A scratching and mewing outside the door announced Mistress Watts’s cat, eager to be out of the cold corridor and inside in the warm. Automatically, Lenore went to the door and opened it. The cat rushed inside and rubbed against her legs, purring. Lenore fed him the remains of her pork pie and sat soberly watching him eat. With satisfaction the big white cat licked his furry jaws, manicured his whiskers, washed his paws, leaped to the bed and took a complete bath with an energetic pink tongue for a wash-rag—and then settled down for a sleep in the warmest spot—-curled up in a furry ball by the hearth.
Lenore watched him soberly. Mistress Watts was kind, and so her cat was in out of the snow, but there were many cats with cold wet paws shivering beneath icicled eaves tonight—many who would not survive the night. And perhaps children, too.
She covered her face with her hands, and a deep sob escaped her. She had not only Geoffrey to think about, but her unborn child—she owned a duty to that child, too. The awful events of last night washed over her afresh, sickening her all over again. If she told Geoffrey what Gilbert had done, his face would turn white and he would seek Gilbert out and kill him—and she had no doubt Gilbert would make good his threat to expose Geoffrey as a Royalist and a highwayman before he died. Even should he not do so, the law was strict—Geoffrey would be caught and hanged for Gilbert’s murder. In the afterwash of that tragedy she would be taken, would plead her belly as convicted women usually did, her child would be born in jail and they would hang her later—or transport her to a life of slavery in the Colonies. And her child—if it survived the grim life of the orphanage—would have no more chance than Gwynneth and her brothers and sisters. None at all.
Arms wrapped about her knees, Lenore rocked with misery. The latch—such a little thing, she had forgotten to latch the door. But would Geoffrey ever understand that? Would Mistress Watts, for that matter, believe her? Why, she would ask reasonably, had Lenore made no outcry? Why had Gilbert not had to batter the door down? She would believe Lenore had made a tryst with him, that they were secret lovers who had had a falling out. Even Geoffrey might believe it—and that she could not face.
With a start she hurried to the door, checked and rechecked the latch, and shoved a chair against it. Then she went back to bed and after a time fell into an exhausted sleep. She woke once to think she heard a discreet tapping.
“Lenore.” Gilbert’s voice, low and urgent.
Lenore stiffened. He was back! She got up, ran barefoot to the door, and spoke with her face pressed against the panel.
“Go away,” she whispered. “Or I’ll call Mistress Watts and be damned to you!”
There was a muffled curse on the other side of the door. Then he must have swung on his heel, for footsteps clicked rapidly down the stairs.
Lenore returned to her bed and lay staring into emptiness, seeing how it would be. . . . His threats were not empty—they were real and terrible. Last night there had been a warning in those hard caramel eyes in the firelight, and more—there had been steamy desire. She had waked something in him that would be hard to control.
She turned to stare at the window—a lighter square in a dark room, where snow was drifting down. Oxford, which at first had seemed so wonderful, their first real home together, had closed in about her with cold white arms. The lodgings off Magpie Lane which had seemed so idyllic had become a trap.
The big white cat, disturbed by Gilbert’s knock, rose and stretched his long thick-furred body luxuriously, then he leaped onto the bed and with eyes closed in bliss rubbed a furry cheek against hers. His whiskers tickled as she scratched his soft neck, and he curled up beside her in contentment.
Lenore lay on her back stroking him, staring bleakly at the little leaded panes, and took what comfort she could from the rasping purr beside her.
She knew not how it would end, but she could not risk Geoffrey’s life—nor could she risk the life of her unborn child by starting out now into the deep-drifted snow, penniless, cold, and wanted by the Lord Protector’s harsh law. She took a deep breath, and her delicate jaw grew as grim as it had another time when she’d steeled herself to ride through the battle at Worcester. She would not lie with Gilbert—nor did she mean to endanger Geoffrey. She would think of something.
In the meantime she had no choice but to play the game out.
Wearily she closed her eyes—and sat up almost immediately at the soft calls from below of “Puss! Puss, where are you?”
“Up here, Mistress Watts.” Lenore opened the door to call downstairs, and Mistress Watts scurried in and picked up the big White cat from the bed.
