Read Online At the Queen's Summons by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online

with one special friend or other; these days it is a gifted but disreputable young poet called Marlowe.
    Dear Belinda still clings to her scandalous pastime of incendiary displays. She has lit her fireworks for members of the noble houses of Hapsburg and Valois, and of course for Her Majesty the queen. She has promised a special program of Italian colored fire in honor of Richard.
    But I wonder, amid all the revelry, if anyone save Oliver will mark the event that tonight’s storm reminds me of so poignantly. For many years I have struggled to survive our loss, and daily I thank God for my family.Still, the storm hurled me back to that dark, rain-drenched night.
    It is a time that lives in my heart as its most piercing memory.
    â€”Lark de Lacey,
Countess of Wimberleigh

Four
    A idan was watching her with those penetrating flame-blue eyes. Pippa could tell from his fierce chieftain’s glare that he would tolerate no more jests or sidestepping.
    She combed her hair with both hands, raking her fingers through the damp, yellow tangles. She felt shaky, much as she did after being stricken with a fever and then getting up for the first time in days. The storm had slammed through her with terrifying force, leaving her limp.
    â€œThe problem is,” she said with bleak, quiet honesty, “I have the same answer to all of your questions.”
    â€œAnd what is that?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She watched him closely for a reaction, but he merely sat there at the end of the bed, waiting and watching. Firelight flared behind him, outlining his massive shoulders and the gleaming fall of his black hair.
    His eyes never left her, and she wondered just what he saw. Why in heaven’s name would a grand Irish lord take an interest in her? What did he hope to gain by befriending her? She had so little to offer—a handful oftricks, a few sorry jests, a chuckle or two. Yet he seemed enraptured, infinitely patient, as he awaited her explanation.
    The rush of tenderness she felt for him was frightening. Ah, she could love this man, she could draw him into her heart. But she would not. In his way, he was as remote as the moon, beautiful and unreachable. Before long he would go back to Ireland, and she would resume her existence in London.
    â€œI don’t know who I am,” she explained, “nor where I come from, nor even where I am going. And I certainly don’t know what you’re going to do with me.” With an effort, she squared her shoulders. “Not that it’s any of your concern. I am mistress of my own fate. If and when I decide to delve into my past, it will be to find the answers for me, not you.”
    â€œAh, Pippa.” He got up, took a dipper of wine from a cauldron near the hearth and poured the steaming, spice-scented liquid in a cup. “Sip it slowly,” he said, handing her the drink, “and we’ll see if we can sort this out.”
    Feeling cosseted, she accepted the wine and let a soothing swallow slide down her throat. Mab had been her teacher, her adviser in herbal arts and foraging, but the old woman had seen only to her most basic needs, keeping her dry and fed as if she were livestock. From Mab, Pippa had learned how to survive. And how to protect herself from being hurt.
    â€œYou do not know who you are?” he inquired, sitting again at the foot of the bed.
    She hesitated, caught her lower lip with her teeth. Turmoil boiled up inside her, and her immediate reaction was to erupt with laughter and make yet another joke about being a sultan’s daughter or a Hapsburg orphan. Then, cradling the cup in her hands, she lifted her gaze to his.
    She saw concern burning like a flame in his eyes, and its appeal had a magical effect on her, warming her like the wine, unfurling the secrets inside her, plunging down through her to find the words she had never before spoken to another living soul.
    Slowly, she set the cup on a stool beside the bed and