Improbable Eden Read online

  “My, yes,” Eden said, wondering what book learning had to do with morality. “Don’t think me ungrateful or indifferent to your predicament, but ….” She stopped, alarmed by the sudden change in Marlborough. His forehead was damp with perspiration; his face had turned an alarming shade of gray.

  “Summon Max,” he muttered, stumbling toward the bed.

  Disturbed by his relapse, Eden pivoted on one foot and made for the passageway. She called out only once before Max responded.

  “What’s wrong now?” he asked, the top of his head almost even with the door’s lintel.

  “His Lordship’s taken ill again. He asked for you.” Eden realized that there was resentment in her tone. She was Marlborough’s daughter, and he knew that she was skilled in the medical arts, yet he had asked for this arrogant foreigner. “I trust you can cure him this time,” she said as Max moved swiftly to the Earl’s room.

  “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep giving him a headache,” Max shot over his shoulder.

  Annoyed, she stomped after him but tried to cool her temper when she saw the Earl’s misery. He was lying on the bed, one arm flung over his face. He didn’t acknowledge their presence, but waited patiently while Max mixed and measured medicine with the skill of a chemist.

  Eden’s concern for the man she was beginning to think of as her father prevented her from interfering or asking questions. Instead, she waited by the cupboard while Max tended the Earl. The younger man then checked on the shutters, poked back the glowing embers in the hearth and blew out the only remaining candle. With a quick movement he signaled for Eden to follow him to his quarters next door.

  “Beer?” Hoisting an enormous tankard, he indicated that Eden should join him at the square wooden table. “It’s a local brew, not as good as Dutch, but it slakes the thirst when all is said and done.” Max spoke nonchalantly, clearly taking his master’s ill health in stride.

  Having been raised by a cider maker, Eden had never tasted beer, though she’d sampled the hard drink Monsieur Berenger brewed each autumn from a portion of his apples. “Kent has some fine beer makers,” Eden declared loyally. “Yes, I should like a drink.”

  Max poured with apparent recklessness, but topped off the mug perfectly, with the foaming suds just barely lapping the rim. Eden took a big swallow and let the beer roll around in her mouth. It tasted bitter and was too cold. She preferred cider, but refused to admit as much to Max.

  “So,” he said, putting his tankard on the table, “what has His Lordship told you?”

  Eden shot him a haughty look. “Ask His Lordship. When you’ve cured him.”

  Shrugging, Max leaned back in the chair, his long, booted legs reaching to the opposite side of the table. “I know what he intended to tell you. I marvel that you’re so calm.” Despite Max’s casual pose, his hazel eyes were disconcertingly intense.

  Eden’s full mouth pursed primly. She was unaware that a thin line of foam adorned her upper lip. “I’m not easily ruffled,” she replied, and wondered why Max was suddenly smiling. “Well, do you find my encounter with the Earl a source of fun?” Taking another drink from the mug, Eden tried to look severe.

  Max rubbed at his upper lip in an effort to hide his amusement. In reflex response, Eden did the same, and discovered her finger dampened by beer suds. Before she could express her irritation, Max replied, “I find anything to do with His Lordship of consequence. My future is tied in with his, after all.” His long, chiseled face clouded. “The real question is, what do you think?”

  Eden lifted her eyebrows. “That’s a matter between His Lordship and me.” Draining her mug, she slid it across to Max. “More. Please.” She tilted her head to one side as she watched him pour, then took the mug and swung it to her lips so rashly that it spilled onto the table. Paying no heed as Max got out a handkerchief to wipe up the puddle, Eden took another drink.

  Her gaze wavered as she tried to study Max’s face with those intriguing cheekbones, that slightly crooked nose, the mobile mouth and the strong chin. Romantic, she thought fleetingly, though less so in a valet than in a lord. If she, Eden Berenger, was really Eden Churchill, then she was an aristocrat, far above the common class. The tedious routine of the Berenger household, the spiteful gibes of her foster family, the bleak prospect of life with a village boor would all vanish. She could even tell people like Max to go to the devil. She’d enjoy that ….

