by Nina Mason
“Would you rather go outside and put on a show for the masses pressing against the barricades?”
Deciding to take her chances, Maggie moved deeper into the room whilst studying the architecture, which was equal parts striking and austere. “What is this place?”
“The Jerusalem Chamber.”
Turning, she met his gaze. “Pray, for what purpose is it employed?”
“Meetings, primarily. The Anglican Church and English Bible were fashioned herein—quite possibly around this very table.”
She smiled. “How providential.”
“Providential?” He arched a dark eyebrow. “How so?”
A wicked smile played on her lips. “That we should rut upon the birthplace of Anglicanism on the day the crown of Great Britain is to be placed upon the head of a Roman Catholic.”
Bemusement uplifted the corners of his bewitching mouth. “I thought relief, not rutting, was the goal of this rendezvous.”
She’d thought so, too, but now that they were alone, she wanted him rather desperately. Even more, she wanted to defile this bastion of Anglicanism. Once an advocate of religious tolerance, she’d grown to despise Protestants for their bigotry—and for trying to destroy her husband and father. By God’s benevolence, both had escaped with their lives, unlike so many other innocent Catholics who had been less fortunate.
She stepped back, toward the table, and, conjuring a sly smile, lifted her gaze to his. “Ravish me, my love. As if our immortal souls depended upon it.”
Without delay, he stepped forward, pinning her against the edge of the table. He slid his hand into her hair, gripping the curls at the base of her neck, which he used to pull back her head. Then, he kissed her with a desperation mirroring her own.
When her breasts began to tingle, she broke from the kiss with a gasp. “My milk is coming.”
Without ceremony, he swiftly freed her right breast from her bodice and stays, whereupon he took the dripping nipple betwixt his lips. As he suckled, pleasurable tingles swam through her body. Back arched, mouth agape, she cradled his head, twining her fingers in the curls of his peruke as the smell of damp wool and manly perspiration permeated her nostrils.
Whilst he nursed from the right, he deftly liberated the left. Switching sides, he sucked her other nipple sharply into his mouth as his finger and thumb rolled the one he’d left behind.
The sensations his ministrations engendered were sinfully delicious. With a breathy sigh, she thrust her pelvis against his, delighting in the feel of his hardness.
“Please, Robert. I beg of you. Swive me whilst you nurse from me.”
His hand left her breast, moved downward, and began to draw up her heavily embroidered petticoats. Fingers brushed her inner thigh before rising to her sex. As he caressed the folds of her vulva, she moaned her approval and, reaching betwixt his legs, fondled the solid bulge in his breeches.
With a scintillating groan of pleasure, he released her nipple, brought his face level with hers, and captured her mouth with his. As their tongues heatedly engaged, he pushed his cloth-encased engorgement into her hand.
Freeing his mouth, he said in a breathless rasp, “What say you, Rosebud? Shall we desecrate this enemy temple in the manner of Holy Crusaders?”
“I say yes,” she returned. “And how apropos. For was the Protestant Reformation not instigated by the concupiscence of an excommunicated king?”
“’Twas indeed, my clever wife.”
If she was clever, he deserved the credit. In the nearly six years they’d been married, he’d schooled her well in philosophy, world history, and politics, as well as the classics, arts, and humanities. He’d also taught her to ride.
Robert took hold of her hips, lifted her onto the table, and pulled up her skirts. As her gaze slid downwards to the lump beneath the long panels of his waistcoat, she opened her thighs in a gesture of invitation.
Stepping back, he unfastened his fly, exposing to her view that glorious part of his anatomy she so adored—and had sorely missed since giving birth.
As he drew nearer, she swept two fingers from the firm base of his shaft to the tip of his glans. “Mmm. How dearly I relish the feel of your phallus.”
He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes as her fingers made small, slow circles around the collar of his glans.
“How would you relish feeling it inside you?”
Withdrawing her hand, she hooked her legs around his hips and drew him against her, pelvis to pelvis. “I would enjoy the feeling immensely.”
