The Hawk and the Dove (22 page)

A volcano erupted inside her. She felt her own explosion and then she felt his scalding burst of fire flood into her with the force of a thunderbolt. It tore a low scream
from her throat and a great shuddering sob from his. They lay entwined, still as death, and she wondered if she would ever be able to breathe again. After a very long time she stirred against him, but his arms tightened, one leg moved across her to pin her to the bed, and she felt him still within her, unwilling to separate his body from hers now that he had finally claimed and taken possession of it.

Finally, drugged with love, they slept for two hours. They clung together in sleep, as they had when awake, as if bound to each other body and soul. Sabre awoke drowsily to find his warm body molded against her. He kissed her closed eyelids and she submitted to his questing hands, which aroused tingles of delight in every nerve.

“Brute,” she whispered. “I cannot move a finger.”

He laughed deep in his throat. “Your dragon of the night, m’lady, has need of you again.” His lips brushed her throat, and as his possessive hand slid down over her belly, she knew she would surrender herself to his masterful embrace. She cried out in protest as he left her.

With pantherlike grace he stepped from the bed to relight the candles, then he pulled the cover from her and spread her hair across the pillows like flowing, molten copper. She had the face and body of a beautiful temptress, and for one suspended moment his Irish imagination took control of his mind and he wondered if she were a mortal or some magic fairy woman from the otherworld.

Her pale green glance made him melt and grow hard in the same instant. She was becoming conscious of the sensual attraction his hard body had for her. His fierce onslaught of desire shook his body as once more he hungered
to feel her supple, silken body beneath his and to taste the sweet mouth that haunted him. His eyes traveled the length of her, making her feel that he was devouring her. He felt a need that he had denied for weeks but could deny no longer. He needed her to love him. He reached out a finger to trace the swelling curve of her breast and up to its golden peak, all the while studying her eyes to watch them grow dark with desire, watching her soft mouth open with yearning. He leaned down to kiss her waiting lips, then murmured low against her mouth, “Love me, Sabre, love me.”

She had no will of her own. Was it possible to love and hate at the same time? Nay, she’d never admit she loved the man, but she was honest enough to admit that she loved his body. The feel and smell and taste of his skin aroused her so much she had to bite her lips to keep from screaming with excitement. As the sensual male-female mysteries unfurled for her, her senses heightened, widened, and expanded. Nothing remained the same. Physically, mentally, and emotionally she was altered forever-more. It was truly an awakening that was almost spiritual.

This time he made love to her slowly, leisurely, until it became exquisite torture for both of them. He paid homage to every inch of her body, savoring, worshiping with gentle hands and lips as if she were made of the most fragile porcelain. He took her tenderly, drawing out their hour of love until it peaked into a starburst totally different from the time before. It was as if they were making love for the first time, and the last.

When they awoke again, the eastern horizon had begun to lighten. She lay nestled close, cradled in his arms, and the slow, powerful beat of his heart lulled her with a
deep, safe sense of security. Wistfully she sighed. “Dawn comes so quickly.” She tried to arise, but his arms shot about her like bands of steel.

“Nay, love, I’ll not let you leave me today.”

“But … the queen,” she protested.

He shook his head. “She has her hands full, I’ll warrant. Kate will manage without you, but I will not. It’s taken me too long to capture you to release you so quickly.” Half afraid she would flee, he loosed his hold upon her, but she sat back upon her heels and smiled down at him. Her hair cascaded wildly over her naked body. His hands lifted the silken tresses from her breasts so his gaze could roam unhindered. “Lord, are you angel or witch, for I am surely spellbound.” He lifted her to straddle one of his hard thighs, and she rode it in playful abandon.

“Ah, I remember now,” he said, feeling the scratched furrows across his back, “you make love like a wildcat when receiving your pleasure.”

Suddenly she dipped her head and darted her tongue into his navel. He gasped at the thrill that ran through his body like wildfire.

“You are a bold wench, Sabre Wilde. Are you bold enough to tame the dragon?”

“I’ll slay the dragon,” she whispered wickedly.

He lifted her onto his great manroot so she could finish her ride. She thrust her hips forward and arched her back so that her hair cascaded down upon his thighs, and he thrust up deeply in rhythm with each of her downward plunges. He refused to release her until she had twice let down her love juices to anoint his manhood.

