Love's Labyrinth (19 page)

“He’s in much favor at court?”

Nicholas shrugged. “I am not certain I would say he’s in favor at court. The Queen likes younger people around her—people who can keep up with her and indulge her love of dancing and the hunt. But Sir John, being wealthy, like other wealthy men, is always welcome.”

“I see.”

They lapsed into silence, and finally Nicholas offered his arm once more. “Come, lady. The hour grows late and I would not be about these streets after dark. The
Merry Harry
rests at anchor just down the quay. Let’s be off.”

Olivia took his arm and they started off, but she noticed he glanced over his shoulder more than once, and that their business was concluded with more efficiency than she would ever have expected.

They walked back to the inn in silence. The common room was crowded with red-faced men in bleached-out clothing—sailors from the ships. Molly met them in the door and, with a shrug and a nod of her head, indicated the parlor. “Master said to set yer dinner up in there, Master Steele. ‘Tis overcrowded in here for your goodwife.”

With a nod of thanks, Nicholas navigated their way through the crowded room and pushed open the parlor door. He stood aside to let her pass before him. A table had been laid for them before the fire. Olivia walked into the room, stripping off her gloves, and pushed the hood of her cloak off her face. Flames danced in the hearth. She spread her hands before it, delighting in the heat. She felt him come to stand behind her. She took a quick intake of breath as she felt him slip the cloak off her shoulders.

All day they had pretended to be friends, all day they had successfully tried to put the morning’s kiss behind them. But now, in the shadowy room, with the flickering firelight washing across the white walls, she was once again aware of him, of his body, of his scent, of his very self. His hands hesitated on her shoulders for just a split second too long, and she tensed. Then he was gone, the cloak swirling in his arms. He tossed the bulky garment into a chair and indicated the table before the fire with a bow. “Will you sit?”

She gathered her skirts and swept to the table, sinking down into the chair he held out for her. She glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were averted.

“Wine?”

She nodded silently and realized she was clutching the arms of her chair.

“Are you cold? I’ll fetch you a shawl—”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Her fingers shook a little as they closed around the pewter goblet he held out for her. The scent of the dark red wine filled her nostrils, heady and sweet, reminding her of the way the taste of the peach had inflamed her senses that morning. Or maybe, she thought, glancing at Nicholas, it wasn’t the wine or the peach.

“To a successful venture.” Nicholas raised his own goblet and touched the rim of it to hers.

Startled, she smiled and drank. The wine flooded her mouth, tangy with the taste of sunshine and the orchard. He only sipped from his and set it down, staring at some point beyond her. “You look troubled. Nicholas.”

He shook his head. “I was unsettled to see Sir John here in Dover, that’s all. And last night… Last night I saw Walsingham’s man—Warren—here, in this very inn. He didn’t speak to me and I wondered what was afoot.”

“You think it was strange, that he didn’t speak to you? Maybe he was afraid to give away your identity.” Nicholas sat back in his chair with a shrug and a sigh.

“Who knows, lady. What do I know of spy—” He broke off as the door opened with a sharp rap, and Molly peered inside. She was carrying a large tray, on which were what looked like two small chickens in a bed of parsley and other greens.

“Dinner, sir.”

They were silent as she served them, and through most of the meal. A few times Olivia looked up to see Nicholas’s eyes on her. He averted his gaze each time their eyes met.
This is ridiculous,
she thought.
We’re both adults
. She watched him beneath her lashes, as they buried themselves with the tasks of eating. Finally, when the plates were empty but for crumbs and chicken bones, she gently placed her hand on his. He drew a deep breath, even as his fingers twined with hers. “Nicholas,” she said softly. “I know this isn’t what either of us ever expected. And I know something of your time and how things are done here, but…”

“But?” He was listening to her intently.

“I know you want me.” She paused and met his blue eyes with a bravado she did not feel. “I want you, too.”

“Lady—Olivia—” He broke off visibly flustered. “You must understand how difficult—how strange this seems to me. You aren’t like any lady I’ve ever known either, you are so different from every other woman. I would not insult you, or distress you, or in any way cause you—”

She rose and moved around the table to stand beside him. She placed one finger across his lips. “Not so different from other women.” He kissed her fingertip.

“Are you certain you want this?” His eyes met hers. In his gaze she read passion and need and a touching uncertainty.

Here goes nothing
, she thought. “Oh, yes.”

He stood up and gathered her in his arms, bent his head and kissed her. If this morning’s kiss had been gentle, searching, and unsure, this one was hard and hot and demanding. His mouth seized hers hungrily, his tongue exploring hers with a need that left her weak. Her legs seemed to turn to water and his arms instinctively tightened around her as her knees nearly buckled. Her breasts were crushed beneath the layers of clothing, and suddenly she knew she was wearing far too many clothes.

“Come,” he said at last.

He led her out of the parlor and up the stairs off the common room, where Olivia could hear snatches of ragged singing, which rose and fell beneath shouts for more ale. He slipped his key out of the little pouch he wore at his waist, opened the door, and pushed it open. He looked down at her and hesitated once more. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she replied, with even more determination.

