Bound to a Spy Read online

  Absently Rose ran her fingers along the spines of the books. Reading was not one of her favorite pastimes but it was better than embroidery. Unlike Margaret, and Rose’s brother John, who could sit with a book in their laps for hours, turning the pages and absorbing the words, Rose became restless after a few pages.

  She preferred learning with her hands rather than finding things out in a book.

  She was halfway around the room when a door to her right opened. She jumped, not having noticed that door before. To her horror Lord Darnley stepped through, causing Rose to freeze, like a rabbit catching the scent of a fox. Even her nose wanted to twitch, and like the rabbit she prayed that if she stood completely still he might not notice her.

  At first he didn’t.

  He was tall, very much taller than most of the men in the court. Women said he was fair to look at and maybe at one time Rose would have thought so too. He was accomplished in almost everything he put his hand to, especially sports. His blond hair winked back at her in the firelight as he paused to look around the room, but Rose’s blood had turned cold and a deadly calm had overtaken her.

  He was dressed in a wine colored, velvet doublet with golden hose and leather shoes in the same red. He wore a large ruby on his finger and a blood-red brooch on his breast. Everything about him screamed nobility. He dressed the part of the king well.

  A violent tremor of hatred vibrated through her.

  Months ago he’d cornered her and made her feel helpless. He’d touched her and made her feel disgusted. He’d taken away her sense of safety and that had been the worst thing of all.

  She despised him. She wished she had a weapon now even though she knew to pull one on a monarch would mean treason and death.

  She knew it was only a matter of time before he saw her. He was slowly looking around the room, tapping his jeweled fingers on his leg. Nervous energy poured off him and it was that, more than anything, that made Rose nervous. Bored men were dangerous men and she could see that Darnley was simply looking for something to occupy him.

  His gaze landed on her. He paused, considered, and a slow smile edged up the corners of his lips.

  “Miss Rose Turner.”

  She wanted to shudder at his voice but refused to allow him the satisfaction. She’d hoped that he’d forgotten her and their nasty incident the last time he’d been in residence but apparently that had been a fruitless hope.

  “My lord.” She didn’t curtsy, and she could see that he noted the slight.

  “Have you missed me, darling?”

  “No.”

  He laughed and she could see why people, especially women, were drawn to him. He was easy on the eye and had a way about him that was magnetic. Not to her, certainly, but to others who didn’t see through his façade. He was fun in a palace of people bored with their daily lives. He was adventurous. He liked to always be doing things. He laughed easily, joked readily. Rose had learned that most people in residence were shallow and Lord Darnley was the shallowest of them all.

  Although lately people were noticing the real man under the fun and laughter. His treatment of the queen was well noted, especially by those who were loyal to Mary. Sentiment was slowly turning against him.

  “What a welcome sight for a tired body,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Rose.”

  “Come now, Your Majesty, you’ve not given me a second thought.”

  He tilted his head to study her. “Jealous? Angry that I left you behind when I departed?”

  “Hardly.”

  Careful, Rose. He’s still a monarch and your life could be in his hands if you say or do the wrong thing.

  But she also knew that she would never allow him to touch her again. She would fight the next time. She would not become a frozen block of ice like she had before.

  He took another step closer. Rose slid to the side, the spines of the books digging into her back.

  He reached for her. It seemed like long minutes that his hand hovered over her breast, his gaze avid, his lips parted.

  “You can have any woman in this palace,” she said desperately. “Why me?”

  His gaze snapped back to hers and his hand dropped. “Because you are a rose without thorns.”

  “Without thorns?” she echoed, her voice weak. Her legs were trembling so badly that she was glad of the sturdy bookshelves behind her.

  “I like my women feisty, but you don’t fight back and I like that as well. My Rose without thorns.”

  She hated herself then, for not fighting back the first time, for allowing him to steal her resolve, her spirit.

  “And if I fight back now?”

  A corner of his mouth curled up in a cold smile. “You won’t.”

  I might. But she couldn’t form the words let alone force them from her throat. The paralysis that invaded her muscles the last time they were alone had returned. He frightened her so badly that she could not move.

  Because she knew he could do what he wanted with her and there would be no consequences for him. His life would go on. People would look the other way—or look at her in pity, which would be worse. He could ruin her life in a few lurid moments of passion and walk away, on to his next conquest.

  He had all the power and he knew it. He’d gotten away with it so many times. How many lives had he ruined? Did he even know?

  She pushed away from the bookshelves, determined that she would not be the next one ruined by his selfishness, and took a step toward him even though her mind was screaming for her to run.

  For a moment he appeared surprised, then amused and intrigued.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “I need some fresh air.”

  The amusement vanished and the intrigue turned to anger. “You don’t leave until I say you do.”

  “I’m leaving now.” She willed her voice not to quaver and forced herself to look him in the eyes even though he was very much taller than her and she almost had to crane her neck.

  He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh, bruising her. She bit the inside of her cheek and refused to cry out.

  “You’ll stay until I’m done with you,” he said between clenched teeth.

