Pulling her long hair from beneath her, she deliberately pressed the curve of her backside against him as she curled closer in his embrace, allowing his arm to drape across the tautness of her belly and his hand to rest intimately against her inner thigh.
"When are you going to marry me?" Valentine asked softly.
"My love, you know Elizabeth will never give us her permission. She does not look kindly upon matrimony, especially where her favorite subjects are concerned. She would have all her ladies-in-waiting and any female at court live and die as maids. Because she chooses to remain unwed, she would deny us the pleasures of--"
"--of the flesh," Valentine said, his voice muffled as his lips moved along her breast.
Cordelia laughed softly, shivering with delight under his caress.
Valentine's arms tightened about her. "I would marry you, Delia, despite Elizabeth's wrath," Valentine persisted. "I will convince her of my devotion to her, but I will not be denied you, Delia."
"I am yours, Valentine," she reminded him, snuggling against him with a seductive movement of her lips, her teeth leaving a light impression in the flesh of his shoulder.
"I want you to bear my name and children," he breathed against her warm body.
"One day, Valentine. One day," Cordelia promised him, feeling him hard against her. "Until then, let us play her game, but by our own rules. Elizabeth may continue to enjoy your undying devotion and admiration, but I shall have your love. And, more importantly, I shall have you warming my bed. And yet, we shall both continue to be welcomed at court, receiving her favors," Cordelia planned. "A pity, Valentine, that you inherited that house in Cornwall. 'Tis so far away. I swear, 'tis in the wilds, and the people little better than the savages of the New World."
"You forget, my love, that I am half Cornish," Valentine reminded her. " 'Twas my mother's home. She was a Polgannis. The last Polgannis. She knew that I have always been proud of my Cornish heritage. She also knew that I had a great fondness for her old home, and since Basil inherited Whiteswood, she left the land and ancient seat of the Polgannis family to me."
"Well, I still think 'tis a pity. If only she hadn't been Cornish, Valentine. You could have inherited an estate in Berkshire or Essex. Well, perhaps since you are so favored by Elizabeth, she will give you an estate much closer to London. 'Twill be much more convenient."
"I happen to like my home in Cornwall. You will come to love it too, Delia," Valentine assured her. "I long to show it to you. I long to see you and our children within those halls."
Valentine could not see the disgruntled expression on Cordelia's face as she stared at the glowing embers in the hearth. Living out her days in Cornwall was not what she had planned for the rest of her life. Nor did she have any intention of losing her feminine charms to motherhood so soon. Seeing herself abandoned in Cornwall in some drafty house, her plump figure surrounded by whining brats, while Valentine sailed away for months at a time and enjoyed himself at court was not to her liking at all.
Cordelia Howard knew what she wanted. Although Valentine Whitelaw was a charming rogue, indeed, she had quite decided he was her favorite lover, she had not yet decided whether or not she would marry him. Such an alliance would have to be to her advantage, and as she saw it now, marrying Valentine Whitelaw would not serve her purpose. He was an adventurer, certain to be away for long periods of time, perhaps never to return. His money was invested in his ship and his prized estate was in the wilds of the West Country. Although he was in favor with Elizabeth now, he might not always be so fortunate. And she suspected Valentine would contentedly sail away to spend the rest of his days in Cornwall, on that godforsaken estate of his. Of course, should she wed him, since he often would be at sea, she could take many a lover without his knowing. And, should he be lost, she would have his estate, which she could sell for a handsome profit. And in the meantime who could predict how wealthy and powerful he might become from these enterprising ventures of his?
Valentine Whitelaw was not her only prospect of marriage. There was Raymond Valchamps. He was handsome and witty, and he fully appreciated what life at court could bring to one with ambition. Although not as wealthy as she would have liked, he was one of Elizabeth's favorites, and she would most likely give him an estate one of these days. His expectations were quite good. He was certain to inherit within the year his family's estate, and he was heir-apparent to his grandmother's wealth-which was considerable.
