The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  Wic­kedly, he flic­ked the small, hard nip­ple with his ton­gue. And when he drew it bet­we­en his lips, suc­k­ling, gra­zing with his te­eth, the girl mo­aned aga­in, so softly it was as if she we­re af­ra­id to ma­ke any no­ise. He mo­ved his mo­uth to her left bre­ast, whi­le his hand co­ve­red the right one and he felt the nip­ple press in­to his palm.

  It was dre­am­li­ke, ma­gi­cal, he­re in the richly scen­ted sha­dows of the gar­den, and this lo­ve­ma­king to­ok on an et­he­re­al qu­ality. Ne­it­her of them spo­ke, this was not a ti­me when words we­re ne­eded. Mi­ran­da in ro­ugh has­te pus­hed her un­la­ced gown off her hips so that it fell in a dark pud­dle to her fe­et. Be­ne­ath she was na­ked.

  Ga­reth's hands mo­ved over the slim fra­me, fe­eling the co­ol sof­t­ness of her skin, the lit­tle tre­mors of her body be­ne­ath his ex­p­lo­ring fin­gers. He co­uld fe­el her he­si­tancy, her ap­pre­hen­si­on, just as he co­uld fe­el the po­wer of her spi­ra­ling ex­ci­te­ment, and his own mo­un­ted with each brush of his fin­gers over her flesh.

  He felt her hands sli­ding up be­ne­ath the back of his do­ub­let and shirt, fe­eling for his skin. The sa­me ten­ta­ti­ve he­si­tancy was in her ca­res­sing stro­kes, but with each to­uch, she grew mo­re con­fi­dent.

  He to­ok her rib ca­ge bet­we­en his hands, mar­ve­ling at how nar­row she was, at how he co­uld fe­el her he­art ra­cing be­ne­ath the thin skin. Hol­ding her wa­ist now, he knelt in the grass, ben­ding his he­ad to kiss her belly. A shud­der rip­pled thro­ugh the le­an lit­tle body. A fi­ne dew mis­ted her skin as his ton­gue dip­ped in­to her na­vel, his hands mo­ving down now to hold her hips, his thumbs pres­sing in­to the sharp bo­nes as he pa­in­ted her belly with his ton­gue.

  Her skin had a won­der­ful scent, li­ke va­nil­la and cre­am. Her legs par­ted, her fe­et shif­ting on the grass, as his ton­gue stro­ked lo­wer and his fin­gers slid bet­we­en her thighs, se­eking the un­to­uc­hed sec­rets of her body. He ope­ned her gently and the rich folds of her cen­ter re­sis­ted an un­fur­ling that had ne­ver be­fo­re be­en do­ne to this pri­va­te flesh. As her lo­wer lips ope­ned to him a de­ep shud­der rip­ped thro­ugh her.

  Her hands we­re on his he­ad, pal­ming his scalp, cur­ling and grip­ping his ha­ir as the vi­tal tu­mult in her lo­ins tum­b­led and ro­ared and she didn't know what was hap­pe­ning to her only that she co­uldn't be­ar it to stop, that she co­uldn't be­ar it to con­ti­nue, that it was te­aring her apart. And then her body se­emed to burst asun­der and she co­uldn't bre­at­he, co­uldn't spe­ak, as the wil­d­ness flo­oded her co­re, fil­led every inch of her, and then slowly, oh, so slowly, re­ce­ded.

  Ga­reth held her for a mi­nu­te, his own bre­at­hing rag­ged, his ne­ed now a po­wer­ful, all-con­su­ming for­ce that co­uldn't be de­ni­ed. He drew her down to the grass and she ca­me eagerly, awa­re on so­me pe­rip­hery of her mind and body that it wasn't over, that this was not a ple­asu­re to be ta­ken alo­ne.

  She le­aned over him un­but­to­ning his do­ub­let, un­la­cing his shirt, as he spraw­led on the grass. Her un-prac­ti­ced ca­res­ses we­re swe­et and fle­eting, a fin­ger­tip brus­hing his nip­ples, tra­cing the li­ne whe­re his neck cur­ved in­to his sho­ul­der, tip­to­e­ing over his ears, smo­ot­hing down his chest. So fle­eting, so ten­ta­ti­ve, we­re her mo­ve­ments that it was as if she was trying to dis­co­ver how to to­uch a man to ple­asu­re him, and Ga­reth fo­und her he­si­ta­ti­on anot­her de­light, even mo­re de­lig­h­t­ful be­ca­use it be­gan to min­g­le inex­t­ri­cably with the re­ne­wal of her de­si­re. A de­si­re he co­uld fe­el in every rip­ple of her dam­pe­ning skin when he to­uc­hed her, co­uld re­ad in her he­avy, lan­gu­oro­us eyes, her eagerly par­ted lips.

