Chapter Six

      John stared ahead of him along the rutted, muddy road, where Celia rode with one of the other men, Lord Knowlton, who had begun to pay her attention. She nodded at something he was saying, a faint smile on her lips, but even from that distance John could see that her eyes were distracted, her fingers stiff on the reins.

      Part of him was fiercely satisfied that she paid no attention to the man’s flirtations. If she had laughed with Knowlton, let him kiss her hand, John would have had to drag the man from his saddle and hit him in the jaw. He felt as if he walked a sword’s edge today, his temper barely in check.

      Usually when that darkness came upon him he had to find a brawl or have a bout of rough, hot sex to appease it. Neither was an option today.

      He glared at Celia and Lord Knowlton as she laughed at his coaxing words. A real laugh that sounded sharp and rusty, as if she had not laughed in a very long time.

      John dug his fist into his thigh, his muscles taut with the effort not to grab Celia and kiss her until she felt something again—felt him. He didn’t know if his anger was because she laughed with someone else, or at himself for even caring.

      Once he had cared for her far too much. She had slipped behind his defences before he’d even realised, with her black hair and her laughing smiles, her kisses and her passion that burned as hot and fierce as his own. Because of her he had nearly failed in his duty.

      And because of what he had done she had been wounded and changed for ever. Every time he looked into her cold, flat eyes and remembered how they had once flashed and danced, every time she pushed him away, that guilt burned in his gut.

      And he hated feeling guilty for the scars on someone’s soul. Guilt was a burden he could not afford—not in his work. That work had once been his salvation. If he felt the pain of everyone caught in the Queen’s justice he would be ruined.

      But Celia was not just everyone, anyone. She was Celia. And he still cared far too much for her.

      She reached up to rub at her shoulder, a small, unconscious gesture he had seen her make before when she’d thought no one watched. It wasn’t a noticeable thing, but he saw her smile slip when she touched herself there.

      Now he wanted to pull her from her horse—not to kiss her until she burned as he did, but to strip away her black doublet and see her bare shoulder. Soothe whatever ache she held there. He wanted to take away all her pain and make her life bright again, even as he knew he could not.

      “God’s teeth,” he ground out, his fist tightening.

      “Someone is in a foul mood today,” Marcus said cheerfully as he drew his horse up next to John’s.

      “And someone is disgustingly cheerful for no reason,” John answered.

      “Temper, temper,” Marcus said with a laugh. “I’m to meet with Lady Allison’s pretty maid tonight. But I’d be happy to oblige you with a fight first, if me beating your pretty face would make you feel better.”

      “You obviously do not recall what happened the last time we fought.”

      “I certainly do. My eye was swollen shut for a week,” Marcus said. He gave John a considering look. “But that time I was the one in a blind fury.”

      “I am not in a fury,” John said. He glanced again at Celia, who was nodding at something Lord Knowlton said. She no longer rubbed at her shoulder, but she didn’t smile either.

      “If you say so,” Marcus said. “Not that I blame you for being in a temper. A forced journey in the middle of winter could defeat even my good mood. And it looks as if the weather is going to get even worse.”

      John had been so caught up in Celia that he hadn’t even noticed the bite of the wind around him, the frost on the muddy ruts of the road that slowed their progress to a crawl. He looked up at the sky to see that the clouds had grown thicker and darker. It was barely past midday, but already the light was being choked off. There was the distinct cold, clean smell of snow on the air.

      “God’s blood,” John cursed. “We’ll never make it to the next village by nightfall.”

      “We’ll just have to ride harder, eh?” Marcus said. “At least I have a warm bed waiting at the end …”

      The inn was crowded with travellers, all seeking shelter from the freezing rain that pounded down outside, but room was made for an important personage like Lord Darnley and his party. Celia was given a palette in a corner with Lady Allison, and then found herself hastily changed into dry clothes and put in a chair near the fire of the inn’s great room for supper.

      Celia sipped at a cup of spiced wine as she studied the crowded chamber. Lord Knowlton sat beside her, chatting with her of inconsequential Court gossip as they shared a trencher of beef stew. He had been very attentive on today’s journey, staying close to her and entertaining her through the cold, tedious hours. He seemed nice—handsome enough, if older than her, and non-threatening with his kind brown eyes, his polite attentions and compliments.

      Usually she stayed as far from men as she could, but she hardly noticed Lord Knowlton when he was right beside her. John Brandon, though—she always seemed keenly aware of where he was all the time, even though he had not come near her all day. He seemed to emit some kind of strange, lightning glow that drew her attention to him.

      She turned her head slightly to find him again. He sat in a shadowed corner with Lord Marcus and two other men. Marcus had one of the tavern maids on his lap, the two of them laughing, but John didn’t seem to see them at all. He stared down into his goblet with a brooding look on his face, as if he was far away from the raucous inn. She well remembered that look.

      His fingers slowly tapped at the scarred tabletop, and Celia found her gaze drawn to that slow, rhythmic movement. He had beautiful hands, and long, elegant fingers that were so good at wielding a sword, soothing a fractious horse …

      Pleasing a woman.

      His stare snapped up from his hand to find her watching him. Some deep, heated anger simmered in those blue depths, and Celia felt her cheeks turn hot.

      John had a façade of such elegance and charm, with his fine Court clothes, his handsome looks, his smile. But Celia knew that so much more lurked beneath—a storm of passion and volcanic fury. He could fight like a Southwark street thief—or make love with a force that burned away all else.

      She remembered that part of him all too well now, as he watched her across the room, and it made her want to leap up from the table and run. She sensed that part of him was barely tethered tonight.

      “… is that not so, Mistress Sutton?” Lord Knowlton asked.

      The sound of her name made Celia turn away from John’s stare, but she could still feel him studying