Until You

by Bertrice Small

  It was patently obvious to their two companions that something extraordinary had just happened. And though neither Lord Grey nor Elsbeth Hume understood, they moved away discreetly, leaving Rosamund and the Earl of Glenkirk alone.

  Patrick tucked the small hand still in his possession into the crook of his arm, saying as he did so, “Let us stroll, madame, and we will tell each other of ourselves.”

  “There is naught to tell,” Rosamund began. She felt better now that they were speaking than she had in the odd silence that had enwrapped them previously.

  “You are English,” he said, “but not from the south, for I understand you too well.”

  She smiled now. “My home is in Cumbria, my lord.”

  “And how did a lass from Cumbria come to be Margaret Tudor’s friend? A good enough friend to be invited to King James’ court?” he asked. He shortened his steps to match hers, for he was very tall, and she, while not as small as the queen, was petite.

  “When my second husband died, he put me into the care of King Henry. Not he now upon England’s throne, but his father,” Rosamund explained. “I was just thirteen.”

  “At thirteen you had outlived two husbands, madame? Are you so dangerous, then?” he asked, and she heard the humor in his voice.

  “I am twenty-two now, my lord, and have buried three husbands,” she teased him.

  He laughed aloud. “You have children, then.” It was a statement.

  “Three daughters. Philippa, Banon, and Elizabeth,” Rosamund answered. “They were born to me and my third husband, Sir Owein Meredith. I was wed first at the age of three to a cousin who perished when I was five. I was married again at the age of six to Sir Hugh Cabot, an elderly knight chosen by my uncle, who wished to retain control over Friarsgate. Hugh, however, taught me how to be independent and cleverly thwarted my uncle Henry by placing me into the custody of the king when he died. My uncle was furious, for he sought to wed me to his second son, who was but five. It was the king’s mother, the Venerable Margaret, and your queen, Margaret Tudor, who chose my third husband for me. Owein was a good man, and we were content together.”

  “How did he die?” the Earl of Glenkirk asked her.

  “Owein loved Friarsgate every bit as much as if he had been born and bred there. He had a peculiar habit of climbing to the top of each tree in the orchards come harvest, so that no fruit was wasted. No one else had ever done it. Usually that fruit was left to rot, or to fall and be scavenged by the deer. But he would not have it. He thought it wasteful. He fell from the top of one of those trees and broke his neck. A branch gave way.” She sighed. “I had lost our only son several months before.”

  “I lost my wife in childbed, but my son survived,” he told her. “He is now a grown man with a wife of his own.”

  “He was your only child?” she asked.

  “I had a daughter,” he replied shortly, and his tone indicated he did not at this time choose to discuss it further. They had reached the end of the Great Hall. “Let us go out and view the night sky,” he suggested. “It is very clear, and the stars are always their brightest over Stirling on a winter’s night.”

  “We have no capes,” she answered, but she very much wanted to go.

  The Earl of Glenkirk snapped his fingers at a passing servant.

  The man stopped. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Two warm cloaks for the lady and for me,” the earl ordered.

  “At once, my lord, if you will wait here,” the servant responded, and he hurried off. They stood silently until he returned a few moments later with the required garments.

  The Earl of Glenkirk took a long nut-brown wool cape lined in warm marten and draped it over Rosamund’s shoulders. He moved around before her and carefully fastened each of the polished brass frogs that closed the garb tightly. Then he gently drew up the fur-lined hood. Each time their eyes met, Rosamund had this incredible sense of déjà vu. “There,” he said and then, turning, took the other cloak from the servant. When he had dressed himself, he thanked the servant and took Rosamund’s hand to lead her outside into the winter gardens.

  It was very cold, but the air was still. Above them the night sky was ebony in color and dotted with stars that twinkled crystal, blue, and red. They walked in silence until the lights of the castle were but glittering gold points and they could no longer hear the murmur of the many voices within the hall. Then suddenly he stopped. He turned her so that she was facing him, pushing back the hood of her garment, taking her small face within the enclosure of his two big hands.

