Until You (22 page)

She entwined her legs about him, enabling him to press farther, and he groaned again. “I want to soar,” she whispered in his ear, and she licked at the curled flesh.

Their bodies tightly locked together, he began to thrust and withdraw until they were both dizzy with the rapture their enthusiasm in each other gave them. The intensity of their mutual desire was intoxicating, and as their carnality overcame them, they both cried out, finally satisfied, if only briefly. Her arms still about his neck, her legs fell away from his firm body.

“If I let go of you,” she said, “I shall drown here, for my limbs are as weak as a newborn’s, Patrick.”

He laughed softly. “You are an outrageous woman, Rosamund. I have never known anyone like you, nor do I expect I ever will.”

“We have to get out of this water,” she told him, but she still clung to him.

“Did you enjoy our little water sport?” he teased her.

“Aye,” she murmured, and then, to his delight, she blushed. “I never considered making the beast with two backs in water, Patrick.”

“But you liked it?” His gaze caressed her face.

“I did! It was most stimulating. I do not believe I have ever been made love to other than in a bed,” she admitted.

“One day I shall take you in a stable on a pile of sweet-smelling hay,” he promised her, and he laughed. “Or perhaps I shall catch you in a linen cupboard, my love.”

“I think I am feeling stronger now,” Rosamund answered him. It was said that the older men grew the less well they performed in bed. But, Rosamund thought, she had had a husband considered an older man and a young lover in King Henry, but neither of these men had made love to her with such unflagging enthusiasm or suggested such a variety of passion as did Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. She let go of him now and climbed from the tub. The water sluiced down her lush form as she reached for the drying cloth.

He watched her appreciatively until, finally satisfied, she invited him from their bath, and standing naked in the sunshine, began to dry him off.

“Be careful, madame, lest you arouse my baser nature again,” he warned her.

“Oh, no!” she scolded him, laughing. “I do not intend to go to the duke’s fete tonight, meeting the man for the first time, with the scent of lust hanging about me, Patrick. You will behave yourself, for you shall not have me again until after the fete. Your head must be clear, my lord, for it is likely you will meet one or both of your contacts tonight.”

“And it does not disturb you that Scotland will attempt to undo Henry Tudor’s ambitions?” he asked her, as he had on several occasions.

“I have told you, Patrick, that I do not consider trying to stop a war treasonous to England. Hal might, for anything interfering with his plans is anathema to him, but no reasonable man or woman would. Do what you must. If you Scots come over the border, it is my home that will be in danger first, not Henry Tudor’s,” Rosamund said.

He laughed. “Ever the practical lady of Friarsgate,” he teased her. Then he looked about him. “Do you think we can be seen?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Rosamund said. “There is but one villa just above us to the east, but no one seems to be inhabiting it.” She took his hand and led him back into their apartment. “Go to your own bed, and rest,” she instructed.

“I should rather rest in your bed,” he said with a small grin.

“Neither of us would get any rest if we shared my bed, my lord, and well you know it. Celestina brought you a beautiful set of clothing for tonight. Now, go make certain Dermid laid it out so it will not be creased.”

“You are a hard woman,” he grumbled.

“I will see you later, my lord,” she told him firmly, but she smiled when she spoke.

He left her, and Rosamund put on a clean chemise and laid down. She could hardly believe the incredible turn her life had taken over the last few months. She had found true love. And she was hundreds of miles from Friarsgate, yet she was happy. She missed her daughters, but there was something both thrilling and wonderful about being loved by a man like Patrick Leslie. They would love each other forever, even if they would part eventually to return to their own lives. This was but a fantasy, a beautiful day-dream. She wished it might be otherwise, but she knew it could not. Neither of them could eschew their responsibilities, and neither of them would give up what was theirs.

But they had today, and they would not think about tomorrow until it was done and past.

 

Annie came and brought her a light supper as the sun was setting. Rosamund was well rested, for she had actually slept for several hours. Her mind was clear, and while she intended being nothing more this evening than Lord Leslie’s beautiful mistress, she would keep her ears open for whatever tidbits she might gather. Her French had improved considerably since their arrival a few days ago. She had just needed to use it again. She remembered how patient Owein had been as he had taught her French so she would not appear ignorant when she first came to court. It all seemed like a hundred years ago.