Cordelia allowed a slight smile of remembrance to curve her lips. Raymond Valchamps had been her lover for years, long before she had even become aware of Valentine Whitelaw. He was indeed aptly named Satyr by his queen. He had never failed to arouse her fiercest passions, even when she was satiated from his lovemaking.
Then, there was Sir Rodger Penmorley. Odd that it should have been Valentine's brother, Basil, who should have introduced her to him, Cordelia speculated. He was a longtime friend of the family, having grown up on the estate next to the one Valentine had inherited in Cornwall. It would certainly be an interesting situation should she choose to marry Rodger instead of Valentine. Whatever would Valentine do, having her living so close, and as wife to his friend? The thought was intriguing, and not impossible. Although she would not enjoy having the family seat in Cornwall, Sir Rodger Penmorley was a very wealthy man. He owned large holdings throughout England, some of which were in the surrounding area. He even had a well-furnished house in the city, which was the fervent ambition of many an aspiring courtier. He was a member of Parliament and as a member of court had for years been seen at Elizabeth's side. He was deemed by all a worthy man; indeed, he was a man of noble character, a man of sterling reputation. But he was not a handsome, daring adventurer like Valentine, nor did he indulge in voluptuous pleasures like her libertine cousin; in fact, in Cordelia's opinion, Rodger Penmorley was dull. But he possessed greater wealth than either of them, and he was in love with her.
For now, Cordelia thought with a deep sigh of satisfaction as she lay with Valentine, she needn't concern herself with finding a husband. While she remained free, she had no one to answer to but herself. She could do as she saw fit, come and go as she pleased, and enjoy every moment to the fullest.
"Perhaps Elizabeth is quite wise in remaining unwed. She does as she damn well pleases, with no man to say nay to her. She has men serving her but not deciding her destiny, as would a husband. Such power, she wields. I swear I am envious of her," Cordelia admitted.
Valentine allowed his hands to move along the gentle curve of her hips and thighs. "I feel sorry for her at times. She is a lonely woman, Delia."
"Her loneliness is well compensated for when handsome rogues like you and Leicester vie for her affections and attentions by lavishing her with gold and jewels and fancies that would win any woman's heart. By my faith, but Elizabeth could not wear even half of the jewels she owns if she had a hundred years in which to do so. I have come to feel quite beggarly when in her glittering presence," Cordelia complained, remembering the countless strands of gleaming pearls that had dangled from Elizabeth's throat, several of which had been given to her by Valentine.
Valentine smiled. "You could never be called beggarly, my love."
"Had my father not left me well provided for, I would have been forced long ago to take a husband, even an impoverished one, just to keep a roof over my head. We cannot all be so fortunate as Elizabeth. I dare say she does not fully appreciate all of the jewels she has been given by her devoted courtiers. Were I in her position, I would certainly know how to thank so generous a gentleman," Cordelia said provocatively.
Valentine smiled. "Indeed, madam? I shall hold you to that boast," he said as he suddenly left her side.
With a curious glitter in her eyes, Cordelia watched him through half-closed lids as he prowled about the room. "Whatever are you doing? Come back to bed. I am becoming cold without you beside me," she cajoled, stretching luxuriously beneath the fur rug spread across the bed.
Valentine stood up from whe
re he had been kneeling behind a large chest at the foot of the bed, a wide grin of satisfaction on his handsome face. Despite his obvious virility, he suddenly looked like a small boy with a prized secret he was about to share with someone very special.
Cordelia gave a squeal of delight as a handful of fiery gems scattered across the fur rug. Struggling from the covers, she scrambled across the bed, oblivious now to the cold against the bareness of her body. Frantically she moved her hands through the thickness of the fur rug as she sought the emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and pearls that were hidden from her sight.
They dazzled the eye. Cordelia's tongue licked the dryness from her lips as she held an emerald up to catch the light and stared through its translucent beauty in fascination.
"Where did you find them?" she demanded, her hands moving quickly now as she searched for any gems that had escaped her notice.
"I did not exactly find them, my dear," he said, watching her with pleasure as she knelt on the bed.
"Plunder! 'Tis from a Spanish galleon you sunk, is it not?" she said excitedly. The gleam in her eye brightened as she held a bloodred ruby against the whiteness of her skin. "I shall call this one my Spaniard's blood!" she exulted.
