by Nina Mason
His being in Scotland might seem innocuous on the surface—he might easily be there on duchy business, for example—but it would not take her inquisitors long to extract enough information to put the pieces together. Then, they would alert Lord Argyll to the plan, dooming him to a fate similar to his predecessor’s.
Shaking the morbid thought from his head, Robert opened the door to his dressing room. There, as expected, he found Duncan sponging down the red velvet cape he would wear over his best suit to the ball. On the bench, still in its protective linen bag, lay the full-faced devil’s mask behind which he’d conceal his identity.
Maggie, in contrast, would wear an angel’s mask, also full-faced, with a white velvet cloak.
He’d purchased their masks from a Venetian mascherari, who kept a small yet well-stocked shop in Edinburgh to accommodate those who attended the frequent balls and parties at Holyroodhouse Palace.
As soon as the ball was over, he would tie her to the bed with her mask still in place and swive her like the devil he was. Assuming he’d not lifted her skirts in the ballroom beforehand—a very real possibility given the ribald nature of most masked balls.
For where anonymity advanced, amorality was sure to follow.
Speaking of which…this seemed a good time to inquire after Duncan’s progress with the viscountess. “So, have you yet planted your standard behind enemy lines?”
The valet colored a little and smirked with embarrassment, but went on cleaning the cloak. “I have indeed, My Lord. And expect to do so again this very night. For the lady invited me to her room at the stroke of midnight, and I cannot think for what reason she might arrange such a rendezvous apart from the one I suppose.”
Robert steepled his fingers as the gears of his thoughts turned round in his mind. The hour was growing late and it had been a long day already. Even so, he would not dream of delaying. For he might not get another chance to entrap Lady Fitzhardinge. “Were I to drop in at half past the hour, how likely will I be to come upon the two of you in an incriminating posture?”
“Very likely, My Lord,” Duncan said amiably. “But even more so if you were to drop in at a quarter past the hour, as the lady, I find, is extremely keen to get down to business.”
Robert smiled. “In that case, expect me to burst in at a quarter past twelve.”
For a moment, he considered wearing the devil’s mask, then thought better of the idea. He wanted to frighten the viscountess into cooperating, not scare her witless.
“Very good, My Lord.”
As Robert made to exit, Duncan called after him. “My Lord? There is something else I feel compelled to share, despite being uncertain the incident is worthy of your notice.”
Interest hooked, Robert turned back to the dressing room. “Of what occurrence do you speak?”
“One that took place an hour ago in the laundry,” the valet told him. “I noticed a spot on your cloak and went to find something to help take it out. No sooner did I start my search among the shelves than in sauntered the Earl of Mulgrave in company with his own valet. Mr. Brown is the man’s name, I believe, though it matters not. What matters is my distinct impression the two of them had followed me, though for what purpose I know not. They came over to me, as if to admire your cloak, whereupon Lord Mulgrave asked if he might have a look at your mask. I thought it an odd request, but, having the article with me and finding no good reason to refuse, I allowed the examination, under my supervision, of course.”
How odd. “Did you think to ask Lord Mulgrave why he wished to examine my mask?”
“I did indeed, My Lord.”
Robert waited as the valet went on wiping down his cloak, then, running out of patience, said, “And what was his reply?”
“He said there was some bad blood betwixt the two of you,” Duncan answered, still sponging, “and that knowing what mask you’d be wearing could help him keep the peace.”
This seemed a reasonable enough explanation to Robert, so he shrugged it off and left the dressing room. Much as he would enjoy punching Lord All-Pride in that self-important proboscis of his, ’twould be indecorous to strike the new Lord Chamberlain at a royal ball. And now that Numps was wise to his costume, there would be no hiding his identity. On a brighter note, with Mulgrave steering clear, he and Maggie were sure to have a much better time at the party.
Poor Maggie. He’d been unfair to her when he’d returned to the apartment. He was cross with the king and Lord All-Pride, and taking his pique out on her had been inexcusable. To make matters worse, he’d left her alone to cope with the damage after firing a sizeable cannonball over her bulwarks. Perhaps he ought to go to her, apologize, and invite her to join him in bed. If she’d have her devil of a husband after he’d been so unfeeling to her.
* * * *
After bidding farewell to the maid who’d come to fetch wee Jamie back to the nursery, Maggie crossed to the window with a heavy heart. Releasing a sigh, she leaned her head against the casement and looked out across the river. Though it was dark now, she could see flecks of moonlight dancing on the water. The source of the light formed a silver crescent against the indigo sky.
All too soon, she would be alone. She and the baby, shifting for themselves in this pit of vipers called the royal court. She’d believed things would be different after her father took the throne—he claimed to be more moral and noble than his elder brother, did he not?—but things were very much the same. No, that was untrue. Things were much worse, because at least whilst Charles was king, no one actively plotted his undoing.
His assassination, yes, but not his usurpation. Not that she knew of, leastwise. ’Twas entirely possible, of course, that Robert had kept her in the dark about such plots, as he was doing now with regard to his assignment in Scotland.
I cannot discuss my reasons for going…and thank you not to speculate.
