Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  “I’m glad. It’s perfect on you.” Stroking inward from the place where the pendant lay upon her skin, he caressed her. His thumb rubbed back and forth over the peak of her breast, causing little darts of bliss to race along her nerves. In the pit of her stomach, her desire pooled and liquefied. He tugged gently on a nipple and she moaned.

  “Very nice. Now, come closer, and kiss me, woman.”

  She pressed against him, feeling the rough texture of his brocade doublet against her naked breasts. “What about you? Surely you have no need of so many garments.”

  “All in good time. For the moment I’m enjoying having a stubborn wench like you so docile and compliant.”

  She drew back in mock anger, but he chuckled and held her fast. He lay on his back on the divan and pulled her atop him. “Straddle me. That’s right; spread your lovely legs and kneel over me. And stop looking so rebellious. I’m your teacher; you’re supposed to follow my directions.”

  “Not if you gloat about it.”

  “I promise not to gloat.” He took both breasts in his hands and excited them so expertly that she threw back her head and unconsciously undulated her lower body against his thighs. “My lovely Alix. You’re so sweet and responsive you drive me mad. Can you feel what you do to me?” He captured her hand and pressed it to the spot where his erection was leaping against the restrictive bindings of his clothes. She hesitated for an instant, then closed her fingers around him. He uttered a hoarse, tormented sound.

  “Am I hurting you?” She sounded a little uncertain, and tried to take her hand away.

  “God, no. You can’t hurt a man like that, not unless you knee him or something. Don’t stop.”

  After some exploration, her hand managed to find its way beneath his breeches, and she thrilled when she could touch him without impediment. He was firm and hard, but warm and velvety too. She continued to stroke him, watching his face: the high color in his cheeks, the hooded sensuality of his dark, dilated eyes. She could see his pleasure, and it awed her. He had taken her to the heights of ecstasy that night in Merwynna’s cottage, but he hadn’t allowed her to return the favor. Perhaps now, tonight, he would.

  She experimented further, sliding her hand up and down his aroused length. “That’s good.” He covered her fingers with his own and showed her the motion that pleased him most, then felt his hips arching off the cushions as control began to elude him. God’s blood, how he ached for her! He groaned again, cursing the awkward clothing they were both wearing. “That’s easily remedied,” she said, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet and the shirt beneath it. In seconds, with his help, she stripped him down to his loose, thigh-length breeches and was fumbling with the points of his hose.

  He stopped her before she could remove all his garments, but it didn’t matter. She was delighted with everything that had been revealed so far. He was beautiful. There was an unconscious grace about his lean, long-limbed body, so strong and subtly muscled, his angular shoulders, his deep chest and taut belly. She was distracted from her more intimate explorations by her need to investigate his shoulders and his throat. “You feel so good to me,” she told him as she gently rubbed his chest. Leaning over, she kissed the flesh over his collarbone, sighing with pleasure, reveling in her desire for this handsome, virile man.

  He, too, sighed. “So do you, my lady.” He pulled her down until their bare skin was touching from waist to throat. Her soft breasts seemed to nestle quite comfortably against the wall of his chest; her hips molded to his loins as if they belonged there. She was right for him, perfect. He wanted her so much.

  The only impediments now to their union were their few lower garments, and that, as she had pointed out, was easily remedied. He rolled over, pressing her down beneath him and dragging at the fabric. “Let’s get the rest of these things off. If we’re going to do it, we might as well do it properly.”

  “Are we going to do it?” She cast a glance down at her strangely clad thighs, wishing she were wearing one of her gorgeous court gowns and looking her best for him. She hadn’t thought, somehow, that it would happen quite this way. She swallowed hard. She remembered the size of him throbbing beneath her fingers and felt a twinge of alarm. She wasn’t afraid, she insisted to herself. It was just that she hadn’t expected him to be quite so generously endowed.

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No,” she said quickly, banishing them.

  “You ought to be. And I ought to send you away.”

