Bound to a Spy Read online

  Bound to a Spy is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Cullen

  Excerpt from Lost to a Spy by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2017 by Sharon Cullen

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Lost to a Spy by Sharon Cullen. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399179822

  Cover design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

  Cover photographs: Novel Expressions (woman), Fairytale designs/depositphotos (background)

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Sharon Cullen

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Lost to a Spy

  The days were evil, it was a busy time.

  —Sir James Melville

  Chapter 1

  HOLYROOD PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

  DECEMBER 1566

  “So, we are in agreement.”

  “I see no other way.”

  “Divorce is out of the question.”

  The voices on the other side of the door were loud and clear, as if Will were standing in the same room with them.

  The plan they were discussing had been a long time in the making, far longer than the idea had fermented in the conspirators’ small minds. In a way, the death of the queen’s husband, Lord Darnley, was inevitable.

  So far, while standing with his ear pressed to the door, Lord Will Sheffield had been able to recognize two of the four voices. Lord Maitland, a confidant of the queen and a high-ranking Scottish noble, and Lord Moray, the queen’s half brother.

  “Divorce would put into question the legitimacy of the prince.”

  They were correct in that respect, which left only one option for the king of Scotland.

  Death.

  While silence hung heavy after that statement, a door that Will hadn’t even known existed opened. Like a fairy that the Scots were always talking about, a woman stepped through.

  Fresh, cold air swirled in around her, chasing away the fetid, musty air that had been clogging Will’s throat. Weak sunlight spilled across the stone floor and mossy walls, causing him to shrink into the shadows like a beetle scurrying to the dark corners.

  She quietly closed the door behind her and with a sigh pulled a peach-hued shawl off her head, shaking the snow from it and revealing thick, red hair half falling from its pins.

  “There is only one solution to the problem of Darnley,” said a voice from the other side of the closed door.

  The woman froze in the act of fluffing her skirts. Her head jerked up and her eyes darted around as if searching for the source of the voice.

  Go! Run! Leave before they see you! Will’s mind was screaming but he kept the words in to himself for fear of revealing himself to her, but more important, for fear of revealing himself to the men in the other room.

  Of course she didn’t run. She was like a frightened rabbit in the crosshairs of a hunter, frozen.

  “The queen will never agree to a divorce,” one of the other men said.

  Someone said something in a low voice but Will couldn’t hear what, and he was cursing the woman for making his heart pound so harshly in fear that he couldn’t hear the conversation on the other side of the door.

  Will stared hard at her, willing her to leave, to go back out that door before she heard more. At any moment one of those men could leave the small room they were sequestered in and see her standing there.

  If they were prepared to kill the king of Scotland they would not think twice about killing her.

  There was an ominous pause from the other room. Will hoped that in the silence the lords were contemplating the enormity of what they were plotting. He prayed they would change their minds even though he knew there was a slim chance of that happening.

  For the love of God, woman, leave!

  “Then we agree that the king must die.”

  The woman covered her mouth and stifled a shocked gasp, while inwardly Will groaned. She should have run when she first realized she was somewhere she should not have been.

  With a shaking hand she reached behind her, quietly opened the door to the outside and slipped out just as Richard Kirkinny, earl of Lysle, stepped out of the hidden room.

  Too late Will realized that the woman had dropped her shawl in her haste to leave.

  Not seeing it at first Lysle stepped on it, stopped, looked down and considered the pale shawl for the longest time before bending to pick it up.

  Thoughtfully he rubbed the silk between his fingers before slowly raising it to his nose to sniff.

  —

  Rose slammed shut the door to her bedchamber and leaned against it, her heart pounding so hard she feared it would explode. Surely she’d not heard what she thought she’d heard, had she?

  She couldn’t have…

  Those men…

  They’d been speaking of killing the king.

  No.

  She had to have heard wrong.

  Certainly, she was wrong.

  The door bumped against her back as if someone was pushing against it. She squeaked and jumped.

  “Rose? Let me in.”

  With a relieved sigh, Rose opened the door and Lady Margaret Lockhart swept through in a swirl of spring green skirts. “Really, Rose, it’s quite rude of you to lock me out of my own room.”

  “I wasn’t locking you out,” Rose said.

  Margaret pulled off her pink and green shawl and held her hands toward the fire to warm them. “It’s bitter cold out there,” she said. “And this fire is terribly inadequate. Where is Alice?”