  Eden swallowed more beer and closed her eyes, envisioning velvet and satin, ribbons and laces, sapphires and pearls. The gilded palaces she’d dreamed of as a child, those turreted castles and handsome manor houses flitted across the stage of her imagination. It must be true. Hadn’t Eden always known that her father was someone special? She righted herself in the chair and emptied the mug. But this time when she pushed it to Max, he gave her a dubious look.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly.” Eden’s haughty manner was flawed by a hiccup.

  Max, who had just poured himself another mugful, remained skeptical, but finally relented.

  “Thank you, Max,” said Eden, in a patronizing tone. She smiled not so much at him as at her prospects, which were growing rosier with every drop of beer. “Comfort, yes—licentiousness, no.” She shook her head and hummed a bit to herself. “It’s wrong. And King or not, he’s old.” Taking another drink, she tried to fix her wavering gaze on Max’s face. Handsome, she thought, incredibly so, and he knows it. No doubt he’s bedded most of the wenches in Marlborough’s household. Now if King William looked more like this Dutch valet …. Eden licked foam from her lips and giggled.

  “Holy St. Hubert.” Max was scowling as he reached out to grasp Eden’s mug. Jack had proved lucky with the girl’s looks, especially that insouciant quality that went beyond mere beauty. But in Max’s opinion, her intelligence—or at least her judgment—was suspect. She had much to learn if she was to become an asset to the Earl. “Hold, mistress,” Max commanded. “His Lordship will be annoyed when he discovers his protégée is tipsy.”

  But Eden had both hands clenched around the mug. “Give it back,” she insisted, her dark eyes steely if unfocused. “I’m still thirsty.”

  Max had the mug by the handle. He appeared to surrender with a shrug, but when Eden attempted to lift her drink, he jerked it from her fingers. She lunged at him, but her elbow skidded in a pool of beer. Max burst into laughter, the handsome head thrown back.

  Furious, Eden sat up, making a vain effort to recapture her composure. “You stole my beer!” she accused. “Give it back, you basty nastard!”

  “You what?” Max could barely get the words out between hoots of laughter. He wiped his eyes, but was still grinning when he stood and placed both mugs high on a plate rail, out of Eden’s reach. When he turned to face her, the grin was gone. Instead, he wore an expression of surprise, as if laughter had become an unfamiliar exercise.

  Eden, however, recognized his reaction only in some dim corner of her mind. She was still furious with the Dutchman, incensed that he would have the effrontery to refuse her request. It appeared that he knew who she was; Marlborough must confide in his manservant. Surely Max ought to oblige his master’s daughter, whether she was illegitimate or not.

  “Max, you are a swine.” She put her hands on the table to steady herself and stood up. “You’ve no right to take away my beer!” One arm flew out in the direction of the plate rail. “Give it back! Now!”

  Any trace of humor faded from Max’s face. Eden Berenger Churchill was a silly chit, unsuited for anything but life with a country dolt. A pity, since Marlborough had counted on her help. That disarming frankness would only be detrimental in the rarefied atmosphere of the court. And while her allure was undeniable, at least for a village lass, her utter lack of sophistication would prove catastrophic. Max almost felt sorry for her, but knew he must harden his heart. Otherwise, he might give the Earl bad advice.

  He took four deliberate strides toward Eden and, without exerting any effort, shoved her into the c
hair. “Sit. Be quiet. Wait for His Lordship.” But when Eden popped to her feet as soon as he stepped away, his patience snapped.

  Grabbing her by the shoulders, he gave her a sharp shake. “Behave!” The hazel eyes were fierce. “Are you always this witless? Or this drunk?”

  “Drunk?” squealed Eden, squirming in his grasp. The big hands seemed to scorch her flesh. It was an odd sensation, yet not painful. Fleetingly, she wished her mind weren’t so muddled. Too much had happened all at once, that was the problem, and if only she could sleep for a little while, it could all be sorted out ….

  Somehow, her head was resting against Max’s upper arm, and while he still had his hands on her shoulders, he wasn’t shaking her anymore. The room was very quiet except for the wind rattling the casements. Cautiously, Eden looked up. From this perspective, Max’s face was all sharp planes and angles, formidable as the Alps. For one giddy moment she had an irresistible urge to touch the long, lean jaw that jutted out above the linen shirt collar.

