‘Well, we start with this…’ He softly kissed her brow and each of her eyelids as her eyes closed, and a sharp breath escaped her at the sudden, fiery rush of excitement. ‘Or this.’ His lips slid to her cheek, to the hollow just below her ear. ‘Or—this.’
At last his lips met hers, his tongue touching hers as she shivered. It felt as if years had passed since their last kiss, as if she had been waiting, longing, for this for such a long time, fearful it would never come again. Yet it also seemed they had spent all their lives together just so, and that their kiss was a sweet homecoming.
He tasted of wine and sweet fruit, of Anton, of her lover. Rosamund held him tightly, straining up on her toes to be closer, ever closer, to him. To hold onto this moment for ever.
He groaned, his arms sliding to her hips as he pressed her back to the wall. He lifted her up as her legs wrapped around his waist, her heavy skirts falling back. As he held her there, braced against the wood panelling, she felt his hand slide to her thigh, caressing the bare skin above her stocking.
Every place he touched left like a trail of fire, of burning need and deep delight. Slowly, teasingly, his fingers trailed up then back again, ever closer to her aching, damp womanhood but never quite touching.
Only when she moaned, arching her hips toward him, did he at last give her what she longed for.
One finger delved inside her, pressing to that one sensitive spot. Pleasure shot through her like lightning, burning but icy-cold. He kissed the side of her neck, his breath hot, heavy, enticing against her skin.
‘Rosamund,’ he groaned.
She forgot where they were, forgot the world that waited just beyond their hiding place. She wanted only him, knew only him.
She reached between them, her hand fumbling under his doublet until she found the iron-heavy press of his erection straining against the lacings of his hose. If she could only free him, if they could only be joined…
A blast of trumpets stilled her hand, like a sudden rush of cold water. Anton also went still against her; he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, his fingers sliding from inside her to brace against the wall.
He drew back and they stared at each other in the shadows, as if shocked at how quickly they forgot everything when they were together.
Shocked at how disappointed they were to have their lustful moment ended.
Slowly, carefully, he eased her back to her feet, arranging her skirts around her again. She smoothed her hair up under her pearl-trimmed cap, but she feared she could do nothing about her flushed cheeks. ‘Rosie’, indeed!
‘I’m sorry, alskling,’ Anton whispered, kissing her hand. She smelled herself on his skin, and it made her shiver all over again.
‘I’m not,’ she whispered back, feeling wondrously wanton, feeling marvellously unlike herself. Or perhaps more herself than she’d ever been before she’d found him.
Once they were able to stand, to walk without shaking, Anton held aside the tapestry to let her pass by him. Her legs were still weak, but she could not cease smiling.
She blinked at the sudden rush of torchlight, the dazzle of flame and noise after the sultry darkness. For an instant she could see only a blur, then the scene grew clearer. The trumpets had signalled a new arrival, and the dancing paused as everyone gathered around to see.
A new arrival in such an insular world as the Court was always an occasion of great interest. But not to Rosamund. She found the only thing of interest to her was Anton, the prospect of hiding behind the tapestry with him again, hiding all night, forever in his arms.
She glanced back, trying to be discreet, to find that he stood several feet away, watching her with that intense light in his dark eyes that always made her tremble. Now it made her want to grab his hand and drag him away from the crowd, make him hers alone. He gave her a secret smile, and she smiled back, trying to put all she thought and felt into that one little gesture.
But that was all she could do. The other ladies were gathering with Queen Elizabeth near the vast fireplace, and Rosamund’s absence would be noticed. She couldn’t afford trouble now, not for herself, and certainly not for Anton. If they were caught, he would surely be sent back to Sweden without his English estate, and she would be sent home in disgrace. Then she would never see Anton again, never even have the chance of a future with him.
She turned away from him, hastily straightening her bodice before she went to stand beside Anne.
Anne gave her a questioning glance, but they had no time to speak. The Queen’s new guests had entered the hall.
