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  Lindsay’s brow furrowed. His roving fingers swiftly withdraw from Morgan’s cloak.

  “Are you so greedy a nip a few crowns are worth your life?” Morgan inquired.

  Despite being caught in the act, Lindsay summoned a brash grin. S’blood, Morgan thought with amazement, this Lindsay is a cheeky fellow, bold as a badger and cunning as a fox.

  “I would but inquire after your tailor, sir,” the lad innocently rejoined. “The cut of your cloak is uncommonly fine.”

  “So is the cut of my blade,” Morgan retorted.

  Feigning surprise, Lindsay blinked his violet-blue eyes — pretty eyes which, like as not, called upon him to defend his manhood now and again. Even the lad’s lashes were too long and far better suited to a girl, Morgan decided. Though doubtless Lindsay’s good looks and charming manners had freed him from scrapes before.

  “Further,” Morgan added, gesturing to the doorway behind Lindsay, “were you not a baseborn thief, you would surely be accounted a blithering fool for spouting such treasonous slop before a contingent of the queen’s guard.”

  Lindsay’s jaw dropped. He didn’t notice Morgan’s departure as he whirled to confront a set of unsmiling faces looming in the doorway of the inn. They belonged to six soldiers wearing the Tudor green and gold.

  MORGAN HEARD THE FRACAS break out in the inn below his rented room. While idly listening to the shouts and curses and clashes of steel, he peeled off his leather jerkin and doublet, set them aside, and tended his breeches and boots. For the better part of an hour, the floor beneath him vibrated with the screams and groans of over a dozen men. He heard an enraged shout, resembling the bellow of a baited bear, and gathered the mighty Hugo felt compelled to lift his fake claymore for the Cause.

  With a wry head shake, Morgan finished undressing and slipped beneath the threadbare covers onto a hard, lumpy mattress. The shouts became less distinct as a chase ensued, and the excited whinny of horses and hoof beats pounded off into the night. He wondered if young Lindsay had eluded his fate. He suspected the knave had escaped due justice before.

  Morgan closed his eyes and thought of Kat instead. He wondered if she were safe at Falcon’s Lair and, if so, what she was doing at this moment. Mayhap she slept, curled into an endearing fetal position, as his child so slumbered in her womb. Sweet Jesu. His babe. Morgan’s eyes flew open, his breathing quickened. The consequences had not truly dawned on him until now. Children oft resembled their parents in feature and form. What if the damned devil’s mark surfaced for another generation? Another line of doomed Trelanes. Little wonder he could not sleep.

  THE ROAD WAS SCARCELY passable in the morning, but Morgan and Jimson pressed on. Mud slopped about the horses’ fetlocks and made their progress cursedly slow. They passed any number of mired coaches and wagons, and Morgan was glad he’d left the rest of his men at Falcon’s Lair rather than traveling with a full brace of escort. Else he should feel obligated to stop and assist each stranded traveler, and he was anxious to reach home.

  While he rode, Morgan remembered his first and only audience with England’s aged queen. When the summons had arrived at Hartshorn, he debated refusing the royal order, risking the danger of imprisonment. He did not need to attend to Elizabeth Tudor to know the queen was livid over his marriage and, quite possibly, his Spanish heritage.

  In the end, Morgan went to Whitehall, as commanded. He decided he would not endanger others — most notably Kat’s family — with his stubbornness. At Whitehall, he learned Sir Christopher Tanner had already tried to intervene on his and Kat’s behalf, yet nothing, it seemed, would appease Bess Tudor but an audience with the petty Welsh baron who had defied her wishes.

  Despite the fact that Morgan had, in truth, been tricked into marrying Kat, he knew he dared not count upon the queen’s sympathies. Bess was ever vigilant against those she believed wronged her or her favorites. She had approved a marriage between Morgan and Mistress Margaret Tanner; the clever substitution of Maggie’s cousin was not to be borne.

  “I may be an old woman, Trelane,” Elizabeth Tudor said, when he was presented, “but I am not a fool. Had you wished an annulment from Lady Katherine, you might have had one by now. Therefore, I must concur you a party to treason.”

  “Treason, Your Majesty?” Morgan stepped forward from the shadows in the receiving room. He made no attempt to conceal his face. He saw the queen blink, as if straining to see him, and realized her eyesight was failing, along with her health.

