliver was pleased to see a small army of well-trained retainers break into action, flowing in through a small side door from the kitchen. He savored the fresh bread and butter, a salad of greens and nuts, a delicious roasted trout.

“Thank you, Edgar,” Lark murmured to a boy passing the bread basket.

“Took me months to get the servants in hand,” Wynter explained, reaching up without looking around, confident that the bread basket would appear. It did. “I suppose dear Lark did her best—didn’t you, Lark?—but of course that couldn’t possibly be good enough. Not for these rough country types.”

He could not see the blaze of anger that lit the serving boy’s eyes as the lad withdrew. Oliver stifled a laugh. “You just won them over with your charm, my lord.”