"I can see you have no qualms about accepting such a gift," Valentine remarked, slightly surprised by her lack of squeamishness. "I hate to disappoint you, my dear, but I took that from a French corsair."
"Hmm, 'tis a pity," she murmured, but her attention was centered on the sparkling gems she held in the palm of her hand. "I shall have these made into the most stunning pendant. 'Twill cause Elizabeth such envy when she spies it adorning my finest gown," Cordelia gloated. With a deep laugh of pure pleasure, she hugged the gems to her breasts and fell back against the pillows.
Staring up at Valentine, she eyed him lazily. "Come, let me thank you properly, as I promised I would, my dearest rogue," she invited him as she let the precious stones trickle through her fingers to fall in a fiery trail from breast to thigh.
A disturbance outside the door broke the spell she was weaving about them. Laughing softly, Cordelia did not seem annoyed by the interruption and quickly became absorbed in contemplation of her newfound riches. Valentine was less than pleased, however, especially when he recognized the voice calling so frantically to him.
"What the devil is George doing here at dawn?" he demanded as he found his dressing gown. tying the velvet sash about his waist, Valentine had just reached the door when he heard low-voiced curses and scuffling noises coming from the far side of the door.
Opening it wide, Valentine stared in amazement at George Hargraves, who was standing rigidly against Mustafa's caftanclad figure. George's head had been pulled back by a handful of his fine, sandy-colored hair which was grasped tightly in one of the Turk's hands. The curved blade of Mustafa's scimitar hovered within a hair's breadth of his throat.
"Not to enter captain's presence," Mustafa explained.
"Damn it, Valentine!" George choked, his ruddy-complexioned face becoming mottled with anger and desperation. "I can't take a breath for fear of having my throat slit."
"He is a friend, Mustafa. You may release him."
"Thank you," George said, straightening his manhandled doublet and cape. "Where the devil's my hat?" he demanded testily, and spying it beneath the Turk's turned-up, pointed-toed boot, he turned a disdainful shoulder to the man and proudly drew himself up to his full height, which still had him a good foot or two shorter than the Turk. "Friend indeed!" George croaked, having lost his voice more from fear than actual physical damage. Casting a baleful glance at the Turk before he stepped well away from him and that damned sword of his, he warmed to his grievance.
"Try to do a favor for a friend, and what happens? I nearly get beheaded by a Turk in a tavern in the heart of London! 'Sdeath, but 'tis becoming a dangerous town to be about in," George declared with a cantankerous glance at his too-quiet friend who could not completely hide his amusement at his unexpected visitor's predicament.
Glancing back into the room, he saw that the velvet hangings of the bed had been discreetly drawn to conceal Cordelia's presence within the bedchamber.
"I am sorry, George. Come in and sit down. I think there is some wine here that might settle your nerves," Valentine invited him, guiding the still pugnacious-looking George into the room.
"Need it more to settle my stomach," George said peevishly, but he was feeling a bit more mollified as he accepted the goblet of wine, even if the Turk was lurking near the opened doorway.
"Now what has you banging on my door this early?" Valentine asked, and seeing George's face still flushed, he wondered if it had been wise to offer him wine. "Not forgotten where you live, have you, George? Shall I have Mustafa escort you to your lodgings?"
"I am not fuddled," George insisted.
"What is amiss?"
"Valentine," George began, then hesitated despite the excitement glowing in his eyes. "I do not know quite how to tell you this? You will think me befooled, but--"
"But what, George?" Valentine spoke impatiently, thinking this yet another one of George's ill-timed and beef-witted pranks.
" 'Tis your brother! Basil lives!" George blurted out.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,
good and ill together.
SHAKESPEARE
Chapter Eight
IT WAS EVENTIDE of Twelfth Day Even when Valentine Whitelaw approached Whiteswood. Crowning a hillside in the distance, twelve ceremonial fires burned in a circle around a larger one. Throughout the shire, in village, field, and vale, the ancient ceremony of blessing a bountiful earth was being followed by simple folk and nobles alike. A cup of well-aged ale was raised in toast. With shouts of Wass hael in the old Saxon tongue and cheerful songs echoing through the cold evening air, the revelers prepared for a night of feasting and merrymaking.
