by Jane Feather
“Appearances can be deceiving.” He offered her his arm.
She didn't immediately take it. “That is certainly true. But would you have me believe that you are not what you seem?” Her expression was troubled, the sunny aspect of a minute ago vanished.
“Not in anything of importance,” he stated. “Not in any way that should distress you, Pippa.”
She swallowed, stared at him fixedly. “I have had one betrayal, Lionel, almost more than I can endure, I cannot bear another one.” With a slight gesture she half turned to leave.
Lionel took her arm. “I swear to you, love, that I will not betray you.”
She turned back, said simply, “Then I will believe you.”
Pippa didn't know why she accepted his declaration without question. She had no reason to do so, and every reason that experience dictated not to. And yet she did. She accepted his word as she would accept that of Robin, or Pen, or her parents.
Lionel drew her away from the water steps. Beneath his calm, smiling exterior, a worm of self-disgust turned. He would keep his oath. He would not betray her.
Not again.
“Where are we going? I thought we were to take a boat on the river.”
“We are. But there's a rather more secluded mooring spot just a little way along the river. I have a penchant for privacy.”
Pippa inclined her head in slightly ironic agreement. “I had certainly noticed that you're never the life and soul of the party, Mr. Ashton.”
“Alas,” he agreed with a mournful sigh. “I have no talent for small talk.”
Pippa merely smiled in response and said nothing further. He had offered her a chink in his armor of reticence. Just why did he find this court damnable? Damnable enough to bring that forbidding set to his mouth, the darkness to his eyes, that she'd surprised when he came to meet her. Whatever his thoughts, they had not been pleasant.
If he was in fact not loyal to Philip and Mary, then what deep game was he playing? Could he be an ally, a fellow conspirator in the plans to secure Elizabeth's succession?
She stumbled against a protruding tree root, so deep was she in her reflections. Lionel caught her against him and Pippa realized that they were alone under the trees. The residue of the night's storm still dripped from the leaves and a spot fell onto the bridge of her nose when she turned her face up to his.
She forgot all questions, all speculation. There was just this moment when the crushed grass at her feet smelled sweetly of rain, a ray of sunlight pierced the dripping leaves above her and fell across her face, and with a swift dart his tongue licked the drop of rain from her nose. Then his mouth took hers and she leaned into him, her lips parting beneath his, their tongues fencing, curling around each other in a playful dance. It was a deep and passionate kiss that made her knees tremble and brought an urgent surging need to her loins.
Breathless, they drew apart again. Lionel smiled at her. “Good morning,” he said. “We omitted the courtesies earlier.”
“So we did. I give you good morning, sir,” she replied.
He took her hand and led her along the narrow path to a point where the trees thinned and there was a natural break in the riverbank, forming a small cove. A rowing boat was tethered to the trunk of a weeping willow.
“'Tis hard to believe the palace is only a few steps away,” Pippa said in wonder. It was so quiet here, the overhanging willow trees forming a living canopy over the little cove.
“The riverbank holds many such secrets,” Lionel said, bending to take the painter and haul the little boat up to the bank. He jumped lightly into the boat and held up his hands to her. “Can you step down?”
“Easily.” She took his hands and with an agile leap landed beside him. “I don't suppose I shall be able to do that when I become fat.”
He made no response and she wondered if perhaps he considered it tactless to refer to her pregnancy when they were about to embark on a morning of love. But then she decided that since it was now an essential part of her and certainly couldn't be ignored, it must become a part of this love.
“Make yourself comfortable on the cushions.” Lionel indicated the thick silken pile in the stern.
“Oh, a love nest!” Pippa exclaimed, flopping down on the cushions, arranging her skirts around her. “How delightful.”
“Do you always say just what comes into your head?” Lionel inquired, busying himself with the painter.
