by Jane Feather
This was no fantasy. She was not hearing things. She was not losing her mind. It was Stuart on the bed. She could not see who was with him but she didn't need to.
Softly she stepped back into the corridor. Leaving the door as it was, Pippa flew back the way she had come, her skirts swinging around her, her jeweled satin slippers making no sound on the oak floor.
Within the chamber Gabriel moved away from Stuart. “Did you hear something?” His voice was fearful.
Stuart shook his head. “No, nothing. A mouse maybe.” He laughed softly. “We're quite safe here, Gabriel. No one occupies this chamber, I made sure of it.”
“But the door . . . 'tis open.” Gabriel pointed, his face ashen.
Stuart rose to his feet. He crossed the narrow space to the door. He peered into the corridor. It was deserted. He closed the door again, but as he turned back to the chamber the latch clicked open again and the door swung ajar about an inch.
“The latch doesn't hold properly,” he said. “That's all. I'll make sure it closes properly next time.”
Gabriel ran a hand over his waxen countenance. “'Tis too dangerous here, Stuart. I prefer the tavern.”
Stuart grimaced with distaste. “I loathe it there, love. 'Tis so sordid.” He came back to the bed, sitting on the edge, reaching down for a leather flagon of wine at his feet. He lifted it to his lips then held it to Gabriel's. “You worry too much.”
It wasn't as if they had anything to hide anymore. There was no safety anywhere.
The bitter reflection turned the wine to gall on his tongue. But Gabriel did not know this truth and must never know it.
Gabriel drank deep, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I must play for the card games this afternoon, in the great salon. Will you be there?”
“Aye. I never pass up the opportunity for a game,” Stuart said with a laugh that was supposed to reassure the musician.
Gabriel tried a smile but it was a weak attempt. “I'll go now.”
Stuart made no attempt to stop him. If Gabriel was jumpy then it was only kindness to let him hurry to where he felt safe.
But there was nowhere safe. Stuart sat on the bed, the flagon of wine held loosely between his hands. He stared down at the floor. A mouse scurried out from beneath the cot. He watched it disappear into a hole in the floorboards.
He had made a decision. He was being blackmailed so why should they still scurry around in holes and corners? Hiding themselves in the squalid chambers of a tavern? It wasn't as if they were hiding anyway. Renard's spies watched their every move. They probably knew he had found this unoccupied chamber. And if they didn't now, they soon would. But there was no reason why anyone else should know of it.
They couldn't be open about their love, but if they practiced reasonable security they could keep this private chamber to themselves. It lacked much in the way of comfort, but it was safe, well away from the social areas of the palace. It gave some dignity to their love. And using it gave Stuart some sense of control. Lessened the dreadful sense of being manipulated like a marionette, of having no say in what happened to him, or how he conducted his life. It was illusion, of course, but he could pretend that it wasn't. For Gabriel's sake.
He glanced up at the door. Gabriel had closed it behind him but again the latch had not held. Well, that was easily mended. He would have a strong lock put upon it. That should reassure Gabriel and keep out a spy's prying eye.
Stuart rose and carefully adjusted his dress. He glanced around the chamber wondering how to make it more inviting. A coverlet for the straw mattress at the very least.
He strolled in studied leisurely manner to his own bedchamber. He glanced towards the connecting door to Pippa's chamber. He had heard her vomiting in the mornings and the revulsion he had felt had had nothing to do with her sickness, but everything to do with what had caused it. Hating himself he had cowered in his bed, burying his head beneath his pillow to drown out the sound.
There were no such sounds from the next-door chamber this morning. With a wash of relief he flung open the shutters, threw off his clothes, and climbed into bed. An hour's sleep would refresh him and he would find Pippa later in the morning. They should present themselves together at the queen's public audience. They could not talk to each other anymore except in broadest generalities, but the public form of their marriage must be preserved, and Pippa had proved herself as adept as he at maintaining the pretence.
