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

sort of woman for whom men swore to win honors, slay dragons, cheerfully lay down their lives. And he was in no position to do any of those things.
    â€œSome would say,” he admitted darkly, “that the death of Ronan O Donoghue was an accident.” From the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of lightning through the mullioned windows on the east side of the hall.
    â€œWhat do you say?” Pippa asked.
    â€œI say it is none of your affair. And if you persist in talking about it, I might have to do something permanent to you.”
    She sniffed, clearly recognizing the idleness of his threat. He was not accustomed to females who were unafraid of him. “If I had a father, I’d cherish him.”
    â€œYou do have a father. The war hero, remember?”
    She blinked. “Oh. Him. Yes, of course.”
    Aidan slammed a fist on the stone mantel and regarded the Lumley shield hanging above as if it were a higher authority. “What am I going to do with you?” The wind hurled gusts against the windows, and he swung around to glower at her.
    â€œâ€˜Do’ with me?” She glanced back over her shoulder at the door. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to be alone with him. She wouldn’t be the first.
    â€œYou can’t stay here forever,” he stated. “I didn’t ask to be your protector.” The twist of guilt in his gut startled him. He was not used to making cruel statements to defenseless women.
    She did not look surprised. Instead, she dropped one shoulder and regarded him warily. She resembled a dog so used to being kicked that it came as a surprise when it was not kicked.
    Her rounded chin came up. “I never asked to stay forever. I can go back to Dove and Mortlock. We have plans to gain the patronage of…of the Holy Roman Emperor.”
    He remembered her disreputable companions from St. Paul’s—the portly and greasy Dove and the cadaverous Mortlock. “They must be mad with worry over you.”
    â€œThose two?” She snorted and idly picked up the iron poker, stabbing at the log in the hearth. Sparks flew upward on a sweep of air, then disappeared. “They only worry about losing me because they need me to cry up a crowd. Their specialty is cutting purses.”
    â€œI won’t let you go back to them,” Aidan heard himself say. “I’ll find you a—” he thought for a moment “—a situation with a gentlewoman—”
    That made her snort again, this time with bitter laughter. “Oh, for that I should be well and truly suited.” She slammed the poker back into its stand. “It has long been my aim in life to empty some lady’s slops and pour wine for her.” The hem of her skirts twitched in agitation as she pantomimed the menial work.
    â€œIt’s a damned sight better than wandering the streets.” Irritated, he walked to the table and sloshed wine into a cup. The lightning flashed again, stark and cold in the April night.
    â€œOh, do tell, my lord.” She stalked across the room, slapped her palms on the table, leaned over and glared into his face. “Listen. I am an entertainer. I am good at it.”
    So he had noticed. She could mimic any accent, highborn or low, copy any movement with fluid grace, change character from one moment to the next like an actor trying on different masks.
    â€œI didn’t ask you to drag me out of St. Paul’s and into your life,” she stated.
    â€œI don’t remember any objections from you when I saved you from having your ears nailed to the stocks.” He tasted the wine, a sweet sack favored by the English nobility. He missed his nightly draft of poteen. Pippa was enough to make him crave two drafts of the powerful liquor.
    â€œI was hungry. But that doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered my life to you. I can get another position in a nobleman’s household just like that.” She snapped her