Virginia Henley (4 page)

She squeezed his erection. “I think I did.”

“Explore farther. Better yet, let’s explore each other.”

His hands disappeared inside her robe to glide over her high, pointed breasts. He heard her gasp of pleasure as he rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger to make it erect, then dipped his head to suck it into his mouth.

Margretha forgot the present, forgot everything except the feel and taste and scent of the man whose foreplay rendered her limp with need. Hepburn was not only the largest male she had ever lain with; he was also the most satisfying lover she had ever had. With urgent hands she drew him toward the bed. “Hurry, Patrick!”

“Hurry?” he puzzled, as she pushed him down and began to undress him. “There’s little pleasure in haste, Gretha. We have all night.” He shrugged from the doublet she had unfastened and retrieved a small package from its inside pocket. He stripped off his clothes while she unwrapped a pair of beaten silver bangles.

“They’re lovely, my lord. Allow me to thank you for them.”

“Allow me.” He slipped a bracelet over each wrist, then laid her back against the pillows and raised her arms above her head, holding her captive in a blatantly submissive position. The fingers of his other hand trailed down the curve of her belly and began to toy with the curls between her legs.

She arched against his powerful hand. “Now, Patrick, please!”

“You don’t want to play? I have a new game,” he teased.

She moaned. “I’m slick with need. Take me now.”

His fingers told him that she was indeed wet and wanting. Her need was so great that she hadn’t even removed her robe. “I’m not cruel enough to make a lady beg.” He straddled her and plunged up inside her with a powerful thrust. Then he freed her wrists and cupped her breasts so that he could feel them bounce as he moved in and out with long, vigorous strokes.

As her palms caressed the heavy musculature of his chest and shoulders, she tried to hold back the scream that was building in her throat. When his demanding mouth covered hers she could hold back no longer and climaxed with a convulsive shudder and a cry that he took into his own mouth.

Though he had not spent, he paused for a moment so that she could enjoy the sensual ripples spreading inside her before he resumed the mating dance that would take her to new heights of arousal and satisfaction.

Unbelievably, the door opened and someone entered the room. Margretha slid his hard cock from her sheath, and he sprang from the bed to confront the intruder.

“Your Majesty,” Gretha said softly.

As his bedmate covered her nakedness with her robe, Patrick suddenly realized why she had not removed it and why she had urged him to hurry. She had been expecting this visit from the queen.

“Leave us.” Anne of Scotland waited quietly in the shadows until she and Patrick were alone. Her eyes frankly assessed his naked body bathed in candlelight. “You are the living, breathing image of Francis,” she murmured wistfully.

In that moment he realized that his father had been the queen’s lover. It shocked him, yet he knew it should not, for it answered so many questions. As she stepped forward into the light he forgot his own natural state as his eyes examined and appraised her. At almost thirty, she maintained a statuesque figure and voluptuous breasts that made her still attractive, but at seventeen, when his father first laid eyes on her, the nubile young Dane must have proved irresistible.

“Lord Stewart ... Patrick ... I need a favor.”

“I am yours to command, Your Majesty.”

“The king wishes to see you privately.”

Christ, so much for discretion. Does the whole bloody Court know I’ve come to fuck Gretha?
He remembered that he was naked and reached for his clothes.

“James has been so dumpish and melancholy lately”—Anne hesitated—“ever since his last letter from Queen Elizabeth. She is such a cruel bitch! Please, Patrick, tell him what he wants to hear. ’Tis the only thing that will lift his spirits.”

Patrick nodded his understanding as he dressed. “Lead on.”

He followed the queen past the bedchambers of her ladies-in-waiting. He’d been entertained in some of them, but not all; his taste in women was discerning. She took him past her own suite of rooms and the audience chambers, stopping outside the private apartment of the king. She opened the anteroom door, spoke to the guard and quickly departed.

The guard opened the inner door and announced, “Lord Patrick Stewart.”

The king, who had been sitting at an oak table strewn with papers, stood up and came forward to greet his visitor. “See that we’re not disturbed,” he told the guard. James Stuart was not a fashionable man. He wore a shabby fur robe spotted with wine stains. His sparse auburn beard and sad brown eyes gave him the look of a hunting hound. Though he looked older than his thirty-five years, he could be moody and petulant as a bairn. “Patrick, lad, I’ve bin waitin’ hours, nay, months—where’ve ye bin?”