“I woke and found him gone,” she apologized. “I’m sorry to wake you up like this, but something woke me—I don’t know what—and I looked around for Puss. Bad Puss!” She gave him an affectionate shake. “Giving me a scare like that!”
Lenore could guess what had waked her—the sound of Gilbert closing the door as he slipped back out into the night. “You didn’t wake me,” she assured. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh? Well, I’m sorry to hear that, I’d hoped you’d be feeling better.” Mistress Watts, in her heavy woolen wrapper, carried Puss to the door and set him down in the corridor, where he stretched and yawned. “Will ye be up for Christmas?”
She meant, would the servants, busy as they were, have to carry her Christmas dinner up to her. “I’ll be downstairs for Christmas,” Lenore promised grimly.
“Good. Well, then I’ll just take that tray. Come along with you, Puss, giving me such a fright—I did think you were locked outside and turned into an icicle by now! Mistress Daunt, ye’ve let that fire die down too much— ye should put a log on it, or ye’ll be freezing before morning.”
Lenore sighed, and latched the door after her landlady’s departure downstairs. Christmas Eve ... at least she had gotten through the day without incident. She squared her slender shoulders. Tomorrow Christmas must be dealt with.
Shivering now, she stayed up for a while. She put fresh faggots on the fire until it blazed brightly, and then a heavier log. Gradually the cold room grew warm, and she lifted a hot brick from the fire with tongs and carefully wrapped it, placed it in the bed to warm it. At last she banked the fire on the hearth, took off her dress and petticoat, and with a light woolen wrapper thrown around her chemise, took a last barefoot walk over the cold, uneven floorboards to the window, where the snow had piled up on the sills so that she could scarce see out. It had stopped snowing now and a cold moon rode the skies, making the narrow street below almost as light as an overcast winter day.
Lenore leaned forward, her breath frosting the panes. Around the corner from Magpie Lane, floundering through the deep piled-up drifts, struggled a bay horse, his head and mane whitened with snow. And on his back with the wind whipping his dark serviceable cloak was a tall rider —Geoffrey.
Unmindful that she was barefoot and the stairs were icy cold, Lenore ran downstairs and joyfully threw open the front door. Geoffrey, himself well coated with snow, was just alighting, and he shook himself like a big dog and enfolded her in a snowy embrace.
“You came back!” Her voice thrilled. “Oh, Geoffrey, you came back for Christmas!” She hugged him, unmindful of the snow.
“Did you think I would not?” He ruffled her long streaming hair with a gentle fist. “Back upstairs with you, Lenore, for I’ve got to take care of my horse—he’s near to freezing.”
She nodded, her heart too full to speak, and ran lightly back upstairs. Tomorrow might find her world wrecked, but tonight—Geoffrey was back! She rushed about, plumping up pillows, lighting a taper, rewrapping another hot brick to warm the bed. There was a pitcher of cider, and a bowl of apples. She set those out and waited. Whatever had happened, she would let nothing spoil Geoffrey’s homecoming.
Caring for the mount who had brought him through the blizzard took Geoffrey a long time, and Lenore was standing by the table in her wrapper when his booted feet came wearily up the stairs. He shook out his wet cloak and spread it
over a chair before the hearth. Lenore hurried forward to help him out of his heavy wide-topped boots. She winced to see them clogged with snow, and kneaded the cold flesh of his near frostbitten calves with gentle fingers.
Geoffrey was seated on a chair by the hearth, and now he drew her to his lap with a contented sigh. “The drifts on the country roads are piled deep,” he said. “The last two leagues I feared I’d not make it, for the horse was near done. But I did not want you to sleep alone on Christmas Eve.”
Burrowing into his shoulder, Lenore managed not to wince. Had he come back a day earlier he might have found his bed occupied—by Gilbert! She put the thought away from her, sat up, and gave him a soft, mysterious glance from under shadowed lashes. “I am glad you came,” she whispered. “For it would not have been Christmas without you.”
For a moment there was a leaping hunger in his gray eyes. Then he leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on her lips, stood her on her feet, and undressed, with Lenore helping to urge him out of his wet coat and trousers.