  He gu­ided her hands to his ho­se, and with a tiny frown of con­cen­t­ra­ti­on, she un­la­ced him, fre­e­ing the hard, erect shaft. She to­uc­hed him with a fin­ger­tip, the sa­me fle­eting, ten­ta­ti­ve ca­ress of be­fo­re.

  Ga­reth smi­led and drew her down be­si­de him. On­ce aga­in he ope­ned her thighs, she shud­de­red aga­in, and when he pla­ced his hand over the soft mo­und of her hot sex her body jum­ped aga­inst him. But her body was damp, pul­sing, re­ady for his to­uch. He slid a fin­ger in­si­de her and she ten­sed aga­inst him. So small, so tight, he tho­ught, kis­sing the silky in­ner skin of her spre­ad thighs. He slip­ped his hands be­ne­ath her, cup­ping her bot­tom, and he smi­led with de­light at how ne­atly the ro­und che­eks fit­ted in­to his palms.

  He ro­se abo­ve her in the dar­k­ness, lif­ting her on his palms as he eased in­to her. Her gasp was al­most a cry. She was so small and tight he was af­ra­id of hur­ting her, but the ju­ices of her aro­usal flo­wed fre­ely and her body ope­ned aro­und him. He pres­sed de­ep wit­hin her, hol­ding her hard aga­inst him, so that as his flesh mo­ved wit­hin her he co­uld fe­el her sen­sa­ti­on as part of his own.

  She was mo­ving with her own rhythm now, ri­sing to me­et his thrusts as they grew mo­re ur­gent, pres­sed ever de­eper wit­hin the tight, sil­ken she­ath. Lit­tle so­unds ca­me from her, sur­p­ri­sed lit­tle gasps and cri­es. They ma­de him think of so­me small wo­od­land cre­atu­re star­t­led by an unex­pec­ted in­t­ru­der.

  He wan­ted to la­ugh with the she­er as­to­nis­hing joy of this en­co­un­ter, and when his se­ed burst from him in an en­d­less pul­sing cli­max he did so, his la­ug­h­ter rin­ging thro­ugh the dark night as he clut­c­hed her aga­inst him, his fin­gers cur­led in­to the tight, con­t­rac­ted mus­c­les of her bot­tom, her damp belly pres­sed in­to his as if he co­uld meld her skin with his. And he held her thus as her own body con­t­rac­ted aro­und his throb­bing flesh, as spasms of ple­asu­re con­vul­sed her and her lit­tle cri­es be­ca­me gas­ping sobs. And only when she went limp in his hold did he let her fall back to the damp grass, clo­sing his eyes as a wa­ve of sa­ted ex­ha­us­ti­on was­hed over him.

  Mi­ran­da lay still as sto­ne. Her lo­ins and belly felt empty and yet fil­led at the sa­me ti­me, and the pla­ce bet­we­en her legs was hot and stret­c­hed and still jum­ping with lit­tle ne­ed­les of ple­asu­re. She tho­ught the earl slept. His bre­at­hing had de­epe­ned and his body be­si­de her was he­avy with re­la­xa­ti­on. She ga­zed up at the sky, wat­c­hing the clo­uds thin a lit­tle so that the mo­on sho­wed as a dif­fu­sed sil­ver light. Now, in the stil­lness she co­uld he­ar the wa­ter lap­ping aga­inst the wa­ter steps be­yond the wall, but all el­se was si­len­ce, the ri­ver traf­fic ce­ased for the mo­ment, the in­ha­bi­tants of the dark bulk of the man­si­on lo­oming ac­ross the gar­den as­le­ep in the­ir beds.

  It felt as if only the two of them we­re awa­ke in the who­le of Lon­don, that the world be­lon­ged only to them, that the fuzzy light of the mo­on was the­irs, the scud­ding clo­uds, the grass that was so damp be­ne­ath her ba­re back, the swe­et frag­ran­ce of the la­urel bush abo­ve her.

