FLAME OF DESIRE (18 page)

“It is not what you think, Heather. Let me explain.” Again he tried to gather her into his arms, but she would have none of his tenderness.

“Leave me alone. Don’t touch me.” Tears spilled down her flushed face as the pain for the loss of her heart’s desire swept through her.

“I tried to stay away from you. I tried. I told you not to love me. My intentions were honorable, I swear to you, but that night…it was as if a dam burst. All my love for you spilled forth and I could no longer hold back all that I felt for you. I had no control. But God forgive me, I will never regret that night.”

Blinking back her tears, she looked into his face. Every fiber of her being cried out that she loved him, would always love him. But his mistress she would never be! He belonged to another, a wife, to Edlyn. His possessions, his name, his body, his lovemaking, all belonged to another woman. Wife. The word seemed to scream in her ears.

His eyes burned like blue flames. “I love you. Nothing else matters to me. Not my life, not my honor. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You did not tell me. Omission is the same as a lie.”

He looked as if she had struck him. “I asked you here
today
to tell you, before the spark of love between us flamed again. My marriage is…”

“To be your mistress. You thought I would consent to be your mistress. How wrong you were. I never want to see you again.” Her features appeared to be carved in stone, except for the trickle of moisture from her eyes.

“Listen to me. My marriage is a sham, a deception of all that is….”

She did not stay to listen, knowing well that if she looked once more into his eyes she would be lost, would crumble into a thousand pieces, like the Humpty Dumpty of her childhood nursery rhyme. Taking to her heels, she fled down the rough cobblestones of the street, stopping only when she reached the safety of her father’s doorway. There, leaning against the thick wood of that portal, she gave vent to the flood of grief for a dream shattered beyond repair, a dream which had been as beautiful as a rainbow, but now was only a storm.

“Oh, how can I forget him? How will I ever be able to wipe him from my heart, my mind?” How long she huddled against the door crying, she did not know. She only knew that suddenly a soft hand was stroking her hair, that a gentle voice was urging her to stop her sobbing. Looking up, she saw her mother’s face, the blue eyes filled with sorrow and pain. Together they walked the steep stairs to Heather’s bedroom, where Blythe Bowen undressed her daughter and put her to bed as she had when Heather had been a child. When at last Heather’s tears were spent, the weeping only a memory, she sat down upon her daughter’s bed.

“I wish I were dead!” Heather said bitterly, turning her face away from her mother.

“Hush. Don’t ever say such a thing. Life is precious, a gift from God. No man is worth such sorrow. No man.”

“How did you know? How could you sense the cause of my grief?” Heather felt like a little girl again, coming to her mother with a scraped knee, a bee sting, a broken toy.

“Because I too have been wounded by love’s arrows.” At this moment Richard Morgan and Rodrigo de Vega blended into one in Blythe Bowen’s mind. Closing her eyes she could remember the way her own lover had held her in his arms, whispering beautiful phrases in his own language, promising to return to her. She had been just about Heather’s age when he had swept her off her feet and into the bedchamber, only to leave her with a child. He had never returned, leaving her to face her shame alone. If not for Thomas….

“You do not love Father?”

“I have grown to respect him. He has provided for us, Heather. We are not without food or a roof over our heads.”

“Who was he, this man you loved?”

“An explorer. A Spanish explorer.” Looking at Heather was like looking into his eyes, gray just like hers, the hair the same mahogany color.

“Was he married?” Saying the word again, remembering, brought forth a new wave of tears, and as Blythe Bowen watched her daughter cry, anger for the man named Richard Morgan boiled forth like a caldron.

“Hush. Don’t cry, my darling. You will forget him.” Yet she knew that Heather would not. Had she in all these years ever forgotten Rodrigo? No. How many times had she imagined that it was his arms that held her, his mouth that kissed her?

From outside the window Heather could hear Richard calling her name, demanding that she come down and hear him out. What could he say to her that he hadn’t said already?

“I will soon chase him away!” Blythe hissed, clenching her hands tightly at her sides. Heather thought about that time in the stables when her mother had come at Richard with a broom, and in spite of her heartache she laughed. How could she have ever thought of her mother as meek and shy? If only Thomas Bowen would feel her sting upon occasion.