Whilst sitting alone with the baby and her thoughts, she’d decided his mission must have to do with the Covenanters. Was there a looming threat of open rebellion? She would not be surprised if that were the case, given her father’s stubborn determination to force religious tolerance upon his unwilling subjects. Although his heart was in the right place, his methods were heavy-handed. Or, as Robert was fond of saying, “When it comes to political savvy, Charles was a dancing master whilst his younger brother was more of a dancing bear.”
Her father seemed unable to grasp the concept that hatred could not be overcome by enacting laws. Only God had the power to change hearts and, whilst the king might enjoy divine rights, he was still made of flesh, blood, and bone.
And now there would be more violent clashes in which Robert would fight for a king who turned a deaf ear to his sound advice. Would her dear heart come back to her? The mere thought that he might not gutted her to the core. She closed her eyes, letting a tear slide down her cheek, and painted Robert’s portrait inside her mind. As time wore on, would his features fade from her memory? Would she also forget one day how wonderful it once felt to be touched by a man she cherished so dearly?
“Robert,” she whispered to the moon. He was only in the next room, but she suddenly felt quite alone and forlorn.
“Maggie?”
The sound of his answering voice made her turn. He eyed her with wariness as she studied his features, storing every detail for future reference. The chiseled cheekbones worthy of a master sculptor, the perfect nose and sensual mouth, and the eyes that could melt her bones akin to sunshine on butter. Clad in naught but his breeches and shirtsleeves, he was as handsome as a Greek god with the moonlight falling softly over his features.
“Are you upset with me?” he asked, looking disarmingly boyish.
Taking her emotional temperature, she found no anger; only longing, fear, and despair. “No, I am merely sad.”
“As am I.” He drew closer, but with caution, as might a stray dog suspicious of a stranger offering food. “And sorry. So very sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Aye.” His
contrite gaze locked with hers. “For being brusque with you earlier…for having to leave you to fend for yourself…and for being unable to tell you more.”
His apology thawed the last traces of hoarfrost still clinging to her heart. Too overcome to speak, she held out her hand to him, fingers trembling. He took her small, cold hand in his big, warm one and studied it for a moment before lifting her knuckles to his lips. As he pressed a kiss to her flesh, he raised his eyes to hers. There was sorrow in them, backlit by the smoldering cinders of passion.
“You’ve always been my sanctuary, Rosebud. My safe place. My heaven on earth. And my confessional. I trust you unreservedly, so please think not otherwise. But I also know firsthand the cruelties men will commit to extract a person’s secrets. And telling you more than I already have might very well put us both in harm’s way.”
“I understand,” she said through her thickening throat.
Pulling her against him, he held her there, saying nothing. In the breathless silence, she could feel the pulse in his throat, racing with her own. The familiar warmth and smell of him soothed her heart and aroused her desire.
His hands found her shoulders and pushed her back slightly. She looked up into his face, radiant in the soft moonlight.
“Duncan is meeting the viscountess at midnight, so I must stay awake until then.”
“Must you?”
“Aye. And hoped you might be willing to pass the time with me.”
“Doing what?” Given the fire in his eyes and the hardness against her leg, she had a reasonably good idea what he had in mind, but wanted to hear him ask even so.
“I want you, Maggie.” The words came out soft and ragged. He paused a moment as if unsure he’d made himself clear. “I want you so much—I can scarcely speak. Will you—” He swallowed and licked his lips. “Will you come to bed with me?”
“By all means.” Pleased beyond measure, she could not help smiling.
Scooping her up, he carried her into his room and tossed her into the center of the high, canopy bed. The light of numerous candles flickered across the opulent furnishings and in the many mirrors.
As he fumbled with the ties on his fly, he turned toward the dressing room. “Leave me now, Duncan,” he called out. “Whatever you still have to do to my costume can wait until morning.”
Moments later, the valet emerged, bowed toward his master, and took his leave.
Robert closed the door behind the servant, peeled off his breeches, and tossed them over a chair. Then, still in his shirt, he returned to the bed.
“What say you to me putting on my devil’s mask?”
She considered the suggestion as she removed her bodice. Though the idea was not without a certain dark appeal, she would much rather see his face at present. “I’d prefer you did not tonight, but would not be averse to you wearing it another time.”
With a grin that negated his need for the mask, he grabbed hold of her legs and dragged her toward him. Her petticoats drew back as her bottom skidded across the coverlet, exposing everything she owned to his view. When her crotch was even with the edge of the mattress, he pulled off his shirt and cast it aside.
Sensual thrills snaked through her body as she drank in the alluring contours of his candlelit physique.
Stepping up to her, he parted her thighs with his body and planted his phallus within her. The unexpected violence of his occupation made her gasp.
With a low, guttural groan, he took hold of her hips and buried himself to the root.
“You are mine, Rosebud,” he growled, pressing his claim to the depths of her soul. “Mine and mine alone, forever and always. Mine, whether I am here or in Scotland. Mine, whether I am dead or alive.”
Withdrawing a little ways, he sank into her again. She lifted her hips, admitting him so deep she could feel the head of his cock banging upon the door to her womb.