Through woods barren of leaf, Valentine Whitelaw, accompanied by the Turk, followed the familiar lane that wound deep into the valley. Every now and then pale stars winked overhead as the stormy weather moved south, leaving the skies clear. The ground was frozen and crackled beneath their horses' hooves. Directly in their path, the twin brick towers of the gatehouse rose before them. Blazing torches, set in heavy brackets on either side of the arched entranceway to Whiteswood, spread a welcoming glow into the darkness beyond the gates. The Whitelaw arms were cast in shadow as the riders passed beneath the arch and into the paved courtyard beyond. The noisy clatter of hooves striking against stone announced their arrival. As they dismounted, an elderly man, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his jerkin unfastened, came scurrying out of the gatehouse.
"Who goes there?" he demanded, not recognizing the cloaked figure that now strode with such purpose toward the great doors of the manor. The sweating horses were already being led away by a dutiful stableboy; as if these uninvited guests intended to stay.
"Back to your warm fire, you old watchdog," Valentine told the gatekeeper.
"Master Valentine! 'Tis good to see ye!" the old man cried out as he recognized the intruder. "Heard ye had gone to sea again. Didn't know ye'd returned, and richer than ever, I'll wager. The master and mistress will be pleased to welcome ye back. And young Master Simon will keep ye up half the night listening to them wild tales of adventurin'. Lady Elspeth won't take kindly to that," he chuckled as he bent closer to see the young gentleman he'd watched over since the lad had been in swaddling bands.
"Still in one piece," Valentine told him.
The old man snorted. "Gotten too thin," he said, but was relieved nonetheless to see his former master's young brother looking so healthy. "Wish ye'd stay home, where ye belong, Master Valentine. This goin' to sea 'tisn't what a man meant for. Otherwise, we'd all been born fish, eh? Worry about ye, I do. The sea be a cursed place to go. Brings misery, it does," he said, for Whiteswood wasn't the same without the Whitelaw brothers. Sir William is a good man, but he isn't a Whitelaw, the old retainer thought sadly as he eyed Valentine.
"Reckon I went to a lot of trouble for nothin', seein' how ye be goin' out of yer way lookin' fer it. But 'tis your good fortune to have the Whitelaw luck," Trent said, keeping a safe distance between himself and the tall gent with the strange-looking shoes, for their curling toes could not be concealed beneath the hooded cloak he wore. Had it not been for the exotic presence of Valentine Whitelaw's manservant, the old gatekeeper wouldn't have been so worried or believed a word of the heart-thumping stories he'd be sure to hear recited the next day by an overly excitable footman.
"Ye just make sure it don't run out on ye one of these days, especially when ye be with heathens and cutthroats and the likes of him. Can't trust 'em," he said, glaring at the Turk.
"Are Sir William and Lady Elspeth receiving this eve? It is urgent that I have a word in private with them."
"They be gone nigh on an hour. Went to the festivities," Trent informed him. "Be back soon, most likely. Maybe some folks comin' with them. Most of the village, I reckon, seein' how we got the most ale and cake hereabouts. Glad ye'll be here for the cuttin' of the Twelfth cake. Maybe 'twill keep yer luck good fer another year, eh? Now, ye just go on inside and warm yerself before the fire, Master Valentine," the old gatekeeper told him as the heavy doors were swung wide to reveal the well-lit interior of the great hall.
With mixed feelings, Valentine entered Whiteswood. There was a festive mood throughout the hall as the servants prepared for the celebration in which they would share equally with their master and his guests. A banqueting table held a large silver bowl filled with spiced cider. Pitchers of ale stood ready to be poured, while platters were being placed on the table by excited maids who bustled back and forth through the paneled screens that led to the kitchens. Dressed in their finest linen gowns, their hair woven with colorful ribbons, the young women cheerfully went about their duties, humming the songs they would soon be dancing to on the arms of attentive admirers.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 12