He pressed his hips forward, positioning the head of his cock at her entrance, and opened his eyes. Staring into hers with a smoldering green gaze, he said, “In that case, I shall claim you for myself whilst re-claiming this chamber for Rome.”
A giggle escaped her throat. “Conversion by swiving?”
“Why not? For when I am inside you, I feel as if I have died and gone to Heaven.”
Pretending disapproval, she frowned at him. “Now that is undoubtedly a blasphemy.”
He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs stroking her eyebrows as he gazed deeply into her eyes. “Not a blasphemy, Rosebud; a sacrament. For when I make love to you, it is as though our souls have joined in concert with our bodies.”
She bit back the urge to ask the question that had been simmering on her brain’s hearth since long before Jamie was born. Had her husband been faithful during the time he avoided her bedchamber? Holyroodhouse was as well stocked with ambitious maids-of-honor as the lanes outside the palace were with avaricious whores. Temptation lurked around every corner in a social enclave where marital fidelity was anomalous. On top of which, Robert was a duke, uncommonly handsome, and known to have depraved erotic tastes. Any one of these attributes would make him desirable, but their convergence would mark him as a prime target for any scheming female seeking to elevate her station at court.
Under such circumstances, was it possible he’d not been unfaithful?
Shaking the unhappy thought from her head, she locked her legs around Robert’s hips and pulled him closer. The communion that followed was announced with a resounding thud each time he bore into her. Indeed, the sound of their joining seemed to reverberate throughout the whole of the abbey.
Was it possible the other nobles could hear them over the din of whispers and music? If so, would one of them elect to investigate the source of the commotion?
Though part of her found the thought mortifying, another part—the insecure, possessive part she struggled to keep at bay—hoped someone would burst in on them and let it be known far and wide that the Duke of Dunwoody still had eyes for none but his wife.
Chapter Two
Robert awoke the next morning in a pool of sweat with a pounding headache and a queasy stomach. Rather than suspect an ague might be to blame, he attributed his complaints to the previous evening’s over-indulgences.
The feast following the coronation ceremony had been naught shy of sumptuous. Never in the whole of his life had he seen such exemplary fare—or such copious quantities. The royal kitchen had produced one hundred and seventy-five dishes, in all, including every variety of fish, fowl, and meat imaginable, served hot, cold, larded, and/or baked in pies. There were also oysters, lobsters, cockles, prawns, crabs, and caviar to be had, as well as seasonal fruits and sweet meats arranged in elaborate tiered pyramids. Faced with such mouth-watering temptations, he did what any self-respecting Scotsman would: stuffed himself to the gills and drank himself into a stupor.
A strong wave of nausea chased the memory of the previous evening’s gluttony. Diving to the edge of the bed, he retrieved the chamber pot in the nick of time. When the urge to vomit passed, he lay back on his pillow, taking note for the first time since awakening that Maggie was not in his bed.
She had been when he’d drifted off. Or had he passed out? God knew, he’d been deep enough in his cups to make the latter a strong possibility. He vaguely recalled making love to her. If one could call violent, drunken sex “making
love.” Afterward, however, he’d held her in his arms, which, left wanting by her desertion, ached to encircle her once more.
“Maggie? Are you there?”
The silence that answered his inquiry squashed his hopes. Where had she gone? To bring back breakfast, to feed the baby, or to see to some other unknown errand? Wherever she might be, please let her not stay away long.
With a disheartened sigh, he closed his eyes. God, he felt wretched. Fevered, achy, nauseous, and as weak as a newborn foal. To top it off, his back and head hurt something fierce. Surely, more than a hangover was to blame for such inexorable suffering.
Draping an arm across his fevered forehead, he closed his eyes. Please, let it not be the fever that carried away his father and sister…or any other life threatening malady. He’d only just taken up residence in London. In the Palace of Whitehall, no less. He’d planned to show Maggie the sights, go for daily rides together in the park, and take her shopping for new gowns. She’d not visited the mantua maker in several years, and her wardrobe cried for updating. She was, after all, the king’s daughter and, illegitimate or not, would be expected to dress the part of a princess.