  Determinedly she slid her hands down his back until they linked around his waist. “I don’t want to stop. Truly, Roger. I love you. Don’t send me away.”

  He stared down at her. Her face was naked with the love she had never attempted to deny. Wholehearted and trusting love, dedicated to him even though he had done nothing to deserve it, even though he had not solicited it and could not possibly accept or return it. He had seen that look before, in Celestine’s eyes. She too had become entangled in the net which Roger himself always seemed to escape.

  But if you could return it, a beguiling voice seemed to whisper, the net would dissolve and you could be happy for once in your life. He thrust the temptation away, reminding himself of all the things against it: her innocence, his vice; her gentleness, his cruelty; her religion, his flirtation with heresy; her mistress, her father, and a new complication, his own brother. It had occurred to him tonight as he’d watched them together that Alan might be falling in love with her. Although she and Alan had grown up together, a situation that often led to fraternal rather than romantic feelings, the lad’s recent initiation into manhood might have altered his perspective. They were certainly fond of one another. Two good-natured innocents united against a wicked world. Why not? If he really cared about her, he ought to encourage her to marry Alan.

  Resign yourself, he ordered his unruly body, his protesting soul. The decision he had made with such difficulty that night in the witch’s cottage must stand. She was not his for the taking. She would never be.

  And so he rolled away from her, saying, “How’s the husband-hunting going? Every time I see you at court, you’re attended by one wealthy prospect or another. Even my old adversary Geoffrey de Montreau seems quite taken with you.”

  Alexandra was stunned. “How can you speak of them, when you and I—”

  “—are wrong for each other,” he cut in. He sat up, ignoring the angry protests his body was screaming. Jerkily he donned his discarded clothing. With forced nonchalance he pulled her to a sitting position, then helped her into the shirt and doublet she’d removed earlier. She sat passively, staring at him in disbelief as he carefully tucked her opal pendant deep under her shirt. “Nothing has changed. You’re far too sweet and virginal for me. I prefer my lovers experienced.”

  “Liar. You said you were obsessed with me.”

  He permitted himself a brittle laugh. “Never believe anything a man says when he’s got his hands on you in the dark.”

  “How dare you do this to me again? And why do you lie to me so crudely, trying your best to hurt me? Are you made of ice? I don’t understand you, Roger. Truly, I do not!”

  He turned away, but not before she saw his sensual mouth set in an agonized expression and his eyes regretful, bitter, sad. “No, I am not made of ice. Stop sulking and consider yourself fortunate. If it were not for our long friendship, you would be lying under me even now, naked and writhing while I mastered you.”

  “So you say. I’m beginning to doubt it. Perhaps you’re not ‘one who will not,’ after all. Perhaps you’re ‘one who cannot.’”

  Roger ignored this slur. “Enough, Alix.” His voice was weary and cold. He rose. “I must get back to my guests.”

  “Go without me, then. I’ll just rest here until Alan’s ready to leave. Or perhaps I’ll poke around a bit in your cellars.”

  Roger turned on her so fast it made her jump. He seized her upper arms, jerked her to her feet, and shook her so hard her teeth chattered. “Do you know what’s
down there? Damn you, answer me.”

  “No! I heard the subject mentioned between you and Lacklin, that’s all. I presume he meant you’re hiding something in your cellars besides the usual supply of wine. Contraband, I suppose.”

  “By Christ, I’m tempted to clap you in irons and keep you prisoner in those same cellars until you learn your lesson. ‘Twould be no less than you deserve.” He shook her again. “If you ever betray me, do you know what I’ll do to you?”

  “Hurt me?” she hazarded, fascinated by his sudden rage and her own spurt of fear.

  He shook his head slowly. “Don’t make jests, not about this. There is evil in me, dark things you’ve never seen. Tempt them at your peril.”