Patrick went down on one knee. “Patrolling the Borders, Sire.”

The king spoke with a heavy Scottish brogue, and his words were indistinct, as if his tongue were thick. It gave the impression that he was dull-witted, but Patrick knew his intellect was sharp. When he felt James tug on his doublet, he stood up.

“Pour us wine and come and sit. I don’t like ye towerin’ o’er me. What I say tonight must be kept privy. Is that understood?”

“Always, Sire.” He handed the king a goblet of golden Rhenish wine and took the chair opposite him before the fire.

“I want tae know my future. I want ye tae foretell it fer me.”

“My father was charged with witchcraft. I’m not foolish enough to dabble in the dark arts, Sire,” he said carefully.

“Wheesht, lad, we both know that was a trumped-up charge by his enemies. He had the
sight
and prophesied fer me many a time. I know ye have the power; dinna pretend wi’ me, Patrick.”

“You want me to draw up your horoscope, Sire?”

“Horoscope, my arse! I want tae know if she’ll name me her successor.” He went over to the table and snatched up a letter. “The old bitch has dangled it in front of me fer years tae keep me in grovelin’ submission. The minute I reach fer it, she snatches it away and laughs at me. Then she looks down her long, haughty nose, takes up her pen and rebukes me as if I were her lackey. She murdered my mother and constantly adds insult to the vile injury!”

Tell him what he wants to hear.
It was perfectly clear to Patrick that James wanted to hear that Elizabeth would name him successor to the English throne. Not only did he want it and need it, he
lusted
for Elizabeth’s crown. “May I hold the letter?”

James placed it in his hand. “Read it if ye must.”

Without reading it, Patrick saw Elizabeth’s words in his head:
Let not shades deceive you. I will have no rascal to succeed me. Ambition can turn to dust or smoke.

The Queen of England was clearly warning him against intrigue, and Patrick immediately knew that James was guilty. “Sire, you involved yourself in Essex’s rebellion, offering him support. Though he was her favorite, she put him to death for treason.”

James snatched the letter from him. “I did no such thing!”

Patrick knew the king was lying, but he realized he must tread warily. “Sire, Elizabeth is telling you that she is suspicious of you and is warning you against further intrigue.”

“I could write a letter that would dispel all suspicion and pledge her my loyalty and devotion, but there’s none I can trust tae deliver it into her hands. I am surrounded by spies who carry tales. I wouldn’t dare give it tae Nicholson, her English ambassador tae Scotland. He blackens my name every chance he gets, hintin’ that I’m in league wi’ the Pope.”

“I know a man you can trust, Sire. The Warden of the English Middle March is Robert Carey. I’ve had dealings with him and know him to be a man of honor. He was knighted for his service in France; moreover, he is the queen’s cousin.”

“Elizabeth has more cousins than fleas on a hound, and the degree of intermarriage is scandalous. Robert Carey is one of old Hunsdon’s brood, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are seldom mistaken, Sire. All the Carey brothers have been Border wardens at one time or other, and Robert’s sister is wed to Lord Thomas Scrope, Constable of Carlisle Castle. Robert served under him as deputy of the West March before he became Warden of the Middle March a year ago, so he’s lived on the Scots’ Border for some time and is a strong advocate for peace between our two countries. I could arrange for you to see him, Sire.”

“Would he not serve Elizabeth’s interests before mine?”

“Not if you pay him well for his services. He was once a loyal attendant at Court, but it was a way of life that ruined his pocket. He escaped from Court to serve on the Border; however, I happen to know that his warden’s fee has never been paid.”

“Bring him tae see me wi’out delay. I am in need of an English faction who will be loyal tae me. Now, stop yer evasive tactics and tell me what ye foresee in my future.”

Patrick smiled wryly. “You are tenacious as a terrier, Sire.”

“That’s because it’s like gettin’ blood from a stone. I must know, Patrick! I’m livin’ in purgatory. Will Elizabeth name me her successor, or will I have tae fight a war and take the Crown of England by force? Be assured that I
will
invade England in defense o’ my hereditary rights! And if I do fight the English, will I then have tae fight Spain, which wants a Catholic on the throne?” James was working himself into a passion. He wiped the spittle from his mouth on his sleeve. “Above all, I need tae know how much longer Elizabeth will live. Sometimes I fear it will be as long as the sun and the moon!”

