Christmas At The Castle: Tarnished Rose of the Court / The Laird's Captive Wife. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
She thought too much about him as it was. The bare, wintry landscape they passed offered little distraction from memories of what had happened between them in that bed. The feel of his hands on her bare skin, his mouth and tongue on her, his hoarse moans and curses as they rode each other. She saw the look in his eyes as he watched her. It was all still there, vivid and painful—sweet in her mind.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was absently patting his horse’s neck as he surveyed the land around them, a small frown on his lips. He looked as if his own thoughts were a hundred miles away, and against her better judgement she found she desperately wanted to know what they were. What he kept hidden deep inside himself.
But she feared that if she caught a glimpse of John, the real John, she would have to share the real Celia in return. That she could not do.
“So this is Scotland,” she said. “It looks scarcely different from England.”
Or rather scarcely different from the England they had seen in the last few days. Harsh, austere, forbidding northern England, so different from the softness of southern England, the noise and commotion of London. The place seemed like a separate world from all she had ever really known. It was silent and grey-green all around.
Yet she liked it. The very harshness seemed beautiful to her, seemed to respond to something hard and cold and wild inside her.
“Aye, this is Scotland,” John said. “What do you think of it so far?”
Celia looked around her again and drew in a deep breath. She even liked the air here, clean and diamond-clear, smelling of frost, green, and the faint tang of a peat fire.
“I like it very much,” she said. “I like the loneliness of it.”
John gave her a strange look, and she thought she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes. “I doubt there will be any time for loneliness once we reach Edinburgh.”
“I dare say there won’t. If Queen Mary’s Court is anything like her cousin’s, there won’t be a moment of silence.”
“They say she is trying to bring elements of her French life to the Scottish Court,” John said. “Dancing, cards, masquerades, hunts. I doubt that pleases Knox and his Puritan cohorts. They thought never to see their French Catholic queen again.”
That must certainly be true. Surely they’d thought that with Mary in France Scotland was theirs to run as they wanted. The country’s religion, alliances and culture in their hands. Until suddenly she’d returned, with her own ways of doing things.
“Has there been trouble?” Celia asked quietly.
“Nothing serious as yet. Mary has proved strangely popular with her subjects since she returned from Paris—except for the men who thought they ruled Scotland and dictated its religion and allies. Threats, stones thrown at courtiers’ carriages, ugly pamphlets railing against female rulers. But there will be more to come. That seems inevitable.”
“Is that what Lord Marcus’s message said?”
John shifted in his saddle. “Knox and Queen Elizabeth aren’t the only ones who want to control Queen Mary. She still has her French attendants with her, who have their own ideas of what she should do.”
“Not to mention the Spanish,” Celia murmured. It was so nice to be able to talk to John like this again, to share her ideas and hear his, to know what he thought of their strange situation. “To have a Catholic ally right on Elizabeth’s northern border could only be a boon to them. Is the marriage of Queen Mary to Don Carlos still a possibility?”
“A distant one, perhaps, or Mary would have snapped it up by now. She wouldn’t dally with the likes of Darnley if she had the Spanish heir.”
“And one of these parties is not causing trouble in Edinburgh.”
John suddenly gave her a rakish grin. “Celia, where a crown is at stake there is always trouble. We must make more of it for our opponents than they do for us.”
Was that how he lived his life, then? Made trouble for others before they could do it to him? Before she could say anything to him, he tugged at his reins and took off down the hill.
“We need to find a place to stop for the night,” he called to her, his words caught on the wind.
Celia dashed after him. The cold wind kept them from saying any more as they galloped over the fields and found the road again. The narrow track was muddy and rutted, clotted with fallen branches, but they made good time. Dusk was falling when they finally stopped in front of a pair of gates that stood ajar.
They were of an elaborate design of twisted wrought iron, surmounted by a family crest, but they were being eaten away by rust. Beyond the gates she glimpsed an overgrown trail winding away between towering trees.
John stared up at the crest with an unreadable look on his face.
“Are we stopping here?” Celia asked quietly.
He was silent for a long moment. So long she thought he might not answer. That he had forgotten she was even there.
Finally he said, “Why not? It’s growing dark, and it’s still a fair ride into the village.”
He led his horse through the gap in the gates and Celia followed. As they made their way slowly down the path she felt as if she had stepped into a troubadour’s song of enchanted forests and ghosts. It seemed even quieter here than on the hill, perfectly silent, as if even the wind dared not brush through the bare, skeletal trees.
She could see that once this had been a grand park, laid out for pleasure rides and pretty vistas, but now it was all a tangle. She glimpsed a half-frozen lake in the distance, with a pale stone folly crumbling on the shore. The gathering evening mist only made it more mysterious.
Celia shivered.
“Are you cold?” John asked. “We will soon be there, and we can build a fire.”
“I’m quite well,” she said, even as that chill danced up her spine again.
They turned at a twist in the path, and Celia saw a house rise up before them. It was a surprisingly fine manor of faded red brick and dark wood latticework that had once been painted. The small windows stared down, blank and dark.
Above the door was another chipped stone crest.
“How did you know this place was here?” Celia asked as John swung down from his horse and came round to help her dismount. “Have you been here before?”
“Nay, but I heard about it as a child,” he said. When he lowered her to her feet he didn’t immediately release her, as he had been doing, but kept his arm around her waist. He held her with him as he studied the house with narrowed eyes. “This was my mother’s family’s house,” he said.
“Your mother?” Celia gasped in surprise. Then she remembered John’s mother had been Scottish—one of the reasons Queen Elizabeth had given for sending him here. But John had never spoken of her before. “Where are they, then?”
“All dead. They died even before I was born. After my mother was sent to England to serve one of Henry’s many queens. Since my parents died when I was six, it is mine now.” He kicked at a fallen chunk of brick on the ground. “For all the good it does me.”
Celia blinked as she looked up at him. She had seen John angry, cold, passionate, but never like this. So very distant. It made her shiver again, and his arm tightened around her.
“Come, you should be inside,” he said.
Celia nodded. She didn’t want to go inside. This place seemed haunted in truth. But it was dark now, and there was nowhere else to go.
John pushed the door open with his foot and led her inside.
She had thought the hunting lodge was quiet and desolate, but it was nothing to this place. Everything in the foyer was so still she could hear the wind whistling outside, creeping through