Twilight of a Queen Read online

“My arm is not what’s in danger,” Xavier grated.

  To her horror and embarrassment, Jane realized she had driven her knee between his thighs in her frantic efforts to untangle herself. Everywhere she placed her hands to brace herself, she encountered warm male flesh.

  By the time she clambered off him, she was panting, her cheeks aflame. Xavier had paled from his efforts, his chest rising and falling with his quick breaths. They might well have just separated from a heated tumble in the sheets, a reflection that did nothing to help Jane feel less flustered.

  She brushed back a straggling wisp of hair from her face, then bent to examine Xavier’s arm. To her relief, the splint had held.

  “You are fortunate you did not break your arm all over again,” she scolded. “I trust now you will be more sensible and remain in bed. If you don’t I vow I will fetch a rope and tie you down.”

  Pursing her lips, she dragged the coverlet back over him. Xavier made no movement to resist. But as he shifted his head onto the pillow, he regarded her balefully

  “Do you always make a habit of holding naked men prisoner?”

  “No, I make a habit of trying to help.”

  “Even men who are stupid and ungrateful?”

  “Especially them. They are often the ones who need it the most.”

  They regarded each other steadily for a moment. Xavier’s mouth tipped into a reluctant smile.

  “I am sorry, Jane, but I am desperate to get out of here.” His smile fled as he continued, “I need to find out what happened to my ship, my crew. If the Miribelle broke up on the rocks—” He broke off, swallowing.

  “I have sailed with some of those men for many years. If aught has happened to them, I am to blame.”

  “You can hardly hold yourself accountable for a storm.”

  “No, but if I hadn’t indulged … if I had had my wits more about me, perhaps I could have …” He concluded bleakly, “I was their captain and I failed them.”

  “I see no reason to despair as yet. There has been no report of any wreck. Surely if your ship had foundered, there would have been some sign of it along the coast.”

  A flicker of hope appeared in his eyes. “That is true.”

  “If the Miribelle did survive the storm, what would your crew likely do?”

  “No doubt they would have given me up for lost. They would probably continue on to make port at St. Malo.”

  “Ships come and go all the time at Port Corsair on the other side of the island. I am sure Ariane could engage someone to make enquiries on the mainland.”

  “No, I am already enough beholden to that woman. I will go myself.”

  He made another effort as if to rise only to sag weakly back against the pillows.

  “Truly, I am sure Ariane would not mind. I will ask her for you if you wish.”

  “It appears once again I have little choice.” He issued a defeated sigh, adding grudgingly. “Thank you. I would be most grateful.”

  “In the meantime, the best thing you can do is rest and build back your strength. I have prepared a most nourishing broth.”

  She expected him to protest as most men would have done, demanding something more substantial. Her brother certainly would have done so, petulantly demanding a leg of mutton and tankard of ale.

  Xavier merely nodded in glum assent. He didn’t balk until she perched on the edge of the bed, preparing to feed him.

  “No, hand it over. I am not yet reduced to the state of a puling infant.”

  Jane regarded him doubtfully, but held her tongue, leaving it to Xavier to discover the difficulty himself, of managing a bowl of hot soup with only one good hand.

  He scooted into a sitting position, and attempted to balance the bowl on his stomach, while plying the spoon awkwardly with his left hand. When all he succeeded in doing was dribbling broth down his chin and spattering his chest, he surrendered the bowl to her with a disgruntled scowl.

  As Jane spooned the broth into his mouth, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Xavier’s eyes narrowed, studying her face, roving over her figure.

  It had been many years since any man had subjected her to such a bold regard. Jane struggled to keep her attention focused on the task of feeding him.

  “I liked you better with your hair down,” he pronounced at last.

  “How fortunate that I do not wear it to please you. I am too old to run about with my hair unbound.”

  “You cannot be that advanced in years.”

  “I am nearly two and thirty.”

  “And disconcertingly honest. I have scarce known a woman be so truthful about her age.”

  “After a certain point in one’s life, the tally of years becomes something of no importance,” Jane said, feeding him the last of the broth.

  “I agree. I freely admit to being seven and twenty. But don’t let that concern you. I have a marked penchant for mature women, especially widows.”

  He smiled at her and Jane frowned. Was the man attempting to flirt with her? She had never been good at such witty repartee and did not care for it. She decided her best course would be to ignore him.

  His dark hair tangled about his lean, weathered face, roughened by several days’ growth of beard. Heavy brows jutted over blue-gray eyes that Jane fancied never offered any quarter whether confronting an enemy or staring a woman out of countenance. The only soft part of his visage was his mouth, the generous underlip that both hinted at vulnerability and held the promise of darker pleasures.

  She dabbed a linen napkin to his mouth as though afraid he might bite, her touch so tentative, he could not fail to remark upon it.

  “So do you find me something quite wild and dangerous, my lady?”

  “No,” Jane demurred. “Merely a man badly in need of a combing and shave. I could do that for you later if you like.”

  “No thank you. I don’t trust anyone that near my throat with a razor.”

  Jane’s gaze flicked to the white scar on his neck. “But I have had some experience.”

