Behind Closed Doors Read online

  Also by Betina Krahn

  A Good Day to Marry a Duke

  Three Nights With the Princess

  The Girl With the Sweetest Secret

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Behind Closed Doors

  BETINA KRAHN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Teaser chapter

  Betina Krahn

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1991, 2019 by Betina M. Krahn

  Previously published by Avon Books in September 1991.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4356-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4359-1 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4359-X (eBook)

  For my dear friends.

  Pamela Muehlbauer

  Charlie and L’Myra Hoogland

  and

  Thea Devine

  Prologue

  South of Stockholm

  June 1576

  The golden rays of the midsummer sun had scarcely left the horizon when they returned, reclaiming the sky and the land. The shortest night of the year was past, and with it the great revels that accompanied the yearly Midsummer festivities, a celebration of warmth and light in a land that saw much cold and darkness.

  Around the vaulted, oak-paneled hall of the Count of Aelthar lay the remains of a great celebration: guests lying limp in puddles of ale and draped over the banquettes that lined the walls, snoring servants curled on benches, scattered pitchers and tankards, and tattered streamers hanging from the wrought-iron torch frame overhead. Two male figures sat amidst the ruins, nursing dwindling tankards at the great oaken table in the center of the hall. Tall, blond Rugar Kalisson, the Count of Aelthar, and his friend. Baron Torgne Sigurd, had long since discarded their swords and starched ruffs, and their velvet doublets were half unbuttoned. Their strong, angular faces were drink-reddened, and their long, Norse frames were sprawled over the heavy estate chairs.

  “He’s sending you to England?” Torgne Sigurd stared blearily at his friend. The only thing sober about Torgne was his coloring: subdued brown hair and gray eyes. “Y-you can’t be thinking of going. . . .”

  Rugar Kalisson’s Nordic blue eyes glinted in the fading glow of the torches, and his wide, sensual mouth drew up in a mischievous smile. “Damme, Torgne,” his deep voice rumbled silkily, “you do get notions. Why can’t I think of going?”

  Torgne’s jaw dropped. “Well, you hate England.” When his declaration had no impact, he offered up evidence: “The women are all whores, you said.”

  “I?” Rugar leaned forward in his chair and quaffed the dregs of his tankard. His grin grew wine-warmed and wicked. “You have mistaken me. I believe I said the women are all wonderful.”

  Torgne’s jaw snapped shut, and his drink-reddened eyes narrowed. “The men are all drunken cowards, you said. I heard you!”

  “Tsk . . . Torgne,” Rugar chided with a look of pained indulgence. “Sometimes I think you half listen to me. I am wounded.” His muscular hand massaged the creamy white velvet of his doublet, above his heart. “Surely I said the men are devout and courageous. You must pay me closer heed if you’re to be part of my delegation to London.”

  “Me?” Torgne’s lean face blanked briefly. “Me? Go to London with you?” He sounded so horrified that Rugar chuckled.

  “Who else? I will need you to help me set a proper, dignified tone as I carry the king’s greetings to England’s august court and glorious queen.”

  “Glor—” Torgne, caught with his nose in his tankard, swallowed and coughed and turned on Rugar with confused heat. “Glorious queen? She’s a great walloping trollop! You named her Old Henry’s loudest and smelliest fart—I heard you with my own two ears!” He pushed himself to his feet as if to leave, swayed, then sank back into his chair. His legs were grape-shot, and his wits were increasingly fuddled by this rare overindulgence in strong French wine.

  Rugar’s laughter exploded about the hall, a rich, full-timbred sound that seemed to warm the entire chamber. “I said that? Gud—I must have been drunk as a brewer’s pizzle!”

  “Dammit, Rugar, don’t toy with me,” Torgne said testily, trying to resist being drawn into Rugar’s seductive good humor. “For years you’ve railed about what a vile stinkhole England is . . . and suddenly you sing its praises? Why would the king send you to England, knowing how you loathe the place?” His scowl darkened. “And why in hell would you agree to go?”

  Rugar let out a deep breath and settled a beguiling grin on his lanky friend. “King Johan wishes to create ‘good will’ toward Sweden in the English court; to make them receptive to improved trade and a possible military alliance. He needs someone familiar with the court’s ways and wiles. Who knows them better than me? And he needs someone who can set forth an impressive appearance for Sweden.” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “Who in Stockholm has better skills at arms or more mastery of the courtly graces?”

  That much was certainly true. No man in Sweden could match Rugar Kalisson’s skill as a warrior and courtier. He was a paragon of Swedish manhood, the very pinnacle of Swedish nobility. Over the past ten years, he had relentlessly honed his strength and agility on training fields all over the Continent. And when not acquiring martial skills, he had cultivated courtly graces as he represented the king in royal Presence Chambers and refined his natural charm in ladies’ bedchambers throughout the glittering courts of Europe. If it was King Johan’s desire to impress, he had chosen the perfect man for the task.