“I mean to hammer you so hard you break into pieces,” he said, eyes blazing, “so I can take one of those pieces with me, and keep it locked inside my heart.”
“Do,” she said, abandoning herself. “Take me, break me, and carry me in your heart in the manner of a talisman. For I am yours, my darling, body and soul. Not only in this life, but for the whole of eternity.”
“I want your heart, too,” he said, besieging her once more.
“I surrender it gladly.”
He began to pound her in a solid, relentless rhythm that pushed her closer to heaven with each invasion.
“I want you to call me Lord and Master.” His soft command was a seductive threat. “I mean to make you my slave.”
“Do with me what you will, Lord and Master. For I am in your thrall.”
As he came into her again, she clenched her muscles around his length. He moaned and shuddered in response, driving spurs into the sides of her already galloping desire. He hammered her over and over with a force that hovered betwixt pleasurable and painful. She felt disconnected, but also fully present; whole, but also fragmented. All her senses, all her awareness, were fixed on the point of impact, where the persistent ramrod pushed her toward the two-edged sword of pleasure and pain in perfect harmony.
Though Robert’s breathing was hard and fast, he showed no signs of fatigue. When she raised her hips, he ducked under her thighs, taking her legs onto his shoulders. As she locked her ankles at the nape of his neck, he elevated her buttocks whilst still pounding away. Though each jolt jarred her to the core of her being, she willingly offered herself to him.
He was the Holy Spirit, the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. He was the serpent of temptation, swallowing its own tail. He’d already devoured her, the forbidden apple, seeds and all.
He lowered himself, straining the muscles in the backs of her trembling legs. She cared not. She wanted to be ravaged. To be stripped to her bones. To be ground into flour.
“Yes,” she cried. “Oh God, Robert, yes!”
Taking her face betwixt his hands, he forced her to meet his ferocious green gaze. “You are my Eucharist, my Corpus Christi, and I am the priest who will bless and break you for the communion to come.”
His hands slid to her breasts and squeezed their supple fullness before sliding down her sides. All of his weight rested upon her now as he cupped and raised her buttocks to achieve still greater depth. When she cried out in response, he kissed her with ferocity, forcing open her mouth, crushing her lips, and scraping her face with his sandpaper stubble. As his thrusts picked up speed, a spark caught somewhere deep inside her, and out of the ashes of annihilation rose a fire-breathing phoenix.
Mistress Margaret, taking wing, drew her sword.
Arching up to meet his next lunge, she bit his lip hard enough to break the skin.
He grunted in protest, removed his mouth to her neck, and latched on. As he drove into her, she raked her fingernails down his back, tearing his flesh. She wanted to mark him, to draw blood. If she was the wafer, he would be the wine. The sacrificial blood that washed away the sins of the world.
The source of her power, atonement, and completion.
Clinging to him in sudden, all-consuming desperation, she silently recited the Anima Christi, substituting her husband’s name for Christ’s.
Soul of Robert, sanctify me
Body of Robert, save me
Blood of Robert, inebriate me
Passion of Robert, strengthen me
O good Robert, hear me
Within thy heart hide me
Permit me not to be separated from thee
From the malignant enemy defend me…
She forgot the prayer when he pushed up on his arms. His breathing was hard and ragged, his damp hair hung down around his face, and his eyes shone from the shadows like green fire.
“I am your lord and master, Rosebud. And you are mine. Which is just how it ought to be betwixt husband and wife.”
Pierced by his words, she reached up and stroked his cheek. “I love you, Robert.”
&nbs
p; “I love you, too, my sweet angel.”
As he buried his full length in her once more, she surrendered herself to the sensations his body had awakened in hers. With one more thrust, he pushed her over the edge. As she dropped into the blackness of erotic euphoria, he shuddered and made a choked sound she knew to be the herald of his climax. Then, he stilled, groaned, and spilled himself in a sequence of violent pulsations.
Tears stung her eyes as he fell down upon her and buried his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him tight and stroked his hair until his breathing told her he’d fallen asleep. Yes, his weight was crushing, but at least he was there and still in her arms.
* * * *
Robert, awakened abruptly by a thunderbolt of panic, groped for his pocket watch on the bedside table. Please, let it not be past midnight. He squinted hard at the clock’s enameled face, struggling to focus his eyes, which at five and thirty years of age, were not quite as sharp as they’d been in his younger days. Though the candles yet burned, without his quizzing glass, the delicate hands and numbers were naught but a blur. Squinting harder, he moved the clock away from his face until the numbers came into focus. ’Twas only eleven forty-five, God be thanked. Had he slept another five minutes, he’d have missed his chance. For Lady F’s lodgings lay on the far side of the palace compound—in the wing abutting the Royal Cockpit, the former cockfighting venue that now quartered Princess Anne and Prince George.
Even so, he’d best make haste. Sitting up, he dropped his legs over the side of the bed and threw a glance over his shoulder at his wife. He smiled at the golden curls fanned out across her pillow. She was sound asleep in only her shift. Sometime in the past two hours, she must have removed her stays and petticoats.