In a moment Blythe was back. “He will not leave. Not even your father could convince him to go. The man says that he must talk with you, that if need be he will stay outside your window all through the night. Hasn’t he done enough damage? Already he has broken your heart.”

“He can never be mine, Mama. Never. And yet I fear that were I to see him now, were he to crook his little finger, I would run to him, share the scraps of affection he could give me.” As if in an effort to hide from the temptation, Heather pulled the blanket up around her neck, pulling herself into a tight ball, wishing that she could vanish. Her head ached, her throat felt dry, every nerve in her body quivered. It as was if she suffered a wound that would not heal, could never heal. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere that she could go. How could one run away from her own heart.

Outside the window Richard paced up and down the gray stone street. He had caught a tiger by the tail and he could not let it go. The tiger named love.

“Heather. Please listen to me. Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you.” If only he could tell her all about Edlyn, about his betrayal at the hands of his mother, at least she would forgive him. “I must tell her the whole story.”

But as long as he waited, hoping for at least a glimpse of Heather, he as to be disappointed. When at last darkness shrouded the sky, he left.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The next few weeks passed by in a haze of unhappiness for Heather. Uneventful days in her own life which were only highlighted by the events taking place throughout the realm. At last poor Edward VI was buried, now that the threat of rebellion was over. At first Mary intended to give her brother a Catholic funeral but at last conceded to bury Edward as he had lived, a Reformist.

Thomas Bowen had ranted and raved. “It’s been twenty years since England broke from Rome! Twenty years. A whole generation has grown up in the Reformed Church and has sought the tutelage of Cranmer’s
Book of Common Prayer
. That woman will be the ruination of us all.”

“That woman is our queen,” Heather had reminded him. Her words silenced his tirade and she suspected that his anger was in reality due to the fact that another merchant had been chosen to clothe the queen and her dead brother for the funeral.

Six days later the queen issued an official declaration that she would not “compel or constrain consciences” in the matter of religious belief, thus setting Thomas Bowen’s mind at ease upon the matter of religion.

As for Richard Morgan, he did not give up his hope that Heather would hear him out. Each morning he would stand outside the door, waiting, watching for any sign of her, but each day she disappointed him and there came a time at last when he appeared at the door no longer.

Having grown used to seeing him below her window, Heather was devastated when his daily vigil ended. Just seeing him had been a torment, but a bittersweet travail. His walk, that so-familiar swagger, had been dear to her as she watched from the window. The sound of his voice had melted her heart, and time after time she had been tempted to go to him, to tell him that she would be his mistress, that she didn’t care if he was married, she only wanted to be with him. But the certainty that she would be hurt all the more were she to see him, touch him, kept her from running down the stairs to be at his side.

Only one thing eased her mind. Hugh Seton had not come to call upon her father, and she breathed easier, hoping that this had been an idle threat. She would never marry him. Better to die a spinster than to spend her days with a cruel, bestial man.

Sitting in front of the fire with Tabitha at her side, Heather had resigned herself to her unmarried state and the way of life that she had grown used to over the years. If she was not happy, well, she was not truly unhappy, except for the times when the memory of Richard Morgan tugged at her heart.

“It will be a fine tapestry,” Tabitha said softly, taking a look at Heather’s stitchery. “I have always loved unicorns. Do you think perchance they really existed?

Heather smiled, knowing quite well that Tabitha was trying valiantly to cheer her out of her troubles. “I like to think that they did.” She wondered sadly if love would ever stir her heart again. Tabitha had been such a rock for her to lean on the past few days, listening patiently to Heather’s mournful words. What would she have done without the servant girl? she wondered. Settling back in her chair, picking up the needle again, she set about her stitching. It took patience to work on a tapestry. One stitch at a time until finally each stitch blended into a work of astounding beauty. Perhaps one’s life was like that. One stitch at a time, one day at a time. The thought cheered her.

A knock sounded at the door, causing Heather to prick her finger. “So much for philosophic musing.”

