At the Queen's Summons Read Free Page A

remember, Mistress…er—”
    â€œTrueheart,” she supplied helpfully, plucking a favorite name from the arsenal of her imagination. “Pippa Trueheart.”
    The Moor faced Leicester. The smaller man gaped up at him. “There you are, then,” said the black-haired lord.“Mistress Pippa Trueheart is performing under my warrant.”
    With a huge bear paw of a hand, he took her arm and brought her to her feet. “I do confess the little baggage is unmanageable at times and did slip away for today’s performance. From now on I shall keep her in closer tow.”
    Leicester nodded and stroked his narrow beard. “That would be most appreciated, my lord of Castleross.”
    The constable looked at the Moor’s huge escort. The members of the escort glared back, and the constable smiled nervously.
    The Moor turned and addressed his fierce servants in a tongue so foreign, so unfamiliar, that Pippa did not recognize a single syllable of it. That was odd, for she had a keen and discerning ear for languages.
    The skin-clad men marched out of the churchyard and clumped down Paternoster Row. The lad who served as stirrup runner led the big horse away. The Moor took hold of Pippa’s arm.
    â€œLet’s go, a storin, ” he said.
    â€œWhy do you call me a storin?”
    â€œIt is an endearment meaning ‘treasure.’”
    â€œOh. No one’s ever called me a treasure before. A trial, perhaps.”
    His lilting accent and the scent of the wind that clung in his hair and mantle sent a thrill through her. She had never been rescued in her life, and certainly not by such a specimen as this black-haired lord.
    As they walked toward the low gate linking St. Paul’s with Cheapside, she looked sideways at him. “You seem rather nice for a Moor.” She passed through the gate he held open for her.
    â€œA Moor, you say? Mistress, sure and I am no Moor.”
    â€œBut you said you were Aidan, the O Donoghue Moor.”
    He laughed. She stopped in her tracks. She earned her living by making people laugh, so she should be used to the sound of it, but this was different. His laughter was so deep and rich that she imagined she could actually see it, flowing like a banner of dark silk on the breeze.
    He threw back his great, shaggy head. She saw that he had a full set of teeth. The eyes, blazing blue like the hearts of flames, drew her in with that same compelling magic she had felt earlier.
    He was beginning to make her nervous.
    â€œWhy do you laugh?” she asked.
    â€œMór,” he said. “I am the O Donoghue Mór. It means ‘great.’”
    â€œAh.” She nodded sagely, pretending she had known all along. “And are you?” She let her gaze travel the entire length of him, lingering on the more interesting parts.
    God was a woman, Pippa thought with sudden certainty. Only a woman would create a man like the O Donoghue, forming such toothsome parts into an even more delectable whole. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”
    Mirth still glowed about him, though his laughter had ceased. He touched her cheek, a surprisingly tender gesture, and said, “That, a stor, depends on whom you ask.”
    The light, brief touch shook Pippa to the core, though she refused to show it. When people touched her, it was to box her ears or send her packing, not to caress and comfort.
    â€œAnd how does one address a man so great as yourself?” she asked in a teasing voice. “Your Worship? Your Excellency?” She winked. “Your Hugeness?”
    He laughed again. “For a lowly player, you know some big words. Saucy ones, too.”
    â€œI collect them. I’m a very fast learner.”
    â€œNot fast enough to stay out of trouble today, it seems.” He took her hand and continued walking eastward along Cheapside. They passed the pissing conduit and then the Eleanor Cross decked with gilded statues.
    Pippa saw the