  Rosamund’s heart began to hammer with her excitement. Each time their eyes met it was as if this very moment had happened before. She could not for the life of her look away from him, and when his dark head slowly descended, his lips brushing gently over hers several times as if tasting her, it was she who cupped his head in her palms, and drew him down to kiss him hungrily. She shuddered as their mouths met that first time. Or was it for the first time?

  Finally he drew away, saying as he did, “I am hardly a young man, madame.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  “I have seen a half century,” he answered. “I could be your father.”

  “But you are not my father, my lord,” Rosamund told him. “You are older than Owein Meredith, but younger than Hugh Cabot. We are drawn to each other, although I do not know why or how this is. I know that you feel it, too, for I have seen it in your eyes.” She reached out and gently caressed his cheek. “So here we are, my lord earl, and what are we to do?”

  “Will you believe me when I tell you that I have never before felt with a woman as I do with you, madame?”

  “My name is Rosamund,” she told him, nodding. “And like you, I have never felt quite this way before, my lord.”

  “My name is Patrick,” he answered.

  “Are we bewitched, Patrick?” she asked him.

  “By whom or what?” he wondered aloud.

  She shook her head. “I do not know. I am new here and know few.”

  “As am I,” he replied. “I have not been to court since I returned to Scotland from San Lorenzo many years ago.”

  “San Lorenzo?” She looked puzzled.

  “It is a small duchy on the Mediterranean Sea. I was sent as the king’s first ambassador to set up a friendly port where our trading vessels might find safety, water, and supplies,” the earl explained.

  “Then you have traveled, Patrick. I have never wanted to travel, for I love my home. I always hated going to court. But now, suddenly, I am ripe for adventure.” She smiled mischievously, and his heart contracted almost painfully.

  He reached out again and enfolded her in his embrace. “I want to make love to you,” he said softly. He kissed her slowly, his mouth demanding yet gentle. “I cannot believe I would be so damned bold with someone I have only just met, and yet I feel as if we have known each other forever. And you feel it, too, Rosamund. I saw the surprise of recognition in your eyes earlier. I do not understand it, and yet it is happening.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “I do not know what to do. Do you? Should we follow our instincts? Or should we decide this is some madness, and part from each other? You must decide for us, Patrick, for I am much too afraid to do so, and I have never before been a coward when facing life.”

  “Neither have I,” he said. “So despite what common sense would tell us, my fair Rosamund, let us follow our instincts and see where they will lead us.” He kissed her again. “Are you ready for the journey?”

  “My family’s motto is Tracez Votre Chemin—Make Your Own Path. If we are to follow our instincts, my lord, then that is exactly what I shall do,” she told him, looking up into his handsome face. He did not look to her as if he had lived a half century, even if there were small lines about his eyes. And looking into those eyes she once again felt an overwhelming sensation of giddy excitement.

  “So, dear cousin, this is where you have gotten to,” a familiar voice broke into her thoughts, into the privacy of
their new world. “And who, dear Rosamund, is this gentleman who would drag you out into the cold night? God’s foot! I am frozen just seeking you, dear girl.”

  She laughed as his voice brought her back to reality. “This, my lord of Glenkirk, is my cousin Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge. He escorted me from Friarsgate, and is, he assures me, enjoying himself immensely, having never believed the Scots could be so civilized, he says.”

  Patrick knew immediately what Thomas Bolton was, and the irritating jealously he had felt at the arrival of the other man drained away. He smiled and held out his big hand to shake that of Rosamund’s cousin. “I saw her well protected before I brought her out, my lord. The sky above, however, is well worth it.” The earl drew up Rosamund’s hood again in a tender gesture. “We should nonetheless return to the hall. So you find us civilized, do you?” He chuckled.

  “Aye,” Tom agreed. “Your court is much more open and less pretentious than our good King Henry’s court. Perhaps it is his Spanish queen who requires such formality. Your king, however, keeps a merry company about him, and habits here are far more relaxed. I am quite enjoying myself, and I am tempted to purchase a house in Edinburgh and here in Stirling.”

