Kissed by Shadows by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online

said. “Objections.”
    “Objections to what? She is aware of nothing.” Lionel was speaking very softly but his gaze was intent as it rested on the other man's countenance.
    “She is aware of some things,” Stuart said with difficulty. “How can she not be?”
    Lionel continued to regard him closely. The hardness of his expression diminished some. The man was in agony. And so he should be, Lionel reflected with a resurgence of contempt, but then he softened again. Stuart Nielson was in an impossible position. And even if Lionel Ashton believed that he himself would have died rather than accept such a position he was not going to throw the first stone.
    “I will tell them that it would be wise to desist from now until we have some definite sign one way or the other,” he said, and saw the naked relief shine forth from Lord Nielson's blue eyes. “Soon there should be something . . . or nothing. You understand me?”
    “Aye.” Stuart nodded. “I will keep a close eye.”
    “Yes, I imagine you will,” the other said dryly. “I give you good afternoon, Lord Nielson.”
    He bowed and Stuart returned the courtesy briefly. He remained where he was however, in the stifling heat beneath the tent, amid the bustle of competitors, the scurry of pages and varlets and grooms, the heavy odor of horseflesh, leather, and manure. Then when he became acutely aware of the glances cast in his direction, sympathetic some of them, curious some of them, one or two directly hostile, he left the tent by a rear exit, looking neither to right nor left.
    Behind the tent, horses stamped, tossed their heads, as the heavy jeweled saddles and bridles were lifted from them. They were huge, magnificent creatures, dangerous, fearless, willful, bred to go into battle bearing the weight of a fully armored man.
    Stuart paused beside his own charger, who stood relatively quietly at the water trough in the hands of a pair of grooms. The animal raised his head as Stuart approached and his eyes rolled. Stuart could almost see reproach there. The horse had been badly managed that afternoon and knew it. He was used to winning, used to the applause, the cheers, the acclaim, certainly not accustomed to slinking off the field in disgrace.
    The horse, lips pulled back from his teeth, was clearly not in the mood to be stroked. But he was not a domesticated beast at the best of times and Stuart made no attempt to touch him.
    “Check his fetlocks and give him a warm mash,” he instructed the grooms, then made his way through the press of horseflesh and along a beaten path that ran behind the stands that lined the lists. The path brought him to a gate into the pleasaunce. Here fountains plashed and the sweet scents of roses, lavender, and lilac filled the air.
    He could hear the sound of instruments and followed the music to the center of the pleasaunce where a small group of courtiers lounged on tapestries spread upon the grass. Pages moved among them with flagons of fine rhenish and silver platters of sweetmeats and savory tarts.
    The musicians were seated to one side under the spreading arms of a copper beech. Stuart listened, his eyes on the lyre player. He took a goblet from a page, absently selected a tart of goose liver and bacon, and then, accepting a waved invitation from one of his friends, took a seat on a tapestry beside the fountain.
    “A bad afternoon,” his friend observed without inflection.
    “Aye,” Stuart said curtly.
    “We must not offend our Spanish guests,” the other murmured, casting a sidelong glance at his companion.
    “No.”
    “No doubt there'll be some unpleasantness at first, but it will pass . . . a nine days' wonder.”
    As long as it didn't happen again.
Stuart kept this reflection to himself. One defection would eventually be forgiven by the anti-Spanish contingent, but no more. Neither would any overt appearance of friendship, of
supplication.
His skin crawled in revulsion.
    He looked across at the musicians. At the