  “It’s true I have no love for England,” Rugar admitted, squelching Torgne’s next protest before it formed. “But it is a great honor the king does me in sending me as his personal representative, his special ambassador to the powerful English court. He has been good to me; I owe him much. I will not fail him.”

  “Special ambassador?” Torgne whistled. That explained a great deal. Rugar was invited to follow in his father’s footsteps as the king’s personal envoy to the powerful English queen. It was indeed an honor, one which Rugar would be hard put to refuse.

  “It is also a golden opportunity, Tor.” Rugar’s tone warmed. “Think on it. When we return home, our mission a success; there will be laurels and advancement for us at court. Successful diplomatic service is one of the surest routes to the enlargement of a man’s estates.” His eyes took on a telling light as he weighed his next words carefully. “And it is the perfect opportunity to teach the cursed English a lesson in respect for things Swedish.”

  The wine-sogged gears of reason finally produced a spark of comprehension in Torgne. Rugar Kalisson had carried an English “thorn” in his side for as long as Torgne had known him. He had been to England with his ambassador father when he was a boy, and though he never spoke of it directly, Torgne knew that his days at the young Elizabeth’s court had bred in him a ripe loathing for things English. It began to make a sort of sense. King Johan and Rugar both wanted to “impress” the English . . . though apparently for very different reasons.

  “W-well, how do we create this ‘good will’?” Torgne propped an elbow on the table to brace his head up. All this thinking after so much drinking was purely exhausting.

  “We don’t.” Rugar beamed at Torgne’s unwitting use of “we,” thinking that his friend already had one foot aboard the ship and didn’t even know it. With a roguish grin he explained, “It is not humanly possible for a Swede to create good will in an Englishman’s stony heart. The English believe we are barbarians . . . crude, graceless, and uncivilized. I have tasted firsthand their contempt for our king, our language, and our ways. They will never love us.” His patrician features tightened. “But we can make them respect us. It is high time someone taught them an appreciation for Swedish manhood.” His voice roughened. “And I’m of a mind to do some teaching.”

  A moment later Rugar’s natural charm emerged once more as he settled his broad shoulders back against the chair and considered his longtime friend.

  “England isn’t entirely wretched and bleak, Tor. In fact, you may find some aspects quite agreeable. The women, for example. You’ll love them, Tor.” His hands moved to suggest a woman’s voluptuous contours and the tantalizing heft of a rosy breast. “They all wear those scanty little Italian bodices.” His cupped fingers wiggled suggestively. “The ones that make you think they’ll slide straight out of them with their next breath.” His face filled with wistful lust. “And, Gud, they have the boldest eyes of any women on earth. They can strip you naked with one glance and damn near devour you with two.” His grin tightened in response to some distant memory. “They’re just like cats, Englishwomen. They rub themselves against you every chance they get.” His voice lowered to a sensual growl. “And when you rub them back . . . they purr.”

  Torgne’s eyes narrowed to slits as he pronounced his judgment. “Whores.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Rugar chuckled and leaned forward, snatching up his friend’s tankard and finishing it with a flourish. “Shameless tarts . . . the lot of them.” Torgne’s stern, Lutheran views on the morals of “court women” were well known. Rugar simply couldn’t resist giving his friend’s righteousness a prod. “Who knows, Tor? Perhaps we’ll find you a hot-tailed English wench . . .”

  With a snort of contempt Torgne shut his eyes against Rugar’s insinuating leer . . . which allowed the wine and darkness to claim him. As Torgne slid toward oblivion, drink and the late hour began to affect Rugar as well, lowering his guard and his discretion. Talk of England had stirred long-buried memories in him.

  “Did I ever tell you that I had my first woman in England . . . at the English court?” From the corner of a half-closed eye, Rugar witnessed the barely perceptible shake of Torgne’s head. “Or rather, she had me. I was twelve years.” He spoke in a whisper, an echo of memory. “She was dark and sloe-eyed. And very thorough. And I . . . I was scared witless.” Deep in his fathomless blue eyes a glint appeared, the light of a flame long hidden. His voice deepened. His jaw hardened. “I went to England an innocent . . . and I came back . . .”

  Torgne’s head slid down his arm and landed on the table with a soft thud, pulling Rugar’s thoughts back to the present. He shook off the pall of memory and watched Torgne settle into a creditable snore. Final protests and persuasions would have to wait; the rigors and revels of the year’s shortest night had taken their toll. He settled back in his chair and let drink-weighted languor seep through him, claiming all but the enigmatic smile on his handsome mouth.