  “I don’t drink. I never drink beer. I never had until ….” She gasped as she realized his hazel eyes seemed to be devouring her. Was he still angry? Was he trying to frighten her into proper behavior? No, it was something else, a foreign emotion that Eden had glimpsed somewhere before but couldn’t quite recall ….

  “Never mind.” Max’s words came out in a growl. Before he could say anything further, noises erupted in the hallway. Puzzled, Max turned toward the door, though his hands remained on Eden’s shoulders. A woman called out above the deeper voices of some men, then a door banged.

  “Jack!” exclaimed Max, letting go of Eden. He grabbed his sword and dashed into the passageway.

  Trying to shake off the fog of drink, Eden followed. In the corridor, Mistress Bunn was berating a half dozen uniformed men who were already charging into Marlborough’s bedchamber.

  “King’s men,” she said under her breath to Max as he tried to cross the threshold.

  Three of the soldiers had the Earl of Marlborough under guard. While his face was still haggard, his color had returned and his composure seemed unruffled. “My waistcoat, please,” he said in his usual mild tone. “Surely you don’t expect to arrest me in a half-dressed state at this time of year?”

  One of the soldiers hurriedly brought Marlborough’s waistcoat, along with his hat and cloak as well. To Eden’s surprise, the man bowed deferentially before handing over the apparel.

  Another man—the senior officer, judging from his age and amount of decoration—was not so obsequious. “What of these others?” he demanded, gesturing with a pudgy hand at Max and Eden.

  Marlborough’s gray-green eyes flickered over the pair with feigned indifference. “Leave them be,” he said. “They’re of no consequence.”

  The commander’s eyes rested on Eden, unabashedly ogling her engaging if disheveled appearance. Then he raised his eyes to Max, scanning the great distance from the top of his blond head to the tips of his booted feet. “You’re armed. Hand over that sword.”

  With a shrug, Max obliged. The commanding officer still stared hard at the tall foreigner. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I could swear I’ve seen this one at ….”

  She wasn’t precisely sober, but Eden’s state of inebriation had ebbed considerably. “We’re servants,” she blurted, jabbing at Max. “This here’s Max the Dutchman, His Lordship’s valet.”

  Eden’s affected county accent might have fooled the pudgy soldier, but Max’s impressive size gave him away. “Owr …” the commander rumbled, casting a baleful glance at Marlborough. “Do ye take me for a fool?” He pointed a stubby finger at Max. “I know this one, it’s His Highness, Prince Maximilian of Nassau-Dillenburg.”

  “Ta! And I’m the Queen of Spain!” retorted Eden, clapping her hands and noting with relief that they made contact. She looked at Max and made a wry face. “Great heavens,” she whispered, “how inventive is this soldier!”

  Max’s first reaction was to ignore Eden’s remark, but the color was rising in his high cheekbones. “It was my parents who were so inventive, God rest their souls.” Without further ado, he moved toward Marlborough and his captors. “Never mind, Jack,” he said with a careless lift of his shoulders. “It’s an honor to be arrested in your company. By the way, what’s the charge?”

  Marlborough was adjusting the steinkirk at his neck. “A fancy one, I’m afraid, Max. High treason.” A truncated laugh escaped his lips. “Someone thinks I tried to kill the King.”

  Eden’s brain was reeling from more than the beer. It had been a day of shocks, and this latest blow rendered her speechless. All she could do was stare blankly at the departing backs of Marlborough and the alleged Prince Maximilian. But even as she tried to sort out the jumble of astonishing events, a strong hand took her by the wrist.

  “You, too, Mistress,” growled a florid-faced soldier not much taller than Eden. “For all we know, you are the Queen of Spain.”

  It was useless to protest. Eden’s world had spun out of control. Without a word, she let herself be hauled away, a suspected conspirator in a plot to murder the King of England. In less than two hours, she had gone from being the unwanted child in a Huguenot household to the daughter of an English earl. But instead of going to a warm welcome at court, Eden Berenger Churchill was headed for prison.