Annie helped her dress. Another chemise, one that would fit perfectly beneath the gown, was substituted for the one Rosamund had been wearing. Cream-colored silk stockings embraced her legs. The neckline of the gown was even lower than it had appeared when the bodice had been lying innocently on the chair. Rosamund’s round breasts swelled dangerously over the lace edging of the gown’s pearl-strewn top. Her shoulders and part of her upper arms were bare. The slashed sleeves were almost gauzy. Annie fitted her mistress with several silk petticoats and then brought the underskirt.

“Is there no shakefold?” Rosamund asked, looking for the stiffened hooplike garment usually worn beneath her gowns at home.

“Celestina says just a couple of petticoats, my lady. She says it permits the fabric to drape gracefully, showing the gown and its wearer to better advantage,” Annie parroted. She tied the laces of the undergown tightly, then fitted the overgown atop it, fastening it neatly. Then the servant stepped back. “Oh, my lady, it is so beautiful, so elegant, and I think a bit naughty. But Celestina assures me that it is the fashion here.”

Rosamund nodded. “She would not lie. She is long past her passion for the earl, and her father’s position would be endangered if she did me a disservice.” She twirled, seeing how the gown moved, and was pleased. “Let us finish my hair,” she said.

“Celestina’s daughter Martina has been sent to do it, my lady,” Annie said. “I am to learn from her.”

“Have her come in, then,” Rosamund replied, sitting down at a little table.

Martina looked nothing at all like her mother. She was tall and lanky, but she did have Celestina’s direct manner. “Ah, madame is ready,” she began. She moved quickly behind Rosamund. “First,” she said, “I must see what kind of hair madame has.” She began brushing the thick auburn locks. “Ah, excellent!” The brush worked vigorously.

“You will wear no cap,” she said. “I am told that you have a jeweled ribbon to be worn.” She found the part in the center of Rosamund’s head. “Now, here is a style I particularly like and that will suit madame. It is simple. It will not detract from her beauty. I fold the hair thusly, fastening it with pins. Girl! Hold up a mirror for your mistress to see. I call it a chignon.” And as Rosamund viewed herself in the mirror, Martina attached a half-moon of delicate silk flowers in cream, gold, and pale green across the top of the chignon. Lastly, she fastened the pale green silk ribbon with the oval green peridot set in its center about Rosamund’s forehead. Then she held up a second mirror behind her client that Rosamund might see the full effect.

Rosamund stared. “I do not believe I have ever seen such a beautiful hairstyle,” she said honestly. “In England we keep our hair beneath caps and hoods mostly. Thank you, Martina. Please teach Annie how you do this.”

“It is simple, madame, and your servant does not seem stupid,” Martina answered.

“What did she say?” Annie asked.

“That she will be delighted to teach you how to do this style, Annie. Really, you must try to learn the language better,” Rosamund scolded gently.

There was a knock on the door, and Dermid stuck his head through. “His lordship wants to know if her ladyship is ready to leave yet. The ambassador’s carriage is already waiting outside.”

“Give me my shoes,” Rosamund said; then she slipped her feet into the slippers that were placed before her and arose, turning as she did to say, “I thank you both.” Then she hurried from the bedchamber out into the dayroom where the Earl of Glenkirk awaited her. “Oh my!” she said as she caught her first glimpse of him.

His dark green velvet breeches were striped in deep forest green and cloth of gold. His fine silken hose were deep green with a tied gold cord garter on one shapely leg. His short coat was silk brocade, the sleeves padded and puffed. It was trimmed in dark brown marten fur. The doublet beneath, which was embroidered in gold thread with a floral design, was also slashed to show the cream-colored silk shirt beneath. His matching hat had a soft crown but a hard turned-up brim and a white ostrich plume. His shoes were fine brown leather. He had a large heavy gold chain about his neck, and both his hands were beringed. There was a bejeweled dagger at his waist.

“May I return the compliment?” the earl said, admiring Rosamund.