Pippa sat in a secluded corner of the pleasaunce. It was still too early to attract visitors and apart from gardeners she had it to herself. A faint mist rose from the fountains as the water rose and fell in rhythmic arcs.
She was numb. So strong was the sensation that she wriggled her toes and fingers and was surprised to find that she could feel them. She couldn't think, she could only sit in this strange cold place isolated from the warm and sensate world.
She had never been so alone.
“Your pardon, madam . . .” A gardener's apologetic voice intruded and she realized with a start that he had spoken before.
“Yes?”
He gestured with his rake. “The gravel, madam. Beneath the bench.” He looked at her curiously. “You quite well, madam? Should I send for someone?”
“No . . . no, thank you.” She rose, sweeping her skirts aside. She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. If she didn't hurry she would commit the unthinkable and be late for an audience with the queen.
Her head felt stuffed with fog and somehow it seemed quite unimportant that she might be late. She could summon no interest in the point of this audience. What could happen? An accusation of treason. Imprisonment in the Tower? It didn't matter.
She walked quickly back through the gardens, along the terrace, into the palace. People spoke to her, smiled, waved a greeting. She saw none of them. At the doors to the presence chamber she stopped.
“Madam.” The herald bowed, knocked with his stave. The doors were opened and she was ushered into the great room. It was deserted. Even this failed to make an impact. The herald walked ahead of her to the door that led into the queen's private audience chamber.
He flung open the doors. “Lady Nielson, Your Majesty.”
Pippa walked into the chamber. Mary was alone with her ladies, sitting at her desk on which were scattered various papers of state. She subjected Pippa to a close scrutiny.
“Good morning, Lady Nielson.”
“Madam.” Pippa swept a low curtsy, falling to one knee. It had been a long time since their relationship had been warm enough for Mary to use her first name.
Mary gestured that she should rise, and indicated a cushion. “Pray be seated. Pregnant women must have a care for themselves.” A thin smile flickered. “Your husband spilled your secret.”
“'Tis no secret, madam.” Pippa sank down onto the cushion, her skirts spreading around her. Her body performed the correct maneuvers, her tongue said all the right things, but her mind seemed to play no part in any of it. She offered Mary a smile of her own that contained a slight question.
Mary nodded. “You have heard the whispers.”
“Indeed, madam. Pray accept my felicitations.”
Mary nodded. “So, it seems we shall carry our children together. Suffer the pains of childbirth . . .” Again the smile flickered.
Pippa was aware on some periphery of recognition that the smile was unpleasant and that something lay behind it. But she still moved in the cool, foggy space that enclosed her, and her polite answering smile was blank.
“You are well?” Mary leaned forward, her hands clasped on the desk.
“Except for nausea, madam,” Pippa responded. “But I am told that will pass after the twelfth week.”
Mary sat back. “Yes, so I understand. I am fortunate. I have not experienced it.”
Pippa inclined her head in acknowledgment but made no comment.
“Ah, we must have a care for the Lady Pippa, my dear madam.”
Pippa blinked at the new voice that seeme
d to have come from nowhere. Philip had appeared suddenly at his wife's side and the curtain behind her desk swayed slightly.
“Yes,” Mary agreed, her voice flat. “She must stay close at court. My own physicians shall attend her.”
“There is no need, madam. I have my own and—”
“No, no,” Philip interrupted. “We shall not hear of it. You shall have the same care as the queen of England, madam. We insist upon it. Do we not?” He turned for corroboration to Mary, who merely smiled her assent.
“My husband, sir, will be most grateful,” Pippa said, surprised to hear that her voice sounded both cold and ironic.
There was a short silence, an element of chill in the air. Then Mary said, “We will send our physicians to you this afternoon, Lady Nielson. You will find them skilled.”
It was a dismissal. Pippa rose with the ease of experience from the low cushion. She curtsied to both king and queen and backed out of the privy chamber.