“I’ll get it,” Tabitha announced, rising from her wooden chair. She was not quick enough. Thomas Bowen had already answered the door, hopeful of a new customer at hand. He returned, his face as pale as his undyed wool. In his hand he held up a letter, vibrating in his fingers like a banner in the breeze.

“A…a…missive…from the queen,” he stuttered, fearing the worst. Heather pitied him. Would he never get over his fear that the queen would seek retribution for his past deeds?

Putting aside her sewing, she walked over to take the paper from his hands. The queen’s seal was emblazoned upon it, leaving no doubt that it was indeed from her. Tearing it open, scanning the words written there, remembering another time, another letter, Heather could hardly believe her eyes.

“It’s to me!” She read the words again, thinking surely she must have read them wrong. “I’ve been summoned to court. I’m to be a lady-in-waiting. Me, a commoner.”

“Let me see that!” Thomas Bowen yanked it violently out of her hands. “As a reward for your help? What, dare I ask, did
you
do?” He seemed angered by her good fortune, well aware that he would not be able to keep her from going. Was he wondering who would now do the work and keep the ledgers?

“I played but a tiny part in helping her, Father. I merely delivered a message for her.”

“A message?” He rubbed his finger across the bridge of his large nose, squinting at her as if to see into her mind. “It seems a large endowment for such a minor accomplishment.” He paced the floor, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his gown. “Who will help me with my books? I will have to train an apprentice. It will cost me money.”

“A lady-in-waiting!” piped up Tabitha, beaming with pride. “Such an honor.”

Thomas Bowen cleared his throat, eyeing Heather up and down. “An honor. Yes. Yes.” He smiled suddenly, showing his uneven teeth. “You must do all you can to see that the queen and her court purchase their cloth from me. Just think, the queen’s own merchant.” He now walked about like a strutting rooster, as if he and not Heather had been the one called to court. All the while his eyes darted back and forth as if counting unseen coins.

“It is an honor, but I can’t go.” The thought of seeing Richard Morgan day after day frightened her. Besides, how would she ever fit in with those of the nobility? She would be out of place, like a duck in a henhouse. Even her clothes would cause amusement. She had only three good dresses to her name.

“Can’t go? Don’t be silly, girl. Of course you will go. Do you think to disobey the queen?”

“I have nothing to wear, Father.”

His eyes widened at her answer as the truth of her words dawned upon him. He flushed a bright red as guilt for his miserly ways pricked him. He took a deep breath and then exhaled it, saying quickly, “I will see that you are well attired. A merchant’s daughter must not be wanting.” Taking her hand, he led her toward the storeroom, parading her past the bolts and bolts of cloth which had so pleased her eyes. Never had she thought to have a gown made from any such material. Silks, brocades, velvets, satins, and the finest furs.

“Father…I…” In spite of the gratitude she felt at his offer, she still hesitated to go. She was not prepared for life at court, to see Richard Morgan again, to spar with the likes of Hugh Seton. She was but a humble merchant’s daughter.

“You will go. I will hear no more complaints.” For one who had at first abhorred the idea, Thomas Bowen was now set upon it. What a feather in his cap it would be. His daughter, lady-in-waiting to the queen. He would be the talk of all London. He, Thomas Bowen. Perhaps at last the red-haired child of his wife’s would be of value to him. Smiling, he reached down to unroll a bolt of emerald-green satin.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Heather knew the moment she arrived at court that if she lived to be a hundred years old she would never forget the sights and sounds which awaited her. Her sheltered world had never prepared her for the splendor of Greenwich.

Thomas Bowen himself escorted her to the palace and as they crested the hill and saw the magnificent walls and grounds, Heather blinked her eyes, expecting full well to have the sight disappear, thinking it at first to be a figment of her imagination. The outer walls seemed to rise up to the sky and rather resembled an old castle. Sumptuous gardens surrounded the towering structure filled with sculptured yews and fruit trees. The hedges around the gardens were carefully trimmed with a gateway cut from the foliage itself. There were several ponds filled with ducks, geese, and swans, and as she dismounted from her horse Heather paused to listen to the gabbling and quacking sound and to smell the perfume of the flowers which were in full bloom, their brilliant colors blinding to the eye.