Read Online FLAME OF DESIRE by Katherine Vickery - Free Book Online
Authors: Katherine Vickery
Ads: Link
slim.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. Again the old man smiled, and then took his leave of her to sleep in his own small quarters adjacent to the stables.
“If you need me, mum, just call,” he flung over his shoulder.
Heather realized how tired she was. Tonight had been a harrowing experience that she would not soon forget. For a time she had thought never to have the stranger safe within her father’s stables as one problem after another had arisen to keep her from sneaking out of the house.
First she had the food to prepare, the cleaning, mincing, blanching, and parboiling of vegetables; then she had to crush herbs in the mortar and do the other tasks which a servant would normally do. Since her father was so miserly there was only Tabitha to aid them; thus both Blythe and Heather had to take on such chores every night in order to see that the meal was prepared. Tonight each hour had dragged by with the speed of a snail while Heather had worried that the barber would grow tired of waiting and put the wounded man outside his door. Was it any wonder that she could not eat a bite when finally supper was on the table? Her mother and Tabitha had both anxiously watched her, fearful that she was ill.
Only when the house had made ready for bedtime did she dare think of carrying out the plan to return to the barber’s shop. Her father had taken an unusual interest in her health, lingering by the door and asking questions. Only when he himself had finally sneaked out into the night had Heather been able to run quickly from the house to rouse Harold Perriwincle.
With each squeak of the wagon wheel she had feared they would be caught, but at long last they had arrived at the barber’s door, and banging upon that portal, had been let inside to regain their precious cargo. Now the wounded man was safely ensconced in the stable behind her father’s house, hidden away from the danger which threatened him.
Suddenly remembering the letter, she reached in her bodice and pulled the missive out, curious as to its contents. The paper was of the finest quality, the writing of a bold lettering.
“It is from Mary Tudor!” she exclaimed in a soundless whisper. So he had not lied about his desire to aid the rightful queen. She would not call him a rebel again, for surely there had never been a truer subject of the crown. In the dim light she anxiously skimmed the words written. It was a letter to the council ordering them to acknowledge Mary Tudor as rightful queen and promising them forgiveness if they would do so promptly. Now she knew why the wounded man had cried out over and over for the letter.
Finding a safe hiding place for the queen’s missive, a spot that only she knew behind a loose board, Heather returned to the side of the bed to look at the man who had nearly given his life for this precious piece of paper. No wonder he had been stabbed. The assailant undoubtedly knew about the message. And what of Northumberland? What was his part in all of this? Had it been by his orders that this man had nearly been killed? She wondered what her father would do if he knew that they harbored an enemy of the duke. For that matter, what would become of them all if it were known?
“I care not. I will not betray him,” she vowed fiercely. She knew nothing about this man, not even his name. Why then would she put herself so in danger?
Touching his face with her hand, she knew the reason. This man had stolen her heart as surely as the Duke of Northumberland had stolen the crown.
“Sleep,” she whispered to him. “I will find out who you are on the morrow and see to your letter.”
The light from the oil lamp sputtered, then died as Heather removed her bloodstained apron. Clad in her loose-fitting chemise, she paced the floor until exhaustion overcame her, the excitement of the day taking its toll.
Lying down next to the wounded man, Heather sought her own slumber, feeling serene in the comfort of the warmth of his
“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. Again the old man smiled, and then took his leave of her to sleep in his own small quarters adjacent to the stables.
“If you need me, mum, just call,” he flung over his shoulder.
Heather realized how tired she was. Tonight had been a harrowing experience that she would not soon forget. For a time she had thought never to have the stranger safe within her father’s stables as one problem after another had arisen to keep her from sneaking out of the house.
First she had the food to prepare, the cleaning, mincing, blanching, and parboiling of vegetables; then she had to crush herbs in the mortar and do the other tasks which a servant would normally do. Since her father was so miserly there was only Tabitha to aid them; thus both Blythe and Heather had to take on such chores every night in order to see that the meal was prepared. Tonight each hour had dragged by with the speed of a snail while Heather had worried that the barber would grow tired of waiting and put the wounded man outside his door. Was it any wonder that she could not eat a bite when finally supper was on the table? Her mother and Tabitha had both anxiously watched her, fearful that she was ill.
Only when the house had made ready for bedtime did she dare think of carrying out the plan to return to the barber’s shop. Her father had taken an unusual interest in her health, lingering by the door and asking questions. Only when he himself had finally sneaked out into the night had Heather been able to run quickly from the house to rouse Harold Perriwincle.
With each squeak of the wagon wheel she had feared they would be caught, but at long last they had arrived at the barber’s door, and banging upon that portal, had been let inside to regain their precious cargo. Now the wounded man was safely ensconced in the stable behind her father’s house, hidden away from the danger which threatened him.
Suddenly remembering the letter, she reached in her bodice and pulled the missive out, curious as to its contents. The paper was of the finest quality, the writing of a bold lettering.
“It is from Mary Tudor!” she exclaimed in a soundless whisper. So he had not lied about his desire to aid the rightful queen. She would not call him a rebel again, for surely there had never been a truer subject of the crown. In the dim light she anxiously skimmed the words written. It was a letter to the council ordering them to acknowledge Mary Tudor as rightful queen and promising them forgiveness if they would do so promptly. Now she knew why the wounded man had cried out over and over for the letter.
Finding a safe hiding place for the queen’s missive, a spot that only she knew behind a loose board, Heather returned to the side of the bed to look at the man who had nearly given his life for this precious piece of paper. No wonder he had been stabbed. The assailant undoubtedly knew about the message. And what of Northumberland? What was his part in all of this? Had it been by his orders that this man had nearly been killed? She wondered what her father would do if he knew that they harbored an enemy of the duke. For that matter, what would become of them all if it were known?
“I care not. I will not betray him,” she vowed fiercely. She knew nothing about this man, not even his name. Why then would she put herself so in danger?
Touching his face with her hand, she knew the reason. This man had stolen her heart as surely as the Duke of Northumberland had stolen the crown.
“Sleep,” she whispered to him. “I will find out who you are on the morrow and see to your letter.”
The light from the oil lamp sputtered, then died as Heather removed her bloodstained apron. Clad in her loose-fitting chemise, she paced the floor until exhaustion overcame her, the excitement of the day taking its toll.
Lying down next to the wounded man, Heather sought her own slumber, feeling serene in the comfort of the warmth of his
Similar Books
