Hannah was staring, open-mouthed. “You didn’t!”
Kate spun back from the window and leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “He was like a stag in rut, a charging bull—the vitality of that man is stunning. Now I know how poorly my dear dead husband served me—he was as a sparrow compared to an eagle. Kit. Ah, Kit!”
Alys’ stomach curled and twisted, her breakfast turning to verjuice. How could Kate risk bringing such scandal on the household, under Sir Thomas’ very nose? They’d be the laughingstock of the neighborhood.
Assuming she was telling the truth.
She locked gazes with Kate. “How do we know you truly did this?”
“If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”
Nay, she’d only hear more lies. How could one know who to believe? Admittedly, she’d never before met a man as alluring as their new gardener, but would Kate genuinely stoop so low as to bed him?
Or had she blackmailed him into doing that, as well?
“So, he was good then?” Hannah leaned closer.
“The best. His hands—so strong, yet so gentle. His thighs, tight as a vise, yet tender withal. His manhood, hot, firm and eager. Ah! So eager.”
Alys flushed, recalling the vision she’d had of the gardener naked. It was now flashing in front of her eyes with virulent potency.
“You may well blush, Coz, but that is only because you don’t like to hear such things.” Kate sneered at her. “And just because you have ice in your veins does not mean everyone else has.”
Hannah voiced the thought that had been in Alys’ mind before the unsettling image. “How do we know you truly did this, Kate? You may have paid him, or forced him to say ‘yes’ if we asked.”
Triumph glittered in Kate’s eyes. “I know of him what no person could unless they had seen him naked.”
Alys gulped and ran a finger around the neckline of her bodice. The day was heating up rapidly.
“Below his right breast—and oh, what a chest he has! Below it, I say, is a scar from a blade.”
“You could have seen that when he was working in the garden without a shirt on.” Alys wondered why a mere gardener would have such a wound on his chest.
“As if he would dare work unclothed in sight of the house. Don’t be a fool.”
Alys winced. If she wasn’t careful, Kate would get into one of her pets, and insults would fly all day long. Mainly in her direction.
Hannah, apparently, had not noticed the warning signs. “Perhaps you’ve been spying on him. That’s how you know about the scar. And if he was that good in bed, wouldn’t you have been too distracted to notice?”
“I ran my tongue over it. And what do you know about love-making, Hannah? What one might, or might not notice?”
“I only know what I’ve heard from you.”
Nausea rose in Alys’ stomach—she’d heard enough. Shoving her chair back against the wall, she stalked from the room. Giggles attended her departure, but she didn’t look back.
She wouldn’t give Kate the satisfaction.
She’d given him his chance. Now she must be sure to banish the disquieting gardener who had tempted her cousin into such sin.
Chapter Six
Another Sunday had passed and—as far as Kit could tell—the entire household had dutifully attended church. So, the traitor’s sympathies were probably not with the Catholics, but political instead. This would make his task harder, for there were many signs by which he could recognize a Catholic recusant, far fewer by which he would know a conspirator with political or financial aims. But surely, if he waited long enough, there would come a time when someone at Selwood would let slip their mask.
The main object of his thoughts had been studiously ignoring him. Mistress Barchard liked the gardens—she was often out walking in them, but never once did she look his way or acknowledge his presence. It offended his masculine pride to be disregarded, although he knew he should be glad of it—it was imperative that he not attract attention.
Since the small unpleasantness with Mistress Aspinall, he’d made more effort to look rustic—he’d been practicing a slouch, and had given up shaving. He must look a fright by now—his past paramours would barely recognize him. Hopefully, no one else from court who knew Sir Christopher Ludlow would recognize him either, but there was little chance of such a one ever turning up at Selwood Manor.
Unless they were that very courtier whom Walsingham suspected of being in league with the Suffolk ring of rebels. Whose name, unfortunately, the queen’s spymaster was not prepared to divulge to Kit, as he had not yet proved his worth.
Well, he’d prove it soon enough. He was becoming more observant by the hour and, today, he’d noticed there was something amiss with Mistress Barchard. After breakfast, she’d rushed into the walled part of the garden, and stood in the center, gulping in great breaths of air. At first, she’d been entirely unaware of Kit’s presence behind the fig tree, where he was trying to get a rambling rose under control. Hearing the rustle of the branches, she’d spun around, paled, and darted out as if the Devil were at her heels.
The woman was unlikely to divulge her secrets to him. But he had another informant. Swiftly cutting a bunch of marigolds, he put on his most charming smile and headed for the back door by the kitchen. He knocked, then opened it a crack. “Bess! Bess, my dove! Here are marigolds for the cheeses. Will you come? I miss your sparkling eyes.”
A rotund female appeared at the end of the passageway and steered towards him. “Ah, ’tis the sweet-tongued rogue with the muddy boots. Have a care with your honeyed words, sir, or I may come to think you are in earnest.”
He laughed. He liked to flirt with Bessie, the kitchen wench, even though she was twice his age, with a face like a bag pudding. No woman he knew was above flattery, and he considered himself