  “I’ve sworn I won’t betray you, and I won’t. What will it take to gain your trust? What will it take to stop your lies?” Furious, she insinuated her belly against his, provoking an immediate tangible response. “Virginal I may be, but not as innocent as I was last summer. With you as my teacher, I’ve learned the significance of this.” She rocked her hips wantonly. “You desire me. Why do you persist in tormenting us both?”

  “For your own sake, damn you. But noble-minded I’m not. If you push me any further, I will tear every last one of those preposterous garments from your body, and you will learn the full consequences of your recklessness.”

  Indeed, he was already moving to do it, his discipline blasted by her determination to give herself to him. One of his hands moved slowly, hotly, down over her waist, her hip, her thigh. He felt her shudder. She threw her head back, baring her throat to his lips. But before he could take the silent invitation, she whirled and jerked herself away. He groaned in frustration, and would have hauled her back into his arms, had she been anyone else but the woman she was.

  “I think you love me a little, after all,” she said in a barely audible voice. She straightened her boy’s clothing, pinned up her loosened hair, and secured her wig. “I don’t understand your scruples, but I know you well enough not to tempt you to disregard them. You have enough to fret about without feeling guilty over me.”

  Then she was gone. By the time he got himself together enough to follow her, she had collected Alan and vanished from his house.

  Chapter 19

  To Alexandra’s dismay, Alan insisted on talking incessantly as they rode their horses back to her father’s. He was obviously intrigued by his brother’s mariner friends, and his imagination had been stimulated by all the tales of the New World. Alexandra, who wanted nothing more than to pull her cloak over her face and cherish her memory of Roger’s abortive lovemaking, instead had to endure Alan’s speculation on northwest sea routes to China and the probable worth in gold of a well-laden treasure ship.

  “You’re quiet,” he finally said. “Did something happen this evening to upset you?”

  “If it had, you, my protector, ought to have noticed it.”

  Alan glanced at her. “You’re not usually so testy. For God’s sake, Alix, what’s the matter?”

  One who will not, she was thinking. Like a refrain, the words repeated themselves over and over. Roger wanted her, but because of some strange point of honor that she really didn’t understand, he would not act. It would be possible, she’d learned tonight, to break him, to force him to take her in the explosion of passion that was always so close to the surface with him. She had always known that a man could force a woman, but now she realized that it was also possible for a woman to take a man against his will. But it would be a violation, and one did not violate where one loved.

  “It’s Roger, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have gone there tonight.”

  “Oh, Alan—”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  It had become easy to lie to everyone else, but Alan knew her so well that he leapt on her slight hesitation. Before she could issue her standard denial, he added, “Can you not see that he’s the wrong sort of man for you? Alix, please don’t break your heart over him.”

  She would have dearly liked to confide in him, for he had known her secrets since childhood, and her forbidden love seemed almost too much, sometimes, for her heart to hold. But there was something in Alan’s expression that stopped her. Her love for Roger, she sensed, was something that Alan would not condone.

  “My heart is perfectly safe. I’m tired and testy because the queen never sleeps and we, as her women, are forced to keep the same hours as she. Your flamboyant brother has nothing to do with my moods, I assure you.”

  He looked so relieved that she wondered if something else was going on in his head. Was Alan jealous of Roger? He was a man now, a man who had been cast out of Oxford for fornication. He was probably looking at all women differently now, even her. One who dares not? Oh God, Merwynna—couldn’t you be wrong for once? Alan was her dearest friend, but she would never feel passion for him.

  Why, she wondered, should this be so? In looks, Roger and Alan were not unalike. Intellectually, she and Alan were suited. They had the identical education, and similar interests. Temperamentally they were different, but this rarely caused conflict. They knew each other’s hearts, and accepted each other’s foibles as only those who are sincerely affectionate can. Yet Alexandra could no more imagine making love to Alan than she could imagine embracing a stranger or an enemy like Geoffrey de Montreau. Her body did not yearn for his, nor did her soul sense in him its true mate.

  But what if his feelings were different? Love, after all, rarely seemed to be reciprocal. Was it possible that Alan desired her the way she desired his brother?

