Rose Bride (19 page)

She looked up at him searchingly. ‘But now Uncle Edmund is dead, we can be wed straightaway. If you still love me, that is?’

He met her forthright gaze and did not know what to say. Knowing how sick she was, he had thought she would never come of age, and had given his promise at a time when she was near to death. In truth, he was delighted to see Christina battling with such brave determination against her illness, and loved her more than ever. But as a dear friend, not a lover.

How to tell her though?

It was simply not possible to tell her. Any more than it had been possible to refuse her when Christina was feverish as a girl, and had seized his hand and begged him to marry her once she was grown and well enough to say her vows before God. She had been sick for so long. He would die rather than see this wonderful new light in her eyes extinguished.

Virgil forced a smile to his lips. ‘Of course I still love you. But you must be patient, Christina, and not over-excite yourself. You have only just arrived at court and seem very fatigued.’ He sat on the edge of her bed and placed two fingers on her throat, feeling for her pulse. ‘As I thought, your heart is racing. Let me recall your nurse so she may put you to bed. I will visit you again in the morning, as soon as I can be spared from my duties, and bring a tonic to calm your nerves.’

‘Dearest Virgil,’ she murmured, and stroked his cheek. ‘How I have missed you and your smelly potions.’

‘I have missed you too, Christina.’

‘Have you, Virgil?’ she whispered, watching him intently. ‘Truly?’

His eyes lifted to hers, then he leant forward on impulse, setting his mouth briefly against hers.

She was so cold to the touch, it was like kissing a marble statue. But he felt her lips tremble beneath his, and knew how powerfully the lust for life beat inside her wasted body. Her heart would not beat for much longer though; her illness was too seriously advanced, he could tell that without examining her. If Christina lived even another year, she would be fortunate indeed.

A tender wave of love flooded him, almost breaking his heart, and he closed his eyes. Christina was the closest he had to a sister. He could not bear the thought of losing her. He had lost enough in his life. This, at least, was within his control.

‘Of course I have. And it is very good to see you at court, Christina,’ he whispered, close to her ear, then pulled back. ‘Until tomorrow.’

‘Until tomorrow, Virgilius.’

The barge drew alongside the dock, bobbing on the dark swollen tide as the boatmen tied it up. In the distance she could see torchlight on the water, and knew they could not be far from the city of London itself.

Lord Munro jumped out, then turned, holding out a gloved hand. ‘Madam?’

But Margerie did not move. She stared up at the looming façade of the palace, suddenly uncertain that she was doing the right thing.

Every other time she had visited his lordship at night, he had left her in an antechamber for an hour or two before returning, flushed and smiling, to escort her back to her chamber unmolested. It had been a comfortable arrangement so far; silence about his lordship’s true tastes in bed in return for a modest estate where she could live out her days without the need for either a husband or lover.

Yet now they had left Richmond, travelling by barge to this crumbling old palace on the banks of the River Thames. And she had no idea what would happen once he took her inside. Margerie was suddenly aware of how very alone she was, far removed from the familiar surroundings of court.

‘Why here?’

‘Some affairs are best conducted away from the royal court,’ Lord Munro said shortly, his hand still outstretched. ‘Come, the hour is growing late.’

There was no turning back. Not now she had put her trust in his lordship. She only hoped she was not mistaken in his character, which she had discovered was both amiable and docile once he was away from the other noble youths at court. Setting her hand in his, Margerie followed him onto the rain-damp wooden dock, trying not to slip in her heeled court shoes.

‘What is this place, my lord?’ she asked, as she was led past guards into a riverside courtyard. She tilted her head back to study the high walls and turrets rising above them in the darkness. ‘It looks very fine.’

‘It belongs to my family,’ his lordship murmured, also gazing up at the carved stone façade, lit by torches that flared and dipped in the gusts blowing sharply off the Thames. ‘A rather too vast palace, once a famous duke’s residence. It was a gift from the king’s father, old King Henry, after the wars. I am not often in residence, but . . . Well, you must know how closely everyone is watched at court.’

She nodded, glancing at him.

‘When I wish to be completely private, I come here. Or visit one of my country seats.’ His smile was grim. ‘There are no spies here to carry tales back to the king. Or to my mother.’

She knew what he meant, and felt easy in her mind for the first time since agreeing to become his ‘lover’. It was impossible to live at court without being aware of observers at every step, unseen gazes that followed each person of note along labyrinthine corridors and up dark stairways.

Even she had been watched, nobody though she was. Perhaps by the queen’s people, for she knew Queen Jane disliked her and no doubt wished to know if she was the king’s concubine. Or by those in power who suspected Lord Munro of not being like other men, and were curious to know for sure if he was bedding her.

‘This way,’ he said, gesturing her through a low gateway into the palace.

Two young guardsmen sprang to attention within, pretending not to watch as his lordship escorted her towards a flight of stairs, his arm snaked intimately about her waist.

‘There is a chamber ready prepared with every possible comfort. I’m afraid the hour is so late, we shall not be returning to court until tomorrow. I trust that will not inconvenience you, madam?’

‘No,’ she lied, and wondered how much trouble she would be in when she finally returned to her duties.

‘Do not look so worried. Bribes have been allotted to the relevant people,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Your absence will be noted tomorrow, I have no doubt, and the reason for it known. But you will escape a whipping.’

‘I thank you, my lord.’

The high-ceilinged chamber they had entered was sumptuously furnished, with cloth-of-gold bed curtains and thick furs laid over the bed sheets. Near the window stood a delicately wrought table set with silver goblets and a flagon of wine, and behind it a shelf containing several vellum-bound books. The room was lit by more than a dozen candles, a generous fire roaring in the hearth, and a maid servant waiting silently by the bed to take her mantel.

