The King's Man (27 page)

"No one has ever seen you looking as you do now. That gown becomes you well."

She looked down at the bodice. “I thought it was a little immodest,” she said, “but then I have very little to be immodest about."

Kit forced his wooden feet towards the table and poured a glass of wine from the jug. Jem had assured him it was the very best the inn had to offer. He took a sip and, satisfied that Jem was correct in his opinion that it was marginally better than the usual gut rot served in the taproom, he poured Thamsine a glass and walked over to where she still stood by the window.

"I was just watching life go by,” she said. “I was thinking how fortunate the people in the street are."

"They probably have their share of problems,” Kit replied pragmatically. “Life is hard for everyone, Thamsine.” He raised his glass. “Shall we toast a new beginning?"

She gave a small, tight smile and raised her glass to his. “A new beginning for both of us.” She sipped the wine and sighed. “This feels strange."

"In what way?"

"Well, here we are, man and wife, and yet, I realise we know so little of each other."

"Would it make a difference?” Kit asked. “I doubt one person ever really knows another. Anyway we have a whole lifetime to make those discoveries."

She frowned. “A whole lifetime! We have to survive the next few weeks first, Kit."

Kit set his glass down and took her hand. “I refuse to let any thought of what lies outside this room intrude on us, Thamsine. What little time we have is for us and us alone to start learning those little things about each other."

She looked up at him and her eyes twinkled. “The twins have already told me things about you that I am sure you would be flattered to hear."

He pulled a face. “I can only imagine what they have been saying.” His eyes sought out hers. “Thamsine, I make no apologies for my life. I have never made pretext of being a saint. I have made love to a number of women but I want you to know, I have never loved a woman as I do you.” There—the words were out.

Her brown eyes seemed large and luminous in the dim light as she searched his face. “Did you say you loved me, Kit?"

He reached out and touched her face. The softness of her skin beneath his rough fingers sent bolts of lightning through his body. She leaned into his hand, drawing it around to her mouth, her lips brushing the palm and the fingers. He closed his eyes for a moment.

His other hand released hers. He slid it around her waist, drawing her towards him. He bent his head, his lips skimming the soft, chestnut hair.

"Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I love you."

Her arms slid up behind his neck and she drew his face down towards her. “Well that is probably a good thing,” she said, “seeing as I have loved you for a very long time."

"So,” he whispered, “that makes this marriage even more convenient?"

"It does,” she replied.

He kissed her, feeling her lips, still rough from the ill treatment of the last few weeks. His lips slid down her neck, finding the soft place at the base of her throat. Her back arched and she threw her head back then she stiffened, pulling away from him.

"Kit, I have little experience ... after all the other women in your life..."

He laid a finger on her lips. “Do you trust me, Thamsine?"

Her eyes held his for a moment. “You're a liar, a cheat and a rogue, Kit Lovell, but I trust you with my life."

"Then trust me in this, Thamsine,” he said in French. He lowered his mouth to hers again, gently brushing her lips with his. Thamsine tightened her arms behind his neck, locking them together in a hungry embrace.

The enormous old bed, hung with dusty, moth-eaten, red woollen curtains, was a few short steps and they fell back on to it laughing. Thamsine looked up at her husband. Even without the light of the guttering candles, she knew every detail of his face: the warm tan of his skin, the fine cheekbones, the silvered scar over his right eye, the green eyes and the lilting curve of his lips.

After everything she had endured in the last few months, this one moment would be burned in her memory forever. A moment of absolute happiness. A sob of sheer joy rose in her throat and she saw Kit frown, his eyes anxious.

"Thamsine, we don't have to..."

She slid her arms behind his neck. “You silly man, I'm crying because I'm happy. Now kiss me again."

His mouth curled upwards. “Kiss you? You demanding wench. In good time."