  Her knees went weak and they sagged beneath the panic that had overtaken her.

  He yanked her toward him, and like a child’s rag doll she fell into his chest, breathless and weak with the terror coursing through her. She’d known since the last time he’d touched her that he wasn’t finished with her.

  She’d convinced herself that he had forgotten about her, but he hadn’t and she’d been a fool to think he would.

  The door to the library, the main door, opened so suddenly that both Darnley and Rose jerked their heads toward it.

  Will stood there, taking in the scene calmly, expressionless.

  She knew what he was seeing. Two people locked in a lovers’ embrace, looking guilty.

  She wanted to cry out, to yell for him to help her.

  “Your Majesty,” Will said, bowing. “I have come to fetch you.”

  “Go,” Darnley growled at Will.

  She wanted to appeal to Will for help but Darnley’s viselike grip on her arm warned her not to.

  Would Will pay the price if she asked for his help?

  She feared that he would.

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Your Majesty,” Will said. “Her Majesty, the queen, is asking for you.”

  Will kept his impassive gaze on Darnley as if Rose was not enfolded in the king’s arms. As if she wasn’t in the room at all.

  Darnley made a sound like a wolf’s growl and pushed her away from him. She stumbled on weak legs and knocked into the corner of a small table, causing a vase to rock back and forth.

  Will approached Darnley and turned him toward the invisible door.

  The king stepped out of the room in front of Will but before Will left he turned around and mouthed Go! to her.

  Rose didn’t think twice. She took off toward the other door, praying that Will led Darnley in the opposite direction.


  So he had known. He had seen that she was not there willingly.

  He had saved her.

  Chapter 7

  Margaret jumped off the bed when Rose burst into their chamber, her book clattering to the floor.

  “What in the…” Margaret hurried toward her. “What happened? You’re sick, aren’t you? Your face is red because you’ve been outside in this freezing cold. Come close to the fire.”

  Rose was gulping air like she was drowning so she couldn’t tell Margaret that she wasn’t sick. She didn’t want to tell Margaret anything and wished her friend had been anywhere but in their bedchamber at this moment. She needed to be alone, to calm the raging panic, to think things through. And she certainly didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

  Tears were racing down her cheeks but she couldn’t recall when she had started crying. Sobs were bubbling up from her throat and she couldn’t stop them.

  Margaret pulled her to the chair in front of the hearth, then stoked the fire.

  “I’ll call for the physician,” she said.

  “No,” Rose said between sobs, hiccups and sniffles. She was leaking from every orifice and was strangely glad that Will was not present to see this ugliness.

  “I’m not sick,” she managed.

  Margaret, poker in hand, looked at her over her shoulder; her eyes narrowed as her nimble brain worked quickly.

  “What happened?” She rose slowly, still clutching the poker as if it were a weapon that she was willing to wield.

  Like a child, Rose sniffed and rubbed her running nose with the back of her hand. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Rose Turner.”

  The warmth from the fire was seeping into her but deep inside she was still quaking and feared she would never stop. Not as long as the devil resided in the palace.

  Maybe she would go home, back to her parents and her brothers. Just for a visit. Just until he left. But her mother would never allow that. Not if it meant Rose would miss the baptism. The ceremony was the event of the season, possibly even the decade, and Rose’s mother would want her daughter there. If Rose showed up at home she would just be sent back.

  She could feign an illness, but the baptism was weeks away and such a long illness would surely gain notice.

  “Tell me what happened,” Margaret said fiercely. She looked like she was going to go to battle with that poker and it made Rose laugh, a hysterical, maniacal laugh that built inside of her until it was pressing against her ribs.

  The laugh turned to a sob, then another sob and another until she was hunched over, clutching her aching stomach.

  Margaret knelt in front of Rose, placing the poker carefully on the floor beside her, and touched her knee.

  “Tell me,” she said softly.

  Rose shook her head, the sobs shaking her entire body. “I can’t.”

  “Well, you certainly can’t come charging in here in this condition and convince me that nothing is wrong.” Margaret huffed and Rose peeked at her between her fingers. There was real worry in Margaret’s eyes.

  A handkerchief appeared in her vision. She took it and mopped at her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, then sat back, the handkerchief bunched in her hand.

  She had no idea where to start or what to say. She didn’t want anyone to know what had happened between her and Darnley because she was ashamed and embarrassed and because she’d always felt like it was somehow her fault.

  “You saw him,” Margaret said flatly, falling back on her heels, her expression closed and pinched.

  “Him?” Rose said weakly.

  “Darnley. The king. I heard he had arrived.”

  “H-how do you know?”

  “How can I not know? The first time, months ago, you came in here in almost the same condition, and some of the girls talked about how Darnley was casting longing glances at you.”

  Rose shuddered. She had no idea that Darnley had been looking at her in such a way or that others had noticed.

  “He’s a rogue. A cad,” Margaret said flatly.

  “He’s the devil.”

  Margaret nodded, not the least offended or upset that Rose had called their king the devil. “You’re not the only one he’s accosted.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I was afraid of that.”

