Read Online Kissed by Shadows by Jane Feather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Feather
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gathered to assist him. The musicians, accustomed to a distracted audience, continued to play.
Philip joined the three by the long window. They bowed to the king. “Gentlemen,” he murmured. “Is all in order for later?” His eyes flickered without volition to the young lyre player.
“It would be advisable, sire, to leave the lady undisturbed for the next few nights,” Lionel said quietly.
“Why so? Has she her terms?” The question was sharp.
“Not to my knowledge, sire, but it would not do to arouse suspicions at this juncture,” Lionel replied. Absently he touched the curiously shaped brooch nestled in the lace at his throat.
“The husband is proving difficult?” Again Philip's eyes flickered to the musicians.
“No, but his wife is no fool, sire.”
Philip drew back slightly at Ashton's blunt, almost dismissive tone. “I fail to understand, Don Ashton. The woman is aware of nothing.”
Lionel bowed. “At the time, sire . . . only at the time.”
Simon Renard shot him a sharp glance. Had he been the only one to hear the edge of contempt beneath the seemingly calm correction? Neither of his companions appeared to have noticed anything amiss; they both nodded as comprehension dawned.
“I wonder the husband could not handle that issue,” Ruy Gomez said with a fastidious curl of his lip.
“A short interruption will matter little,” Philip said with a shrug. He looked over at his wife. “I will devote my energies to but one woman for a night or so.”
His laugh was coarse, reminding his companions of Philip's true character. In general, he played to perfection the courteous, devoted husband of a woman eleven years his senior.
“The queen, sire, is most attentive to her husband,” Ruy Gomez pointed out. “She accords you every honor.”
“Aye,” Philip muttered with a grimace of distaste. “But 'tis hard, gentlemen, to bed each night with a woman who knows only how to endure.”
“The queen knows her duty, sire, both to her husband and her country,” declared Renard in instant defense of a woman he considered a friend as much as a useful political tool.
“Yes . . . yes . . .” Philip said soothingly. “But 'tis still no easy duty to lie nightly with a woman who prays beforehand with all the fervency of a saint going to her martyrdom, Renard.”
Lionel stepped away from this conversation. It no longer concerned him. Stuart Nielson had just entered the chamber and Lionel wondered why his wife was not with him. And he realized then that he had been waiting for her. Of course, he had been waiting for her to appear every night for the last month. Waiting for the moment when she took the goblet of wine her husband gave her. Waiting for the moment when an hour or so later, already heavy-eyed, she would excuse herself and retire for the night.
He had waited for her with a cold dispassion. A deliberate detachment. She was merely an object. To be used to further the interests of Philip and Mary, the grand design of a kingdom, and she was purely incidental to the deep black river of hatred that informed Lionel Ashton's every move.
And yet tonight, when he had no need to await her, he had waited with anticipation and was disappointed by her absence.
The realization startled him.
Why?
As he pondered the question he understood the answer and it was a hard acknowledgment. He had wanted to see her as she was.
As a woman who interested him.
Tonight when she was not wanted, when neither he nor she had any part to play in the loathsome strands of the royal plot, he could see her simply as a woman, just as he had seen her that afternoon in the courtyard.
A woman who interested him.
But he had forsworn all interest in women. Only thus could he follow his path. There was but one driving force to his life, one single compulsion, and if he admitted concern or feelings of any kind for Pippa he would lose his focus.
He strode towards the door. His work here was done for the night.
Stuart Nielson was
Philip joined the three by the long window. They bowed to the king. “Gentlemen,” he murmured. “Is all in order for later?” His eyes flickered without volition to the young lyre player.
“It would be advisable, sire, to leave the lady undisturbed for the next few nights,” Lionel said quietly.
“Why so? Has she her terms?” The question was sharp.
“Not to my knowledge, sire, but it would not do to arouse suspicions at this juncture,” Lionel replied. Absently he touched the curiously shaped brooch nestled in the lace at his throat.
“The husband is proving difficult?” Again Philip's eyes flickered to the musicians.
“No, but his wife is no fool, sire.”
Philip drew back slightly at Ashton's blunt, almost dismissive tone. “I fail to understand, Don Ashton. The woman is aware of nothing.”
Lionel bowed. “At the time, sire . . . only at the time.”
Simon Renard shot him a sharp glance. Had he been the only one to hear the edge of contempt beneath the seemingly calm correction? Neither of his companions appeared to have noticed anything amiss; they both nodded as comprehension dawned.
“I wonder the husband could not handle that issue,” Ruy Gomez said with a fastidious curl of his lip.
“A short interruption will matter little,” Philip said with a shrug. He looked over at his wife. “I will devote my energies to but one woman for a night or so.”
His laugh was coarse, reminding his companions of Philip's true character. In general, he played to perfection the courteous, devoted husband of a woman eleven years his senior.
“The queen, sire, is most attentive to her husband,” Ruy Gomez pointed out. “She accords you every honor.”
“Aye,” Philip muttered with a grimace of distaste. “But 'tis hard, gentlemen, to bed each night with a woman who knows only how to endure.”
“The queen knows her duty, sire, both to her husband and her country,” declared Renard in instant defense of a woman he considered a friend as much as a useful political tool.
“Yes . . . yes . . .” Philip said soothingly. “But 'tis still no easy duty to lie nightly with a woman who prays beforehand with all the fervency of a saint going to her martyrdom, Renard.”
Lionel stepped away from this conversation. It no longer concerned him. Stuart Nielson had just entered the chamber and Lionel wondered why his wife was not with him. And he realized then that he had been waiting for her. Of course, he had been waiting for her to appear every night for the last month. Waiting for the moment when she took the goblet of wine her husband gave her. Waiting for the moment when an hour or so later, already heavy-eyed, she would excuse herself and retire for the night.
He had waited for her with a cold dispassion. A deliberate detachment. She was merely an object. To be used to further the interests of Philip and Mary, the grand design of a kingdom, and she was purely incidental to the deep black river of hatred that informed Lionel Ashton's every move.
And yet tonight, when he had no need to await her, he had waited with anticipation and was disappointed by her absence.
The realization startled him.
Why?
As he pondered the question he understood the answer and it was a hard acknowledgment. He had wanted to see her as she was.
As a woman who interested him.
Tonight when she was not wanted, when neither he nor she had any part to play in the loathsome strands of the royal plot, he could see her simply as a woman, just as he had seen her that afternoon in the courtyard.
A woman who interested him.
But he had forsworn all interest in women. Only thus could he follow his path. There was but one driving force to his life, one single compulsion, and if he admitted concern or feelings of any kind for Pippa he would lose his focus.
He strode towards the door. His work here was done for the night.
Stuart Nielson was
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