Yes, oh, yes! She’d delight in it, too. But there was something she needed first. “Will you accept my apology?”
He lowered his body, bringing their faces so close she could feel his heated breath. He ran his eyes suggestively over her body. “I will, but I might demand a forfeit.”
His dark gaze burned with an intense flame of desire. Hoping she’d read his meaning correctly, she tangled a hand in his hair, pulling his head down to hers.
No sooner had her trembling lips touched his than she was on fire. Passion exploded like a furnace as she clutched him to her body, returning his kiss with equal vigor. They kissed for an eternity, their lips locked, their tongues entwined. She forgot to breathe as desire seared her body, and her heart galloped at breakneck speed until Kit released her to take a breath himself. He ran a hand along her flank, stroking her nightgown up above her knees—and she moaned at the touch of his flesh on hers, gazing into his eyes and thinking he’d never looked so beautiful as in this moment.
He kissed her again, and by the time he drew away, her head was reeling, her body begging for more.
“It would be so easy, too easy, to make you mine here and now. I don’t know how I shall bear it, but I must let you go this instant.” His expressive eyes swam with emotion.
“Then why did you start it if you don’t intend to finish?” She twisted her fingers into his hair.
“Hussy.” He turned his head aside and kissed the inside of her wrist. “You cannot know how provocative you are.”
She squeezed her legs together in delicious wantonness and knew from the widening of his eyes he’d felt it. “Perhaps I would like to find out.” Her voice was husky, seductive.
A slow smile spread across his mouth. He was beautiful as life itself, leaning above her with the candlelight playing across his velvety skin. His eyes held a promise that made her shiver with expectation. But still, he held back.
Maybe he didn’t care for her enough, didn’t want to be shackled to her. “Do you love me?”
He threw his head back, laughing. “Haven’t I told you yet?”
She shook her head. Without warning, he took her in his arms and rolled over, pulling her on top of him. She could feel the hardness of his manhood against her belly and knew she needed to feel him properly, skin to skin. “I hope you’re going to,” she muttered, wriggling out of her nightgown and lying over him, propped up on her elbows so she could look him in the eyes.
He stared hungrily at her breasts where they pressed against his bare chest, nipples hard and aching. Then he cleared his throat and forced his gaze to her face. “Now is not exactly a good time to ask. There are many men who, in a moment of passion like this, would say whatever was necessary in order to win the lady’s surrender. But you can trust my word. I do love you—I have loved you long before this moment. If you doubt my sincerity, remember I asked you to marry me not so very long ago. Not very coherently if I recall, but I’ve had no practice in asking so important a question. I behaved like a peasant, and apologize. Brave, beautiful Alys, I love you dearer than my own life.”
She brushed a kiss across his mouth, his eyes, his forehead. If only this moment could last forever.
He stole a kiss on his own account—long, hard, determined. Then he gazed down where their two bodies touched and said, “I rather think you must marry me now, my darling, or risk disgrace.”
She’d happily risk disgrace for a moment like this. “I’ll think about it.”
“You will not. There is no thinking to be done. We shall be wed as soon as is humanly possible. Promise me now.” He gave her a gentle shake. Her hair tumbled forward, brushing the firm muscles of his chest.
“Very well, I promise to marry you.”
His expression was incandescent. She reveled in the heat of his joy. “And promise to love me also.”
That was an easy vow to make. “I do. I will. Always.”
She drew her finger teasingly along his breastbone and saw his nipples peak. How delightfully strong his body was, yet sensitive and gentle, too. He had more secrets and wonders at his command than she could ever have imagined—and she was determined to explore them all. With slow deliberation, she lifted her hips and stroked her hand down his stomach.
“When Kate was pretending that you and she were lovers, she boasted that you made love like a stag in rut, like a charging bull. I wonder how she could have imagined such a thing.”