“Generally, when I feel comfortable.” She leaned back, watching him as he untied the boat. He was dressed very plainly in workmanlike leather hose and doublet with a plain linen shirt that he wore unlaced at the neck, without a ruff. The simplicity of his garb suited him; it seemed to accentuate the power and competence of his movements, and for some reason it made her toes curl with anticipation.
“Does my free speech bother you?” she asked, hearing a husky rasp in her voice that was not normally there.
“Not in the least. It pleases me that you feel comfortable enough in my company to be yourself.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes gleaming. “And it is indeed intended as a love nest.”
Pippa's toes curled ever tighter in her thin slippers, and she shifted slightly on her silken bed. “Why do we have to go anywhere? Why can't we just stay here?”
Lionel seemed to consider. Then he retied the boat. “I don't mind doing without the exercise,” he observed amenably.
“You refer to rowing exercise, I trust?” Pippa's raised eyebrow belied her innocent smile.
“Is there another kind?” He dropped down on the cushions beside her and unclasped the cloak at her throat. It slipped away from her and he ran a fingertip up the side of her neck to trace the curve of her ear.
She turned on her side to face him, her own fingertips exploring his features as if she would learn every contour, every plane of his countenance. She leaned forward and kissed his eyelids, then fluttered her eyelashes against his cheeks in a delicate butterfly of a kiss.
“I know you wished to make love without the impediment of cloth,” he murmured against her ear. “But I don't see how that can be managed here.” He nibbled her earlobe, before dipping his tongue within, tracing the delicate whorls, making her squirm with ticklish delight.
“One should always have something to look forward to,” Pippa whispered, lying back on the cushions, reaching her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. She moved her thighs apart so that he could lie along her length, his elbows propped on either side of her head, his legs within her own.
He kissed her slowly, savoring her mouth as if enjoying a particularly fine wine. He moved his tongue over her lips, and traced the contours of her face in a moist caress. He lowered his head to the swell of her breasts above the low neckline of her gown. The delicate fragrance of her skin sent his senses reeling.
She twisted her fingers into his hair, feeling it slightly coarse and thick to the touch. She tugged at it playfully and scratched his scalp with her nails. His breath was warm on her skin as his tongue stroked into the cleft of her breasts.
He rolled sideways onto the cushions beside her. Propped on one elbow he slowly, leisurely, lifted her skirts, up over her silk-stockinged legs to her waist.
Pippa felt the air cool on her bared skin where his caressing hand was warm as it smoothed over her thighs and belly. He kissed her belly, dipping his tongue into her navel. He slid a hand between her thighs, a finger tracing little circles on the soft inner skin.
Her body dissolved the instant he put his mouth to her sex. She cried out, pressing her hands to her lips to silence herself.
He raised his head and laughed softly. “You're gratifyingly easy to please, my love. I had barely begun.”
“It's you,” she said, when she had breath enough to speak. “I think you could make that happen just by looking at me.”
“I must try it one day,” he said with a grin. “In the queen's presence chamber, perhaps?”
Pippa's eyes widened. “You wouldn't?”
“Wait and
see.”
He knelt up between her thighs and Pippa brushed his hands aside as he moved to unlace his britches. She did the job herself swiftly, eagerly, then held him, rolling his penis between her hands, marveling at its hard, pulsating power. She sat up and delicately kissed the tip, tasting the salty moisture that gathered there.
“I never realized before what a beautiful part of a man this is,” she said, examining his flesh as thoughtfully as if she were assessing the virtues of an object in a curio store. She kissed it again, smiling up at him as she did so. “Are women as beautiful?”
“I would say more so,” Lionel responded, finding himself aroused almost beyond bearing by this strangely matter-of-fact discussion that so belied the knowingness of her touch. “But then I'm biased.”
“Ah, I suppose you are.” She held his penis against her cheek, rubbing it with quick yet soft movements.
Lionel gave a short exclamation and stilled her hand. “Enough, Pippa!”
She smiled again. “As you say.” She lay down on the cushions again, sliding her body down, raising her hips in invitation. “Is this more to your liking, sir?”