  “Would not your king object?” the earl queried.

  “Nay. I am not important to Henry Tudor. I am simply a rich man whose wealth comes from trade and whose title comes from the guilty conscience of a long-dead king,” Tom said with a chortle. “I am not considered important enough to be bothered with but for my connection with Rosamund.”

  “Tom!” her voice held a warning note. “I have no importance in the English court but that I helped our good queen in her time of need once.”

  “Poor Spanish Kate,” he responded, and then he turned to the Earl of Glenkirk. “There she was, dear creature, widowed by one Tudor and considered for another but that her father would not pay all her dowry. The old king was hardly noted for his generosity and would scarce support her. Her attendants were shipped home but for a few who would not leave her, wise creatures they were. They suffered for it though. They were all in rags and half-starved with the old king blowing hot and cold on the marriage. And then Rosamund learned of it. Spanish Kate had been her companion along with Princess Margaret when Rosamund lived at court. My good-hearted cousin sent little purses to she who is now England’s queen. They were much for her, but barely enough for the poor princess to keep herself and her few ladies for several weeks. It was gallant of her to do such a thing, and in the end she was rewarded when Spanish Kate finally became England’s queen. My cousin stands in the queen’s favor, my lord.”

  “The queen believed she owed me a debt, which she did not, but has now been more than repaid,” Rosamund said quietly. “You are most voluble tonight, cousin.”

  “I was concerned when I could not find you anywhere in the hall, dear girl,” he answered her smoothly.

  “And what brought you out into the cold night?” the earl inquired, amused.

  “I overheard one of the queen’s ladies saying she had introduced the lady of Friarsgate to the Earl of Glenkirk and they had left the hall together,” he replied. “You cannot deny me my curiosity. And there are others in the king’s hall equally as fascinated. I understand, my lord, that you have not been to court in many years.”

  “I do not enjoy the court with its gossip and intrigue,” the Earl of Glenkirk said pointedly, “but I am a loyal servant to Jamie Stewart, and when he calls, I come.”

  “Not another word, Tom!” Rosamund scolded her cousin. “And before you even ask, he does not know yet why he was summoned.”

  “Rosamund, I am crushed, dear girl, that you would think me a common gossip,” Lord Cambridge said dramatically, his hand going to his heart.

  “You could certainly never be called a common gossip, Tom,” she replied wickedly.

  Patrick laughed. “My lord, when I learn of why I have been sent for, I assure you it will not be long before the entire court learns of it. I admit to being curious myself, for the king knows I am not a man of the court and that I am content to remain on my lands at Glenkirk. But he also knows my son is there to oversee our estates in my absence.”

  “You have a wife, then, my lord?” Tom asked.

  “I am a widower, my lord,” the earl replied, “or I should not have approached your cousin Rosamund. I am pleased to see what a gallant protector she has in you.”

  Lord Cambridge nodded slowly. “Rosamund is dear to my heart, my lord. She and her daughters are my only living family. I should not like to see her hurt, you understand.”

  “Of course,” the Earl of Glenkirk said quietly.

  “Dearest Tom, I cannot explain to you what has happened,” Rosamund began, “for I do not even comprehend it myself, but we have always trusted each other. You must believe me when I tell you that whatever is to be between myself and Patrick, it will be all right.” She turned to the earl. “Will it not, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said, amazed to realize that he actually believed it. She did not know what was happening between them? Well, neither did he! He had walked into the Great Hall of Stirling Castle this evening and seen this young woman for the first time. And yet something within him had refused to believe it was the first time. And speaking with her he felt that he had known her forever. And he instinctively knew that she felt exactly the same way.