He looked perplexed for a moment. Then his lips folded back in a lazy smile that sent shivers up her spine. He moved suddenly and rolled over, trapping her beneath him.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Morning sunlight shafted through the gaps in the shutters, prodding Kit awake. Alys still slumbered in his arms, and he had no desire to leave their bed and face the day.
But face it he must. Too many people knew he’d been locked, naked, in Alys’ room.
There would be consequences. He withdrew slowly, so as not to wake her, then walked across the room to try the door. It was no longer locked. When had that happened?
He peered out. There was no one in view, although the familiar sounds of the court suggested that most people were already up and about their business. Looking down, he saw a pile of fabric, surmounted by a folded piece of paper.
Keeping as much of his naked body behind the door as possible, he pulled the items inside. When he shook out the cloth, it resolved itself into a heap of men’s clothing. His clothing, from the night before.
Fury warred with amusement. He might not approve the method, but he liked the results.
Should he string Rupert and his cronies up, or should he make them each a gift?
He turned, to see that Alys, tousled and rosy-cheeked, was now out of bed and shyly lacing up her bodice. A pity. But there would always be another night, another morning when they might take their time.
He grinned at her and gestured with the pile of clothes. “Well, that’s one problem solved. I shall not have to go naked to arrange our wedding.”
She joined him as he shook open the note which had accompanied the clothes, her slender arm snaking around his waist. Aloud, he read,
“ ‘To My Lord Ludlow and Mistress Alys Barchard.
Be it known to you both that your wedding has been arranged for three of the clock this afternoon. It has pleased me to make the arrangements and bear the expense myself. Alys, you have my blessing, although I shall regret losing you from court. Ludlow, there is no need to call anyone out—I know you have been tricked, and will deal with the tricksters in my own way. I believe Walsingham has need of several young men to train in the art of deviousness. Failing that, there’s always the stables.
I only hope, Ludlow, that you will beg forgiveness for taking the bride before the wedding. Greed is a sin, but I know I can rely on Alys to punish you for it.’ ”
He stared mutely at Alys.
“Is it from the queen?”
He nodded, showing her the royal signature with its distinctive flourishes.
The color fled from her cheeks. “Will the whole court know our shame?”
He gave her a squeeze, smiling. “Nay, I think not. Bess can be subtle when she wants to be. As well as persuasive. She will have arranged matters to our satisfaction, have no doubt of it.”
Alys nodded. “Good. I was beginning to fear our courtship was becoming the most public ever to occur.”
He dropped the note, taking her hands in his, and losing himself in her blue-grey eyes. “It matters not, my dearest, so long as we have each other. I promise that for every public moment of courtship there will be a thousand private ones. I mean to be the perfect husband.”
And every moment he spent with Alys, be it public or private, would be nothing less than perfection.
Read on for a Sneak Peek at Lord of Loyalty!
Chapter One
Holborn, London, July 1586
Isobel Marston rocked back and forth in agitation, desperate for release from
her captivity. Not only was she stuck in this small, stifling room, she was also imprisoned by her mind, forever struggling to remember anything. Each time a memory was in her grasp, it drifted away like thistledown on the wind, and ofttimes, she forgot her own name.
Today was one of the days when she barely felt complete. Her remedy for this was ever the same—to look in her polished steel mirror. She could always find herself in that—gazing into the troubled green eyes that stared back at her from a pale, anxious face. Alas, the mirror gave her no sense of being, but at least it confirmed her existence. Which was better than nothing.
She comforted herself with the words of her cousin, Hubert Pike. “You’ve been ill, Isobel. We’re here to care for you while Edward’s fighting abroad. None can harm you while we’re here to keep you safe.”
Her flawed mind managed to picture Hubert—the hard intelligence in his eyes, the ostentatious high ruff around his neck, and his silken clothing. She remembered the face of his pot-bellied manservant, Flinders, too, and the slovenly housekeeper, Goodwife Avice Quill, who administered her bitter-tasting medicine. It wasn’t every day she could remember them all, for their faces often blurred, and became meaningless.