“You are a wicked woman!”
“I do seem to be,” she agreed smugly. “But I didn't know I was until I met you.” She gave a little sigh as he slid into her body. “Why does this feel so right, Lionel? As if it was always meant to be.” Her eyes closed and he understood the question to be purely rhetorical, which was fortunate since he was incapable of answering.
When they drew apart finally they lay in a tangle of limbs and creased clothes. Pippa kept her eyes closed, inhaling the earthy scent of sex that seemed to mingle with the loamy river smells and the rain-damp grass. It was right, this that was between them. Pure and right. Once again she could find no scruple of conscience. Sleep claimed her, inexorable.
Lionel lay watching her. He had never felt so in tune with anyone before, so absolutely perfectly matched. And yet this wonderful thing had grown in the soil of a grievous violation, a hideous betrayal. And Pippa knew none of that. How could he possibly keep the purity of this that they had when it had sprung from such corrupt roots?
Pippa awoke with a start, for a moment disoriented. She had dipped deep into sleep but only for a brief interval. Lionel's face was bent over her and her dream of the night before came back to her, startlingly vivid. She had been lying somewhere, on something, she didn't know what, and a bird, some giant bird with a massive wingspan had hovered over her, its talons spread to seize her and carry her off. She had been helpless, unable to move, or to cry out.
She stared up at Lionel's countenance and saw there the same darkness of expression that she had surprised earlier. Still in the tangle of dream memory she was suddenly frightened and confused, and then he smiled the sweet, compassionate smile that had first drawn her to him, that now filled her with such comfort and reassurance.
He said quietly, “You look troubled, love.”
“No.” She sat up, pushing down her skirt. “I think I was asleep, and I woke up too quickly. I felt sick for an instant.” Pippa didn't know why she was lying to him about something so insignificant. How difficult could it be to tell him she'd remembered a strange dream? It happened to people all the time. But the lie had just spilled from her lips.
Lionel didn't believe her. She was too transparent a soul to be an effective liar, but he could see no reason why she should dissemble on the heels of such a perfect union. He chose not to question.
He stood up in the boat and it rocked in the little cove. Swiftly he laced his hose as Pippa tidied herself, keeping her eyes down, seemingly intent on her task of smoothing out the creases in the fine damask.
“I did bring some dry bread, if you think that will help?” he observed, bending to pull a wicker hamper from beneath the thwart. He opened the hamper. The scent of ripe strawberries was heady on the air.
“Strawberries!” Pippa exclaimed, welcoming the distraction that broke the strange stilted atmosphere that had fallen so abruptly between them. “How did you get strawberries in September?”
“They're hothouse grown,” he said, taking out a wooden box where a layer of deep red, glistening fruit lay on a bed of soft green moss. “I thought you might enjoy them.”
He set the box on the thwart and brought out a flagon of wine, and another of mead. “Unless you prefer plain bread.” A loaf of wheaten bread joined the strawberries.
“I adore strawberries!” Pippa declared, her eyes bright. “I am so tired of plain fare.”
He couldn't help but laugh at her greedy expression and the moment of tension dissipated. He sat beside her on the cushions again. He held a strawberry to her lips and she opened her mouth wide. He laughed again and lay back watching her expression.
“Delicious.” She lay down again, resting her head in his lap. “Feed me!”
Lionel smiled at the importunate demand that so adroitly returned the sensual dimension to their morning on the river. He took a deep draught of crisp rhenish from the flagon of wine, then set about his task in earnest, painting her lips with strawberry juice that she licked off with quick darts of her tongue, teasing her tongue with the fruit, letting her suck it before relinquishing it between her red and eager lips.
“Aren't you going to have any?” she asked with a lazily resurgent conscience.
“I brought them for you.” He bent over her, holding a piece of fruit just above her mouth.
The clear gray eyes held her own.
And she saw it again. The giant bird, the predatory beak, sharp gray eyes.