  Chapter Three

  Eden’s first glimpse of London came after dark, through patchy fog, as a cumbersome barge pulled up to the Tower’s infamous Traitors’ Gate. Until they reached the river, the journey from Kent had been made on horseback, with little opportunity for conversation. Never at ease in the saddle, Eden was sure she’d be killed before they reached London. At their only resting stop, the Earl of Marlborough had expressed his brief, if sincere, apologies to Eden.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” he’d said, with fatigue in his eyes. “I had no idea this was going to happen. The King thinks I came to Kent to light a bonfire at Dover, signaling that an assassination had taken place. Absurd, of course, but there it is.”

  It was more than absurd to Eden, it was incredible. But then it had been such a turbulent day, with one astounding revelation after another. That Max should turn out to be a Dutch or Flemish prince made Eden feel mortified at the way she’d treated him. Between her high-handed manner and her drunken behavior, she understood why he thought she was a foolish country simpleton.

  But regret was replaced by fear as Eden was propelled up the lichen-covered steps to the Tower. In front of her she could make out Max’s blond head, turned to gold by a torch hanging on the dank wall. Eden paused and shuddered on the top stair. Terrifying tales of the ancient prison had given her nightmares as a child. Briefly she closed her eyes, wondering if she’d ever taste freedom again.

  A rough hand shoved her forward, and she almost slipped on the slimy stones. In a weary daze, Eden watched a dignified Tower official speak in low tones with Marlborough. The exchange was civil, even amicable. And then the Earl was taken away, while she and Prince Maximilian were led in another direction. The corridors and stairways seemed to wind on forever, like an endless stone maze. At last a cell was opened and Max disappeared inside. Eden felt a surge of desperation and strained forward, but her guard put out a beefy arm.

  “In here,” he muttered, gesturing toward an open cell.

  She froze, seeing only darkness and feeling a raw draft at her back. Her captor cuffed her smartly on the temple, and Eden stumbled then lurched into the cell and slumped to the floor as the iron door clanked behind her.

  She sat for a long time, huddled against the cold, feeling miserable and alone. Finally, Eden struggled to her feet and looked out through the narrow barred window. Cold, wintry stars studded the blackness of the night, and though there was no moon, the fog had lifted so that she could make out an expanse of grass patched with snow. Eden saw clusters of buildings where lights burned behind some of the windows. Tower Green, she guessed, and wondered dolefully how many hapless souls had ended their lives on the notorious b
lock. Directly below, two men in flowing capes moved leisurely along the limewalk. Their freedom made Eden acutely aware of her confinement.

  Just as the church bells tolled eight o’clock, the sound of the cell door opening made her jump. A guard stood before her, holding a tray with two covered dishes and a mug of ale. Eden stared at the repast, then turned away. She was ravenous, but the sight of the ale upset her stomach.

  “I prefer water,” she said, her back turned. The guard, a squat man with eyebrows like a crow’s wings, had set the tray down on a little stool.

  “It’s ale ye got and ale ye’ll drink,” he asserted, starting to leave but pausing when he saw Eden whirl around in annoyance. “Well, who might ye really be? The Prince’s doxy?” He was rocking back and forth, boldly studying Eden with voracious eyes.

  “Hardly.” She held her head high, her back straight. “Surely there is water in the river?”

  The man cocked his head. “There is. But it don’t bring itself in here. What’ll ye pay for a cup, Princess?”

  Eden shot him a scornful look. “Go away.”

  The guard snorted. “Fancy, eh?” Someone was coming along the passageway and he quickly retreated from the cell. Eden didn’t turn around until the sound of his footsteps had faded.

  She ate little of the underdone mutton, less of the stale bread and drank none of the ale. The church bells chimed nine and ten and then eleven. At last Eden lay down on her lumpy pallet, her heavy cape wrapped securely around her. Despite her fatigue, she couldn’t sleep. Somewhere out there, Eden thought dismally, there is music and laughter and excitement …. There is all of London and the court and the King.

  There is freedom, too, Eden told herself just before she fell asleep. The one thing she had possessed upon waking that morning in Smarden was freedom. In the hours that had followed, glittering promises of a new life had been dangled before her. But as London’s lights dimmed, Eden’s future seemed as empty as the night. She slept dreamlessly, as if the theft of her liberty had also robbed her of illusion.