  Well, if he did, he would have to get over it. They were friends, comrades, close as siblings. She would give her life for him if necessary, but lying in his arms was unthinkable.

  “Love, from what I’ve seen of it, brings more torment than delight,” she said. “Look at poor Pris Martin, for example. Loving a Trevor brought nothing but tragedy to her.”

  “That reminds me. I knew there was something I’d forgotten to tell you. I ran into Pris Martin in Oxford last month. I thought you’d be interested in hearing about her.”

  Alexandra silently thanked the impulse that had led her to introduce Priscilla into the conversation. She wanted no more chitchat about love. “You mean she went to Oxford after leaving Whitcombe? Are you certain?”

  “Of course. I recognized her and spoke with her, much to her initial consternation. She is apparently living with a cousin and his wife who are associated with the university. Like Pris, they are Reformers.”

  Reformers. Not heretics.

  “What did she say? Did you ask her why she left so abruptly, without a word to anyone, not even your father, who’d been so solicitous of her welfare?”

  “We spoke but briefly. You recall how quiet and reserved she always was. Pretty, though,” he added as a side note. “I never really noticed that before.”

  “Before your widow, you mean?”

  Alan grinned. “Exactly. Anyway, Mistress Martin became rather agitated when we encountered one another. She seemed frightened.”

  “Frightened?” The adjective didn’t match up with anything that Alexandra remembered of Pris Martin. The woman had always seemed far too in control of herself and her emotions to give way to fear of any sort. Even on that day of revelation at Whitcombe, she had been straight-shouldered and dignified.

  “Yes. I recognize fear in others, being so familiar with it myself,” Alan said wryly. “I’d swear she was terrified. But the authorities had just arrested several townsfolk for heresy, so mayhap she was fearful of the stake. I asked her if she couldn’t leave Oxford, go north again perhaps, where the ecclesiastical courts are not so avidly seeking dissenters. Or to the Continent. I told her of the folk who are leaving the country to await happier times abroad. I suggested she come to London, where one can find people who have the means to assist Reformers in taking ship and leaving England.” His sentence was choked off as he shot Alexandra an uneasy look. “I’m talking too much. I forgot that you’re no longer simply my oldest fr
iend, but one of the queen’s women.”

  She reached over her horse’s neck and touched his arm. “I’m your friend first, Alan. Nothing you say to me will go any further.” And I’m accustomed to keeping secrets. “But you must be wary of all others, believe me. You are speaking treason.”

  Alan was silent.

  “You must be particularly careful in my father’s house. As you may or may not know, he’s a minister of state who specializes in making everybody’s private business his own.” She sighed. “Oxford has succeeded where Mr. Lacklin failed, I take it? You, too, wish to reform the Church?”

  “Alix, for better or worse, the reform has already begun. The monasteries were dissolved more than twenty years ago. Your own Westmor Abbey was one of the first to be secularized. You and I grew up reading Archbishop Cranmer’s liturgy and admiring his prose, if not his doctrine. Do you know that Cranmer thrust his right hand into the fire as it was lit around him, because that was the hand which had signed the recantation he later rejected? Have you heard what Latimer said to Ridley as they were about to be martyred? ‘We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’”

  “Brave words, and stirring, certainly. But I do not believe in a God who looks with pleasure on burnt offerings. Nor do I think these hideous fires will cleanse the Church.” She spoke vehemently, inspired by her distaste for Francis Lacklin’s methods of reformation, which were apparently as bloodthirsty as the queen’s. Who was it, she wondered, whom he had asked Roger to kill? A cleric, a government officer, or the queen herself? “The country went mad the day the old king’s lust for Nan Boleyn caused him to throw off the authority of the pope, and nothing has been the same since.”

  “The pope was corrupt. The entire ecclesiastical establishment was full of corruption, and still is. Mary Tudor would pull the cloak of the past over England again. But she will not succeed, for those times are gone. The old must make way for the new.”