"Since 'twas my Satyr who was involved, I must believe 'twas over a wench this argument?" she said with a look of displeasure cast in Cordelia Howard's direction, for she knew the dark-eyed she-wolf tempted both men.
"Indeed not, madam," Raymond Valchamps responded quite seriously. " 'Twas over George Hargraves."
"God's death!" came Elizabeth's favorite oath, which she had hardly uttered before her thin shoulders started to shake with laughter as she saw George Hargraves's astounded expression. "By my faith, but I'll knight all three of you for keeping me laughing--either that or have you drawn and quartered for your impudence."
" 'Tis not quite the manner in which I had imagined myself dying for my queen," Raymond Valchamps said, noting with satisfaction that she carried his New Year's gift as well as wearing Whitelaw's extravagant gift of an emerald ring. The whore did not deserve either, Raymond Valchamps thought with a smile as he pretended to gaze adoringly into Elizabeth's eyes.
Another year gone and a new one begun, and still she ruled England. But soon . . .
"I hear, my captain, that the ring you wear in your ear is Spanish gold. Is't true?" Elizabeth demanded, tapping Valentine's arm with her fan.
"Indeed, madam. The gold comes from a doubloon, one of many from the treasure of the first Spanish galleon the Madrigal took as her prize. A constant reminder, madam, of Philip's generosity to an enterprising Englishman," Valentine said.
"Your Grace! Really, I must protest so flagrant a boast of piracy!" the Spanish emissary expostulated angrily. "This man should be in chains for such an act, and yet here he is being presented at court as though having accomplished a heroic act. This is an insult to Philip and the honor of Spain. I demand satisfaction, madam, and certainly recompense for the man's thievery."
"Do not ask for too much, little man. Or you may receive more than you had bargained for. If Philip cannot keep the purse strings drawn, then do you not expect me to," Elizabeth berated the flustered gentleman before turning her back on him.
"Now, which of my bold ones will partner me? My captain or my Satyr?" she asked with a flirtatious glance between the two men as she prolonged making the choice and ignored the hopeful faces of her temporarily forgotten courtiers.
"Satyr, let us dance," she declared grandly. "You, my Captain Rogue, I shall save the next dance for. 'Tis a slower one, so I may prolong the pleasure."
"The pleasure will be mine, madam," Valentine Whitelaw responded with a courtly bow.
"Then see that you keep your eye on the step so you do not disgrace me," she warned. "There would be those, deceitful and disloyal, who would try to distract you," she added with a gleam in her eye as she caught Cordelia Howard's impatient movement.
" 'Twould be like holding a farthing candle to the sun, madam," he said. Then, with a roguish smile that caused Elizabeth's heart to flutter, he added, "Besides, I have always had a penchant for red hair, madam."
"Ah, my captain, I shall not soon let you leave my side," she vowed as she moved into the center of the hall accompanied by Raymond Valchamps.
" 'Sblood, Valentine," George said with a laugh, "if you are not careful, she will never allow you to roam far from England. If I did not know you as well as I do, I would say you wee a cunning knave. Half of the court would sell their souls to be as favored as you, and yet all you can think about is your next voyage. A pity I was born so short. 'Twill never be my good fortune to become one of her favorites when I can barely be seen in a crowd, and I certainly could not partner her without causing myself severe embarrassment. Ah, well. When do you plan to sail again, Valentine?"
"Not for some time," Valentine Whitelaw said, momentarily distracted, as Elizabeth had feared, by the dark eyes of Cordelia Howard as she moved closer to his side.
Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
SHAKESPEARE
Chapter Seven
AT HIGH TIDE, the waters of the Thames lapped over the river steps to Highwater Tavern. Built on pilings that stretched out beyond the river's edge, the half-timbered inn was popular with sea captains and sailors, most of whom enjoyed sharing an ale or two while a tale of adventure was related to appreciative mates. The sound of strange tongues could be heard as well when foreign travelers, newly arrived in port and anxious to find decent lodging after a long and perhaps perilous voyage, sought comfort before a cheerful hearth. Well-to-do merchants and well-dressed gentlemen of the city, some engaged in illicit business transactions with the proprietor and his patrons, were known to frequent the riverside tavern. The trapdoors concealed in the inn's floor allowed smuggled goods easy and free access into London. Many fine wines were enjoyed by the innkeeper's favored guests at considerable discount. And should there have been a few shekels left in a customer's purse, the affable innkeeper could also offer at thieves' prices, or so he innocently claimed, a pair of finely embroidered kid gloves that had eluded the customs officer, or the finest of imported silk ribbons and lace to trim a fair lady's gown.
Firelight danced against the aged darkness of oak beams in the low-ceilinged room when Valentine Whitelaw entered Highwater Tavern the evening following his attendance at court. He had just supped with Martin Frobisher at Devil's Tavern and had been delayed till late discussing Frobisher's next voyage. The Yorkshireman's enthusiasm had convinced even Valentine, as it previously had his investors, that this time he would find the Northwest Passage he had searched in vain for on his many voyages.
Cold rain blew in gusts about Valentine Whitelaw's cloaked figure as he swung shut the heavy door and made his way into the warmth of the inn. A frequent guest at the tavern, he was welcomed by the proprietor with opened arms when the gentleman captain had arrived a week earlier, no doubt just returned from a profitable voyage. He had even given his well-heeled guest one of his finest private rooms, for Captain Whitelaw never caused any trouble and paid his bill on time without haggling over each charge-fairly levied, the innkeeper was always quick to swear. And with their captain enjoying the tavern's best accommodations, the ship's crew could be counted on to spend a goodly sum of their well-earned pay in the taproom below.
It was a night few people wished to be out in and the taproom was packed with a multitude of shivering bodies. As Valentine moved through the crowded room he recognized many a familiar face. With nods of acknowledgment, he responded to the friendly hails. Several times he was halted in his progress through the crowd by an outstretched hand and hearty welcome for one safely home from the sea. Unable to refuse a toast to fellow captains and the success of future voyages, he found himself with tankard in hand time and time again, until the numbing chill in his bones soon fled before a spreading warmth that left him feeling well contented with his lot in life.
Few had noticed the silently moving man who had followed Valentine Whitelaw's cloaked form into the inn, but Valentine was ever aware of the Turk lurking in the shadows, never far from his side. And should someone, even one whose good judgment has become impaired because he had imbibed too freely, have taken notice of the strangely attired, turbaned man, he would have known instinctively not to voice his opinion of one so different from himself. The Turk's size alone should have been discouragement enough against a rash comment, but the intensity of the man's dark-eyed gaze would have convinced even the most drunken of sailors not to prolong the encounter.
Valentine Whitelaw was dressed in plainer doublet and hose than he had been the night before. He moved with as much ease amongst these men, some of whom were little better than ruffians a step ahead of the hangman's noose, as he had amongst the most foppish courtiers hovering around Elizabeth the night before.
"Let 'em try, the Papist dogs! I'd blow them out of the water fast enough. 'Sdeath, but I'd like to have Philip's head riding the bowsprit of my ship," a foolhardy captain boasted, and far more bravely in the taproom of a London tavern than he ever had while at sea.
"I've had enough of this poor-spirited business. Seems to me the queen a
nd them fainthearted advisers of hers are more concerned about upsettin' the Spaniards than they are seein' that Englishmen have the right to sail where they will. What I'd like to know is who gave the Spanish the right to say nay to the course I set when aboard my ship. The Spanish must think we're a bunch of dunghill cocks and not to be feared the way we sneak about, afraid of our own shadows. Well, I am a freeborn Englishman and no one is goin' to tell John Danfield where or where not he can sail!"
"Aye! The devil take 'em all!"
"Here's to the Spanish! May they rot on the bottom!"
"Aye! To the Spanisssh," the well-oiled captain agreed before sinking beneath the table.
Valentine Whitelaw managed to slip away from the noisy crowd thirsting for Spanish blood and made his way up the narrow, rickety flight of stairs to his room overlooking the river.