“I've been warming the bed with hot bricks,” she told him eagerly, and he gave a low laugh, scooped her up, and carried her to it.
“You’ll need no hot brick tonight, for ’tis myself will warm you,” he promised her, throwing back the heavy quilts and plumping her onto the bed. “And there’s a Christmas gift for you in my saddlebags—a velvet hat and muff.”
Lenore caught her breath. She must mention it now lest there be trouble tomorrow. “Gilbert,” she said with studied carelessness, “has announced he’s giving me a fur muff for Christmas.” She watched him in dread.
A frown darkened Geoffrey’s lean face, and he shot her a sharp look. “A handsome gift,” he mused, “from one who’s never been known for his generosity in such things. Gil must indeed be smitten.”
She bit her lip. She must be careful, careful what she said. Geoffrey must not suspect.
“He was probably just showing off before Lally,” she improvised, blowing out the taper beside the bed. “Or perhaps he hopes I will intercede for him—he fancies her, you know.”
“Does he now?” Geoffrey smiled. “Ned may have something to say about that!”
“ Tis nothing Gilbert’s said—and she has not spoken to me of it,” said Lenore quickly. “But he hired a sleigh and took Lally and me for a ride yesterday—I think he thought Lally would not go with him alone.” How cleverly she had distorted the facts! “Ned joined us at the Crown for supper—and Michael and Lewis were there, too.” Her voice rushed anxiously on; she hoped Geoffrey would decide there was safety in numbers. “I am glad you are here to counsel me, for I knew not what to do—about the muff. You had told me to be careful where Gilbert is concerned, but I fear not to accept the muff would offend him, Geoffrey. Truly I do.”
Looking into her worried violet eyes, so frank and open to his gaze, Geoffrey suddenly checked and his brow cleared. “We’ll accept Gil’s muff,” he decided. “For ’twould run about the sum he still owes me from that old debt. But you’ll wear mine, mistress. And later, if you should decide to trade Gil’s muff to Lally for something of hers you covet more, Gil will be none the wiser.”
“I’ll give his muff to Lally—after Christmas. For she gave me her green woolen cloak. And anyway”—her bright smile was one of relief—“velvet becomes me better!”
Geoffrey chuckled and slipped under the covers with her, his body feeling hard-muscled and still cold from the snow. “I had meant to take you for a sleigh ride myself, Lenore,” he murmured, “knowing ye’re childishly fond of snow!”
“There’ll be other times!” She snuggled against him, fighting back tears that she should deceive him so, pressing warm kisses into the deep throb of his throat. “And I’ve a gift for you too, Geoffrey—I saved my coins to buy it. ’Tis—’tis an enameled ring. To bind you to me,” she whispered, suddenly shy, for in truth she’d gone without things she needed badly to buy the ring.
The sinewy arms around her tightened. “You need no ring for that, Lenore, though I’ll wear it proudly.” His voice grew husky. “But the gift of yourself, Lenore, is the greatest gift of all.”
Tears stung her eyes, trembled on her lashes. Tomorrow might find her dead or on the run—for in anger Geoffrey might well kill her as well as Gilbert if he found out. But that was tomorrow—she had tonight.
Forgotten was her sense of doom in that warm room in the firelight. Forgotten were all her forebodings.
She flung herself against Geoffrey with a violence that surprised him. “I love you so much,” she whispered brokenly.
“Faith,” he murmured into her white neck, “I should be gone more often—if only to enjoy such homecomings!”
“You should never be gone from my side,” she declared fiercely. “Not for one instant!”
He laughed and stroked her slender, resilient body, his fingers tracing a fiery trail of pulsing sensations along her spine, making her breasts quiver and her nipples tingle to hardness. Those fingers wandered farther, easing along her satiny hips, playfully stroking that small triangle of bright silken hair between her thighs until she shivered at his touch.
In silent happiness, thankful that he was home returned, she melted against him, feeling the fires of his passion warm her. The gift of herself . . . what heavenly words those were. . . . Through the heavy drifts Geoffrey had struggled to reach her—in time for Christmas. She would she had more to give him, but the delights of her temptress body would always be his to hold. Gently, silkily, with expert ease he entered her, and the linen sheets rasped against her bare legs and her body thrilled and clamored as his hands caressed her, explored her lovingly. From a luxurious sea of shared bliss, they rose and fell on mounting waves of stormy passion. Outside the white moon shone down on a crystal world, but inside all was warm and dark and wonderful.
