Free Elizabeth: The Golden Age by TASHA ALEXANDER Page B

someone was announced. She welcomed the feeling, happy for the distraction, because when she was not thinking of him, she would be forced to deal with the increasing difficulties caused by her Scottish cousin.
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    The only real solace Mary Stuart had from the moment she’d made the mistake of fleeing to England was the ladies that surrounded her. She depended upon them. They were her only company, and she valued each of them, even her servants, as friends, despite the fact that at times they were absolutely incorrigible. At the moment, the laundress was crying so hard that her words were all but impossible to make out, but Mary tried not to be frustrated with her.
    “Tell me again,” she said, handing her a handkerchief.
    “Dismissed.” She’d finally managed a coherent word, and this success seemed to soothe her enough that she found her voice. “I’ve been dismissed.”
    “Dismissed?” Mary was holding Geddon in her arms and had been stroking the little dog’s soft fur, but stopped. “On whose orders?” More crying. “You really must stop sniveling.” The laundress had fallen into complete incoherence again. Mary turned to Annette. “Who dismissed her?”
    “The warden, my lady,” Annette said.
    “The warden? My warden?” She spat the words, then flew around at the sound of the door opening, her tone changing entirely as Sir Amyas Paulet entered the room. She walked to him, eyes soft, her voice all teasing seduction. “So you dismiss my laundress, sir. How am I to have clean clothes? Or do you want me to go about naked?”
    “That was not my motive, Majesty,” Paulet said, his voice steady. “Your laundress was found to be carrying letters in her washing.”
    “Intimate letters,” Mary said, leaning close enough to ensure he could smell her perfume. “Private letters. Love letters.”
    “Love letters?” The warden’s eyebrows pulled together. “I was aware that you had a husband, ma’am, who, sadly, died. And a second husband, who, sadly, died.”
    “Yes, yes—” Mary began.
    “And a third husband...”
    Now she was irritated, her voice rough. “That’s enough. Am I to have no privacy?”
    “You are a queen, Majesty,” Paulet said. “A queen belongs to her people.”
    “Then why am I not being treated like a queen? Why does Elizabeth not answer my letters? Why does she not come to see me? Why does she hate me?”
    “The queen does not hate you.” She saw a measured kindness in his eyes.
    “Has she told you so? Have you met her?” Mary asked.
    “I have had that honor, Majesty.”
    “What’s she like? Is she beautiful?” Jealousy laced her words as she wondered—no, doubted—that Elizabeth could be more attractive than she.
    “She has a queenly air.”
    “So do I have a queenly air,” Mary said, forcing herself to flirt again. “But, more than that, some have said I am beautiful.” Beautiful, yes, but that was not all for which she was known. Her voice—with its lovely Scottish lilt—charmed, and her wit and passion had drawn many a man to her, including more than one of her jailers. Yet it infuriated her to have to flirt with such men, so far beneath her station. It was untenable that a queen should come to this. She tried to bury the anger she felt building deep inside her.
    “In the words of the poet, Fair child of beauty, glorious lamp of love —”
    She could stand it no longer. “Damn your poet!”
    Paulet recoiled. Mary closed her eyes, composed herself, knowing it would be politic to keep the warden under her spell. With a graceful hand, she waved away her servants.
    “My friend, forgive me.” She was sweetness, the silver rays of the moon, beauty itself. “You are my friend, aren’t you?”
    “I am your servant, ma’am, and your admirer.” How easily he was captivated.
    “I shall send no more letters. I shall stay here quietly, in my prison. With you.” Lingering eyes made promises she would never keep and reminded her that Elizabeth had