She bit her lower lip, the sting of pain yanking her back into the present. It was a fact that if her Queen ordered her to marry a Scot, then marry a Scot she must do. Her family had always been loyal supporters of the English Crown.
Still, was there not some way of dissuading Elizabeth? If so, Gabrielle could not think of it; her mind was still too numb with shock for her to be able to concentrate long on any one thing, let alone a plan to escape Elizabeth's dictate.
Marry a Scot?
Lord in heaven, what had she ever done to deserve such a horrendous fate?
Gabrielle glanced down at the fingers—short and thick, the skin ruddy from a recent washing, the fingernails bluntly cut and well manicured—she now twisted nervously atop her silk-clad lap. The answer, when it came, hit her like a slap across the face.
Robert Devereaux, the second Earl of Essex.
A friend only, Gabrielle and Robert had spent much time in each other's company since he'd come to court. Oh, she was careful to make sure they were never alone, but apparently that didn't matter. In a court prone to rumor, much like any court in any kingdom, the latest gossip to be band
ied about was that Gabrielle Carelton and Robert Devereaux were carrying on a sordid, lusty affair... right behind Elizabeth's narrow back.
When the rumor had reached Gabrielle, her reaction had been to tip back her head and give a hearty laugh. As if a man like Robert Devereaux would ever be interested in a heavyset, plain-looking woman like herself. Not bloody likely!
Through the shield of her lashes, Gabrielle snuck a look at Elizabeth. The Queen didn't look amused. It would seem the rumor had finally reached Elizabeth's ears. Gabrielle was surprised it had taken so long.
How had Elizabeth received the tidbit of misinformed news?
Gabrielle could well imagine!
Elizabeth had always been a self-centered woman who demanded she be the center of attention—both inside and outside palace walls. As she'd aged, and what little harsh beauty she had started to fade, Elizabeth's desire for attention—especially male attention—had blossomed into an obsession.
What Gabrielle hadn't considered—until now, until it was too bloody late!—was how much it would sting Elizabeth's pride to have it publicly displayed that her latest suitor—whom Elizabeth seemed more interested in than those many gentlemen who had come and gone before him—was distracted by a woman as unattractive as Gabrielle Carelton.
Gabrielle's attention had dipped again to the fingers she twisted atop her lap. Her gaze now rose slowly, meeting Elizabeth's. If there was a trace of sympathy in the Queen's face, she couldn't find it.
Gabrielle's hopes plummeted. "Would Mariella Rose not be better suited for such an"—she hesitated a beat—"honor, Your Majesty?"
"I considered her, but in the end it was obvious you would best suit my needs."
"But why?" Gabrielle couldn't help but prod for information.
"Unlike Mariella, you've a trace of Scots blood in your veins, lady. That suits my objective perfectly."
"'Tis but a very small trace. Miniscule."
"Aye, but a trace all the same. 'Tis Maxwell blood you have in you, is it not?"
Gabrielle nodded reluctantly. The relationship was one any Carelton worth his name admitted to only under extreme duress. "I don't understand. What has the shadier part of my lineage to do with—?"
"Everything, dear lady. Absolutely everything."
Sweeping aside her nightdress and robe—the occasional times Elizabeth rose early she did not dress until shortly before noon—she took a seat next to Gabrielle on the settee. Silently, Gabrielle sent up a prayer the delicate piece of furniture held the added weight. Reaching over, she took Gabrielle's hand in her own. Elizabeth's expression was cold.
Behind her back, some in court referred to their sovereign as The Ice Maiden. Never having had occasion to touch Elizabeth before, Gabrielle had always disregarded the term. Now, however, she thought the nickname well suited to the Queen. Elizabeth's fingers were very long, delicately shaped, enviably slender... while her skin was more arctic than a pane of glass during a roaring winter blizzard.
Elizabeth gave Gabrielle's fingers a squeeze that Gabrielle assumed was meant to reassure and encourage. In truth, it did neither.
"You've not been with me long," Elizabeth said, "surely not as long as some, but you've been one of my ladies long enough to know the troubles I currently face. The Borders between Scotland and England are in a severe state of turmoil..." She rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed tiredly. Again. "As your protector, provider, and friend, I ask for your help in settling those savages down."
"And as my Queen...?"
"I demand it,"
"'Tis a heavy task you ask of me. I'm not entirely sure how I, simply by marrying a barbaric Northerner, can accomplish it."