He’d also planned to take her to see a certain proprietress in Leicester Fields, to make good on his long-ago promise to procure a godemiché for her. He should never have avoided her bedchamber without equipping her with a suitable substitute. Maggie was a passionate woman, and Holyroodhouse had been swarming with hellrakes who made sport of the challenge of wearing down a faithful wife. And given her beauty and bloodline, his Rosebud would have stood out as a prize well worth the effort expended to gain her surrender.
He was just grateful Lord All Pride, the topmost cuckold-maker, had not been in Edinburgh. In Robert’s days at court of King Charles II, he’d oft heard Lord Mulgrave brag of being “the terror of husbands.”
A notorious scoundrel, poet, and decorated naval officer of boundless ambition and conceit, Mulgrave had been expelled from the court at Whitehall for trifling with the Lady Anne, the younger of the then Duke of York’s legitimate daughters. Mulgrave and Anne’s amour had caused quite the scandal at the time, and left no small blemish upon Anne’s honor. It mattered not that Lord All Pride publicly denied the rumors he’d “ruined her for marriage to another.” A lady’s virtue was no less fragile than porcelain. Even the merest misstep could crack its pristine surface.
Had his angel taken a lover?
He did not believe so, but neither did he presume her to be immune to the charms of predators the like of Mulgrave, who, to Robert’s great vexation, had been invited back to court. For reasons that defied logic, that supercilious nincompoop had long been a favorite of the newly crowned monarch’s.
The mere thought of that scoundrel working his wiles on Maggie made Robert’s blood more fevered than it already was. He’d avoided her bed not because his passions had cooled, but to spare them both further suffering. Too many times, he’d wept over the lifeless bodies of his children. He could not bear to do so again or to put her through the agony of another failed pregnancy. Still, as hard as it was to endure his self-inflicted celibacy, he’d refrained from taking a mistress—despite the persistent encouragement from all in his social circle, including his father-in-law.
“You would have me commit the sin of adultery—and against your own daughter?” he’d asked James, incredulous.
“I make the suggestion for her benefit as well as your own,” the Duke of York had returned. “For no one woman can satisfy a man’s voracious needs. And to be always at our poor wives is at best a nuisance and at worst a nightmare—especially in arranged marriages such as ours.”
“The fact I did not court her does not mean I do not love her.”
James let out a jovial laugh. “You may be lovesick now, but mark my words: the heart is a fickle organ. Your passion for your wife will cool in time. And when it does, you, like the rest of us mere mortals, will feel the urge to rekindle the spark with somebody new.”
Robert remained unmoved by his arguments. Let him laugh at his fidelity. Let them all laugh. He would rather be the object of ridicule than hurt his wife the way James hurt his. Poor Mary of Modena, the duke’s second wife, was made as miserable by her spouse’s infidelities as had been Anne Hyde, the long-suffering duchess before her.
The threat of Mulgrave and other Lotharios aside, Robert was vastly relieved to be living once more at the royal palace. And not only because of his luxurious accommodations, luxurious as they were.
Their assigned apartment had been redecorated in opulent style. The canopy bed, walls, and furniture were covered in French tapestries of incomparable workmanship. Some depicted Versailles, Saint-Germain, and other palaces of King Louis XIV, the cousin of James and Charles, whilst others portrayed hunts, mythic figures, landscapes, and exotic fowl.
On exhibit in the impressive front parlor were a profusion of decorative accessories from around the world: cabinets and screens from Japan, pendulum clocks from Prussia, great delft vases from Holland, marble tables and statuary from Italy, and an array of sconces, trays, and candelabras finely crafted of English silver. In the center of the room hung a crystal chandelier large enough to light a ballroom.
Glorious though all of it was, Robert could not thoroughly enjoy his new lodgings. Too many dangers loomed on the horizon—dangers that threatened to separate him from his family. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew plots were afoot against the new king—by his own relations, no less. If a coup was attempted, Robert would fight for his sovereign, as his father before him had done.
