Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

  “Sorry.” Taken aback by his sudden change of tone, she tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip to prevent her. The pressure of his hand on hers made her heart race.

  “Hush. There is no need for sorry.” He rose to his feet and, without letting go of her hand, drew her up and out of her chair. Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned over her, and she realized his intent. Her eyes closed of their own volition as his mouth came down on hers.

  She was not prepared for the riptide of pleasure that surged through her, a heady wave of heat that raced through her veins like a hot tide. She swayed a little as her bones turned to water, and he wrapped his arms around her, and drew her close. Through the bulky petticoats, she felt the hard pressure of his thighs against hers, and her breasts were crushed against his chest. She moaned beneath his mouth as the kiss deepened. When he finally drew back, she was breathless.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. “I should ask your forgiveness,” he said at last. “But I’m not at all sorry.” She made a small sound in her throat, something that could have been either protest or assent, and he reached out and touched her cheek with the back of two fingers. “You fascinate me in a way no woman ever has before. You are so—so very different, and yet, there’s something about you. I look at you and—” He hesitated. “You’ll think me as mad as Geoffrey, but, when I look at you, I feel as if I know you.”

  She nodded, still silent.

  “Is it just… this whole impossible event? Or is there something more, do you think?” He bent down, before she could answer, and gathered her mouth to his once more.

  Olivia shut her eyes tightly, her senses wholly inflamed. Her fingers shook as she reached up and twined her hands in his soft, black curls. He drew back, breaking the kiss, and she opened her eyes with a disappointed little moan. His eyes were blazing pools of azure. “This is madness. Forgive me.” He flung himself back into his chair and ran his hands through his hair. “Please—please sit. I’ll see if there’s a deck of cards—a chessboard, perhaps—and call the maid to clear all this away.”

  She sank down into her own chair, vaguely disappointed. What on earth are you thinking, she scolded herself once more. This was becoming a familiar refrain, she reflected wryly. But at least she knew he shared her feelings. The thought of the long day ahead to be spent alone with him made her heart race. She could imagine Alison saying: Oh, cut that out. You’re acting worse than a high school freshman who’s been noticed by the captain of the football team.

  The rain lashed harder at the window, fierce little pellets of water that sounded as solid as pebbles. She laced her fingers in her lap and forced herself to calm down. The way she was behaving, no one would ever believe that “Master Stephen” had any kind of a war wound at all.

  The afternoon passed more quickly than she would’ve thought possible. A sharp rap on the door startled her just as she was about to place her knight on Nicholas’s king’s bishop’s one.

  Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, stretching his long legs before him. “Enter!”

  Molly’s cheerful face peered around the door. She pushed the door open, carrying an armful of wood. “Master asks if ye’d care for yer dinner, Master Steele?”

  Nicholas glanced swiftly at Olivia. “Yes, I think so. But, wait—”

  The maid paused in midstep.

  “Can you tell me if Captain Percival is in the common room?”

  “Nay, sir, he’s not been seen all day. Most likely he’s down by the docks, looking for some sign that the weather’ll break.”

  Nicholas glanced at the window, and Olivia, following his gaze, realized that the rain had diminished to nothing but a slow drip from the low eaves. “Then perhaps I’ll go look for him there.” He stood up and turned to Olivia. “And you, my dear? Are you hungry? Or can you wait a bit? I’d like to settle the question of our passage if at all possible before dark.”

  “Could I—” Olivia fingered the wooden chess piece. “Could I perhaps go with you? I’d be grateful for a chance to stretch my legs.”

  He looked taken aback, but then smiled, a slow, measuring smile, that spread across his face by degrees. “Most certainly, wife, an that please you. Molly, will you fetch my wife her cloak? The rain seems to have slowed, but it’s still damp.”

  Molly withdrew with a curtsy, and Olivia rose to her feet. “You don’t mind if I come along, do you?”