  Then she he­ard Chip. He was mut­te­ring so­mew­he­re in the dar­k­ness and he so­un­ded frig­h­te­ned. She rol­led on­to her si­de, prop­ping her­self on an el­bow, and cal­led him softly. He ap­pro­ac­hed he­si­tantly, te­eth ba­red, his eyes dar­ting to the still fi­gu­re lying be­si­de Mi­ran­da.

  "It's all right," she whis­pe­red, hol­ding out her hand. "Not­hing bad has hap­pe­ned."

  Ga­reth ca­me to with a jolt. He sat up and then clo­sed his eyes bri­efly as a wa­ve of shock roc­ked him to the co­re. How had it hap­pe­ned? How had he al­lo­wed it to hap­pen?

  Mi­ran­da to­uc­hed his sho­ul­der. "Mi­lord?"

  He tur­ned slowly. She was smi­ling at him, the li­nes of her fa­ce still smud­ged with the af­ter­math of pas­si­on. "De­ar God, what ha­ve I do­ne?" Ga­reth mut­te­red.

  Mi­ran­da re­ac
­hed for the crum­p­led oran­ge sha­dow of her dress. She knew as if he'd spo­ken the words that she had to go, had to le­ave him im­me­di­ately. And in truth she was not sorry to do so. What had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them was so­met­hing she too had to co­me to terms with. Her en­ti­re li­fe se­emed to ha­ve chan­ged, ever­y­t­hing she had ever be­li­eved in thrown back in­to the mel­ting pot.

  She pul­led the dress over her he­ad, but her hands we­re sha­king too much to al­low her to la­ce the bo­di­ce. But no one was awa­ke to see her in this di­sar­ray, and an un­la­ced bo­di­ce wo­uldn't im­pe­de her climb up the ivy to her cham­ber. For so­me re­ason it didn't oc­cur to her that the­re must be an open do­or thro­ugh which she co­uld ga­in en­t­ran­ce.

  She lo­oked back at Ga­reth. He had ri­sen to his fe­et and sto­od with his he­ad thrown back sta­ring up at the sky. His shirt and do­ub­let we­re still open but he had la­ced his ho­se whi­le she was dres­sing. He didn't mo­ve as she left him, hur­rying up the path, Chip, for on­ce si­lent, jum­ping at her si­de.

  Ga­reth ran his hands over his ha­ir, over the back of his neck. His fin­ger­tips pres­sed aga­inst his mo­uth. What had he do­ne? But he knew well eno­ugh, just as he knew that it co­uld not now be un­do­ne.

  King Henry of Fran­ce and Na­var­re sto­od in the bows as the ves­sel ran be­fo­re the wind ac­ross the bar at the en­t­ran­ce to the first of the de­ep ba­sins that ma­de up the qu­i­et wa­ters of Pa­ra­di­se Har­bor. The whi­te cliffs ro­se from the long stret­c­hes of sandy be­ach ahe­ad and to eit­her si­de of the har­bor. The gray for­ti­fi­ca­ti­ons of the cas­t­le sto­od out aga­inst the bright blue sky and he co­uld see she­ep gra­zing on the gre­en clif­ftops.

  The town of Do­ver nes­t­ling at the fo­ot of the cliffs se­et­hed with li­fe, the three ba­sins we­re thron­ged with ships, na­val and com­mer­ci­al, and his own ves­sel was only one of a long li­ne of craft wa­iting to drop an­c­hor.

  "Will you an­no­un­ce yo­ur­self to the con­s­tab­le at the cas­t­le, my li­ege?"

  "Watch yo­ur ton­gue, Mag­ret." Henry spo­ke the rep­ro­of ba­rely mo­ving his hps as he stret­c­hed ca­su­al­ly, his pla­in le­at­her jer­kin stra­ining ac­ross his bro­ad chest with the mo­ve­ment.

  The co­unt flus­hed but knew bet­ter than to apo­lo­gi­ze for his lap­se. Just as he knew he wo­uldn't be ma­king it aga­in.

  "Shall I send a co­uri­er to the cas­t­le, Yo­ur Gra­ce?"

  Henry stro­ked his chin, con­si­de­ring the busy yet pe­ace­ful sce­ne. One typi­cal of Eli­za­beth's in­dus­t­ri­o­us na­ti­on, he tho­ught en­vi­o­usly. Whi­le his own land was loc­ked in ci­vil stri­fe and the eco­no­mic mi­se­ri­es that that pro­du­ced, the En­g­lish we­re bu­sily fe­at­he­ring the­ir nests, bu­il­ding the­ir navy, ex­pan­ding the­ir em­pi­re. One cur­sory lo­ok aro­und the har­bor told even the most ig­no­rant eye that this is­land nur­tu­red a na­ti­on of ship­bu­il­ders and sa­ilors.