“No . . . no thank you,” she said, pushing his hand aside. “You eat the rest. I think I've had sufficient.” She sat up, moving sideways so that she was once more resting on the cushions, but she kept a space between their bodies.
Lionel popped the berry into his own mouth. He leaned sideways for the flagon again, took another draught, making his movements casual, matter-of-fact, as if he could not feel the tension radiating from her, as if he was unaware of the dreadful anxiety that emanated from her like an aura.
“I have mead.” He stretched sideways for the other flagon. He pulled the top with his teeth and passed it to her.
“My thanks.” Pippa took a sip. “Forgive me . . . I . . . I had a strange dream last night that I couldn't remember. But for some reason I'm remembering bits of it now, and 'tis making me uncomfortable. I don't know why.”
She laughed, a nervous and unconvincing laugh. “Pregnancy probably. Everything can be explained away by pregnancy.”
Lionel slid an arm beneath her and drew her against him. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. “Bad dreams come at any time,” he said. “Try to sleep now. I'll hold you safe.”
His voice soothed her. She trusted him. It was hardly surprising that her dreams these days reflected confused images of cruelty and helplessness. After what Stuart had done to her . . .
But in Lionel's arms she could sleep in safety. He was her perfect match. She would trust him with her life.
Thirteen
Dona Bernardina awoke from her siesta rather earlier than usual. She lay in her darkened bedchamber with the now familiar sense that something felt awry, as if the calm routine of her daily life had been disturbed. She sat up, gathering her chamber robe around her, and rose from the bed.
She peered in the half-light at the face of the little clock on the mantel. It told her it was barely three in the afternoon. She always slept until four, when she took a light merienda to tide her over until she and Luisa sat down for their evening meal at eight.
She drew aside the curtains. It was an overcast afternoon, with a hint of autumn in the air, now that the heat wave had broken. She looked down at the garden. There was only a gardener to be seen, pruning the roses that still bloomed vigorously in the bed that bordered the terrace. At the end of the garden the strip of the river showed as a dull gray.
Bernardina drew her robe tighter around her. The cloudy skies and the dull river made her cold and
she wished she was back in her native Seville under the brassy skies and the heat of the midafternoon sun that hammered itself into the white cobbles of the interior patio of the Mendoza residence. There she would sit with Luisa's mother, feeling the heat in her bones, lazily fanning herself, sipping a cooling drink amid the scents of jasmine, oranges, and roses, while the fountain plashed and Luisa practiced her harp in the shade of the colonnaded cloister.
Luisa was such a good child. She never gave her duenna a moment's anxiety. She was always sweetly obedient to her mother's dictates . . . until the unfortunate marriage proposal.
Bernardina turned from the window, shaking her head. Then they had seen a different side of their girl. She had been obdurate. Polite, quiet, but utterly determined in her refusal to accept the Marques de Perez as her husband. She had insisted that her father would not have compelled her to accept a marriage distasteful to her, and her dear mother had had to agree.
Dona Maria had appealed to Don Ashton as her late husband's confidant and family friend. He had supported Luisa in the private discussions he had had with her mother, and then had offered to take her to England with him. It had seemed like salvation to Luisa's distraught mother, and Dona Bernardina had shouldered the burden of accompanying the child without a word of complaint.
Now, however, she deeply regretted her sacrifice. Nothing was right, nothing was as it was supposed to be. Luisa was not the sweet girl she had known. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was different. And Don Ashton was not fulfilling his promised duties as guardian.
Bernardina's mouth pursed and she nodded her head in vigorous agreement with her reflections. Grasping her robe ever more tightly around her as if to shield herself from the evil influences this dreadful land contained, she left her bedchamber and went along the corridor to Luisa's.
She tapped on the door. There was no answer. Luisa had dutifully gone for her siesta after their midday meal. Perhaps she was still asleep? Dona Bernardina softly opened the door.
The chamber was in full light, the windows unshuttered, the curtains drawn back. The bed was empty, no indentation of a head on the pillow.