  Through his mind came a slow, sensual procession of pouty lips and sly, questing fingers, fashionably bared breasts and dark, hungry eyes. The jaded ladies of the English court . . . the queen’s own women worst among them. They had the morals of alley cats and loyalties to match. And he intended to claim them all . . . one after another.

  Chapter One

  North of London

  June 1576

  “B-but . . . bosoms are in fashion!” The Earl of Straffen settled his fists upon the waist of his peascod doublet and summoned yet another desperate objection.

  “My dearest Jack. Bosoms have always been in fashion.” The Countess of Straffen looked up from her stitchery to cast a half-amused, half-flirtatious glance at her tall, handsome husband. She let her eyes roam his elegant, broad-shouldered figure as he turned to stare out the leaded window into the side court below Straffen Hall. His shoulders had lost none of their commanding width to aging; his jaw was still as square and stubborn as it had been. His hair was just as dark—except for intriguing silver wings at his temples that bespoke his years and experience. “At least they’ve always been popular with you.”

  The earl reddened and turned on his heel to stare at his lovely wife. There was a knowing sparkle in the deep, velvety blue of her eyes. He knew that look and what it betokened. She was being reasonable, so damnably reasonable.

  “I mean, they wear them open . . . with no partlets, no in-filling for decency,” he insisted. “All laced and lashed up so that they bulge out, Italian-style... ’neath scanty little ruffs. Lord-love-it, Merrie . . . I was at court last spring and saw for myself!” He stalked across the great bedchamber and towered above her, his arms dangling at his sides. Horror crept into his voice, constricting it. “Merrie,” he whispered hoarsely, “they rouge their bubbies. Prop them straight out and dab them up like cherries!”

  The fatherly worry visible beneath his indignation brought a rueful smile to the countess’s lips and sent a sympathetic quiver through her heart. He was frantic to keep his precious jewel of a daughter at home, away from the worldly intrigues and debauchery of London’s glittering but jaded court. And for the past two days, he’d been conjuring excuses, reasons, and rationales to bolster his refusal to let her go.

  “And just how would you know how they rouge their bubbies, Jack?” she asked with a look askance.

  The earl straightened as if stung and reddened prodigiously. “I . . . I . . . looked. Dammit, Merrie, I looked.” He shoved his arms behind his back and locked one wrist fiercely in the other hand, bracing.

  There was no gasp of outrage, no explosion of righteous anger. Instead, the countess let her gaze slide pointedly down his exquisite velvet doublet until it came to rest on his handsomely embroidered codpiece. She lowered her hoop of needlework and gave his manly accoutrement a penetrating stare.

  “Well, as long as you only looked,” she said dryly. Then she dragged her eyes up with a smile. “I trow that’s what most men at court do . . . look. And I suspect there are precious few of the queen’s waiting ladies that rouge anything a’tall.”

  “God’s Nightshirt!”

  “Jack, lower your voice—there are guests everywhere.” she reminded him in a firm whisper.

  “That’s yet another thing I despise”—he bristl ed, lowering his voice—“being saddled with half of the queen’s wretched hangers-on, just because our lands border hers.” His arms flew out at his sides, palms up, in exasperation. “Elizabeth pauses at her own estates, on her summer ‘progress’ through the countryside but sends us more than half of her retinue to house. We’re swarmed by her feckless hounds—strutting hedgecocks, pretentious strumpets, and gouty old croats—each demanding food, attendance, and entertainment. We’ll be paupered for months to come. Now she wants our daughter as well!”

  He strode back to the open window to stare hotly at the goings-on around his bustling estate. “Lord, look at them.” He gestured to the courtiers teeming on the grounds below. “Crammed into every nook and cranny—I can’t go to the damned privy without half the court taking note. Things have come to a fine pass in England when a man cannot have a satisfying squat or utter a decent oath in his own abode without dread of giving offense! And it’s a dark day indeed when a man has to retreat to his bloody bedchamber to manage a close word with his wife.”

  But even in the privacy of the vaulted and paneled master bedchamber of Straffen Manor, the earl and the countess were not totally proof against prying eyes and ears. At that very moment, they were being observed through the crack of the partly opened door that led into the servants’ passage on the far side of the great master bed.

  A pair of jade-green eyes blinked, then withdrew from that opening during the lull in the earl’s tirade.

  Rouge? Corrie Huntington stood in the dim hallway, frowning, puzzled. She looked down at her own plain, modestly buttoned bodice and pressed first one, then the other of her breasts experimentally. Why on earth, she wondered, would court ladies apply rouge to their bubbies? Her mouth pursed thoughtfully. Why rouge them up if they were just going to be stuffed out of the way in a body stitchet? And why should the fact that the ladies did it outrage her father so?