“She is not immortal, Sire.”

James licked his lips. “England is wealthy beyond the imagination. Her English nobles live lavishly, while we in Scotland live in penury, and all my nobles are impoverished. It’s like havin’ a feast spread out before a starvin’ mon. Patrick, I need tae know how much longer Elizabeth will live!”

“Look at my poor, paltry crown and compare it with hers!” James pointed to an alcove where his crown sat on its velvet cushion. The king did not keep it with the sword of state and silver-gilt scepter but had removed it to his chambers so he could wear it whenever he felt the need.

The firelight reflecting in Patrick’s wine suddenly glinted off the gold crown in a red flash, illuminating the alcove with shimmering light. Above the crown of Scotland’s king, another crown, far more glorious, encrusted with huge diamonds, pigeon-blood rubies and other precious jewels, floated above the simpler crown.

James stared at Patrick intently. He could tell that the dark Stewart was experiencing a vision of some sort. He held his breath, prepared to wait until his kin came out of his trance, but impatience won out. “What do ye see?” he whispered.

The spell was broken. The vision vanished. Patrick was far too shrewd to reveal all he had seen.
Tell him what he wants to hear.
“You will wear both crowns, Sire,” he assured the king.

“I knew it was my destiny! But, Patrick, ye do no’ tell me
when
or
how.
Why do ye keep it from me?” he demanded petulantly.

“It is the great fundamental political question: Who gets what, when and how?”

James took his meaning immediately. “Ye know I will reward you handsomely, Patrick. What is it ye want?”

“The same as you, Sire: my hereditary rights.”

“The lands your father forfeited have been granted tae others. All his castles were mortgaged tae the hilt, and the new owners have paid off those heavy debts. I canno’ restore them tae ye.”

“Land and estates in England equal or greater in number and size would suffice, along with an earldom,” he bargained. He could read James’s mind. The king was tempted to agree to anything in exchange for what Patrick could foresee and prophesy. “I want no
false
promises, Sire. I want your sacred pledge.”

“I canno’ take estates from the English nobility and grant them tae ye, wi’out them risin’ up against me,” James said truthfully. “There is one way,” he added thoughtfully, determined to learn all that Patrick could portend. “If ye prophesy correctly
how
and
when
I become King of England, I will give ye a wealthy heiress.”

“Marriage?” Patrick considered the idea for the first time and was tempted to refuse. He’d have none select a wife for him, especially not James Stuart. “You drive a hard bargain, Sire. If you give me my choice of
any
English heiress I desire, I think we can draw up a bond. I’ll need the pledge in writing, Sire.”

“I will gladly give ye any heiress that takes yer fancy. In return ye must tell me exactly when Elizabeth will
die
!”

“I would need to be in the queen’s presence and look into her face to know that, Your Majesty.”

“Then ye will accompany Robert Carey tae Elizabeth’s Court.” The king stood up. “I was goin’ to invite ye tae the hunt tomorrow, but ye will be leavin’ fer the Borders in search of Carey. Tonight I know ye hunt other quarry.” His hand rubbed across his groin in a crude male gesture. “In my experience,
coitus interruptus
makes the cock grow harder.”

Long after Margretha fell asleep, replete and exhausted from the passion she had expended, Patrick lay wide awake. He had been of two minds whether he would return to her chamber or not, then decided she had been guilty of only a small deceit. All females dabbled in deception, a character flaw that paled when measured against male duplicity. His restless thoughts began to prowl. Though physically he remained beside her, mentally he withdrew. Fleetingly, he thought of tonight’s vision, brought on by the sight of the crown. His visions were always initiated by a
trigger,
such as the black cat in the Earl of Winton’s stable. He visualized the cat now, hoping to conjure the female, but she remained elusive and refused to materialize. Her exquisite beauty, however, was indelibly engraved upon his memory. He pondered who she was and why he had envisioned her. He was certain he had never encountered her in his past, for such a wench would be unforgettable. One thing was certain: If he ever met her in the flesh, so to speak, he would recognize her instantly. His body stirred, and he cursed his rampant appetite that could be whetted by his own sensual imagination.