The page that led the party bore Queen Mary’s standard of a red lion-rampant on a gold background, so they were new representatives sent from Edinburgh. Behind the standard came a stern-faced man in black, and two finer-dressed young men carrying boxes that were surely Christmas gifts to Queen Elizabeth from her cousin.
And behind them…
Rosamund gasped, pressing her hand to her mouth. Nay, surely it could not be? But she rubbed at her eyes and he was still there.
It was Richard, unmistakably. His skin was less ruddy than it had been in the summer, and he wore a closer-trimmed beard. He wore fine new clothes too, of sky-blue and silver satin. But his tall, burly chested countryman’s physique was the same, as was his shining cap of blond hair, the ever-watchful way his gaze darted about.
After all the months without any word, any appearance, here he was at Court—with a party of Scots! Rosamund was utterly bewildered. It was like the months had slid away and she was back in the past again. Only with all the new knowledge she possessed.
She glanced across the room to where Celia stood with Lady Lennox. Richard’s sister-in-law did not seem surprised, but then she never did. Celia just watched the proceedings with her lips pressed together, while Lady Lennox smiled smugly, and her son Darnley just seemed drunk. As usual.
Rosamund’s gaze flew back to Richard. He had not yet seen her; what would happen when he did? Would he smile at her, speak to her? Did he even remember what had happened between them last summer? For herself, she had no idea what she felt. She felt numb, frozen, by the sudden intrusion of the forgotten past into the present. By the sudden reminder of the girl she had been and the woman she had become.
‘Rosamund?’ Anne whispered, gently touching her sleeve. ‘What is amiss?’
Rosamund shook her head, watching as the new Scots party, including Richard, bowed to the Queen.
‘Your Grace,’ the older man in black said. ‘I am Lord Eggerton. We are happy to bear Christmas greetings from your cousin, Queen Mary, as well as dispatches from her and her hopes that you may soon meet in amity and family unity.’
‘We wish the same, and we welcome you to our Court,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘Queen Mary is most generous to spare so many of her own Court at such a time of year!’
‘We are most happy to attend on you, Your Grace, and to serve Queen Mary,’ Lord Eggerton answered. ‘May I present Lord Glasgow and Master Macdonald? And this is Master Richard Sutton, one of your own subjects, who brings word of your many friends in Edinburgh.’
‘You are all most welcome,’ the Queen said. ‘I look forward to reading your dispatches tomorrow. Right now, though, you must be hungry after your journey. Please, partake of our banquet. My ladies will fetch wine.’
And it was then that Richard saw her; his eyes widened. A slow smile spread across his face, and he veered away from his group to grab her hand in his.
Startled, Rosamund fell back a step. His skin seemed rough on hers, his palm clammy. It gave her no sudden thrill, as Anton’s touch always did. She had changed truly. The past had no hold on her at all now.
But he held on tightly, not letting her go.
‘Rosamund!’ he said. ‘Here you are at last, my dear little neighbor. And looking prettier than ever. London life agrees with you.’ He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a damp kiss to her knuckles as he smiled up into her eyes.
Nay, there was none of that old feeling left, of the old illusions.
/> She felt ridiculously foolish, admitting to herself that her parents had been right all along. And where exactly had Richard been all those months? What had he been doing in Scotland?
‘So this is where you have been hiding,’ he said. ‘Here at the Queen’s Court!’
‘I have not been hiding,’ Rosamund said, taking back her hand. She tucked it in the satin folds of her skirt. ‘One is never more out in the open than in London, surely?’
‘And yet your parents claimed they could not disclose your location!’ said Richard. ‘We thought you had been sent to some Continental nunnery.’
Rosamund had to laugh at the thought of her staunchly Protestant parents packing her off to a nunnery. Though perhaps they would prefer it to seeing her make a foolish and unhappy marriage. ‘If anyone has been hiding, it is surely you. No one has had a glimpse of you since the summer.’
‘And I am heartily sorry for that, Rosamund,’ he said solemnly. ‘I have thought of you so often.’
Somehow she doubted that. Their summer flirtation been nothing more than a passing breeze for them both, she knew that now. ‘But you had important business in Edinburgh, it would seem?’