  "I sup­po­se you had bet­ter," he sa­id re­luc­tantly. Henry had ne­ver be­en com­for­tab­le with ce­re­mony, and even less so now af­ter so many months of cam­pa­ig­ning. "Altho­ugh I'd pre­fer to jo­ur­ney to Lon­don wit­ho­ut no­ti­ce. But Ro­is­sy wo­uld be ex­pec­ted to cla­im hos­pi­ta­lity on his ar­ri­val, par­ti­cu­larly on such happy per­so­nal bu­si­ness."

  "In­de­ed, my lord du­ke." Mag­ret flic­ked with his han­d­ker­c­hi­ef at a se­agull who had set­tled on the ra­il be­si­de his hand. "They are busy, the­se En­g­lis­h­men," he com­men­ted, ec­ho­ing his king's tho­ughts.

  "Mmm." Henry ga­zed to­ward sho­re. Des­pi­te the sun, the wind was qu­ite sharp with the first hints of autumn. Ro­is­sy wo­uld ma­na­ge the si­ege im­pec­cably, of co­ur­se, but Henry dis­li­ked le­aving his af­fa­irs in the hands of ot­hers. He must en­su­re that he re­tur­ned to Fran­ce be­fo­re the we­at­her ma­de sea tra­vel dif­fi­cult if not im­pos­sib­le. The­re wo­uld be no ti­me to lin­ger on this wo­o­ing of the Lady Ma­ude.

  He drew the mi­ni­atu­re out of his do­ub­let poc­ket and exa­mi­ned it for the first ti­me sin­ce his de­ci­si­on- one that his ad­vi­sors tho­ught had be­en im­pul­si­ve, not kno­wing that the­ir king had be­en wa­iting for just such an op­por­tu­nity for many months.

  The pa­le, gra­ve fa­ce lo­oked up at him, the azu­re eyes most be­a­uti­ful, the full lo­wer lip pro­mi­sing a sen­su­al na­tu­re, the smo­oth dark ha­ir glo­wing fa­intly with auburn tints. A Hu­gu­enot of im­pec­cab­le li­ne­age. A per­fect suc­ces­sor to Mar­gu­eri­te de Va­lo­is du­ring the­se chan­ged cir­cum­s­tan­ces. And mo­re than that. He tra­ced the fa­ce of Ma­ude d'Albard with a cal­lu­sed fin­ger­tip. It wo­uld ma­ke a chan­ge to ha­ve an in­no­cent, a vir­gin in his bed. Mar­gu­eri­te had be­en de­ba­uc­hed long be­fo­re the­ir wed­ding night, by her own brot­hers it was ru­mo­red, not that Henry had par­ti­cu­larly ca­red one way or the ot­her. It had be­en a mar­ri­age of ro­yal al­li­an­ce, de­sig­ned to ac­hi­eve the im­pos­sib­le, and it had fa­iled, brin­ging him the ul­ti­ma­te hu­mi­li­ati­on.

  He had ho­ped to uni­te Pro­tes­tant and Cat­ho­lic with his mar­ri­age to Mar­gu­eri­te, and he had be­en bet­ra­yed, plun­ging his own pe­op­le in­to de­ath and des­t­ruc­ti­on. Now the­re wo­uld be no unity of­fe­red. He wo­uld gi­ve Cat­ho­lic Fran­ce a Hu­gu­enot qu­e­en, one who­se mot­her had be­en mur­de­red in the mas­sac­re of Sa­int Bar­t­ho­lo­mew. And thus it wo­uld co­me full cir­c­le and the pri­ce wo­uld be pa­id.

  His rug­ged mo­uth thin­ned, and his hawk no­se was sud­denly pin­c­hed. He had not for­gi­ven and the­se pe­op­le wo­uld le­arn that, when he had the crown of Fran­ce upon his he­ad and an in­fant son in the crad­le.

