The Traitor's Daughter by Barbara Kyle

William Caxton. Date of printing, 1483. She paused and laid a hand respectfully on the old volume of Chaucer’s beloved work. Next year would be its centennial. Lady Thornleigh particularly cherished her books by English authors, including her onetime guardian, Sir Thomas More, in whose household she had grown up.
    Kate bent to her writing. So intent was her concentration she did not hear the footsteps until they reached the desk. She looked up in surprise. Owen.
    He came to her side. He was barefoot and his shirt, pulled on in haste, hung loose over his breeches. With its lacings untied, the shirt exposed his chest almost to his navel, and the white scar tissue from a knife stab at his rib gleamed in the moonlight. Owen’s life in the theater had not been all poetry and applause. He looked at her with concern. “Forgive me,” he said.
    â€œFor what?”
    He fingered the neckline of her chemise where he had slightly torn it. “I was too rough.”
    â€œYou were not, my love,” she assured him. She slipped her hand around his fingers at her neck. “These months without you, that was the rough.”
    He let out a small breath of relief. He bent and kissed the back of her hand as though in thanks. Glancing at the walls of books, then at the volume of The Canterbury Tales in front of her, he said with gentle warmth, “What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.”
    She smiled. The words were Chaucer’s. She countered slyly with another Chaucer quote:

    â€œYet do not miss the moral, my good men.
For Saint Paul says that all that’s written well
Is written down some useful truth to tell.”

    He chuckled. Sitting down on the edge of the desk, he shoved aside the volume, his expression turning sober. “But we must talk, Kate. Books will give no refuge from the storm you have volunteered to venture into. The times are full of murder, and our enemies ruthless.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œDo you? I think not, or you would not have offered your life to Matthew.”
    â€œOffered my . . . ? Heavens, I do not intend to sacrifice myself.”
    â€œBut that is what’s at stake. It’s why I cannot let you do this.”
    She slid her hand free of his. “Matthew thinks it’s a fine idea. And he knows the stakes better than anyone.”
    â€œMatthew is blind when it comes to you. He sees you as a goddess, invincible as Athena.”
    She sputtered a laugh, the thought so absurd. “I beg your pardon?”
    â€œHe’s in love with you, poor fellow. You didn’t know?”
    She blinked at him. She had not known.
    Owen took her hand again, and in one smooth motion raised her to her feet and pulled her close so she stood between his legs, where he sat. He gazed up at her face and clasped her hand to his chest. She resisted, her free hand pressing his shoulder with just enough force to show her reluctance to be mastered by his magnetism. “What man could not love you?” he said. “But none but I knows the treasure you are. A treasure I will guard with my life.”
    â€œAnd what of your life? You risk it in going into the Earl of Northumberland’s stronghold.”
    â€œThat’s different.”
    â€œBecause you’re a man?”
    â€œOf course. Besides, I may not manage to get inside.”
    â€œYou’ll find a way.”
    She said it with fond admiration, but in her heart she hated to think of him going into the camp of a likely enemy, and all alone. She stroked his cheek with the back of her finger. He had arrived at the house clean-shaven and smelling of sweet almond oil. The barber had also cropped the erratic tufts of hair that had proclaimed his prisoner status. With his finely bristled skull he now looked like a soldier of ancient Rome. She bent her head and kissed him.
    He broke it off. “Kate, you cannot keep avoiding this subject by seducing me.”
    He