  “Not at all. It didn’t occur to me you’d like to accompany me—but I must warn you, Captain Jack is… he’s not exactly familiar to the company of ladies. I’m not sure what you’re accustomed to, but from all you’ve told me today, I somehow doubt you’ve met too many characters like him.”

  Olivia rose and gave him a wry grin as she smoothed her skirts. “Of that I have absolutely no doubt at all.”

  The sky was a wash of grays and pinks and violets as they set out from the inn. A red sun was setting low in the western sky, and the roofs of Dover glistened in the early evening light. The streets were for the most part deserted, and the heavy rains had washed the sewage from the center of the cobbled roads. The shops were shuttered, but the painted signs were a bright contrast to the stone and half-timbered buildings they passed. Smoke rose from the chimneys, carrying with it the scents of cooking food, and the occasional laugh or shout or cry from behind a shuttered window gave a hint of the lives lived within.

  Three girls dressed like miniature women played a version of hopscotch, while a mixed group of boys and girls ducked behind barrels and ran over stoops in a game Olivia thought could only be tag. The girls’ dresses were hiked up to their knees, and their shrieks in the silent evening carried up and down the empty streets. A woman’s head popped out of an upper-story window. “Hush up now!” she cried. The children looked up, laughed, and went back to their game, the boys making a great show of deliberately splashing the girls.

  “Some things never change,” Olivia said as they navigated the narrow streets.

  Nicholas smiled, but only said, “I hope the weather clears for tomorrow.”

  “Red sky at night, sailors’ delight,” Olivia quoted, nodding at the sunset as they emerged at the end of the street where it ended at the quay.

  “You think so?”

  “That’s how the old saying goes.”

  They strolled along the quay a little way in silence. “Olivia—”

  “Nicholas—”

  They began together and broke off, laughing. “You first,” she said.

  “No, no, you, I insist.”

  Olivia smiled and shrugged. “Since you insist. I—I only wanted to say how much I’ve enjoyed today. You’ve been very kind and patient with all my—my uncertainties. And I—well, I just wanted to tell you I enjoyed your company.”

  “As I enjoyed yours, lady. I—” He broke off and would not look at her. They walked on in silence, and finally he said, “I meant no insult this morning. I hope you realize that.”

  “Lord N—Master Stephen,” she laughingly corrected herself, “I was not insulted.” Their eyes met, and suddenly she felt breathless.

  He smiled. “Good.” He patted her hand where it rested on his arm, and they continued on in a companionable silence that felt as comfortable as their conversation.

  Just as they reached the first of the docks, where the ships rocked on their moorings and the gulls swooped low between the forest of masts and sails, crying out against the darkening sky, he paused and drew back, squinting down the street into the fading light. She heard him draw a sharp breath. “What is it?”

  He drew back against the buildings. “Down there, across the street—in front of that tavern. I saw a man go in there just now….”

  “Do you know the man?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis Sir John Makepeace—I would wager my life upon it.”

  “Is there something odd about his being here?”

  Nicholas glanced down at her, then back up the street.

  “No. No, I suppose not. Sir John is a very wealthy
man, unlike your humble husband.” He bowed with a self-deprecating twist to his mouth and a wink.

  “He’s in much favor at court?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I am not certain I would say he’s in favor at court. The Queen likes younger people around her—people who can keep up with her and indulge her love of dancing and the hunt. But Sir John, being wealthy, like other wealthy men, is always welcome.”

  “I see.”

  They lapsed into silence, and finally Nicholas offered his arm once more. “Come, lady. The hour grows late and I would not be about these streets after dark. The Merry Harry rests at anchor just down the quay. Let’s be off.”

  Olivia took his arm and they started off, but she noticed he glanced over his shoulder more than once, and that their business was concluded with more efficiency than she would ever have expected.