Lionel stepped out from behind the curtain where he had remained after the king had revealed himself. He bowed to Their Majesties and moved swiftly after Pippa.
What had happened to her since they'd walked together earlier? A few short hours ago? She appeared to be inhabiting some half world. Her eyes were blank, her expression carved in stone. It had seemed that she was completely unaware of her surroundings.
She had reached the end of the outer chamber when he spoke her name.
Slowly Pippa stopped and turned towards him.
Ten
“I was coming to find you” Pippa said, startling herself with the admission. She had not formed the intention consciously but now that she saw him she knew quite simply that there was no one else she could turn to.
Lionel strode towards her. “What's the matter, Pippa? Something's happened. What is it?” His voice was urgent.
Pippa felt the last of her defenses crumbling under the piercing warmth of his eyes, the insistent concern in his voice. She gazed back at him, for the moment unable to find the right words. “Where can we go?” she asked finally.
Lionel glanced around. There were servants in the presence chamber now, readying it for the public audience later that morning. They were casting curious looks at himself and Pippa and he couldn't blame them. Pippa's distress and tension were almost palpable.
“Outside.” He took her hand in a firm warm clasp. “Whatever it is it will be better aired in the open.”
“Yes,” Pippa said. Sunlight, air, open spaces. She needed all of those to throw light on this dreadful dark bewilderment that was draining her of all sense of herself, of who and what she was . . . of the person she thought she had been.
They left the presence chamber. The corridor beyond was thronged with people chatting in excited knots, hurrying importantly about their business, or simply lounging against the walls observing the scene.
Lionel moved Pippa's hand to his arm so that their progress had a more natural appearance. He felt her hand quiver on his sleeve but she walked quickly beside him, looking neither to right nor left, hastening towards the doors at the end of the corridor.
Outside Lionel directed their steps to a little-frequented path that circled the kitchen gardens at the rear of the palace.
“Now, tell me what has happened.”
Pippa took her hand from his arm. She crossed her arms over her breast and looked up at the sky for a minute. “Will you hold me?”
He took her in his arms. A gentle almost tentative hold but she clung to him fiercely, turning her face up to him. “Kiss me.”
He kissed her, again gently. He had no idea what was behind this but he could no more have refused her than he could have cut off his own hand. He had wanted to hold her, to kiss her. Wanted it for weeks now.
He ran his hands over the narrow back, feeling the sharp shoulder blades, the knobs of her spine beneath the casing of her gown. She was deepening the kiss, pressing his mouth open with her tongue, delving within. There was something desperate about her, about her need for him, and finally, reluctantly, Lionel drew back, his hands clasping her narrow waist.
He smiled down at her ruefully. “Pippa, I don't mean to sound ungrateful for such invitations, but I would like to know why they've been issued.”
She put her steepled fingers to her tingling mouth, and the words came out in a flood of anguish. “I am five and twenty and I do not know how I am to live the rest of my life like this . . . like an empty . . . a discarded shell. He has condemned me to live without love, without touching . . . to live with a man who is repulsed by the very sight of me. How can I spend the rest of my life like that?”
She took a deep shuddering breath as if she had forgotten how to breathe, and the words poured forth anew. “He deemed me worthless . . . worthy only of being used as a cloak to cover his real desires. How could he take everything that is me, my needs, my self, and cast it all aside in favor of his own? He has used me as a shield, hidden behind our marriage. And I'm to endure that. Live until one of us dies, forever untouched, unloved. Forever without . . . without being held or kissed in the ways of passion because he must indulge his own.
“Why? Why did he choose me?” Now she was angry, her voice tight with tears she would not shed.
“Why did he choose me for such a monstrous deception? Why did he think I was worth so little?” she repeated, punching the words at Lionel as if he were to blame, her eyes bright with tears of fury and a hurt that ran so deep it stabbed him to the heart.
