It was a gloomy thought, but Nick could see little reason for cheer. True, he had not entered the Tower through Traitor's Gate, but he was as securely held as any, and he still had no concrete charges to defend.
He turned to look over the other side of the parapet, down into the great court of the Tower, where the distinctive black ravens squabbled amongst themselves, circling and strutting with the self-importance of those who had inhabited this place for longer than any human soul. Even at this early hour, the scene was lively, guards and servants hastening about their business, troops of soldiers responding with well-trained obedience to bellowed orders, heralds and liveried messengers on horseback passing back and forth through the gates. The governor appeared, striding briskly across the quadrangle. He looked up to see his prisoner, and raised a hand in salute.
Nicholas returned the salute. The governor was a civilized man, one who enjoyed civilized and intelligent company over a fine port, and Kincaid had rarely spent a lonely evening during this sojourn in the Tower.
"Breakfast's 'ere, m'lord." A guard appeared in the narrow entrance to the tower where Nick was housed.
"I'd have more stomach for it with a deal more exercise," Nicholas said, but he turned within. A fire burned in the round stone chamber of his jail, a thick quilt and feather mattress furnished the narrow bed, a pile of books stood upon the plank table beneath the small, barred window. There was little discomfort in his conditions, if one did not count the loss of freedom. He met no insult, not even a hint of discourtesy, from his jailers, but they were still his jailers.
He turned desultory attention to ale and sirloin. Was Polly
still abed? It was past seven, but if she had not sought her bed before midnight, then she could well be asleep, preparing herself for the morning's work with Killigrew, and the afternoon performance. But what could she have been doing in his absence that would have kept her out of her bed into the small hours? Mayhap Richard was squiring her to court, encouraging her to maintain the casual, mercenary front that they had perfected over the months. Whatever happened, she must not be tarred with this unknown brush that painted her protector. Richard would understand that, and act accordingly.
Nick had received no communication from the outside world, the governor apologizing for orders that prevented this. Neither had he been permitted to send any-even instructions to Margaret as to domestic financial arrangements. De Winter would see that Polly lacked for nothing, of that he was certain, but nothing could assuage the aching fear for her, the desolation of his utter helplessness. He could feel her, smell her, see her, hear her. He could remember, as if he were still living them, the times when she had angered him, exasperated him, then disarmed him; the times when she had entranced him, had transported him to the outermost limits of joy, had brought him laughter and delight such as he had never known. And he wanted to weep with a loss that his prison walls seemed to insist was final.
"Lord Kincaid?" The ponderous tones of the governor tore him from his reverie.
"Governor, your pardon. I find myself somewhat distracted." He turned from the leaping flames and the dancing memories, putting his back to the fire as he greeted courteously the man who held dominion over his immediate circumstances. "Ye've some news of the impeachment, mayhap?"
"On the contrary, my lord." The governor was beaming. "A messenger has just come from Whitehall with this." A parchment was extended, the smile broadened. "I'll be sorry to lose your company, sir, but I can rejoice for ye."
Kincaid read the order under Buckingham's seal for his
release, and the dismissal of all charges, stated or yet to be so. "Why?" he asked softly. "It defies comprehension."
The governor had no light to shed and, indeed, could not understand why his noble erstwhile prisoner should tarry in questioning. He gestured to an accompanying guard. "Your sword, Lord Kincaid. The carriage awaits you in the court."
"Then I'll thank you for your courtesy and your many kindnesses, Governor." Nick sheathed his sword, feeling himself whole again, belonging to his own world again; the two men exchanged bows. The governor accompanied Nick to the court, where he entered the same unmarked carriage that, this time, bore him beyond the walls of the Tower, into the familiar streets of freedom.
Polly's wrists stung under the kiss of hot water as she sank into the tub before the bedchamber fire. The sensation brought the most unwelcome thought. "Sue, can ye see any marks on my skin?" She stood up in the tub, dripping, peer- -ing down at her body. Buckingham's sport had caused her no worse than occasional discomfort, but she had not had the foresight to worry about a telltale finger bruise, or a scratch of haste and passion-signs that a chaste and lonely seven days should not have put upon her body.
Sue had been given no details of the nights' events; she knew only that they had something to do with Lord Kin-caid's disappearance, and it was a secret to be kept guarded with her soul; but she was worldly enough to make a guess at the nature of Polly's nightly experiences-experiences that sent her, each morning, into hot water, scouring every inch of skin, before she fell into an exhausted sleep for an hour or two. So the request did not cause any exclamations.
Sue examined the slender figure carefully. "Ye've a little bruise on your arm, a scratch here." She touched beneath a pointed shoulder-blade. "Naught else that I can see."
"Apart from my wrists." Polly sat down in the water again, examining the slightly reddened skin. "Mayhap witch
hazel will help. 'Tis not too bad, but my lord must not notice."
"My lord!" Sue dropped the soap that she was about to hand the bather. "Is he released, then?"
"I expect him at any moment," Polly said with perfect confidence. Even Richard had said that a Villiers would not break his word, and somehow, she knew that she had lost her fascination for Buckingham now. He had wanted her, and he had taken what he wanted, proving to himself and to her the extent of the power that she had scorned. He had used her and could now discard her, a cast-off whore of no further interest. He would find fresh challenges, and leave Kincaid and his little actor-harlot to their own devices.
It was a prognosis with which Polly could find no fault. She was perfectly content to leave Buckingham in possession of the field, if that was what he chose to believe. He had thought to debase her, but he had not succeeded. She knew that, and it was her own knowledge that was all-important. It mattered not a jot what the duke thought.
But it might matter what Nicholas thought. Polly sank deeper into the tub. She could not imagine how Nick would react. Would he, as Richard said, treat it as pragmatically as he had their plan that she should spy for them from the duke's bed? Or would he see her as debased? A plaything of that notorious debauched wencher? Used and discarded, and therefore unlovely and unlovable?
A loud banging at the street door resounded through the house. She heard his voice, his quick tread on the stair, and all such anxieties fled for the present. He was safe, and that was all that mattered.
She sprang from the tub, running into the parlor, to fling herself, naked and dripping, into his arms as he pushed open the door. "Nick! Oh, Nick!" she sobbed repetitively against his chest, holding him with all her strength, clasping her hands at his back, squeezing tightly. "I have missed you so!"
For a few moments he just held her, saying nothing as he allowed the feel, the shape, the scent of her to become a part of him again; then, gently, he prized apart her hands at his
back and stood away from her, holding her arms wide at her sides. "Let me look at you."