She sat between his legs, her back against his broad chest, his knees slightly drawn up for her to rest her arms
upon. It was to become a favorite position for them whenever they wanted to talk in bed. They shared the breakfast tray Mason had brought them, grinning guiltily because their vocal, tempestuous lovemaking had alerted the entire staff of Thames View to her presence in their master’s bedchamber.

“Shane, who was that man with the queen last night?” she asked idly.

She felt him stiffen at the question and was immediately alerted that he sensed danger. He told her some of the truth. “Though the queen has forbidden the name, it was the O’Neill, known in England as the earl of Tyrone.”

She looked startled. “The uncrowned king of Ireland?” She shuddered involuntarily. “The man is trouble,” she murmured.

He lifted her hair, and his lips brushed the nape of her neck. “A wolf among wolves. That’s what I meant when I said Bess had her hands full at the moment,” he said lightly.

“He has the same kind of arrogance as you … except … except he is cold, pitiless, brimful of hatred.” She hesitated. “Keep away from him.”

Shane laughed mirthlessly. He’d been trying to do that for years, but never succeeded. His father had him on an invisible thread; all he needed to do was tug on it.

His arms tightened about Sabre as if she were his salvation. “When he and the queen have played their little game of domination and submission, he’ll return in triumph to Ireland.”

She stretched and made a face at him. “You have made every muscle in my body ache. I’m going to have a long, hot bath, then I’m going to exercise Sabbath.”

“I know what you need,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, no you don’t, Hawkhurst. You are insatiable!”

He chuckled. “No, really, I’ll give you a massage.” He flexed his hands and slanted a brow at her. “Secrets learned in the Far East,” he promised, as he took a flacon of perfumed oil from a cabinet and stretched her out upon her stomach.
So, rumor was true,
she thought jealously,
he did have an Oriental mistress before me.

He straddled her hips, holding her captive between his muscular thighs, then, pouring the scented oil into his cupped palm, he rubbed her shoulders and back with long, firm, sensual strokes.

“Tell me of these secrets of the East,” she cajoled, stretching luxuriously beneath his ministrations.

“I was only teasing,” he said lightly as his hands slipped beneath her to fondle her soft, round breasts.

“Shane, tell me, I’m wildly curious.”

“Your curiosity is most titillating and exciting, my little wildcat, but, you see, Oriental culture is always geared toward the man’s pleasure. An Oriental woman takes a totally passive role in sex, with all focus on pleasure for the male. She is eternally submissive, a role which doesn’t suit you at all, thank God,” he said, dropping little kisses on her satin-smooth skin. He moved farther down, to straddle her legs, and let his strong hands massage her delicious buttocks.

“Tell me more,” she begged, writhing beneath his fingers.

“In the Orient nothing is more tempting than the forbidden. They do things that break through Western taboos.” He hesitated, then decided to describe a practice that was sure to shock her. “Would you like to know of the Seven Knots to Heaven?

“Yes,” she said, giggling.

“The female puts seven knots into a silken cord, then very gently inserts them into her partner … here.” He placed his finger on the intimate spot between her buttocks, and she was shocked speechless.

“Then, when the man reaches his climax, she pulls the silken cord out slowly and with each knot he experiences another orgasm … seven in one!”

She gasped in disbelief, and he laughed and said, “Your innocence is truly a delight to me.”

Though they quickly became aroused, she would not permit him to make love to her again and she firmly locked the door of the bathing room. She would save these things for another time lest he become sated with her.

They spent the day together intimately, excluding the world. Both knew their time alone together would be sporadic at best, so they made the most of their day. They rode together, dined, talked, laughed, dreamed, and all the while they were handclasped like a young boy and girl. Shane looked at her as if she were the first female he’d ever laid eyes on, and acted as if he’d just discovered his manhood.

After supper the baron delivered a note to him and fear struck her heart.

“Darling, ’tis nothing. I must go out for a short time, but I promise I’ll be back in time to carry you to bed.”

“And if I ask where you’re going, you will fob me off with a lie. And if I asked you why you were at that brothel last week, you would tell me none of my damned business. But mark my words, Shane Hawkhurst, I’ll have the tale from you.”

“I can’t be cajoled,” he replied lightly.

“Ha! Can’t be cajoled,” she said, laughing, as her eyes played about his loins until she saw him rise up.

“What colors for your barge, sweetheart?”