  England’s Gloriana, though still regal in her ruff, bright tan silk gown and crown jewels, was five and three score now. An auburn wig replaced the thinning hair; white powder and paint smoothed her wrinkles. By contrast Elizabeth’s hands remained youthful in appearance and glittered, in her vanity, with half a dozen rings. She used those beautiful white hands to advantage, waving one at him in a dismissing fashion.

  “Mayhap treason is too strong a word,” Elizabeth granted. She had mellowed in her old age, Morgan decided. But he was not lulled into complacency: Even old dogs had sharp teeth. For over two score, Elizabeth had ruled with an iron fist; she was the only monarch many remembered in their lifetime. Few but the elderly spoke of Henry Tudor anymore: of once watching golden prince Hal ride in the glorious tournaments of yesteryear, and of later witnessing the long, sad succession of the king’s wives.

  “Y’are uncommon quiet,” Elizabeth observed, leaning forward in her throne. “I dislike silence. Methinks it breeds conspiracy.”

  “Of a Spanish nature?” Morgan inquired. He did not curb the sharp tone in time.

  Elizabeth released an unladylike snort. Whatever falsehoods the Earl of Cardiff had whispered in his monarch’s ear, the queen was wise enough to examine the facts with some measure of impartiality.

  “Your heritage does you no credit, Trelane, but I hold no blood against a man who serves me loyally. Even a bastard may appeal to me for mercy.”

  “I am no bastard,” Morgan quietly said.

  “True. Your father was a fine man, who served his young liege with honor during m’sire’s reign. ’Tis unfortunate he wed, unwisely, a Spanish harlot, from what I understand.”

  “No harlot, Your Grace, merely a lady of tortured mind and soul.”

  “’Pon my word, sirrah, y’are quick to defend a papist who committed a mortal sin,” Elizabeth said, as she observed his flashing eyes. “’Twas a great scandal, as I recall. There are those who still whisper as to the cause.”

  “I fear I am the cause, Your Majesty.” With sudden humility Morgan came forward and knelt on the steps at her feet, so she might better appreciate the tragic view. He sensed Elizabeth softening before he lifted his face to the light.

  “Ah, so the rumors are true, milord,” she murmured. Morgan was surprised at the tender note in the queen’s voice, more so by her next gesture. Elizabeth touched his blemish with her cool ivory fingers.

  “This is the bane keeping you from my Court, eh? Such a slight thing it seems on the surface, yet a great chasm indeed to one who is accounted perfect in every other manner.”

  Morgan felt blood rush to his face. “Your Grace — ” he began.

  Elizabeth shook her head, stilling any excuses or explanations. “Y’know, I favor a fair countenance, Trelane. In this methinks I am no different than any common maid. ’Tis rare for a woman to love a flawed man without reserve, I trow, lest there is some great fortune to be had. Have you a mighty fortune, sirrah?”

  “Your Majesty must know I have not.”

  “Ah, then. Here’s the crux of the matter. Pray tell, what impractical demon possessed Lady Katherine to pursue marriage to a lowly baron with unfortunate looks?”

  Morgan flushed. “I know not, Your Grace.”

  “Faith, d’you not?” Elizabeth looked amused by his distress. “I wager, by your high color, Master Humble, that y’know very well. Does the notion of your lady wife’s affections sit so ill with you?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Nay. However, as Your Grace already observ
ed, even a common maid prefers perfection to a blasphemy upon nature.”

  “A common maid, aye,” Elizabeth said, “but, I vow, common is too colorless a word for our Katherine. How many women d’you know who sail their own vessels, Trelane?”

  “Only Kat, Your Majesty.”

  “And I know but two. Lady Kat, as you said, and her feckless mother, Madam Bryony Tanner.” Elizabeth’s expression was wry. “Both have sore tried m’temper at times, but I confess they are fascinating females. One cannot count them among my gently bred, courtly lot of ladies.”

  Morgan smiled at her airy observation. “Indeed.”

  “A likely pair of lady pigeons, whose wings peradventure will not be clipped,” Elizabeth mused, seeming pleased by her own poetic description. “Come now, Trelane. D’you not count yourself among the most fortunate of men?”