He grinned. It lit up his face and made him look far more boyish than he usually did. ‘Then, come. I think we’ll need but one room tonight.” He allowed her to enter, shut the door behind them, and carefully locked it. He held out his arms and she slipped into them, as easily and as naturally as if she’d belonged there all her life, and he drew her mouth to his once more. One hand worked the pins from her hair, fingers combing through the heavy mass, until it spilled loose over her shoulders and down her back. He gathered the thick dark-brown locks in his hands as she clung to him, her own fingers twined in his short dark curls. They stood together for what seemed like a long time, until at last he raised his head, even as his fingers twined in the lacings of her bodice. “And you’ll have no need of a maid tonight, I think.”

“That’s good,” she said, with a grin. “Because I noticed that Molly’s terribly busy down there.”

“Then we should leave her in peace.” He dropped tiny kisses along her cheek, and she closed her eyes as delight rippled through her like a wave. And each successive wave made the heat burning between her legs rise by slow but certain degrees. Piece by piece, he peeled each article of clothing off her, until she stood only in her shift. The floorboards beneath her feet were bare, and she shivered as the chilly air raised gooseflesh on her skin. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, placed her gently beneath the covers, and turned away.

She watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as he stripped his clothes off faster than she would’ve thought possible, and turned to her. She eyed his body, lean and broad-shouldered, the muscles developed from a lifetime of vigorous activity. Her gaze dropped to the hard evidence of his need, and he smiled, even as he slipped beneath the sheets beside her. “Am I made as men in your time, lady?”

“Most of them aren’t made half so well,” she answered. And then she couldn’t speak for a long time, for his mouth was on hers once more, and his hands slipped beneath her shift, pulling the last barrier away, and he rose above her, body poised, the tip of him resting against her own wet and wanting flesh. “Are you sure?” he asked again.

With a groan, she lifted her hips and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her. He eased gently into her warm soft depths, and she moaned, writhing beneath him, her body on fire with need. “Never surer,” she managed at last.

With a soft chuckle, he thrust deeper, and their bodies matched themselves to each other, as she gave herself up utterly to the timeless cadence of his lovemaking.

“HE’S SAILING TOMORROW on the
Merry Harry
if the weather holds fair.” Christopher Warren leaned back against the grimy whitewashed wall and allowed himself a deep, satisfying drink.

“Aye, or the day after if it doesn’t?” Sir John toyed with his own tankard.

“And you understand where to look for him? At the church, St. Mary-by-the-Sea? You have no questions? I leave you tonight for London. From here on, everything relies upon you.”

“I do.” For a moment, Sir John looked bemused. “It troubles me, Master Warren, to think that a man I almost allowed my daughter to wed would truck with the Spanish—”

“Shh!” Warren held up a warning finger. “The very walls have ears, Sir John. This is not the time to speak so freely. Have no fear, you’ll have ample chance to express all your doubts—and your observations—soon enough.”

“He’s with that loose woman, you say?”

Warren nodded over the rim of his tankard and signaled to the serving maid for another round. “Bold as you please. They’re traveling as man and wife.”

“Faugh.” Sir John looked disgusted. “That’s another charge should be brought against him—fornication. I knew that was no cousin of his when I saw her dressed in men’s clothes—did I mention that. Master Warren? Such doings—”

“Three times now,” Warren said as the maid placed fresh tankards before them.

The knight looked disgruntled. “You may think what you will, Master Warren, but no godly woman parades herself in clothing meant for men. Why, you could see her legs all the way to the thighs. It’s an abomination before the Lord.” He drained his tankard and pulled the other closer. “And it’s struck me as odd, Master Warren, if I do speak plain, that I don’t understand why you want Talcott to go all the way across to Calais, and meet up with this Spaniard. Wouldn’t it be better to arrest him here?”

The knight’s voice carried over the swell of the crowd, and Warren leaned forward, swiftly motioning to keep his voice down. “Caution, Sir John. Not all faces are friendly, even in such a place as this.” He glanced around the room, assessing whether or not anyone who might have overheard could possibly care. No one was looking at the two men, but Warren knew that did not necessarily indicate lack of interest. Inwardly he sighed, and continued, “We need the plans, Sir John. Even if His Catholic Majesty should choose to abandon these particular plans, once he realizes they’ve fallen into our hands, there are still only a limited number of possibilities. These plans will give us a look into the mind of the King and his most trusted strategists.”

“I see.” A frown crossed Sir John’s face, as though he wanted to ask another question, but thought the better of it. “Well, these are great doings, and I am only a humble country knight.”

“Indeed, Sir John, we are all but little cogs caught up in the great wheel of Her Majesty. And, I for one, considered myself blessed to be so.”

“To the Queen.” Sir John raised his tankard in a toast. Warren touched the rim of his own tankard to Sir John’s. “The Queen.” He drank the toast slowly, his eyes darting around the room, over the rim. Was that a French agent he recognized in the corner by the fire? He downed the contents of his mug in another great swallow. “I’m to bed, Sir John. I will see you here, at Dover, four nights’ hence. And may God look kindly on us all.”

“An you say so, Master Warren.” The knight nodded a good night, then turned back to his tankard, his long thin hands laced around its rough surface. “Good night.”

“Yes.” Olivia breathed the word in one drawn-out sigh as Nicholas dropped tiny kisses down her inner thigh.

“You like that?” He raised his head and smiled.

“Oh, yes.”