See, she said to herself, he was doing it now, fobbing her off with an expensive present.

“Let’s see … white and purple … royal purple!” she ordered.

Shane went into the city alone to answer the summons from O’Neill. He climbed to the top floor of the brothel on Threadneedle Street, removed his black cloak, and shook off the raindrops that had just started to fall.

O’Neill’s eyes, those dark orbs that saw everything and said nothing, sought those of his son. Shane knew he’d never grow used to them. The two men extended their right arms until with a dull thud their hands fell on each other’s shoulders. Such a blow would have almost felled a horse, but neither man flinched. Finally O’Neill’s voice broke the silence. “I played her like an Irish harp. The moment she became pliant, I seduced her with my golden tongue. I told her plantationing Ireland was wrong, yet her men in Dublin went blindly ahead with it. I told her graft was rampant in Dublin’s government. English lords are voracious for Irish land, and for coins placed in the right palm they are handed five thousand acres apiece. But to a man they are absentee landlords with overseers who make slaves of the Irish! I told her the English of Dublin rob her government in England as viciously as they do Ireland. I demanded an honest governor and in exchange I would keep all the clans neutral.”

Shane nodded, waiting for the rest. O’Neill’s neck was safe, but whom had he betrayed in safeguarding his position?

“I told her there was a Catholic underground with directives coming in daily from France and Spain. I told her plainly her English Catholic lords had plans to restore Catholicism to England and put Mary of Scots on her throne. She demanded names and I supplied them—
Henry Garnet, Robert Southwell, Throckmorton at Mile End, and Babington. I told her the Ship Tavern at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in Holborn was a Catholic gathering place.”

Shane would have to warn the Irish Catholics who gathered there, for he knew O’Neill would let them all be sacrificed.

“She bade me inform Walsingham this night, so if there is any business you must take care of before he gets this information, you’d better be about it.”

Shane thought O’Neill must have balls of brass to face Walsingham with the dossier he must have on him. The O’Neill gathered up his cloak and bent to slip a blade into his boot, then he snuffed the candles with bare fingers. They did not wish to risk being seen together, so O’Neill started toward Cheapside to the Strand and Walsingham House and Shane turned toward Gracechurch Street and the river, but after a long pause he turned and followed his father at a discreet distance. Suddenly he stiffened, for out of the shadows stole a dark, menacing figure which was clearly following the O’Neill. He instantly dismissed thoughts of a footpad or cutpurse; this was a spy Shane had unwittingly led to O’Neill. Now the two of them would be connected, and the cover of the brothel blown to hell for Irish spies. Shane cursed beneath his breath; he had no choice but to eliminate the man.

His progress was impeded by Cheapside whores who sidled up to him from doorways asking, “Want yer doorknob polished, luv?” One glance from his deadly cold eyes and they quickly dissolved back into the shadows. As O’Neill rounded St. Paul’s Churchyard his assailant quickened his pace to close the gap, and with horror
Shane saw the glint of steel in the man’s hand. He bellowed a warning, “Tyrone!”

The O’Neill whirled about, slipped on a rain-slimed cobblestone, and his giant frame went down heavily. Shane was afraid his assailant would cut and run now that he knew he was against two, but the dark figure flew at him like a devil out of hell. Shane raised his arm to stab him and to his complete amazement felt his assailant’s knife plunge into his armpit to the hilt. Yet Shane’s arm carried through with his own knife, which went true and steady into the heart. The man’s scream was cut off as his mouth frothed with his life’s blood.

Suddenly they heard the running bootsteps of the watch and knew they would be arrested for murder. Half a dozen uniformed men armed with lanterns and muskets advanced in the name of the queen. O’Neill was on his feet in a flash. He lifted the dead man and held him erect with a long arm thrown about him. Shane swayed on his feet, pulling his black cloak to conceal his bloody wound. The O’Neill straightened to his full six and a half feet and towered over the men of the watch. “We are coming from a late meeting with the lord chancellor. I’m afraid my friend here has had too much to drink.” Then he spoke in Gaelic to the watch, who was burly and dark-haired, and Shane saw with relief that the man understood. The watch lowered their lanterns and allowed the three to go on their way toward the river. They half carried, half dragged the deadweight toward the Mermaid Inn, then let the body slip from the pilings into the fast-flowing Thames. Only then did Shane fall against the wall of the inn, weakened from his great loss of blood.