Other gifts, more valuable in the world’s eyes, they might someday give each other. But on this, their first Christmas Eve together, their greatest, most magical gift to each other was the fire in their bodies, and the love in their hearts. As she fell away from him at last, warm and sleepy and satisfied, and forgetful of their peril, Lenore knew that no matter what gift Geoffrey ever gave her, she would never truly wish for more than this—himself.
CHAPTER 13
The wind, whipping across a white winter landscape, had brought a biting cold, but the Christmas season at Oxford was as merry as Lally had promised. For Lenore, however, it was a terrible Christmas, all the gaiety and gladness shadowed by fear.
In defiance of the law, a dozen of the merriest Oxford youths (all of them with Royalist leanings) went together and purchased a Christmas goose, which was stuffed with chestnuts and oysters and roasted by Mistress Watts’s cook. To this feast, Mistress Watts generously contributed a large plum pudding and Geoffrey, who had come back from his mysterious, snowy ride in funds, furnished chestnuts to roast before the fire. Young Michael brought sweetmeats his mother had sent him from their manor house south of Coventry, while most of the others arrived laden with wine.
Lenore’s sense of doom had returned and pervaded what should have been a wonderful day, heightened as it was by callers and the giving of gifts. Lenore felt quite overwhelmed, for Lally arrived early, bringing her a pair of gay red wool stockings, and a new pair of gloves from Ned. Both gifts were badly needed and gratefully accepted, for her own stockings were much-mended and her hands in her threadbare gloves were near to freezing these days.
She presented Lally with an orange plume for her hat. Geoffrey had told her earlier that they had enough money to buy presents for everyone and they had rushed out, banging on closed shop doors and getting surprised tradesmen to come downstairs and open up for their late-bought gifts. Ned’s gift of a pair of gauntlets must be given to him later, for now that the snow had stopped and the roads were passable, he was spending Christmas Day with his Marston lady.
Lally exclaimed impressively over the lovely plum velvet hat and muff Geoffrey had given Lenore as she whirled ab
out the room modeling them for her. But Lally fell silent at sight of the enameled ring Geoffrey sported. Lenore knew what she was thinking—that a ring would not hold Ned, that perhaps nothing would hold him. Quickly she urged on Lally another glass of Christmas cider— hastily procured, along with sweetmeats, from Mistress Watts downstairs. Lally accepted the cider, but Lenore hadn’t missed her sad, envious glance.
Lenore had a bad moment when Gilbert arrived bearing the muff he had promised. He looked startled to see Geoffrey, but he rallied and presented the muff with a flourish —it was of marten and very soft. Lenore had steeled herself to face him—the first time since that hot, shameful encounter in her bed. In silence she accepted this bitter gift. The soft brown fur seemed to sear her hands; she yearned to hurl the pretty muff into the fire. But . . . they were all watching—Geoffrey sardonically, Lally with narrowed eyes.
Gallantly Lenore lifted her head and gave Gilbert a cool, impersonal smile. “It’s very lovely,” she said in a lightly distant tone.
“As you are. Mistress Lenore.” Gilbert fetched her a handsome bow, his honey curls falling foppishly forward.
“And from Geoffrey and myself.” She handed him a wrapped package and Gilbert took it warily, as if it might blow up. The gift was one of the gay colored knitted woolen scarfs which they had hastily bought for all their student friends this morning.
Before he could properly thank her, Lenore shoved a glass of cider into his hand and the door swung open to admit Michael—handsomely garbed in a new red velvet cloak—and his friend Lewis. Michael surprised Lenore by giving her a length of warm green wool, which she exclaimed over, saying it would match her cloak perfectly— and Lally told her that together they’d manage to make it up into a dress. Lewis shyly gave her a bit of Florentine lace, and Geoffrey raised amused eyebrows at these tokens of devotion from her ardent young admirers—and at their exuberant joy at being presented with colorful woolen scarves by young Mistress Daunt.
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