Another overpowering wave of nausea rolled through him, bringing him back to his present misery. Flinging himself to the edge of the mattress, he spewed across the oriental carpet edging the bed. He rolled his eyes and groaned, partly from regret, but mostly from misery. God help him. He could not recall another time when he’d felt half as ill as he did at present.
Too wretched to wait upon Maggie’s return, he mustered all the strength he could to call out toward his dressing room, “Duncan? Are you there?”
When the valet did not respond, Robert remembered he’d excused his manservant before retiring. To pursue a promising conquest—a lady-in-waiting to Princess Anne. The nudge toward Barbara Berkeley, Viscountess of Fitzhardinge, was not for Duncan’s benefit alone. Robert suspected Anne, a devout Anglican, of being in cahoots with her elder sister Mary, the heir presumptive to the British throne. But proof was needed before he dared vouchsafe his suspicions to the king—proof he hoped to secure by persuading the compromised viscountess to turn over all the princess’s Holland-bound letters.
Aye, he contemplated blackmail—and would stoop even lower to safeguard the king’s interests. For his family’s felicity—nay, their very survival—depended upon James II reigning long and well.
God save the king.
And may God save him as well.
Given the symptoms, he had an inkling what ailed him, but still hoped against hope he might be mistaken. The malady he suspected—nay, dreaded—was highly contagious. It could easily claim Maggie and wee Jamie in addition to himself. If he were able to reach the looking glass, he might find the eruptions to confirm his suppositions, but, alas, he could not summon the strength to rise from the bed, let alone cross the room.
Flopping back down on his chest in defeat, he fought the urge to vomit, but lost the battle. As he spewed once more upon the expensive carpet, a powerful cramp seized his gut. Gripping the edge of the mattress, he gritted his teeth against the pain.
The fast-moving magma in his bowels gurgled and rumbled its way to the mouth of the volcano. Then, despite clamping down, Vesuvius erupted, flooding the bedclothes with molten excrement.
As he lay there—helpless, fevered, and covered in his own filth—he could not decide which was worse: the watery feces coating his lower half, the vile reek of his bodily purges, or the humiliation he’d feel upon being discovered in so indecorous a state of being.
He neve
rtheless yearned very badly to be found—and the sooner, the better.
“Rosebud,” he whimpered, ready to weep. “Your husband needs you. What in the devil is keeping you?”
More time passed. How much, he could not say. Betwixt alternating bouts of delirium and diarrhea, he dozed.
By the time he heard the front door to the apartment open, he felt as if he’d fallen down a well. A deep, dark well of puke and shit in which he was slowly drowning.
* * * *
Maggie wrinkled her nose in disgust at the terrible stench that greeted her upon entering the apartment. Had wee Jamie just dirtied his nappy? A quick swipe of the hand across her son’s linen-clad bottom told her the source of the offending odor lay elsewhere.
Did the commode need emptying? In the hour she’d spent in the nursery, the chamber maid should have seen to the task—but perhaps had not wished to disturb Robert’s sleep.
“Dear heart? Are you awake?”
When he did not answer, bemusement lifted the corners of her mouth. Bearing in mind how late he’d kept her up with his amorous oblations, ’twas little wonder he was still abed. Not that she wished to complain. On the contrary, she was grateful for any and all the sexual attention he saw fit to bestow upon her person. She’d come to miss the passionate man she’d married. She even missed his debauched inclinations—something she never thought she’d hear herself say.
For they could hardly engage in erotic flagellation whilst living at her father’s palace. The court at Holyroodhouse housed as many twattlers who would stop at naught to destroy their credibility than did the court at Whitehall. Having realized the danger before leaving Dunwoody, they’d left all apart from their most prized accoutrements locked up tight in the secret chamber behind the library bookcase.
How her heart had quickened last night when he mentioned taking her to Leicester Fields to buy a dildol. She hoped he was not too afflicted to keep that promise. But first things first. More than she needed a backup phallus, she needed alone time with her husband and son to settle into their new quarters. And to find the source of that most offensive of odors.