Rose Bride (3 page)

With Master Elton though, it would be hard to say no if the doctor wished to take his pleasure with her. And this time she would have no virginity to lose.

‘Yes,’ she managed, belatedly realising that he was still waiting for her response. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Mistress Croft, you have done nothing that needs to be forgiven,’ Master Elton murmured, a faint smile on his lips as he bent to blow out the candle. ‘The same may not be true for the rest of us, however.’

Her breath caught as the room was plunged into smoking velvety darkness. And she was glad he could not see her face. For his smile had sent a jolt of heat to her belly and thighs, her whole body suddenly alight with desire.

The darkness brought illumination. He wanted her. And she wanted him. That was what she was feeling.

Lust.

Groping her way into the torchlit corridor afterwards, Margerie did not dare look at him again, caught in the grip of some sexual urge so strong she was left breathless and trembling, shocked by the visceral nature of her response.

Don’t show him how you feel, she told herself sternly. He was a man, and she was alone with him. Had she no sense of self-preservation whatsoever?

That night, lying in bed in the dark, cramped quarters she shared with the other women of the royal wardrobe, Margerie felt again that sweet languorous heat burning in her body and secretly wished she had taken advantage of the darkness.

She could have lived up to her reputation for once, grasped the doctor’s shoulders and pressed her mouth wantonly against his. Something told her Master Elton would not have pushed her away.

CHAPTER TWO

His cock so hard it could have been made of stone, Virgil Elton shifted uncomfortably as he woke, then rolled onto his side. His dream had fled before he could fully remember it, but he knew it had concerned a willowy redhead with wicked green eyes and skin pale as alabaster. He stroked himself slowly, staring at the grey strip of light through the shutters that heralded another dawn.

Margerie Croft had done this to him.

She was a courtesan, of course. Everyone knew that. A lady of great beauty, but no virtue. He had heard stories of Margerie Croft’s sexual exploits, the gossip circulating for days after her return to court. Not guilty of a single indiscretion, something a man in lust might overlook on his way to her bed, but a towering multitude of sins. Margerie had slept with this lord and that gentleman, she had ridden half the French court, her body was open to any man with enough gold in his purse to satisfy her greed . . .

And Virgil had been half-inclined to dismiss the gossip as malicious nonsense, until he had met her eyes last night. Slanting green eyes, bright as sin and thrice as inviting. Though with an edge of innocence to belie her wanton reputation, to make him wish to get Margerie Croft alone and show her the private side of his nature, the face that was never revealed to anyone.

She was achingly beautiful. A full-lipped sensual mouth that made a man’s cock stiffen with need. High cheekbones, her face pale and elven in its otherworldliness. Those provocative eyes. And a cloud of gathered red hair, so soft and intense in its rich colour, begging to be allowed to hang loose to her waist where he could play with it all day, twisting it between his fingers or draping it over her white shoulders while they made love.

Love?
Virgil checked himself, smiling grimly as his cock twitched in his fist. Lust, more like.

He could not help this animal response. Her body, so tall and slender, so perfectly female, made the lust rise in him like sap in a fresh-cut branch. It had been all he could do last night, finding himself alone with her in a locked room, not to tear off her silken gown and feast on the immaculate white skin that he knew must lie beneath. But those green eyes searching his face, the way she had bitten her lip with delicacy and a sudden unexpected vulnerability, had given him cause to check.

Why had those courtiers chosen to harry Margerie Croft so cruelly? Had she refused the king’s attentions? If so, she was a very brave woman. But foolish too, for His Majesty was not a forgiving man – especially where his bed was concerned.

He could never behave as violently with Margerie as those men who would have raped her. The impulse lay within him to be cruel, to push the woman to her knees and force her to pleasure him. He knew it. Yet he had control of himself. Long might that control remain.

He swung his legs out of bed and stretched, pushing sleep away. It was still early and the air was sharp. He reached for his robe, willing his persistent erection to subside. He had no time to pleasure himself to a climax. The day was already beginning and he had work to do.

Margerie Croft was not a whore. Of that he was sure. He had known plenty of whores, and she lacked their easy ways. But she was no virgin either. A courtesan, then. A sexually available woman, but discreet enough to remain a lady while bedding men of her choice.

‘I am going to bed her,’ he promised the air, then laughed at his own arrogance.

What chance would he, a mere doctor, have with such a delicious and discerning courtesan?

They were afraid of you
, she had remarked, and his lie had been swift, for he preferred to deny his power. Of course the king’s men were wary of him. Not only did he hold their most embarrassing secrets in his hand, but he held something even more precious.
Influence
. His godfather, Sir John Skelton, had been a poet and one of the king’s favourite tutors as a child – and the sole reason Virgil was now a physician at the royal court. Some debts were never forgotten, and His Majesty had a reputation for rewarding his most loyal servants – so long as they were not foolish enough to displease him.

The king had chosen to favour him and advance his career at court. It could not be denied. Where there was kingly favour, there was also power. And it was a fool who did not fear a powerful man.

His power only extended so far though, Virgil thought drily. It was not true power, but an invisible cloak lent him by the king while he was in favour. To lose the king’s favour would be the work of a moment, a momentary lapse in judgement, the wrong word in the wrong ear . . .

A knock at his chamber door surprised him. It could not be his boy, who slept outside, for he would simply have entered without knocking, bringing fresh water for his ablutions or a newly laundered robe for the day’s work.

‘Come in,’ Virgil called out, frowning, then shoved a hand through his unruly hair, suddenly aware that he was not yet presentable.

It was Master Greene, one of the king’s chief physicians, a heavy-jowled man in his fiftieth year. Soberly suited and booted, the physician seemed irritated to find Virgil still dressing. No doubt he had risen and been dressed before dawn.