  Alice was their somewhat inept lady’s maid who tended to disappear occasionally. “Who knows,” Rose said.

  Margaret harrumphed, then eyed Rose. “Why is the hem of your gown filthy?”

  “Is it?” Rose tried to act innocent as she looked down at her hem. Sure enough, it was caked in dirt.

  “Really, Rose, you must stop tromping through the mud like a common farm girl.”

  “I am a common farm girl.” Well, sort of. Her family owned cattle. No, her family had cattle. Much of the cattle in their
possession they did not own as it had been stolen.

  “You look pale,” Margaret said, eyeing her closer than Rose was comfortable with.

  “Do I? I don’t know why. I was outside so I should be all pink from the cold.” She could not meet Margaret’s eyes as her stomach turned with apprehension thinking about where she had been and what she had heard.

  “Are you attending the salon tonight?” Rose asked in a feeble attempt to redirect Margaret’s thoughts and to forget for a moment her flight through the courtyard with the words of the men pounding in her brain.

  “Of course,” Margaret said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  For once Rose ignored Margaret and sat in the chair in front of the fire.

  They were planning to kill Lord Darnley. Queen Mary’s husband.

  She shuddered and crossed her arms to ward off the cold that was seeping through her.

  “Really, Rose, you must stop spending most of your time outdoors in this cold,” Margaret said. “You’ll catch a chill and make all of us sick. I swear, if you get me sick, I will be quite cross with you.”

  Rose blocked Margaret’s querulous voice.

  It was no secret that the queen and king did not get along. They spent more time apart than together. Darnley was an embarrassment to their beautiful queen, cavorting with other women and, rumor had it, men too.

  And it wouldn’t be the first time that someone had died at the hands of dissatisfied lords. Earlier in the year the queen’s most favored advisor, Rizzio, had been killed by like-minded lords who resented the power the advisor had over the queen. Those lords had been banished from Scotland.

  But this…this was far more serious. They were speaking of killing the king.

  “Rose!”

  Rose jumped and jerked her head up to find Margaret staring at her with a frown.

  “You really must stop daydreaming.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “I was asking what you were going to wear to supper.”

  “I have no idea.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. She did that a lot around Rose.

  “How do you propose to find a husband if you don’t take care of your appearance? You can’t arrive to supper with mud on your hem.”

  “Well, I wasn’t planning on wearing this gown.”

  Margaret huffed and spun around to rummage through her considerable collection of gowns. Rose often thought that Margaret’s parents had beggared themselves in outfitting their daughter for court. Then again, Rose’s almost had as well, and she had half the gowns that Margaret did.

  She turned back to the fire but thoughts of Darnley had conjured the memories of him that were always at the edges of her mind.

  “You’re catching a chill,” Margaret said ominously.

  Rose ignored her as she desperately tried to push the memories away. But they seeped through the cracks in her mind, insidiously taking over everything, reaching their deadly claws into her.

  At least she could be thankful that they weren’t complete memories. But they were enough to render her immobile. The familiar, slick fear slid over her until it coated everything. She remembered his hands the most. The feel of them. The fact that they were everywhere on her body, and she recalled the faint question of how one man could make two hands move so much and touch so much so quickly.

  She recalled the cold air as he yanked up her skirts, the smooth fingers scratching at the skin on her thighs. She remembered his lips coming toward her.

  She remembered so much and so little at the same time.

  “Rose!”

  Jerked back to the present Rose stared at Margaret who was looking down on her with her hands on her hips and her lips twisted, but her eyes were dark with worry.

  “You’re catching an ague, aren’t you? I knew you would come down with something, all that traipsing around in the cold and wet. It will be the death of you, it will.”

  “Truly, I’m well,” Rose managed. Although she knew she was not coming down with the ague, she was also far from feeling well, and Margaret’s disbelieving look told her that even she didn’t believe Rose.

  Rose wiped the perspiration from her brow, but she was still trembling, and an icy fear invaded her bones.

  Margaret would never believe that she wasn’t coming down with some dreadful disease that she would spread throughout the palace, but neither was Rose going to tell her what was really bothering her.

  She could tell no one.

  “Where is your shawl?” Margaret asked as she looked around the room. “You’re shivering. I should call the physician.”

  “No,” Rose said weakly, trembling more. The memories always left her weak and tired and trembling. Sometimes they made her head hurt too.