The mirror trembled in her hand. “I’m not sure they grant me the loving kindness a caring relation should,” she told her reflection. “Take your medicine like a good girl and don’t complain. Your brain sickness will soon pass if you do as you’re told.” She imitated Avice’s insidious whine. One day, when she felt strong enough, she’d dash that foul-tasting stuff in the woman’s face. Nay, she must not. A well-brought-up gentlewoman would never behave thus.
Next, as an exercise for her faulty memory, Isobel concentrated on Flinders. A thickset man who was a stranger to washing, and whose breath smelled like rotten meat, he was her “special protector”. But she was revolted by him and had repeatedly told Hubert she couldn’t stand having him near her. Her cousin always gave the same response—it was a symptom of her illness that she should develop delusions about people. She shouldn’t trust her feelings.
Her head snapped up, and she dropped the mirror on the bed. She could hear an uneven step on the cobbles below—someone was coming. She hurried to peer through the diamond-shaped panes, hoping for a visitor from beyond the walls, but expecting to see only a servant. It wouldn’t be one she recognized, however—they all seemed to be different from those her father had kept when her parents were alive. Mayhap Edward had employed some new ones to manage Marston House in his absence.
How long had her brother been gone, now? It seemed months since he’d last dwelled here. The house had changed in his absence—there were fewer items of quality furniture, not so many decorated jugs and inlaid boxes as there ought to be. Or so she imagined—this brain sickness of hers had attacked her memory and twisted everything, like yarn on a spindle.
Why was she looking out the window? Was it for something important, or was it just to see if it was fine enough to go outside and do some gardening? That was a task Hubert was happy for her to do, working in the walled garden—that, or reading quietly in the tiny chamber which had become her world. Not that she had any books other than her Greek mythology. She’d read it over and over, until the characters came to life in her head, steering her thoughts as the gods had steered Mankind in those ancient days.
There was a bubble of excitement in her chest—why? Ah, yes, she’d heard someone at the front of the house. But if it were a visitor, they wouldn’t be here for her. Hubert had explained he couldn’t allow anybody to disturb her in her fragile state of mind.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t look, did it?
Cautiously, she tried her door. Not locked! And the chair in the passageway, where Flinders usually sat, was empty. With a brief flash of insight, she realized he must be with the kitchen wench who’d taken his fancy. Nobody knew she noticed such things, but on a good day, she noticed a lot.
Tiptoeing to the gallery above the main entrance into the house, she bent and peered down.
A servant, his broad figure obstructing the doorway, was in a heated discussion with the visitor. The argument lasted but a moment—the new arrival thrust the servant aside and marched in, limping a little. Isobel gasped. She’d never seen anyone shoulder their way in before.
While the stranger stood and looked around him, the harried-looking servant raced to the parlor door and announced the visitor to those within. Sir William Cavendish. That was a grand-sounding title—was Hubert in trouble with the authorities? Isobel snorted. She wouldn’t mind if he were.
Cavendish removed his high-crowned hat and placed it on the carved chest in the entranceway, then—after a moment’s hesitation—unbuckled his sword.
She stared down at him, anticipation stealing her breath. Cavendish was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a short cloak worn on one shoulder, and tightly-fitting doublet. His upper hose were paned and padded, and his stockings clung to well-muscled calves. Not as finely dressed as she might expect a knight of the realm to be, but perhaps he’d been traveling. Or mayhap she’d forgotten what a peer should look like.
Tawny gold hair framed the kind of face a classical sculptor would have adored, and there was an air of virile decisiveness in Cavendish’s movements. It made her breath catch.
“What a beautiful man—it must be Apollo. No, foolish girl—the gods don’t come to earth any more. It could be a demi-god—Orpheus perhaps. But then, where’s his lyre?”
He was out of view now, but by leaning her head as close to the handrail as possible, she could overhear every word spoken down below.
“Sir, permit me to introduce myself. I’m Sir William Cavendish, a friend of Edward Marston’s. We fought together overseas.”