‘Master Elton, you must dress – and quickly too. We are summoned at once to attend His Majesty.’ He glanced at Virgil’s uncombed hair, then the rumpled bedclothes, his disapproval palpable. ‘Call your servant, sir, and make haste to be ready. The king’s leg troubles him again and his temper is uneven.’

‘Then you had best go without me, Master Greene, and not keep His Majesty waiting any longer. I will follow as soon as I am dressed.’

‘Make sure you do.’

Virgil bowed, and Master Greene departed without so much as a nod of his head. So much for courtesy. But no doubt Master Greene feared to be late. Indeed, everyone was afraid of the king these days. And small wonder, for a sovereign who could put his queen on trial for adultery was not a man who would forgive even the slightest flaw in his servants.

Almost at once, his serving boy, Ned, appeared in the doorway, yawning and sleepy-eyed himself, his fair hair tousled. ‘Forgive me, master. I did not hear Master Greene until he was at the door. Should I fetch fresh water?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll make do with last night’s, Ned. But a clean robe would be good.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The boy scurried away about his business and Virgil threw open the shutters to let the cool daylight in.

As he combed his hair, he noticed the folded and sealed paper lying on his table, addressed to him. It must have arrived yesterday while he was away from his quarters, and he had not seen it on retiring last night. But then he had been both fatigued and aroused when he came to bed, his head confused with thoughts of lust and longing he could not assuage.

Frowning, Virgil picked it up and studied the handwriting.

‘Christina,’ he murmured, then laid the letter down again with an aching heart. Much as he enjoyed hearing from his betrothed, whom he had known since she was a child, his pleasure was always tainted by memories of home.

Later, he thought. I will read her letter later.

‘But what causes this failure?’ the king demanded.

His angry gaze roved from Master Greene’s apologetic countenance to Master Bellamy’s and thence to Virgil’s face.

‘I was wont to feel these urges every morning as a younger man,’ he continued, ‘and act upon them too. Now I can scarcely perform when faced with a comely wench. I feel the pricking of desire when we dance or talk in the court, but once we are alone together, my ardour fails me. What causes this, and how can it be treated?’

‘Sire,’ Master Greene began, carefully not looking at the king, ‘it is common among men of your age to feel a certain lessening of potency. My belief is that you should be bled. Male impotency is almost always the result of an imbalance of the humours that might respond to—’

‘Silence, fool!’ Still in his nightshirt, his slippered feet set on a red velvet footrest, King Henry slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair, and the dark wood floorboards of his bedchamber shook. ‘I will not be bled, you hear me? Little good it did for my leg when I was injured in that fall back in January. The wound still ails me today, though we are well into spring.’ He almost snarled at them, ‘Come, you are the best doctors in England, or so one would assume. What else can be done?’

‘The herbal remedies we prepared for Your Majesty,’ Master Bellamy offered, ‘are you not still taking them, sire?’

‘I still take them on occasion,’ the king muttered, ‘but they no longer give me added strength. I drank one last night and felt nothing.’ His face fell into grim lines. ‘Though perhaps that was as well, for the wench I had summoned was not to my liking in the end.’

Margerie Croft.

‘Your Majesty,’ Virgil murmured, taking advantage of the silence that had fallen in the Royal Bedchamber, ‘if you would permit me to present an alternative treatment . . .’

‘Speak.’

‘I have read of a powerful infusion of exotic herbs and spices, much used in the Orient to combat problems such as these. It might take a while to procure all the ingredients, Your Majesty, but I will work in haste to prepare this infusion for you if you desire it.’

Master Bellamy looked horrified. ‘Ask His Majesty to drink an untried draught of foreign origin? Absolutely not.’

The chief physician agreed with this. ‘It would be unsafe, Your Majesty, to take any infusion we have not previously tested to ensure its safety. What if it was poisonous?’

‘Or caused some unpleasant rash or sickness? I have heard these Oriental methods are suspect and highly dangerous if not administered with extreme care,’ Master Bellamy added, shaking his head at Virgil. ‘They are not fit for Englishmen.’

King Henry sat looking at them, his eyes glacial. ‘I need an heir to my throne, gentlemen. I must be restored to full health. Is there no other way?’

Virgil thought for a moment. It was true, after all, that he had never used that infusion on a patient before. And though he felt sure it must be safe, else it would not be so widely used in the East, the wisest course would be to test the draught for several weeks before allowing the king to drink it. For even the slightest hint of sickness about the king’s person following its prescription could risk his head on the block.

‘If I were to prepare and take this Oriental draught myself, Master Greene,’ he suggested softly, ‘then observe its effects on my body over the course of several weeks, would that lay your fears to rest?’

The king’s eyes flashed in appreciation. ‘Aye, that would answer. Do it. And bring me frequent reports of your findings, to satisfy these gentlemen that I will survive your exotic draught.’

Virgil bowed, and slipped discreetly away before the chief physician could chide him further for suggesting a foreign remedy to the king. It could prove difficult to obtain some of the more unusual ingredients, he thought – but he held great hopes that the Oriental draught would prove efficacious if properly prepared and administered, and bring him into even greater prominence at court.

Nor was his hope groundless. For he had read of miracle cures for ordinary men long impotent, suddenly raised to impressive feats of sexual prowess after only a few draughts of that mixture.

Passing one of the women’s day chambers on his way back to his workshop, he glanced inside, hearing female laughter, and saw Margerie Croft herself seated in the sunshine, her sewing forgotten in her lap as she enjoyed a jest with another woman.

Her head turned as he paused in the open doorway, and for an instant their eyes met.

Margerie’s laughter died abruptly, and her eyes widened. A slight flush entered her cheeks and her lips parted as though she were breathing more rapidly.