‘I have. I want to tell you—’
‘Lady Rosamund!’ Queen Elizabeth called sharply. ‘Come along.’
Rosamund backed away from Richard, not liking the glow in his eyes, the desperation she saw there. ‘I must go,’ she said.
Richard’s hand shot out to grab hers again, holding on tightly. ‘Rosamund, I must talk with you. Explain things.’
Rosamund shook her head. That was all done now. ‘Explain what? I assure you, Master Sutton, there is no need…’
‘Rosamund, please! Please, meet with me. Hear me out,’ he begged. His hand held onto hers, and she could see he would not let her go until she agreed.
‘Very well,’ she murmured, knowing it would be the only thing that would make him let her leave. ‘I will meet with you tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Rosamund. Beautiful, sweet Rosamund.’ He kissed her hand again before letting her go at last. ‘You will not regret it.’
And yet she already did. She regretted being a young, romantic fool, for fancying herself in love with the first man who had ever looked at her. A man she saw now played at some game between the Scots and English. Some game with her heart.
A man not like Anton at all. Or was he? Anton was such a mystery to her.
As she joined the Queen her gaze frantically scoured the crowd for a glimpse of Anton. She suddenly had a desperate need to see him, to know he was still there, that he was real.
But at the same time she hoped he had not seen her—had not seen Richard kiss her hand.
When she found him, though, she saw that her hopes and fears were in vain. He stood near the doorway with Lord Langley, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched her with narrowed eyes.
She could read nothing of him at all.
Anton saw the blond, bearded man kiss Rosamund’s hand and hold that hand tightly in his as he talked to her. It was no polite greeting; their hands were bent close, their eyes meeting as they spoke intimately, almost as if no one else was near.
Rosamund knew him; Anton could see that. She had looked shocked when he had walked past, her face suddenly as pale as if she had seen a spectre. And the man knew Rosamund, enough to boldly take her hand and whisper in her ear.
Where had the cursed man come from? What was he to Rosamund?
A wave of bitter jealousy rose up in him, and his hands tightened into fists he longed to drive into the man’s blond, English face. He had never known such a fury before, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. But it all could not be denied. He detested this man he had never met, because he had dared kiss Rosamund’s hand, dared to be known to her in some way.
And Anton detested him for the smug smile he exchanged with his Scottish cohorts. He was up to something, and Anton determined to discover what it was—and what exactly he was to Rosamund, even as he knew he had no right to feel that way about her.
Anne Percy joined Lord Langley and him by the doorway.
‘Nothing like a surprise appearance, yes?’ she said, watching the new Scots delegates as they sat down to their repast. ‘Too bad they are not more handsome. But then Queen Mary probably keeps the best of them at her own Court.’
‘You do not think them handsome?’ Lord Langley asked, striving to sound disinterested, but not quite achieving it.
‘Not like our own Court gentlemen,’ Anne teased. ‘Though that blond-haired Englishman is not so very bad. But I fear his heart seems to be already claimed.’
Claimed by Rosamund? ‘Do you know him, then, Mistress Percy?’ Anton asked.
She gave him a shrewd glance. ‘I know only his name—Richard Sutton. He seems to be some kinsman of Celia Sutton. And he also seems to admire Lady Rosamund—which I am sure you can understand, Master Gustavson.’
‘Is she already known to him?’ Anton asked, compelled to know, even as he did not want to know, not really.
Anne hesitated. ‘I am not entirely sure yet, but I think…’
‘Think what?’ Anton urged.
‘Rosamund told me once she had a suitor back at home,’ Anne said. ‘Someone her parents did not approve of, though she did not name him to me.’
‘But you suspect this Richard Sutton is he?’ Anton asked.
‘Perhaps. He did seem rather closely acquainted with her,’ said Anne. ‘And she went quite pale when she saw him.’
‘I see,’ Anton said tightly. ‘An ardent suitor.’
Anne suddenly laid her hand on his sleeve. ‘Master Gustavson,’ she said quietly. ‘I am quite certain that whatever was between them is in the past.’