  They walked back to the inn in silence. The common room was crowded with red-faced men in bleached-out clothing—sailors from the ships. Molly met them in the door and, with a shrug and a nod of her head, indicated the parlor. “Master said to set yer dinner up in there, Master Steele. ‘Tis overcrowded in here for your goodwife.”

  With a nod of thanks, Nicholas navigated their way through the crowded room and pushed open the parlor door. He stood aside to let her pass before him. A table had been laid for them before the fire. Olivia walked into the room, stripping off her gloves, and pushed the hood of her cloak off her face. Flames danced in the hearth. She spread her hands before it, delighting in the heat. She felt him come to stand behind her. She took a quick intake of breath as she felt him slip the cloak off her shoulders.

  All day they had pretended to be friends, all day they had successfully tried to put the morning’s kiss behind them. But now, in the shadowy room, with the flickering firelight washing across the white walls, she was once again aware of him, of his body, of his scent, of his very self. His hands hesitated on her shoulders for just a split second too long, and she tensed. Then he was gone, the cloak swirling in his arms. He tossed the bulky garment into a chair and indicated the table before the fire with a bow. “Will you sit?”

  She gathered her skirts and swept to the table, sinking down into the chair he held out for her. She glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were averted.

  “Wine?”

  She nodded silently and realized she was clutching the arms of her chair.

  “Are you cold? I’ll fetch you a shawl—”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Her fingers shook a little as they closed around the pewter goblet he held out for her. The scent of the dark red wine filled her nostrils, heady and sweet, reminding her of the way the taste of the peach had inflamed her senses that morning. Or maybe, she thought, glancing at Nicholas, it wasn’t the wine or the peach.

  “To a successful venture.” Nicholas raised his own goblet and touched the rim of it to hers.

  Startled, she smiled and drank. The wine flooded her mouth, tangy with the taste of sunshine and the orchard. He only sipped from his and set it down, staring at some point beyond her. “You look troubled. Nicholas.”

  He shook his head. “I was unsettled to see Sir John here in Dover, that’s all. And last night… Last night I saw Walsingham’s man—Warren—here, in this very inn. He didn’t speak to me and I wondered what was afoot.”

  “You think it was strange, that he didn’t speak to you? Maybe he was afraid to give away your identity.” Nicholas sat back in his chair with a shrug and a sigh.

  “Who knows, lady. What do I know of spy—” He broke off as the door opened with a sharp rap, and Molly peered inside. She was carrying a large tray, on which were what looked like two small chickens in a bed of parsley and other greens.

  “Dinner, sir.”

  They were silent as she served them, and through most of the meal. A few times Olivia looked up to see Nicholas’s eyes on her. He averted his gaze each time their eyes met. This is ridiculous, she thought. We’re both adults. She watched him beneath her lashes, as they buried themselves with the tasks of eating. Finally, when the plates were empty but for crumbs and chicken bones, she gently placed her hand on his. He drew a deep breath, even as his fingers twined with hers. “Nicholas,” she said softly. “I know this isn’t what either of us ever expected. And I know something of your time and how things are done here, but…”

  “But?” He was listening to her intently.

  “I know you want me.” She paused and met his blue eyes with a bravado she did not feel. “I want you, too.”

  “Lady—Olivia—” He broke off visibly flustered. “You must understand how difficult—how strange this seems to me. You aren’t like any lady I’ve ever known either, you are so different from every other woman. I would not insult you, or distress you, or in any way cause you—”

  She rose and moved around the table to stand beside him. She placed one finger across his lips. “Not so different from other women.” He kissed her fingertip.

  “Are you certain you want this?” His eyes met hers. In his gaze she read passion and need and a touching uncertainty.

  Here goes nothing, she thought. “Oh, yes.”

  He stood up and gathered her in his arms, bent his head and kissed her. If this morning’s kiss had been gentle, searching, and unsure, this one was hard and hot and demanding. His mouth seized hers hungrily, his tongue exploring hers with a need that left her weak. Her legs seemed to turn to water and his arms instinctively tightened around her as her knees nearly buckled. Her breasts were crushed beneath the layers of clothing, and suddenly she knew she was wearing far too many clothes.