He propped himself up on one elbow and with a finger gently traced the outline of her face, the orbs of her eyes, the length of her nose, the circumference of her mouth. She tried to bite at the finger but he removed it. They played that game for a few more times before the finger was replaced by lips that traced the same route, moving down her throat, as he had before, lingering in the sensitive hollow of the base of her throat. Thamsine, her head thrown back, felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. The butterfly caresses were almost unendurable.

He propped himself up again and slowly began to unlace the stomacher of her gown. With tentative fingers she reached up to the laces on his shirt and undid the cord. He slipped the shirt off, revealing a hard, well-muscled chest, dusted with dark hair. She ran her fingers through the soft hairs and he closed his eyes, the fastenings on her bodice momentarily forgotten.

He bent his head and kissed her again, his hand gently stroking her throat, working down across the flat of her chest, the fingers brushing but not quite touching her breasts.

Thamsine arched her back, willing his hands to move lower. At the first gentle touch against her nipples, she stiffened.

Kit backed off, his hand on her face, looking at her anxiously.

"Thamsine?"

She shook her head. “No, it was wonderful. I love you, Kit Lovell, and I trust you completely."

He smiled and stroked her hair. “Then let us be rid of these damned clothes."

No two people had ever divested themselves of their clothes so quickly. Thamsine curled up in the circle of his arm, suddenly shy. Kit uncurled her, looking down at her slender body.

"You're beautiful, Thamsine.” There was wonder in his voice.

"I thought you liked women with more meat on their bones."

He shook his head. “Don't know what gave you that idea. You're perfect.” He traced a finger down between the cleft in her breasts, stopping just short of the triangle of reddish hair below her belly. He propped his elbows on either side of her body so he was half lying on her without putting any weight on her.

Thamsine raised her hands, sliding her fingers through his hair and across his back, feeling the hardness of the muscles beneath the satin sheen of his skin. She closed her eyes, allowing her fingers to see for her. They circled his rib cage, running through the hair on his chest and downward to the soft hair of his groin and the hard shaft that waited for her.

Her eyes opened wide and he winked at her. “All for you, my dearest,” he whispered.

"When...?"

He silenced her with his lips, then allowed his mouth to trace the path of his finger, leaving a trail of gentle kisses down the length of her body. He made no attempt to touch her breasts, his hands caressing her shoulders, her neck, and her ears.

When his lips finally touched her breasts she thought she would burst from the sensation that started at her toes and ran up her legs. His tongue traced circles around the halo of her nipples. His hand on her legs stroked, touched and ran in ever increasing circles, higher, dipping down between her legs, brushing the hairs but going no further.

Despite herself, she moaned, willing the fingers to move further, to slide between her legs, and open her up. She had closed her eyes but she was aware that he was watching her, studying her, waiting for the slightest hint that he had overstepped the boundary.

But there was no fear. Her only conscious thought being a desire to take this man, hold him to her, and feel their bodies merge into one.

Her own hands grew bolder, running down the length of his torso, her fingers meshing in the thick dark hair in his crotch, circling the erect penis that seemed to pulsate with a life of its own.

It was the cue he needed; his fingers slid up her thighs and she opened her legs, inviting him for further exploration, willing him to take her. He bent his head to hers. Her lips parted and their tongues entwined, probing, circling, while his fingers slowly, patiently worked a magic of their own.

Thamsine's world exploded in a flash of bright lights. She cried out at the intensity of the sensation when he entered her, meeting only with a slight resistance. Her eyes opened briefly and she saw that he was watching her intently. Her arms circled him, drawing him closer, her lips hungrily seeking his as body and soul they melded into one being.

When they were done, they lay without moving, their bodies slicked with perspiration. Thamsine stared at the bed hangings above her, her breath coming in short gasps. Kit's dark head rested on her chest, his arms encircling her, his weight pressing on her but not crushing her. He would always be part of her from this moment on.

Slowly he moved, sliding apart from her with a groan. Her arms tightened around him but he fell to one side of her, drawing her into the circle of his arms, kissing her hair, his hand gently stroking her cheek.

She propped herself up on elbow and looked down at him. While he seemed under few illusions about what lay under her clothing, she had never even seen him without a shirt. Now she saw his body for the first time, neat, well proportioned and athletic.