‘Or was in the past,’ Anton said, giving her a smile. Anne Percy loved to seem the careless Court flirt, so phisticated, knowing. But underneath she was a hopeful romantic.
Much like himself, fool that he was. It seemed he had too much of his mother in him, was too inclined to follow the demands of his heart even against duty and danger.
‘Shall I set my men to discover why he is here?’ Lord Langley said. ‘To be mixed up with the Scots—it cannot be good.’
‘Set your spies on him, you mean?’ Anton said. ‘There is no need, Lord Langley.’
Anton would find out what he needed to know all on his own. He would not see Rosamund hurt, no matter how ‘ardent’ the suitor. And no matter that he himself would most probably hurt her in the end…
Chapter Twelve
New Year’s Eve, December 31
‘Your Grace, I fear I must heartily disagree with these plans,’ Lord Burghley said, thumping his walking stick against the parquet floor for emphasis.
‘My dear Cecil,’ answered the Queen, pounding her fist on her desk to make her own emphasis. ‘I fear I must then remind you who is master here! This is my Court, and I shall order my own Christmas.’
‘But your safety…’
‘My safety? From what? A few paltry threats, that are as nothing compared to what I have faced in the past,’ the Queen said. ‘My father always had a masquerade ball to mark New Year’s Day, and so shall I.’
Rosamund bent her head over her sewing, trying to pretend she was not there in the Queen’s chamber, was not hearing her quarrel with Lord Burghley—again. There was always a quarrel between them.
Even in her short time at Court Rosamund felt she had heard this before—Queen Elizabeth insisting she would do something, and Lord Burghley arguing she should not for her own sake. Today it was the Queen’s insistence that she would have a masked ball tomorrow night. Next week it would surely be something else.
It put Rosamund in mind of her own father. Did her father know Richard was here in London? Had he heard any rumours at Ramsay Castle as he and her mother celebrated their own holiday? If he had, he would surely summon her home in haste. But she knew she could not go now, not when Anton was still here. Not while she was still learning him.
Rosamund bit her
lip, remembering Anton’s face as he had watched her with Richard. What would he think of the way Richard had kissed her hand, had spoken to her so familiarly? What if Anton thought she did not care for him even after everything?
She had lain awake in her bed all night thinking of it, even as she feigned sleep to keep Anne from questioning her. She had to speak to Anton, and to Richard, too, to find out what he was doing at Court. Yet there was no time, as they all had to attend on the Queen.
Oh, how did all these Court ladies manage all their tangled love affairs? she thought as she stabbed at the linen with her needle. It was confusing enough with only two!
‘Rosamund,’ Anne whispered. ‘Are you quite well?’
‘Of course I am,’ Rosamund whispered back. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you have sewn that linen to your skirt.’
Rosamund looked down, startled to see that she had indeed firmly attached her embroidery to her velvet skirt. ‘Oh, blast,’ she muttered, reaching for her scissors.
‘Here, let me,’ Anne said, taking the scissors away. ‘You would cut your gown to ribbons in your distracted state.’
Rosamund sat very still, watching as Anne snipped loose the threads. ‘Tell me, my friend,’ Anne said, under cover of the task, ‘Is the new arrival your swain from back home?’
‘Aye,’ Rosamund muttered. ‘Richard. I have not seen him since the summer, and I thought that was all ended.’
‘But it is not?’
‘He wants me to meet with him,’ Rosamund said. ‘He wishes to explain, he said.’
‘Hmm. It did not appear his feelings were dimmed, not with the eager way he held your hand,’ said Anne. ‘But what of you?’
‘I fear I do not feel as I once did towards him,’ Rosamund admitted. And she had not for a very long time. Maybe not ever.
‘Because of Anton Gustavson?’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps I have changed.’ She knew she had. Anton had helped her change.
Anne snipped away the last of the threads. ‘Will you meet with him?’
‘I do not know. I feel as if I owe it to him to at least hear him out.’
The Winter Queen Page 17