The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien

not, Lady of Pembroke, but near enough. Accept this as a cousinly salute.’

      And there was pressure of his mouth on my knuckles again, trivial enough but startling by the implied intimacy so that I stiffened, and he must have caught a sense of it.

      ‘What is it? Have I seriously unsettled you? I had thought you to be more worldly wise, mistress. I was wrong. You must forgive me.’

      The timbre of his voice was suddenly dry enough to warn me that he had abandoned his previous trifling, and lurking at the edge of his disclaimer was the undoubted provocation. You can trust me or not, as you wish. I don’t care. Nor did he, but I would not allow him to discomfit me. I recovered fast to display condescension when he half rose to leave. I did not want him to go. Not yet, and assuredly not on his terms where he had presumed me to be naïve.

      ‘I am not wounded. Did you think you drew blood?’ I asked, tugging my hand free but replying with a show of serenity as I spread my arms wide. ‘See. I am unharmed. The Earl of Pembroke does not share my bed until he is of age. It is no secret. And it is not in your power to rob me of my innocence.’

      Settling back on the stool, he perused me, much like a well-fed hawk would watch a mouse in the long grass, undecided whether to make the effort to pounce or abandon it for more worthy prey. Something in my expression, or perhaps in my picking up on his outrageous threat, made him observe: ‘I doubt the situation satisfies you, whatever you say. How old is he?’

      ‘Jonty has reached his tenth year.’

      He lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. ‘So you have decided to wait to enjoy the pleasures of the bedchamber under the auspices of holy matrimony …’

      This unnerved me all over again but I was improving in smart retaliation. ‘Of course I will wait. I make no complaint. Now you it seems do not need a wife at all. Unless it’s someone else’s.’

      ‘I see you have not been imbued with politesse, Madam Elizabeth.’

      ‘My social graces are excellent, Sir John.’

      ‘You have wit and charm, certainly.’

      To my satisfaction, he had begun to smile again. ‘Is that all, Sir John?’

      ‘Are you perhaps fishing for compliments, Madam Elizabeth?’

      ‘No, indeed. I have no need to do so. I receive many compliments.’

      ‘I expect you do. How could you not with your illustrious parentage? Some of us are not so fortunate, and must work harder for it …’ His mouth acquired a derisive twist, even a hint of temper, that caught my interest. Then, with smooth transition, so that I might have thought I imagined the whole: ‘Do you stay at court long, madam?’

      A superlatively rapid volte face. So he had no wish to stir the mud in that particular pond of his troubled parentage, but he had given me an insight I had not expected. I let it go for now, and followed his direction into calmer waters.

      ‘Yes. That is, I hope so. And what of you?’

      ‘My plans are fluid.’

      ‘Perhaps our paths will cross again.’

      ‘Would you wish them to?’

      ‘I might.’

      ‘It may be that I go to Ireland in August as the newly appointed Lord Lieutenant.’

      ‘Oh’. It was not what I had hoped to hear, certainly.

      ‘Would you miss me now, if I were absent from court?’

      Oh, I had his measure. ‘How would I? Do you fight tomorrow in the tournament?’

      ‘I will if you will be there to watch me win against all comers.’

      ‘Such self-deprecation, Sir John. I will be there to wager on your losing.’

      ‘You would lose, so don’t risk wagering that exceptional ring you are wearing. How could I resist displaying my skills before so critical an audience? If you lost that jewel I might feel compelled to buy you another.’

      ‘I doubt you could afford one of this value. It was a gift from my father.’ And I spread the fingers of my right hand so that the ruby glowed blood-red in its heart, as red as the tunic that flattered John Holland’s colouring so perfectly.

      ‘I would willingly spend all I have to make you smile at me. As I will fight to win your praises.’

      I was flattered, of course, as he intended. Except that I knew he had no intention of spending all he had, and would participate in the tournament whether I was there or not. And would probably win.

      ‘Perhaps you will ask me to dance again afterwards?’ I suggested.

      ‘I might.’

      ‘And I might accept.’

      ‘I doubt if you could refuse me.’

      ‘I will have many offers.’

      He stood and offered his hand to bring me to my feet.

      ‘You will not refuse, Elizabeth, because you see the danger in accepting my offer. How could you resist the desire that sparkles through your blood even now? I can see it as clearly as if written on velum with a monkish pen.’

      This time I was the one who frowned. Did I wish to acknowledge this uncannily accurate reading of my response to him? Again he had pushed ahead far too quickly and into unknown territory.

      ‘I could resist,’ I said. ‘I have amazing willpower.’

      ‘Then perhaps we will put it to the test.’

      He bowed, took my empty cup, only to abandon it on the floor. Seizing my wrist, he turned back the edging of my oversleeve, and stopped, fingers stilled, assessing the immediate problem.

      ‘I can get no further with this,’ he remarked.

      ‘And why would you wish to?’

      The sleeve of my undergown was tightly buttoned almost to my knuckles.

      ‘To see if your wrist was scarred by the rebel’s knife.’ The words were curt, the consonants bitten off. ‘I regretted that.’

      Uncertain of this brief emergence of irritation when it seemed unnecessary, I misunderstood. ‘But it was not your fault, sir.’

      He was not smiling, and his clasp was firmer than the occasion warranted. ‘It should not have happened. I should have been there sooner to ensure your safety. Your brother was unharmed, but you suffered. You are too beautiful to carry any blemish. I would not have it so.’

      And my heart tripped a little, because I thought, of all the words we had exchanged that day, his contrition was genuine, and he had phrased it so neatly with the artistry of any troubadour. But my flattering knight bowed abruptly, released me and turned to walk away as if he had received a royal summons that demanded urgent action.

      ‘Sir John …’ I called, disconcerted. ‘There is no scar.’

      He halted, and returned abruptly so that we were face to face.

      ‘How could I forget you?’ he asked, as if I had only just that minute asked him the question, as if it were the one thought uppermost in his mind that angered him beyond measure. ‘I swear you are the most compelling woman I have ever met. I wish it were not so, but you have inveigled your way into my thoughts from that first day I noticed you.’ Clearly he was not pleased with the prospect. ‘Since then I have found it impossible to remove you. You’re like a burr caught in a saddlecloth, lethal to horse and rider.’

      ‘You bundled me into a barge with your mother,’ I retaliated, recalling the occasion all too vividly. ‘And that was after you told me to stop shrieking in your ear because it would draw attention to us. I don’t think you realised how terrified I was …’

      ‘Of course I did.’

      I