“You may,” she replied.

“Then let us go, madame. Lord MacDuff awaits us below. I think it is time you met your host.” The earl took Rosamund’s arm and led her from the apartment and downstairs, where Ian MacDuff stood along with Celestina who nodded her approval at the couple, but said nothing.

The Scots ambassador’s gray eyes widened as he saw them descend. He came immediately forward, taking Rosamund’s hand up and kissing it. “Madame, I am pleased to have you as my guest. It is an honor to entertain the queen’s good friend.”

“Unfortunately, the queen does not know I am here,” Rosamund admitted. “She would be most vexed with me, I fear.”

“Then we shall keep your secret, Lady Rosamund,” the ambassador said with a smile. “But the queen is generous of heart and would certainly want her friend happy,” he finished with another smile. “Shall we go?” He led them outside where the open carriage awaited them.

Lord MacDuff obviously did not know Meg well, Rosamund thought, amused. Margaret Tudor wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. Still, the man was an ambassador, and obviously a good one.

Rosamund allowed a footman to help her into the vehicle. She had never seen an open coach, for in England and Scotland such a thing would be considered ridiculous. Here, with the warm evening and the sun setting as they started off to the palace, it was quite perfect.

They moved down the hill upon which the ambassador’s residence was located and along a narrow street into the cathedral square. The carriage crossed the square traveling into a broader avenue lined with large and elegant houses. It eventually gave way to a thoroughfare lined with tall trees. They began to ascend a hill, coming finally to the duke’s palace at the mount’s summit. They passed through great gates and traveled along a drive of perfectly raked white gravel. As their coach passed, servants came out from the shrubbery to re-rake the drive that it might be perfect for the next vehicle.

The palace itself was built of cream-colored marble. They stopped before its entry porch, which was lined with elegant marble pillars speckled with green. There was a large marble fountain before the palace with a bronze statue of a boy on a dolphin, which sprayed water into the pool. Lanterns were hung everywhere in the trees. Their carriage stopped, and they were helped from it by servants in the duke’s blue and gold livery. The two gentlemen escorted Rosamund into the palace where a majordomo greeted them obsequiously.

“My lord ambassador, Lord Leslie, Lady Rosamund,” he said, and he ushered them towards the exquisite hall where the duke was holding his fete.

Now, how, Rosamund wondered to herself, did this servant, whom she had never before in her life seen, know her name?

They were announced by a second majordomo, the first having left them at the entry to the hall to return to his place in the entry foyer.

“His excellency, the ambassador from his most noble and Catholic majesty, King James of Scotland, Lord Ian MacDuff. Lord Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. Lady Rosamund Bolton,” the majordomo called out in ringing tones.

They moved down several marble steps into the lovely hall, so different from what she was used to, Rosamund noted. For one thing, there were no fireplaces, and one wall of the room opened to a terrace that she could see beyond the pale gold marble pillars. There was a ducal throne at one end of the hall, and they now moved towards it.

Sebastian, Duke of San Lorenzo, watched them come and struggled to maintain his surprise. When he had learned that his old friend Lord Leslie traveled with a lovely female companion, he had not anticipated she would be so . . . so . . . so young and so deliciously ripe. He would not have expected such a thing from a man from the north. Lord Leslie, while enjoying San Lorenzo during his tenure as ambassador, had always been most correct. A man his age did not travel with so exquisite and youthful a mistress unless he was very much in love. Sebastian di San Lorenzo had never considered that Patrick Leslie would be in love at any age.

He arose from the ducal throne, and stepping off the dais, offered both his hands in greeting to the Earl of Glenkirk. To any watching it would certainly appear as if they were just meeting. “Patrick!” His voice boomed for all to hear. “Welcome back to San Lorenzo!” He turned his head slightly and gave a sharp look to his heir, Rudolpho, who immediately stood up and came forward, bowing to the earl. “You will remember my son, of course.”

“Of course,” Patrick said. He would never as long as he lived forget Rudolpho di San Lorenzo. Had it not been for this man now before him, his daughter might not have been lost to him. He bowed curtly.