  Tom could feel the magic that surrounded the pair, and it startled him. What sorcery was this? he wondered, and yet there was nothing dark in it at all. But at the same time he could feel himself almost fading into the background as the intensity between them began to grow once more. “I will bid you both good night, then,” he said as they reentered the castle. Then he hurried back to the Great Hall to consider just what was happening. He needed to get away from his cousin and the Earl of Glenkirk if he were to think clearly, for the atmosphere surrounding them was simply too deep and too ardent. And it was most disquieting, as well!

  “Do you reside within the castle?” Rosamund asked Patrick as they watched Tom disappear.

  He nodded. “I have been given a chamber for myself, as I am a guest of his majesty,” he told her. “And you?”

  “As the queen’s invited guest I have been given a chamber, as well, for myself and my servant Annie,” she told him.

  “We will go to my hidey-hole, then, madame, as I have no servant to dispossess,” he told her. “If your Annie is seen spending the night in another place, there will be gossip. I am not of a mind to share what is between us at the moment. Are you?”

  “Nay,” she agreed. “Whatever this magic is, I want to keep it for ourselves, Patrick. For the first time in my life I am being selfish, but I don’t care!” Then she slipped her hand back into his and followed him as he led her down several corridors and finally up a flight of stairs.

  He opened an oak door, ushering her into a simple room with but two pieces of furniture: a bed and a stool. There was no fireplace, and the room was cold. There were wood shutters drawn across the single window, but no curtains. It was spare, but they were unlikely to be disturbed. He laid his cloak upon the stool, then gently unbuttoned the frogs fastening her outdoor garment, and, removing it, put it with his own. Taking her face in his hands he smiled down into her eyes. “This is not fine enough for you,” he told her. Then he found the candle and lit it, before closing the door behind them and turning the key in the lock.

  “Kiss me,” she responded softly.

  With a sigh he complied, his chill lips warming atop hers. Rosamund slid her arms about his neck, drawing him closer. Her full breasts pressed against the velvet that covered his chest. Their kisses blended one into another until her mouth ached. Finally she drew her head away from his, saying as she did, “I can but hope you are a good lady’s maid, my lord.”

  He laughed softly. “It has been many years since I have undone such finery, Rosamund, but I hope I may remember,” Patrick told her. Then he turned her about and began to unlace her bodice while placing small kisses upo
n the back of her neck. She smelled fresh, and of a scent he recognized as white heather. He put the elegant little bodice atop the pile of cloaks. Next he unknotted the drawstring holding her skirt up and let the heavy material drop to the wood floor. Then he lifted her from the velvet heap, setting her back upon the floor. “Now, what is that thing you have fastened about you?” he demanded, puzzled. Rosamund giggled. “ ’Tis called a shakefold, and it is used to plump my skirts out in a fashionable manner,” she explained.

  “It looks dangerous,” he said. “Can you get the damned thing off without me?”

  She unfastened the shakefold and stepped from it, kicked it over to the stool, where her other garments were piled. Then she added her flannel petticoats.

  “Sit on the edge of the bed, and I will remove your stocking for you,” he said.

  Rosamund sat, watching him as he first removed each of her square-toed leather shoes and then set about unrolling her wool stockings. When her feet were finally free, she wiggled her toes in an attempt to get some warmth back into them.

  “Get beneath the coverlet,” he said, and then he turned away to undress himself.

  She watched him in the pale flickering light of the single candle. He had lived a half century, he had said, yet his body was hard and firm. He was obviously not a man who was idle or lazy. His buttocks were tight, and his hairy legs long. His back was broad, and he was very fair of skin. Entirely naked, he turned about to enter the bed, and she caught a glimpse of his manhood. At rest it was large, and she shivered with anticipation, then blushed with her own lustful thoughts. What was she doing here, in bed with a stranger? And yet it was right.

  He drew her into his arms, his fingers undoing the ribbons that held her chemise closed. When the delicate fabric spread itself open, he looked upon Rosamund’s breasts, and then his dark head bent. He rubbed his face against the perfumed skin, gaining the most intense pleasure as he did so. She shivered and held his head against her bosom, enjoying the act every bit as much as he was.