Before Valentine could enter his room, the Turk had stepped in front of him and opened the door. His hand resting lightly on the hilt of the scimitar, he preceded Valentine into the room as stealthily as his size would allow. Valentine couldn't help but smile slightly, for every night they went through the same procedure, and the Turk had yet to confront any assassins hiding within. And Valentine doubted they ever would. But he would never convince the Turk of that, Valentine was thinking as he shook out his wet cloak and tossed his hat upon a chair. He was removing his sword when the Turk moved with a suddenness that caught Valentine by surprise, the scimitar rising in a deadly arc as he pulled apart the velvet curtains that had enclosed the four-poster bed set against the far wall.
The Turk's savage yell was echoed by the scream of terror from the woman who had been dozing peacefully amid the pile of soft pillows on the bed.
Cordelia Howard had never been so frightened in her life, nor was she likely ever to be so frightened again. Opening her drowsy eyes to see the maniacal face of a turbaned madman swinging a curved sword down upon her was enough to cause her to lose her wits or faint; she promptly did the latter.
"Damn, Mustafa," Valentine swore beneath his breath as he recognized the pale-faced woman lying unconscious in his bed, her dark, unbound hair streaming across her bare shoulders as she slumped against the pillows.
If Valentine hadn't been so concerned for Cordelia, he might have laughed aloud at the comical look that had replaced the fierce expression on the Turk's face when he had come face to face with his deadly assassin.
The Turk, who had learned English during the past few years but seldom chose to speak, now said with his usual pithiness, "Dead, Cap'n?"
Valentine sat down next to Cordelia and felt the pulse fluttering against the soft curve of her throat. "You are fortunate, Mustafa, for Cordelia will probably be satisfied just to see you hanged, and perhaps, since I may be able to convince her to be forgiving, not have you drawn and quartered."
The Turk did not seem to be overly concerned by the prospect and continued to stand staring down at the unclad woman, his expression now one of disapproval. The coverlet had slipped lower to expose more than even Cordelia might have wished of her womanly charms, and certainly more than was considered proper even for a harem dancer.
The sound of banging on the door drew Valentine's attention from Cordelia, who was beginning to moan as she returned to consciousness.
"Here! Open up in there! What the devil's goin' on?" the innkeeper yelled through the closed door. "Don't hold for any murderin' on these premises. Ye can take yer fightin' t'other side of the river," he warned, ready to evict the lot of them, even if this was Captain Whitelaw's room.
His ham-fist was raised to strike another blow and the heavy-set fellow behind him was prepared to ease a shoulder against the door when it suddenly opened and the innkeeper nearly fell against Valentine Whitelaw's chest.
"Yes?" he inquired politely. "What is amiss?"
"Huh?" the befuddled innkeeper mumbled. "Amiss? That's what I'm here to find out! Don't like to say what I nearly did in me breeches when I heard that howl," he confided, trying to glance past Valentine Whitelaw's broad form and see beyond. "Run a respectable place here, Cap'n. I'm sure, if ye killed someone just now, 'twas probably an accident. In fact, I'll swear to it," he allowed generously, thinking of how appreciative the captain was sure to be.
"Thank you. That is indeed kind of you, but 'twas merely the lady crying out at having seen a mouse."
"Oh, I see. Well, I s'pose--what lady?" he demanded, remembering that Valentine Whitelaw had entered the tavern by himself--except, of course, for that turbaned fellow.
The expression on Valentine Whitelaw's face never changed, but some instinct told the innkeeper not to pursue the matter of the lady's identity. "Well, as long as everything is all right. Could've sworn, though, there were two screams. But 'twas the one that came before the lady's that was the worst. Curdled me blood it did," he complained.
"That was Mustafa. He doesn't like mice either," Valentine said, closing the door on the astounded innkeeper.
Returning to Cordelia's side, Valentine took the dampened cloth the Turk had prepared for him and held it to Cordelia's forehead. As her lids began to flutter, he advised the Turk, who was still at his side, "I do not think that handsome turban of yours should be the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes."
"Valentine?" Cordelia murmured.