  “’Twould seem I should,” he murmured.

  “Aye, Master Humble. Methinks you protest too much against the notion of Cupid’s dart. Is’t so awkward, then, to suppose your face as fair to Lady Katherine as Apollo’s?”

  “Not awkward, Your Majesty. Nigh impossible.”

  Elizabeth patted his face in motherly fashion, startling him. “Naught is impossible when I order it, sirrah.”

  Morgan blinked with surprise. “You would command me to love my wife, Your Grace? I thought you summoned me here to dissolve the marriage.”

  “I’truth, I did intend it. Methinks there is cause for reconsideration.’’

  “Because of my face?” Morgan’s challenge was quiet, though no less bold for the fact.

  “In spite of it, milord.” Elizabeth reclined in her throne and regarded him coolly. “Yea, one might pity Lady Katherine, but I suspect she has snagged a rare prize. Indeed, it appears so. If the wench is half so canny as her Irish kin, ’tis a wonder you are still in London.”

  Morgan was silent a moment. “I had planned to pursue Kat,” he confessed, “but Your Majesty’s summons came first.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “Aye? Rather I would vow you intended to ignore the royal missive altogether, in a Welshman’s dudgeon,” she said, and Morgan felt his cheeks burn, since that was exactly what he intended. England’s domina was far more perceptive, and sensitive, than he imagined one of self-centered Tudor descent could be.

  Despite his resentment of Elizabeth’s meddling ways, Morgan had to confess he admired her. Admired a crotchety old queen who simpered like a young chit one moment and breathed fire and brimstone the next. Elizabeth Tudor was an admirable foe for matching wits against, if a man had the courage or inclination. He had neither at present.

  Elizabeth’s chuckle broke the silence. “Come now, Master Humble. Hast our dear Kat stolen your tongue and fled with it to Wales? Then I must bade you return to your modest abode and wrest it from her determined grip.” Her gray eyes sparkled with sudden merriment “Marry, ’tis the only solution to this tangled net that I will consider.”

  Realizing he was dismissed, Morgan rose and executed a deep bow. “I would serve your wishes, Your Grace,” he said.

  “Just so. Pray God, you will always serve me thus.”

  “With all my heart, Your Majesty.”

  Remembering Elizabeth’s airy, yet affectionate, dismissal, Morgan was touched anew. He was no less surprised by her perceptiveness. Even the queen realized his heart’s desire resided at Falcon’s Lair; Elizabeth had commanded him to settle matters with Kat, however he might.

  Their marriage would not be annulled. Not by church dictate, nor royal decree. It was up to Morgan to make amends now. He prayed it was not too late.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “PLEASE, MERRY,” KAT APPEALED, as her sister readied her departure for London, “I don’t want you to leave yet. I understood Mama and Papa’s need for haste, but can’t you send word to the queen and to Uncle Kit that you need to stay until autumn?”

  Merry smiled and set aside the last of her baggage for Jem to attend to later. “I would fain stay, Kat,” she said, “but I’ve overstayed my welcome, and methinks Bess will be growing impatient. I’ve already risked her wrath by remaining here so long. You will do just fine in my absence. At last the staff is coming ’round to your ways.”

  Merry recalled the devil’s own time she’d had in getting anyone from the village to come work at Falcon’s Lair. She’d deduced, during her stay, that the Welsh were far too proud and independent to make decent help and were best left to their own devices. There were precious few choices for servants in the surrounding area; she had to be satisfied with whatever she found.

  At least she had finally procured a downstairs maid to help Winnie, and a doddering but winsome old man to play valet to Lord Trelane. Merry had arranged for the pair to arrive this evening. The maid servant swore she was experienced. Merry thought the chit seemed somewhat sly, but beggars could not be choosers. Pray dear Kat was not foolish enough to leave jewels and valuable gewgaws scattered about. The elderly valet claimed to be her grandfather and vouched for the girl’s honesty, but Merry was troubled anyway. If only Falcon’s Lair was in civilized London!

  Well, Merry reasoned, she could set about redecorating Hartshorn when she returned to town and surprise Kat on her next visit. Merry would insist Trelane allow his wife to travel to London, thrice a year at least. Morgan seemed a dour sort of fellow; doubtless Kat would welcome the change of atmosphere. Too much doom and gloom was not good for the complexion, Merry decided.