After Margerie had been made comfortable, his lordship snapped his fingers to dismiss the maid.

‘Now,’ Munro murmured once they were alone together, kissing her hand, ‘it is time for me to leave you. You must forgive me for abandoning you so abruptly, but because of the tide, I believe my . . .’ He hesitated, then finished awkwardly, ‘My
friend
has been waiting several hours for me to arrive. Will you be happy here tonight?’

‘Surely,’ she agreed.

‘There is a book of French poetry for you to read, or the psalms if you prefer.’ He smiled a little nervously, she thought, indicating the wine. ‘And something to help you sleep. I know these long nights alone in a strange room must be difficult to bear.’

Margerie laid a hand on his richly embroidered sleeve. ‘Go, my lord,’ she told him softly. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

His frank gaze met hers. ‘I am grateful to you, madam.’ Then Lord Munro bowed and went straight to a little door cunningly concealed in a shadowy alcove, stepping through into what she assumed was an adjoining chamber. ‘Good night, Mistress Croft.’

Left alone, she wandered to the bed and sat there awhile. It was soft and comfortable. She would sleep well, at least, whereas at the king’s court she had been forced to slumber as best she could in a chair. Then she took herself to the table and poured a little red wine into a silver goblet, enjoying the momentary pretence of wealth, sipping at it delicately as any noblewoman.

Selecting the volume of French poetry, she settled on a chair by the fire and read for a while, sounding out the words where they were unfamiliar. It was a story of chivalry and romance from long ago, and someone had helpfully underlined a few phrases, translating them in the margin. But she did not know the poet’s work, and the French was painfully old-fashioned, so that after a few pages she could hardly follow what was happening.

At some point she must have fallen asleep, for she woke quite suddenly, startled by a cry from the adjoining room.

Her book had fallen to the floor. ‘Damn,’ she muttered, picking it up. Hurriedly she got up and replaced the book on the shelf, hoping she had not damaged the expensive gilt binding with such rough treatment.

At that moment, she heard the cry again. It sounded deep and male, and strangely tortured. She turned, her stomach clenched in instinctive response. It was a sound she knew from her own nights with Master Elton, of pleasure dragged from the darkest depths of the human soul.

Margerie crept towards the narrow door through which his lordship had disappeared. She stood there awhile, not wishing to be caught peering through the keyhole like an insolent servant, yet curious to know what exactly the young nobleman did all night with his
friend
.

She heard a thud from within the secret room, then someone gasping as though in pain. Her eyes widened and her hands fell to her hips. What in God’s name was going on in there? She listened hard and caught another ominous thud. Was his lordship in trouble?

Daringly, Margerie pressed a hand against the door, and it gave slightly, opening just a crack. Putting her eye to the crack, she held her breath. At first all she could see were shadows dancing on the walls of the chamber, and the deep red glow of the fire. But she heard harsh breathing, and recognised the now-familiar smell of male sweat and seed. Then her eyes adjusted to the low light, and she was able to make out their forms, two men sporting together on the floor, shockingly nude. Lord Munro was on hands and knees, facing away from her, being mounted from behind by a larger, much older man.

As she watched, this silver-haired man thrust hard, almost violently, driving deep into his partner. She clasped a hand to her mouth, convinced that such rough treatment must hurt. Yet if it did, the pain was surely welcome, for Munro threw back his head and moaned his pleasure.

‘Oh sweet Jesu!’ she whispered, and spun away from the door before she could be discovered.

Hurrying to the bed, she threw back the fur coverlets and slipped beneath them. Then she closed her eyes tight and tried to sleep, ignoring the muffled sounds of pleasure from the next room. But it was no use. She could not deny it. The sight of their male lust had aroused her, her belly softening and aching, her breasts tingling with excitement, so that all she could think of was lying beneath Virgil’s thrusting body.

Virgil was not there though, and the surreptitious stroking of her own fingers brought only short-lived relief. It could not replace the man himself.

Yet even if the doctor had been there to couple with her, it would not have assuaged the need she felt inside. For she wanted what Virgil could never give her – and she was only just beginning to recognise it.

Virgil felt nothing for her beyond the raw physical desire they both shared. Did she really want to risk a broken heart?

There could be only one end to an affair between a respectable man and an acknowledged courtesan, and it did not involve marriage.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Virgil sighed, stretching out his aching back. His modifications to the king’s cordial were too intricate to rush, yet the king was impatient for better results. This had meant many hours’ work on the formula over the past few weeks, and it still lacked the required strength – or not without unfortunate effects like dry mouth and a racing pulse, which clearly could not be inflicted on His Majesty.

Virgil had finished noting up his improvements and was packing away his bottles and flasks when there was a soft knock at his door. He frowned, opening it to find Margerie looking back at him.

She was dressed in a dark green gown, her bodice high and tight according to the new fashion, a simple string of pearls about her neck, knotted and falling provocatively into shadow between her breasts. As soon as their eyes met, her generous lips parted, smiling, and her restricted chest rose and fell as though she were breathing quickly.

Her flickering smile hooked into him, refusing to let go, and Virgil could not help but smile in return, his heart suddenly beating faster too. His cock stiffened in his codpiece as he remembered her writhing naked beneath him, and he had trouble not letting the desire show on his face.

The effect Margerie Croft had on his male anatomy was more potent than any aphrodisiac in the world, however exotic. If only he could bottle
this
, he would be a wealthy man indeed.

‘Mistress Croft,’ he murmured, bowing.

She curtseyed, a slight flush in her cheeks. ‘Master Elton.’

‘You are unwell, madam?’

He hoped not, willing her to have a more pleasurable reason for visiting him. Certainly she had brought no female companion this time, as she ought to have done when calling on a doctor. But she was no respectable lady, he reminded himself, so such niceties hardly mattered.