  He rep­la­ced the mi­ni­atu­re in his do­ub­let poc­ket and mo­ved away from the bow as sa­ilors ra­ced to lo­wer the fo­re­sa­ils and the ves­sel drop­ped an­c­hor aga­inst the har­bor wall. His ser­vants hur­ri­ed up from be­low with trunks and por­t­man­te­a­ux. A man co­uldn't vi­sit Eli­za­beth's co­urt wit­ho­ut a su­itab­le war­d­ro­be, al­t­ho­ugh to lo­ok at the sup­po­sed du­ke of Ro­is­sy at this mo­ment one wo­uldn't know it. Henry co­uld still ha­ve be­en in the be­si­eging camp out­si­de the walls of Pa­ris. He wo­re his buff le­at­her jer­kin over knee-length brit­c­hes and thigh bo­ots. His he­ad was ba­re. His sword was una­dor­ned, as was his po­ig­nard. They we­re a sol­di­er's we­apons and the ste­el was pit­ted with use but the ed­ges co­uld saw thro­ugh me­tal.

  Henry was less in­te­res­ted in his per­so­nal lug­ga­ge than he was in the hor­ses that we­re be­ing led up from the can­vas shel­ters in the stern. His own char­ger was in the per­so­nal ca­re of the ro­yal he­ad gro­om.

  "Has he bor­ne the vo­ya­ge well?"

  "Aye, my li… my go­od lord," the man sa­id, to­uc­hing his fo­re­lock.

  Henry stro­ked Va­lo­ir's no­se and the hor­se whic­ke­red in­to his palm. "He has al­ways tra­ve­led well."

  "Will you di­sem­bark, Yo­ur Gra­ce?" The En­g­lish cap­ta­in of the slo­op ca­me ac­ross the deck to his pas­sen­ger. He was a le­an and le­at­hery sa­ilor who or­di­na­rily had lit­tle ti­me for the French and even less for the­ir nob­le­men, but in this ca­se he had fo­und his pas­sen­ger con­ge­ni­al, unaf­fec­ted, sur­p­ri­singly know­led­ge­ab­le abo­ut se­afa­ring, and a most ex­cel­lent drin­king com­pa­ni­on. He wo­uld be sorry to part com­pany.

  " The skiffs are re­ady to row you as­ho­re, sir. And the rafts will so­on be in po­si­ti­on to ta­ke the hor­ses."

  "My thanks, Cap­ta­in Hall." Henry ex­ten­ded his hand in fa­re­well. "A most enj­oyab­le vo­ya­ge."

  "Hel­ped by a go­od wind and cle­ment we­at­her," th
e cap­ta­in sa­id jovi­al­ly, ta­king the hand. "It's be­en a ple­asu­re, my lord. When you re­turn to Fran­ce, I ho­pe I'll be ab­le to ser­ve you aga­in."

  "If you're in har­bor in abo­ut two we­eks, then I sho­uld be de­lig­h­ted to ma­ke the re­turn vo­ya­ge with you." Henry drew on thick le­at­her ga­un­t­lets that re­ac­hed his el­bows.

  The cap­ta­in bo­wed and mo­ved to the ra­il to see his du­cal pas­sen­ger down the swa­ying ro­pe lad­der and in­to the skiff. The du­ke and his nob­le­men ma­de the des­cent with the agi­lity of har­de­ned sol­di­ers and the oar­s­men pul­led away from the slo­op to­ward the nar­row en­t­ran­ce to the in­ner ba­sin.

  "We'd best send the mes­sen­ger to the cas­t­le at on­ce, Mag­ret," Henry sa­id, step­ping as­ho­re. "We will awa­it his re­turn in the Black An­c­hor." He ges­tu­red to an inn on the pi­er.

  In the glo­omy tap­ro­om, the king of Fran­ce wa­ved ex­pan­si­vely to the lan­d­lord at the ale keg. "Fill the tan­kards, mi­ne host. I've lan­ded sa­fe af­ter a vo­ya­ge and I've a mind to gi­ve thanks in com­pany."

  The­re was a ro­ar of ap­pro­val from the com­pany gat­he­red in the ta­vern, and wit­hin a few mi­nu­tes Henry was sur­ro­un­ded by men of Do­ver, la­ug­hing and jes­ting.

  Mag­ret re­gar­ded his so­ve­re­ign with re­sig­na­ti­on. Henry drank with his own sol­di­ers and his own co­un­t­r­y­men in the sa­me ca­re­less fas­hi­on. He was sus­pi­ci­o­us to the po­int of ob­ses­si­on, and yet one wo­uld ne­ver gu­ess it, lo­oking at him now, merry as a grig in the com­pany of stran­gers, his fa­ce gro­wing ruddy with go­od-fel­low­s­hip. But Henry trus­ted the com­mon man, it was only his pe­ers he sus­pec­ted of tre­ac­hery, and God knew, he had re­ason eno­ugh.