The long line of his right thigh was marred by an ugly scar. That must be the legacy of Worcester, she thought. There were other older wounds: the twisted scar on his left shoulder and a long slash on his right upper arm. She picked up his right hand and kissed his fingers, those long, magical fingers that could rouse such sensations as she had never dreamed of.

With a finger she traced the line of the scar on his arm. “Will you tell me about these?"

He shook his head. “Not tonight, Thamsine. Tonight is for us, not who we were and where we come from.” His eyes widened as her hand slid down the long length of his torso, “And, my dear wife, if you keep doing that to me, we will probably forget ourselves completely."

Kit's fingers drummed the windowsill of John Thurloe's room in the Palace of Whitehall. Below him soldiers drilled in the courtyard and dark-suited men came and went with purposeful steps, but his mind was elsewhere.

He had left Thamsine at first light, still sleeping, her hair tousled and her lips slightly parted. After a week of marriage, he had still not quite come to grasp the extraordinary power of their relationship. No liaison he had known with a woman had ever had this effect on him. Thamsine was—Kit struggled for superlatives—wonderful, beyond comparison. He longed with all his being to be back with her, in the private world of their own making.

Thurloe's business had continued. Hurried meetings in smoky taverns for which he had no heart. He had done what needed to be done and hurried home to be with her, intent on not wasting a single moment of their time together.

"Lovell?” Thurloe's voice snapped. “Pay attention!"

He turned back to look at Thurloe. “Sorry. You were saying?"

"I was saying that I intend to do nothing."

Kit's hand tightened. “Thurloe. This Frenchman is dangerous."

Thurloe pressed his fingertips together. “If the Protector does not go to Hampton Court as is his custom, the finger of suspicion will point straight at you. However if he were merely to change his mode of transport, it may look less suspicious. He will travel to Hampton Court by water, not road."

Kit nodded. “That is acceptable."

Thurloe leaned forward. “However, I presume there is an alternative plan?"

"To take him out on Sunday when he is leaving chapel."

"Audacious!” Thurloe's eyebrows raised.

"It stands a reasonable chance of success, particularly if Ireton is with him. They will take him too."

Thurloe tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his desk.

"As a plan, it probably stands a better chance of success than the original concept. It's a public place; His Highness would be quite unprotected.” Thurloe frowned. “I'll let word get around that the Lord Protector travels to Hampton Court by water. In the meantime we must try and find the Frenchman. Do you know where he is?"

Kit shook his head. “No. He keeps himself well hidden. I doubt even De Baas knows where he is. If I were to start asking too many questions I might arouse suspicions. It's not my business to know about the Frenchman's movements. Before you ask, I have tried following him but the man's no fool. He vanishes into thin air."

Thurloe nodded. “So what is your role in all of this?"

"I have to organise the final meeting."

"They'll all be there?"

Kit nodded.

"Good.” Thurloe narrowed his eyes. “You make whatever arrangements need to be made. I'll let matters go ahead for the moment and step in when I judge the time is right.” Thurloe looked up at Kit. “Make no mistake, Lovell, I'm quite serious. I want as many of these misguided malcontents as possible and I want the evidence to deal with them appropriately. They must be made an example. I also want De Baas. All you need to do is tell me where and when this meeting is to take place."

Kit's head went up. “And you will move then?"

Thurloe nodded.

"And me?"

"In the confusion I'm confident you will make shift for yourself, Lovell."

Kit made for the door and stopped at Thurloe's voice. “And, Lovell..."

"Thurloe?"

"A little concentration. You seem distracted. Whoever she is forget her!"

Kit stared at the shuttered windows of the Ship Inn and his heart stopped. When he had left that morning, all had been as normal. The inn never closed unless something was wrong, very wrong. He knocked on the door and Jem opened it to him. The big man's face was uncharacteristically pale and strained.

"Thamsine?” Kit's voice caught in his throat as he flung himself through the taproom door.