  “With your husbands? Two of them, I believe you said. So what happened? Did you accidentally slit their throats or simply wear them out?”

  “Neither,” Jane replied as she rose from the bed to replace the empty bowl on the hearth. She certainly owed Xavier no explanations, but all the same she found herself saying, “Dickon was never in good health. He died of consumption. We were only wed a year. My second husband, Sir William, succumbed to pleurisy.”

  “I am sorry.” Xavier’s voice softened a shade. “Did you nurse them as kindly as you are me?”

  “Not Dickon. I didn’t li—”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  Jane bit her tongue. Usually she was far more circumspect. “I didn’t know Dickon that well. We were only wed a year and I was quite young, only fifteen.”

  “And Sir William?”

  “I wed him when I was eighteen, far more mature. We were married for ten years.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “He was a great deal older than me. For the most part, I esteemed him—and you ask far too many impertinent questions.”

  “Pardon, my lady. I hope I have not offended you so that you will refuse to oblige me with another cup of wine. That nourishing broth of yours was a trifle salty.”

  Jane picked up the wine jug to refill his cup. After rebuking Xavier for his curiosity, she was mortified to discover she could not resist indulging her own.

  “What about you? Are you married?”

  “Never.” Xavier gave a mock shudder. “But I do have the loveliest, most exacting and demanding mistress. You could not begin to imagine how lusty she is.”

  “I am sure I have no wish to do so—” Jane began primly when Xavier cut in.

  “The sea, Jane. I was referring to the sea.” His eyes twinkled, his grin so irrepressible Jane’s mouth curled into a reluctant smile.

  She settled back on the edge of the bed. He made no attempt to take the cup this time, appearing content to allow her
to hold the wine to his lips.

  He drained half the cup before speaking again. “So you were wed twice, once to a boy and once to a man in his dotage.”

  When Jane sighed at his persistence, he said, “Pardon, my lady. But my curiosity is understandable, especially after hearing that you compared my physique to your husbands’ and found me wanting.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You said I had nothing concealed beneath this sheet that would impress you.”

  “I said nothing that would surprise me.”

  He studied her through the half mast of his lashes. “If you find me so unremarkable, I just wonder why you kissed me.”

  Jane started so she nearly spilled the rest of the wine. “I did no such thing.”

  “Yes, you did. I admit my memory of it is hazy. I thought it was merely a delightful dream. But now I remember quite clearly. When you found me on the beach, you pressed your lips to mine.”

  Jane flushed. She had hoped he had been too confused to remember that.

  “I—I was merely trying to give you the Kiss of Life.”

  “That’s what I said. You kissed me.”

  “It was not done with any passionate intent. I was trying to revive you by sharing my breath. It is a healing magic I have seen Ariane practice here on Faire Isle.”

  “That might be what Ariane does. But you kissed me.”

  “I did not. I—”

  Her protest was cut off by Xavier seizing her collar and yanking her forward. The wine cup flew from her hand as he hauled her close. His mouth collided with hers in a kiss that was swift, hard, and heated.

  “There,” he said, releasing her. “That was what you did. Where I hail from, that is called a kiss.”

  Her face flaming, Jane scrambled from the bed. “Where I hail from, that is called an affront and if you ever try anything like that again, I will—will—”

  “Break my other arm?” Xavier offered helpfully.

  “Yes!” Jane bent to pick up the remnants of the shattered cup and mop up the wine.

  She would have liked to storm out of the cottage, put as much distance between her and this disconcerting man as possible. But she remained to tend to his needs in stony silence. That Xavier did not appear in the least repentant only added to her aggravation.

  “It was only a kiss, Jane,” he said. “I thought you English were liberal with your embraces. The time I dined with a Portsmouth merchant, his wife kissed all the guests.”

  Jane compressed her lips, unwilling to admit the truth of his words. As her brother’s hostess, she had frequently done the same, bestowing pecks upon all of Ned’s friends. But that polite custom was far different from the brash kiss Xavier had stolen from her. None of those other tame embraces had roused feelings in her she had believed long dormant, the wayward side of her nature that had nearly led to her ruin as a girl. She had prayed long, did hours of penance, and believed she had conquered her youthful passions.

  She was dismayed that it had only taken one kiss from this man to prove her wrong. Advising Xavier to get some rest, Jane retreated to the far corner of the room. Settling herself on a stool, she took up her mending, hoping he would drift back asleep.

  But he remained propped up against the pillows, his good arm resting behind his head as he observed her from across the room.

  “So does this mean I am not permitted to ask you any more questions?”

  Jane tugged her needle through the fabric so roughly she nearly snapped the thread. “I daresay you will, with or without my permission.”

  “How did a prim English lady like you end up on this island of witches?”

  Although Jane had often asked herself the same question, she bridled at Xavier’s words. “They are not witches. They call themselves daughters of the earth and very kind and generous they are. Particularly your sister. Her island has proven a refuge for many people in trouble.”

  “Like you, Jane? Did you require a refuge? I would wager you did. England is not the most welcoming place for Catholics these days.”

  Jane looked up from her needlework in surprise. “How did you know I am Catholic?”