"None other," Valentine said softly, cradling her limp body in his arms.
She buried her face against his chest, sobbing so loudly that she did not hear when the door was quietly opened then closed.
"Oh, Valentine!" she wailed. "That madman was going to murder me! Where is he?" she demanded, risking a glance as she lifted her head from the security of his embrace and looked around the room. "I hope you beat him within an inch of his life," she said with a tearful sniff. "I don't think I shall ever be the same again. The heathen ought to be hanged as well."
Valentine smoothed back a long strand of soft black hair. "So bloodthirsty, my love," he murmured, pressing a kiss against her warm, perfumed skin.
"What did you do with him?" Cordelia asked, but with less interest in the man's punishment than she had displayed before Valentine's hands had started caressing her.
"I sent him from the room," Valentine told her, his lips leaving a trail of fire along the firm roundness of her breast as he drew her closer. "My love," he whispered against her fragrant skin. "I was not expecting you."
"I wished to surprise you."
"You certainly have succeeded," he said.
"I was expecting you last night," she said with a slightly imperious lifting of her chin. "Why did you not come?"
" 'Twas nearly dawn when I saw you leave, accompanied by Valchamps," Valentine reminded her, unable to mask the jealousy he felt when seeing the two of them together.
"His sister was in attendance, or did you not remember that I am sponsoring her at court?" Cordelia reminded him now. "Or were you enjoying the company of someone else?" she demanded angrily.
"The truth of the matter, my dear, is that I fell asleep," he admitted. "Am I to be forgiven?"
Cordelia raised a haughty shoulder, humiliated that he could actually have fallen asleep when he knew she would be waiting for him. She sent him a dark look from her eyes, thinking to leave him to sleep alone this even as well, but when her eyes met his, she forgot her plans for revenge.
Valentine smiled, and Cordelia felt her blood quicken. He was so devilishly handsome, she thought as she threw back her head and allowed those turquoise eyes of his to roam freely over the silkiness of her pale-skinned flesh. And his ardent gaze alone was enough to excite her into a breathless anticipation.
But when his hands and mouth moved with accustomed familiarity over her body and elicited so wild a response from her that she felt intoxicated, she could hardly contain her impatience when he left her side to disrobe. And when he returned to her, she was so insatiable that Valentine gave a low laugh of surprise as her all-consuming passion made her forget any maidenly modesty she might have pretended or tantalizing seduction sh
e had planned to prolong her pleasures as she sought immediate fulfillment from his lovemaking.
Slowly and sinuously, Cordelia moved her body against him, feeling the burning heat of his flesh against hers as he responded with increasing sensuality to her bold caresses, but still he remained apart from her. Fondling her and kissing her with leisurely thoroughness, his hands and lips left no part of her free of his touch. And when finally they came together as one, she knew again the sensations that sent shudders of delight through her body. She had come to crave that madness that raced like wildfire through her blood. It was a necessary to her as each breath she took. feverish with desire, her nails raking Valentine's broad back, her pale, slender thighs locked about his hips, her long black hair tangled about them, Cordelia held him bound to her, refusing to allow their passion to die. Her mouth clung to his hungrily. Valentine stared down into the mesmerizing blackness of her eyes and saw his own face reflected in their fiery depths. He felt bewitched by the sorcery she practiced with her body and was lost to the ravening lust that now consumed both of them in its flame.
The noisy sounds of the river coming to life awoke them at dawn. For several moments they lay in companionable silence. A gray light was beginning to break to the east, but it seemed a halfhearted effort as the thunder rumbled overhead with the promise of more rain.
Valentine sighed contentedly and settled himself more comfortably against the pillows. He wanted to stretch, but he would regret losing the warm softness of Cordelia's flesh against his. Gently, he parted the veil of silk that concealed the beauty of her face from him. With loving tenderness, his lips moved along the delicate line of her jaw. The musky scent of the perfume she wore lingered against the heat of their entwined bodies and branded him her lover.
"Delia," he murmured against her flushed cheek, his mouth seeking a response from her slightly parted lips.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 11