“Hubert Pike, at your service. Any friend of Edward’s is a friend of mine. Have you journeyed long this day?” The stiffness in Hubert’s tone belied his words of welcome.
“I disembarked yesterday, at cockcrow, and rode directly here.”
“What reason had you for such haste?” Hubert’s voice held disapproval. Isobel pressed her forehead against the carved wooden banister and tried to recall where she’d heard the name “Edward Marston” before.
“I considered my news urgent. I would have arrived ere now but, alas, I had a wound that festered, then bad weather held back my sea crossing.”
She liked the sound of the man’s voice. It had a resonance to it that was strong, commanding. But then, if he was Orpheus, his songs could calm the hearts of savage beasts, so he was bound to have a good voice.
“Sir, I bring ill tidings, I fear.”
“Bad news? Not about poor Edward, I hope.” That name again. Why was her mind so muddled when she tried to remember anything? She knew Edward, surely?
“I regret to inform you of his death. I hope it will soften the blow of his loss to hear that he died nobly and bravely. I was with him to the very end, so I can vouch for everything. His family may be justly proud.”
“Oh, dear! Excuse me. I think, mayhap, a drop of sack to calm my nerves. Sir?” Hubert sounded horrified.
Isobel heard the clink of glass from below. “Oh, my poor darling Isobel. This could be the end of her.”
She froze at the sound of her name. Hubert rarely sounded so concerned about her.
Cavendish asked, “The end of her?”
There was a hard edge to his voice. Perchance he cared no more for Hubert than she did herself. Nay, she should not be so ungrateful. Her cousin was trying to make her better, and he kept away ignorant physicians who didn’t understand such maladies as brain fever.
“Edward and Isobel were very close, you understand. She is greatly changed since he went away, care-worn and worried. With good reason, it appears.”
“You weren’t close to him yourself, sir?”
“Alas, no. Our sires quarreled you see—one of those ridiculous feuds that can take hold in even the best of families. I have endeavored to make amends since their demise, of course. How fortunate that we
did, or the girl would have had no one to care for her in her darkest hour. Are you certain Edward is dead? Where did it happen?”
There was a pause before Cavendish answered. “I watched him die—I cannot tell you where. I’ve barely slept the night through since.”
“Cannot, or will not tell me? Edward never did say where he went to make his name as a soldier.”
“My lips are sealed. You must appreciate that youngbloods seeking favor at court are wont to get themselves into mischief—I would not harm his memory by revealing his secrets. But if you don’t trust my veracity, I have here the seal ring he gave into my keeping. And a signed note—it’s in my baggage, and can be fetched if required.”
Had Orpheus been fighting? Perhaps in Greece, or at Troy? Isobel shook her head—this was very confusing.
“Where is Isobel? I was charged to give her my news in person.”
She sat bolt upright. Was she going to be allowed into the parlor? That was where her harpsichord was—how she’d missed being allowed to play it!
“As I said—she has not been herself since Edward went away. I fear for her sanity. It is neither meet nor proper that she should come down and receive these tidings in her present state. I shall tell her when I deem ’tis right.”
No! Hubert was going to deny her. Tears pooled in her eyes.
“You’re welcome to stay the night and recover from your journey. You’ll soon see we have nothing to hide.”
She dashed the tears away. Orpheus was staying the night? There was hope yet she might meet him face-to-face.
“Most hospitable of you, sir, but I must see Mistress Marston. ’Twas a deathbed promise I made to her brother, and thus cannot be broken.”
Hubert made no answer—he hadn’t expected the stranger to be so persistent, had he? Isobel clenched her fists—it was as much as she could do not to fly down the stairs and tell the stranger how desperate she was for company.
“Mayhap I’ve not made myself clear enough,” Hubert said. “The young lady is barely in her right mind. Her wits have been addled for some time now, and the information you bring could unhinge her completely. I’m sure Edward would not have wished you to take such a risk, had he known.”
Lord of Loyalty (Trysts and Treachery Book 2) Page 21