For a dreadful moment his mind would not work. It seemed impossible that her husband had told her the truth about himself. And yet what else could it be? Cold terror swamped his belly. She could not possibly . . . not possibly . . . know what had been done to her.
He took her hands, said urgently, “I don't understand, Pippa. What is it that you mean?” His clear gray gaze held hers until some of the wildness left her countenance.
“I mean that I came upon my husband in bed with another man,” she articulated slowly and emphatically. “That is what I mean. I mean that my marriage is a sham, a deceit, so that my husband can safely follow his own inclinations. And I'm carrying his child to make it even more convincing.” Her voice caught.
“Now he will never have any reason to come to my bed, to do with me what so clearly revolts him. That is what I mean.” She fell silent, her breathing rapid and shallow, her color ebbing and flowing, the bright sheen of tears still glazing her eyes.
Lionel exhaled slowly. Beneath her outrage and her bewilderment he could hear the fear . . . fear that she was diminished in some essential fashion by her husband's hideous deception. He understood that fear, he had felt it once himself when he had been forced to accept his own powerlessness. It was a crippling terror that struck at the very soul and spirit of humanity.
A terror that still filled him sometimes, stirred by the scent of green wood smoldering, or the crackle of flames.
Lionel accepted that he shared responsibility for much that had been done to this woman, but he could not hold himself responsible for her marriage or for Stuart Nielson's betrayal of his wife, and he could help her now with that terror that he understood so well. He could restore her knowledge of herself, give her back her humanity, the dignity of self-worth.
He cupped her cheek in the palm of one hand. He bent and kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, the corners of her mouth. She didn't move, her eyes remained open, but a shiver ran through her taut frame.
He moved his mouth to beneath her ear, to the side of her neck, to the tender skin beneath her chin. Her head fell back, exposing the white column of her throat, the now wildly jumping pulse; the swell of her uplifted breasts rose above the low, square neckline of her gown.
Desire rushed him, took his breath away, obscured reason and rational thought. He needed no excuse. This was no mission of healing and renewal. He wanted this woman. From the very first moment he had been drawn to her. He had pretended to deny it, to deny the magnet that attracted them each to the other, but he
would do so no longer.
“I want you,” he said softly, his breath whispering over her skin. “I want to hold you, love you, possess you utterly, every inch of your skin, every fiber of your being. I would touch you in ways that will make your body sing, bury my tongue in your most secret places, drink deep of your sweetness, drown my senses in your fragrance.”
He kissed her mouth even as he whispered his passion and his longing. Pippa pressed into him, as if she could lose herself in the boundaries of the body that held her. She could not, would not, think. She tasted his tongue, the salt of his skin, put her arms tight around him to encompass him with her body as she was held in his.
His words, rustling still in the hot air around them, brought a rushing warmth in her belly, a tingling across her skin, a tremor in the taut muscles of her thighs. When he lifted her in his arms she curled sideways, her arms around his neck, her mouth pressed to his. Her eyes were still wide open as if she could not bear to lose a single thread of sensation.
He carried her. Pippa could never remember anyone carrying her since childhood and the idea amused her, breaking for a moment the trance of desire as it brought a little bubble of a giggle to her lips even as she kept her mouth on his.
They were in a shady place now, fragrant with the scent of cut grass. Pippa had no interest in their surroundings. Lionel knelt with her, laid her down on a thick sweet bed of grass.
She stirred, murmured, as he unfastened her bodice. She gave him her breasts, holding them for his caressing mouth, her nipples hard, prickling, sending a jolt deep in her loins as if there were some line connecting the two parts of her body.
He licked the little pool of sweat from the hollow of her throat, licked away the dampness that glistened between her breasts. His hands moved beneath her skirts, sliding up her thighs.
She lay back on the bed of new-cut grass, her eyes still on his rapt countenance. His fingers moved on her flesh, unfurling the tight complex folds of her sex. Touching, stroking, opening. Pippa stirred, a soft murmur of delight spilling from her lips. She had not known this was possible.