  “He stalks everything in a gown and even some who wear breeches. He knows no shame.”

  “He cornered me in the library tonight.” Rose’s words came in quick bursts, disjointed, as the panic settled back in.

  “You cannot be alone while he is in residence,” Margaret said. “He has an inordinate fondness for you for some reason.”

  “I don’t know why. I rebuff him at every chance but it’s difficult to not offend him and I certainly cannot offend the king.”

  “You’ve become a game to him because you rebuff him.”

  “So I should encourage his behavior? I could never do that.”

  “No. Of course not. But he’s the type of man who likes to win at everything and he’s lost to you. Twice now.” Margaret peered at her closely. “At least I hope he lost.”

  “Yes. He didn’t…do anything. Except grab me.”

  “What made him stop?”

  “Lord Sheffield. He walked in on us.”

  Margaret’s expression became thoughtful. “I’ve seen Lord Sheffield look at you as well. He’s besotted.”

  “He is not,” Rose said hotly, for a moment forgetting Darnley. “In fact, he’s gone out of his way to avoid me the last few days.”

  Margaret just shook her head as if Rose wasn’t understanding something.

  “Nevertheless, you must avoid Lord Darnley at all costs. Can you go home while he is here?”

  “My mother would never allow it.”

  “No. I suppose not.” Margaret understood Rose’s mother better than Rose understood her mother. Margaret’s mother was the same. All of the girls who were here, with the exception of Emma, had mothers just like Rose’s and Margaret’s. There was nothing better than having your daughter at court, beneath the eyes and noses of the richest of the land.

  —

  Will wasn’t certain how he managed to divert Darnley’s attention but he’d blurted out the first thing that had come to his mind—that the queen had sent for him. However, the queen had not sent for the king and to make matters worse the mention of the queen had put Darnley in a foul mood. Will had breathed a sigh of relief when they were told that the queen was not seeing anyone as she wasn’t feeling well because he had no idea what he would say if the queen really did admit Darnley.

  They were now in Darnley’s rooms, drinking, something Will was certain Darnley shouldn’t be doing in his already agitated state.

  He barely listened as the king ranted about the queen and how unfair she was to him and how much he had to put up with, like today for example. The queen had sent for him then turned him away. It was just like her, he grumbled.

  The complaints were the same over and over, every day. Will had enjoyed Darnley’s time away from the palace as it gave him a reprieve from the constant grousing.

  He shut his ears to the man and thought of Rose in Darnley’s arms. What he’d seen had been a lovers’ embrace. Two people taking advantage of an unoccupied room. A clandestine meeting.

  He’d been shocked into immobility until Rose had turned tortured green eyes to him, their inner depths begging for help.

  It was then that he’d noticed Darnley’s tight grip on her wrist.

  He’d blurted out the first thing he could think of that would get Darnley away from her, but he was also aware of the consequences.

  Darnley had been coddled by his mother and had grown up believing he was a potential successor to England’s crown. Not the next successor but down the line. Unfortunately, Darnley—and his parents—tended to forget all the others that came before him.

  The man was accomplished at just about everything he set his hand to. He was fair to look at, according to the women, and had a pleasing for
m. He was also spoiled, demanding and cared more for his own pleasure than anything else.

  His marriage to Mary had promised great things but had turned sour almost right away when Mary realized she’d wed a man who acted no better than a child. She bore him a prince, and she’d snubbed him ever since.

  While Mary’s goal was to unite the two great crowns, Darnley’s was to become the true king of Scotland with all the rights of a ruling monarch. Knowing her husband well Mary was having none of that.

  “She’s a bitch,” Darnley said, half in his cups already.

  Will wisely kept his mouth shut but Darnley didn’t seem to notice. He was too caught up in his fictitious martyrdom.

  “Demanding my presence at court then ignoring me,” Darnley muttered as he paced his chambers.

  “It is your son’s baptism,” Will said.

  Darnley rounded on him, the wine splashing out of his gold-plated cup.

  “They say he’s my son. She says he’s my son, but I wonder. In the dark of night, all alone in my bed, I wonder if that babe is mine at all.”

  Will refrained from rolling his eyes. Darnley was rarely alone in his bed at night.

  “The rumors are not true,” Will said. “That child is yours.”

  “It could be any number of men’s seed. Bothwell. Rizzio.”

  The rumors of the prince’s parentage were rampant and had been ever since the queen’s condition had been announced. Mary had steadfastly ignored all of it and insisted the babe was a result of her marriage to Darnley. Will tended to believe her. She desperately wanted her child to inherit the monarchy and wouldn’t risk the crown by bearing a child that was not her husband’s.

  “What does it matter?” Darnley was saying. “She won’t have anything to do with me now.”

  “You told me she had made noises that your, er, relations would resume.” Will buried his face in his cup of wine, not at all wanting to talk about the king and queen’s sexual life.

  “She lied. Like she always does,” Darnley said bitterly.

  The king continued pacing and draining his wine, holding out the cup for a servant to refresh every few minutes. At this point he would be facedown on the floor soon. But not soon enough for Will.