  Meanwhile, she hoped her efforts to improve Falcon’s Lair would not go unappreciated when Morgan finally arrived. They were already welcomed by her sister. Kat would soon learn to appreciate all the little niceties of her new position.

  Merry sighed at the memory of all she had endured. Kat regarded her quizzically, and she was forced to explain.

  “Truth to tell, Kat, I shall be well-quit of this dreary place. I miss Court and all the little civilities I took for granted there. Perhaps Wales suits you, but I fear I find it cold and cheerless. I do wish you happiness, y’know.”

  Kat nodded. “I know. Bless you for all you’ve done here, Merry. I believe you’re right: the others seem to be warming to me now — except for Winnie.” She sighed at the thought of the friendship she had lost.

  “The best way to handle subordinates is with a firm hand, dear. I could never make Mother understand the notion, either. She always treated her crew like family. ’Tis a grievous day indeed when a proper English lady must needs converse on an equal plane with commoners.”

  “Merry! We’re both half-Irish.”

  The redhead ignored the reminder. “You will do quite well, Kat, if you but remember my advice: always dress as befits your station and keep your head high; don’t lower yourself to a minion’s level by discussing anything but simple business with them; give your orders in a crisp, clear, authoritative voice. However, you must never raise your voice, lest you be thought to be losing control — ”

  “Aye,” Kat said impatiently, rising from the settle where she had sat watching her sister pack. “I’ve commanded a whole crew of men at sea, remember? I vow, I shall muddle through — I wish you would stay, just the same.”

  Merry crossed the room to embrace her. “You and the baron must visit Court again sometime soon. By then I shall be an aunt.”

  Kat glanced down at her still-slender form, garbed in claret-colored silk. “Oh, Merry,” she whispered, “what if Morgan doesn’t want the babe?”

  “Not want his own child? What nonsense.” Merry affectionately pecked both her cheeks. “He will be as surprised and delighted as I was when you told me. Faith, I confess I never imagined you a mother. At least not before me. But I’m well and truly envious of you now.”

  Kat remembered the day when she and Morgan had walked together in the fields. The children they encountered screamed and ran as if a demon had sprouted out of her skirts. What had Morgan called them? Base little wretches. What if he reacted the same way to news of their own child?

  “GODSPEED, DEAR SISTER
!” KAT called, as she waved Merry off later that afternoon. Jem looked downright relieved to return to London as well and hastened the team of horses onward with a crack of the whip as the coach rounded the bend in the road. In a moment, they were gone.

  Kat glanced down at her empty palm, still burning with the image of the raven amulet Bryony had told Kat she would know when the time came to part with the clan’s mascot; it was today. Somehow it seemed right when Kat lowered the worn cord over her sister’s head.

  Merry had protested, of course, pointing out that a pagan amulet hardly favored her primrose and white velvet gown with its elegant embroidery, but Kat persisted. It was important Merry wear it on the trip for some reason. Kat doubted, however, Merry would suffer the amulet for long — not when she anticipated a rich assortment of jewels as Sir Jasper’s wife.

  After the rumble of the coach faded into the distance, Kat sighed and brushed away a stray tear. She was in no mood to return to the keep and deal with the staff right now. Perhaps a ride would cheer her up. She remembered the intriguing old cave on the mountain, and brightened. There hadn’t been time or opportunity to go exploring while Merry and her parents visited, keeping everything stirred up. Kat decided she might slip away now, and no one would be the wiser.

  She hurried upstairs to change into her old trews and canvas shirt and frowned when the hooks barely fastened. Her size was increasing rapidly. God’s nightshirt, surely ’twas not twins? The color drained from her face as she considered the possibility. Her mother was a twin. Bryony had also birthed twins, albeit very different daughters. Kat knew twins ran in families. Sweet Jesu, that’s all she needed now. Two demanding little Trelanes. No husband to help.

  Kat glanced up at the portrait of the dignified, lovely Elena Trelane, Morgan’s mother. Out of respect for her husband’s family, she had asked the portrait be hung in her new room. Suddenly she found herself resenting the woman.