  “Here.” Margaret tossed something at Rose, and it landed on her head, then slithered down her shoulder and onto the floor.

  Rose looked at it blankly.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Margaret picked up the pink and green shawl and tucked it around Rose tenderly. “You’re shaking like a leaf, and I can’t find your shawl.”

  Rose stood so suddenly that she bumped her shoulder on Margaret’s chin, causing the girl to stumble back and the shawl to fall to the floor again.

  “Rose! What is wrong with you?”

  “My shawl,” Rose cried. “Where’s my shawl?”

  Margaret huffed in exasperation. “That’s what I’ve been asking you.”

  Rose turned in circles, her gaze raking across the room.

  “It’s the peach one,” she said. “I had it earlier today. I wore it outside, over my head because it was so cold.” She was talking as madly as her mind was working and Margaret was looking at her like she’d sprouted another head.

  It wasn’t here and the last place she’d had it was…

  Oh, good Lord.

  The last place she’d had it was in the cellar of the palace where she’d heard the diabolical plot to kill the…

  Surely she’d dropped it somewhere else, like outside while she was running back to her room. Or maybe it was in the corridor.

  She raced to the door and yanked it open to look up and down the hall but there was no errant peach shawl lying innocently in the corridor.

  Oh, please let a servant have picked it up. Please don’t let me have dropped it outside the room where those evil men were planning and plotting.

  She ducked back into her chambers and closed the door to find Margaret looking at her with a little bit of fear.

  “I lost my shawl,” Rose said.

  “I see that.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  Rose’s shoulders drooped. “It’s probably outside,” she whispered.

  Margaret pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say something but stopped herself.

  A sick fear snaked through Rose. Whoever those men were they were not men to cross. If they thought she had heard anything of their murderous plot she was in grave danger.

  Chapter 2

  Lord Will Sheffield watched her from afar during the evening supper.

  She was nervous, her shoulders rigid, her gaze flicking about the dining hall like a nervous bird. He could read her easily. She wasn’t adept at hiding her thoughts. That wasn’t a good trait to have in the court of a monarch where espionage and secrets flowed like the honeyed wine being served.

  She had information but not enough information. She knew the what but not the who. That protected her some. But there was still Lord Lysle.

  Will shifted his attention to Lysle, who was with his mates, Moray and Maitland. Stupid of them to congregate together but they were of a class of people who thought themselves above the law. They believed they could plot and plan a king’s murder behind closed doors then act like the best of friends in public with no one the wiser. And maybe they were correct. Who would imagine that three of the highest ranking nobles in Scotland were discussing death and destruction of such magnitude?

  Occasionally Lysle
would casually look around the room. Maybe he didn’t yet know the identity of the woman who had left her shawl behind. Then again maybe he did. But his gaze never lingered overlong on the nervous ginger-haired lass.

  However, Will’s gaze did linger on that lady. Besides the nervous jitters and the rigid posture, she was fair to look at. Fairer than when he’d seen her stumble through the outside cellar door. Her gown was certainly cleaner. No muddied hem, no melting snow dotting her shoulders and skirts. Her complexion was that of a ginger, pale with a touch of peach. Her hair reminded him of Queen Elizabeth’s, only lighter, with touches of blond and yellow. He liked it. She was slim and short but there was something else about her. Something that set her apart from the others. She didn’t titter and giggle and glance around to see if the eligible men were watching her. Then again, it could be because of her nerves.

  Or it could be because that was the way she was. The meal slowly wound down. People began to leave, heading toward Mary’s outer chamber and the salon she was holding that night. Will followed, keeping back, pretending nonchalance while he continued to observe her.

  Lysle did the same, his sharp gaze raking the women as they passed. To Will it appeared that Lysle was looking for the owner of the peach shawl, but still wasn’t certain which one she was.

  What was her name? It seemed rude to refer to her as the ginger, but for now it would have to do.

  He noticed that she was with Emma Howard’s group. That could work to his advantage. He would wait. His opportunity would come if he was patient and didn’t rush it. But he had Lysle to think of as well. He shot another glance at the lord but he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd. Somehow that wasn’t reassuring.

  Will was one of the last to enter the outer chambers where the salon was being held. The room was filling up. Groups had started to form, some playing games of chance or cards, others listening to the musicians, while others congregated into tight groups to talk and discuss. About what he wasn’t certain. They all resided in the same palace and saw each other day in and day out. One would think they would tire of each other but that never seemed the case.