remembered with a pang the way he had flown over the ice. What would it be like to feel so very free, to drift like that, above all earthly bonds? She was quite tempted. But…‘I could never do what you did. I would fall right over!’
He laughed, a deep, warm sound that rubbed against her like fine silk-velvet. She longed to hear it again, to revel in that happy sound over and over. ‘You need not go into a spin, Lady Rosamund, merely stay upright and move forward.’
That alone sounded difficult enough. ‘On two thin little blades attached to my shoes.’
‘I vow it is not as hard as it sounds.’
‘And neither is dancing.’
‘Then shall we prove it to ourselves? Just a small, harmless wager, my lady.’
Rosamund frowned. She thought he surely did not have a ‘harmless’ bone in his handsome body! ‘I don’t have any money of my own yet.’
‘Nay, you have something far more precious.’
‘And what is that?’
‘A lock of your hair.’
‘My hair?’ Her hand flew up to touch her hair which was carefully looped and pinned under a narrow silver headdress and sheer veil. Her maid Jane had shoved in extra pins to hold the fine, slick strands tight, but Rosamund could feel them already slipping. ‘Whatever for?’
Anton watched intently as her fingers moved along one loose strand. ‘I think it must be made of moonbeams. It makes me think of nights in my homeland, of the way silver moonlight sparkles on the snow.’
‘Why, Master Gustavson,’ Rosamund breathed. ‘I think you have missed your calling. You are no diplomat or skater, you are a poet.’
He laughed and that flash of seriousness dissipated like winter fog. ‘No more than I am a dancer, I fear, my lady. ’Tis a great pity, for it seems both poetry and dancing are highly prized here in London.’
‘Are they not in Stockholm?’
He shook his head. ‘Warfare is prized in Stockholm, and not much else of late.’
‘It is a pity, then. For I fear poetry would be more likely to win the Queen’s hand for your king.’
‘I think you are correct, Lady Rosamund. But I must still do my duty here.’
‘Ah, yes. We all must do our duty,’ Rosamund said ruefully, remembering her parents’ words.
Anton smiled at her. ‘But life is not all duty, my lady. We must have some merriment as well.’
‘True. Especially now at Christmas.’
‘Then we have a wager?’
Rosamund laughed. Perhaps it was the wine, the music, the fatigue from her journey and the late hour, but she suddenly felt deliciously reckless. ‘Very well. If you cannot dance and I cannot skate, I will give you a lock of my hair.’
‘And if it is the opposite? What prize do you claim for yourself?’
He leaned close to her, so close she could see the etched-glass lines of his face, the faint shadow of beard along his jaw. She could smell the summery lime of his cologne, the clean, warm winter-frost scent of him. A kiss, she almost blurted out, staring at the faint smile on his lips.
What would he kiss like? Quick, eager—almost overly eager, like Richard? Or slow, lazy, exploring every angle, every sensation? What would he taste like?
She gulped and took a step back, her gaze falling to his hand curled lightly around the goblet. On his smallest finger was a ring, a small ruby set in intricate gold filigree. ‘That is a pretty bauble,’ she said hoarsely, gesturing to the ring. ‘Would you wager it?’
He held his hand up, staring at the ring as if he had forgotten it was there. ‘If you wish it.’
Rosamund nodded. ‘Then done. I will meet you in the Waterside Gallery on Christmas morning for a dance lesson.’
‘And as soon as the Thames is frozen through we will go skating.’
‘Until then, Master Gustavson.’ Rosamund quickly curtsied, and hurried away to join the other maids where they had gathered near the door. It was nearly the Queen’s hour to retire, and they had to accompany her.
Only once she was entirely across the room from Anton did she draw in a deep breath. She felt as if she had suddenly been dropped back to earth after spinning about in the sky, all unmoored and uncertain. Her head whirled.
‘What were you and Master Gustavson talking of for so long?’ Anne whispered.
‘Dancing, of course,’ Rosamund answered.
‘If I had him to myself like that,’ Anne said, ‘I am certain I could think of better things than dancing to talk of! Do you think you will be able to win the Queen’s wager?’
Rosamund shrugged, still feeling quite dazed. She feared she was quite unable to think at all any more.
Svordom! What had led him to promise her his mother’s ring?
Anton curled his hand into a fist around the heavy goblet, the embossed silver pressing into the calluses along his palm as he watched her walk away. It seemed as if all the light in the chamber collected onto her, a silvery glow that carried her above the noisy fray.
He knew all too well what had made him agree to a ridiculous wager that didn’t even make sense, to offer her that ring. It was her, Rosamund Ramsay, alone. That look in her large blue eyes.
She had not been at Court long enough to learn to conceal her feelings entirely. She had tried, but every once in a while they had flashed through those expressive eyes—glimpses of fear, nervousness, excitement, bravery, laughter—uncertainty.
He had lived so long among people who had worn masks all their lives. The concealment became a part of them, so that even they had no idea what they truly were, what they truly felt. Even he had his own masks, a supply of them for every occasion. They were better than any armour.
Yet when he looked at Rosamund Ramsay he felt the heavy weight of that concealment pressing down on him. He could not be free of it, but he could enjoy her freedom until she, too, learned to don masks. It would not be long, not here, and he felt unaccountably melan choly at the thought of those eyes, that lovely smile, turning brittle and false.
Aye, he would enjoy her company while he could. His own task drew near, and he could not falter now. He unwound his fist, staring down at the ruby. It glowed blood-red in the torchlight, reminding him of his promises and dreams.
‘Making wagers with the Queen?’ Johan said, coming up to Anton to interrupt his dark thoughts. ‘Is that wise, from all we have heard of her?’
Anton laughed, watching Queen Elizabeth as she talked with her chief advisor, Lord Burghley. Burghley was not terribly old, yet his face was lined with care, his hair and beard streaked with grey. Serving the English Queen could be a frustrating business, as they had learned to their own peril. She kept them cooling their heels at Court, dancing attendance on her as she vacillated at King Eric’s proposal. Anton was certain she had no intention of marrying the king, or possibly anyone at all, but they could not depart until they had an official answer. Meanwhile, they danced and dined, and warily circled the Austrians and the Scots.
As for Anton’s own matter, she gave no answer at all.
Maddening indeed. Battle was simple; the answer was won by the sword. Court politics were more slippery, more changeable, and far more time-consuming. But he was a patient man, a determined one. He could wait—for now.
At least there was Rosamund Ramsay to make the long days more palatable.
‘I would not worry, Johan,’ Anton said, tossing back the last of the wine. ‘This wager is strictly for Her Grace’s holiday amusement.’
‘What