  “Come,” he said at last.

  He led her out of the parlor and up the stairs off the common room, where Olivia could hear snatches of ragged singing, which rose and fell beneath shouts for more ale. He slipped his key out of the little pouch he wore at his waist, opened the door, and pushed it open. He looked down at her and hesitated once more. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she replied, with even more determination.

  He grinned. It lit up his face and made him look far more boyish than he usually did. ‘Then, come. I think we’ll need but one room tonight.” He allowed her to enter, shut the door behind them, and carefully locked it. He held out his arms and she slipped into them, as easily and as naturally as if she’d belonged there all her life, and he drew her mouth to his once more. One hand worked the pins from her hair, fingers combing through the heavy mass, until it spilled loose over her shoulders and down her back. He gathered the thick dark-brown locks in his hands as she clung to him, her own fingers twined in his short dark curls. They stood together for what seemed like a long time, until at last he raised his head, even as his fingers twined in the lacings of her bodice. “And you’ll have no need of a maid tonight, I think.”

  “That’s good,” she said, with a grin. “Because I noticed that Molly’s terribly busy down there.”

  “Then we should leave her in peace.” He dropped tiny kisses along her cheek, and she closed her eyes as delight rippled through her like a wave. And each successive wave made the heat burning between her legs rise by slow but certain degrees. Piece by piece, he peeled each article of clothing off her, until she stood only in her shift. The floorboards beneath her feet were bare, and she shivered as the chilly air raised gooseflesh on her skin. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, placed her gently beneath the covers, and turned away.

  She watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as he stripped his clothes off faster than she would’ve thought possible, and turned to her. She eyed his body, lean and broad-shouldered, the muscles developed from a lifetime of vigorous activity. Her gaze dropped to the hard evidence of his need, and he smiled, even as he slipped beneath the sheets beside her. “Am I made as men in your time, lady?”

  “Most of them aren’t made half so well,” she answered. And then she couldn’t speak for a long time, for his mouth was on hers once more, and his hands slipped beneath her shift, pulling the last barrier away, and he ros
e above her, body poised, the tip of him resting against her own wet and wanting flesh. “Are you sure?” he asked again.

  With a groan, she lifted her hips and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her. He eased gently into her warm soft depths, and she moaned, writhing beneath him, her body on fire with need. “Never surer,” she managed at last.

  With a soft chuckle, he thrust deeper, and their bodies matched themselves to each other, as she gave herself up utterly to the timeless cadence of his lovemaking.

  CHAPTER 9

  “HE’S SAILING TOMORROW on the Merry Harry if the weather holds fair.” Christopher Warren leaned back against the grimy whitewashed wall and allowed himself a deep, satisfying drink.

  “Aye, or the day after if it doesn’t?” Sir John toyed with his own tankard.

  “And you understand where to look for him? At the church, St. Mary-by-the-Sea? You have no questions? I leave you tonight for London. From here on, everything relies upon you.”

  “I do.” For a moment, Sir John looked bemused. “It troubles me, Master Warren, to think that a man I almost allowed my daughter to wed would truck with the Spanish—”

  “Shh!” Warren held up a warning finger. “The very walls have ears, Sir John. This is not the time to speak so freely. Have no fear, you’ll have ample chance to express all your doubts—and your observations—soon enough.”

  “He’s with that loose woman, you say?”

  Warren nodded over the rim of his tankard and signaled to the serving maid for another round. “Bold as you please. They’re traveling as man and wife.”

  “Faugh.” Sir John looked disgusted. “That’s another charge should be brought against him—fornication. I knew that was no cousin of his when I saw her dressed in men’s clothes—did I mention that. Master Warren? Such doings—”

  “Three times now,” Warren said as the maid placed fresh tankards before them.