  “You don’t see many of the reformed faith sporting those anymore.” Xavier gestured toward an object lying on the floor near the window.

  To her horror, Jane realized she had dropped her ave beads earlier when she had been praying. She sprang up and darted across the room to retrieve them. Cupping the strand protectively in her hand, she buried the beads in the pocket of her gown. Here on Faire Isle, it was no longer necessary to hide this relic of her faith, but a lifetime of habit died hard.

  “So you lost everything and had to flee England because of your religious beliefs?” Xavier asked.

  Jane worried the beads in her pocket, hearing the echoes of the queen’s secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham, pronounce her sentence.

  “Jane Danvers, all your wealth, estate, and properties are forfeit to the Crown. You will be given a week to settle your affairs and leave these shores, never to return on penalty of death.”

  At the time, Jane had only been relieved to be released from the Tower and spared her life. It had taken a full year, an endless succession of days in exile for her to appreciate the harshness of her sentence, all that she had lost.

  She swallowed, answering Xavier’s question at last. “Yes, you are correct. I—I can never go home again.”

  “I would not say never, my lady. Not if the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “Of the Spanish invasion.”

  Jane frowned uneasily. “King Philip has been making that threat for a long time.”

  “It has gone way beyond mere threat according to what I have learned on my travels.”

  Despite her resolve to keep her distance from Xavier, Jane drew closer to the bed. “What have you heard?”

  “A huge armada has been assembled, the largest flotilla of fighting ships ever seen, perhaps as many as three hundred galleons and flat-bottomed boats as well, to convey horses, arms, and legions of well-trained soldiers to English shores.”

  “W-when?”

  “It could be any day now.” Xavier gave an indifferent shrug. “They say the Spanish grandees are already casting lots for their pick of English estates. And of course some of those ships will carry the monks of the Inquisition and all their implements to—er—persuade your erring countrymen to return to the true faith.

  “The queen that sent you into exile will have to flee or be tried and burned at the stake. So you see, by this time next year, you could well be back home, rejoicing and setting off fireworks.”

  “O-hh.” Jane backed away from the bed, her mind recoiling in horror from the images Xavier painted with his careless words. “As much as I long to go home, how could you possibly think that I would rejoice—That I could ever want—”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth feeling as though she was going to be ill, a sensation akin to panic squeezing the air from her lungs.

  She turned and fled from the room, only dimly aware of Xavier calling her name. She burst from the cottage, ignoring the startled looks of the women lingering nearby, hoping for a glimpse of the strange castaway.

  Jane raced past them, heading for the beach, her heart thundering in her chest. Half-falling, she clambered atop the highest rock she could manage as though she could somehow span the distance of the channel, find England, and see for herself that her homeland was yet safe.

  “An armada … the largest flotilla of fighting ships ever seen … to convey horses, arms, … soldiers to English shores.”

  Xavier’s words pounded in her head like the relentless tramp of heavy Spanish boots as if soldiers already thundered into tiny villages and hamlets, drowning out the cries of terrified women and children. She could not stop herself from envisioning the peaceful lanes awash in blood, smoke blackening the air from cannon fire and thatch-roofed cottages set ablaze.

  Or would the smoke hail from a more sinister source, the
crackling faggots piled at the feet of a defiant woman with fiery red hair. Elizabeth …

  Jane shuddered and closed her eyes, trying to block out the disturbing image. There had been a time when she had been so angry with Elizabeth Tudor. The queen was no religious zealot. When she had come to the throne, she had promised moderation, only to yield to the pressures of her council and adopt harsher laws against her Roman Catholic subjects.

  But Jane’s bitterness against the woman who had signed the order for Jane’s exile was softened by other memories, the younger Elizabeth who had been so kind to two orphaned children, even though their father had been steeped in treason.

  Jane recalled how tightly she had clutched her brother’s hand, two frightened children clinging to each other as they were ushered into the royal presence.

  But by the age of twelve, Jane had already known she could no longer afford to be a child. Although she trembled, she tipped up her head, preparing to confront the woman her Catholic relatives branded as a heretic, a she-devil, and a witch.

  Elizabeth Tudor was said to be a vain woman, attiring herself in voluminous costly gowns that kept her subjects farther at bay. But that morning, she had been dressed rather simply for a queen. Jane saw not the painted Jezebel of her father’s describing but a tall slender woman with red curly hair and piercing eyes set beneath thin arched brows.

  Jane had been instructed in the proper way to curtsy. Instead she had thrust Ned protectively behind her. Determined to know the worst, she had blurted out, “Are you going to imprison us in the Tower and cut off our heads?”

  Several of the courtiers present had gasped at her blunt question. The queen’s lips twitched, but she replied gravely, “No, Mistress Jane. I have already been obliged to shed the blood of far too many of my subjects.”

  The queen’s voice was far gentler than Jane would have imagined. Ned ventured to peek at Her Majesty from behind Jane’s skirts.

  “Then what will you do with us?” Jane asked.

  “I intend to place you and your brother in the custody of the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury. They will act as your guardians until your brother comes of age to inherit his estate.”

  “His—his estate? Then you are not taking our lands away?”