Wild Jasmine (75 page)

“I have shown him the costume, my lady. He has given his permission that you may wear it. Speak with him yourself,” Inigo Jones said. “I will admit it is daring, but authenticity is so important.”

That evening as she lay abed naked with her lover, Jasmine asked him, “Are you aware of how diaphanous my costume is, Hal? Master Jones says I am not to wear anything beneath it. My nudity shall be quite visible to all. He says he has your permission.”

“Aye,” Henry Stuart answered her. He was seated, equally naked, in her bed. Jasmine, her back to him, was settled between his legs. With one hand he cupped and fondled a breast, while with the other he pushed aside her long black hair that he might kiss her neck. His lips brushed the smooth, soft column.
“I want every man at court to be jealous of me, my love. I want them to see your perfection, and ache with the knowledge that you are mine, and mine alone.” His tongue swept up her neck wetly.

“I am yours because it pleases me to be so,” she said softly, and her fingers trailed up and down his thigh thoughtfully. The light golden down on his legs bristled slightly, and she smiled to herself.

He sharply pinched the nipple with which he was toying, causing her to gasp. “
I will never let you go, Jasmine,
” he said fiercely. Then bending his head again, he bit her shoulder. “
You belong to me!
”

Pulling away from him, Jasmine scrambled about and knelt before him. “I am not a possession, Hal. Yours, or any man’s. I left India because I would not allow myself to be owned. I belong to no one but myself. I am not some simple little English milady honored and overwhelmed by your attentions. I am an Imperial Mughal princess, though I be far from my homeland.” Behind her the flames in the fireplace crackled noisily, as if adding emphasis to her words. “You are in my bed because I wish it, my lord, not just because you wish it.”

For a moment his face darkened with his own anger, but then he laughed. “What a proud creature you are, Jasmine, my love,” he told her blandly, but then he pushed her upon her back and flung himself atop her, pinioning her beneath him. “
You are mine, princess or no, madame!
”

Furiously, Jasmine squirmed beneath him, but he was heavier than she, and used his weight to his advantage. He had forced her arms behind her so that she could not use them against him. Now, straddling her, he laughed down into her face. “The gentlemen of the court shall admire you through a sensuously taunting curtain of fluttering silks, my love. They shall observe the exquisite high cones of your creamy breasts. When you dance before them, you shall think of me, of us, of how we are now. The nipples of your breasts will pucker with your remembrance.” His free hand brushed possessively over her bosom, his fingers teasing at the nipples which had indeed grown taut and tight.

Jasmine said nothing, but her turquoise-blue eyes glowed angrily.

“Any gentleman with whom you make eye contact will believe you aroused by him, and will ache with his own desire to possess you,” Henry Stuart continued wickedly. Then sliding
himself down her body a ways, he leaned forward to take a nipple within his mouth.

The tug of his lips upon her flesh was delicious, but Jasmine remained silent. Their dispute was one of perspective, not passion. His behavior no doubt stemmed from his growing frustration over her place in his life. He wanted her for a wife, but being intelligent, he knew that Jasmine was correct when she said a marriage between them would not be allowed. The thought that he might lose her one day drove him to recklessness. His mother had only recently mentioned that they were considering the possibility of a match between him and the Spanish Infanta, Maria Anna, daughter of King Philip III and his queen, Margaret of Austria.

“You must do what is best for England,” Jasmine had told him sternly when he mentioned it. He knew that she was right.

His anger had come to the boiling point. Wife or no wife, he would not lose her to another man! He suckled hard upon her breast, and Jasmine was no longer able to keep from crying out. “
You are mine!
” he repeated, and he pulled himself up level with her face that he might cover it with his hot kisses.

Her eyes closed now, Jasmine didn’t know whether to be angry with him or not. He was so wise for a man of his tender years, and yet he was so young. She would wager she knew more about being a king than did Henry Stuart, for all his proud boasting. He had only recently said to his father, annoyed with the king’s reprimand for some minor fault, “I know what becomes a prince. It is not necessary for me to be a professor, but a soldier, and a man of the world.”

But the man within him yet warred with the boy. Jasmine struggled to free a hand, and successful, caressed the back of his neck tenderly.

“I cannot lose you, my lamb love,” he groaned within the fragrant cloud of her dark hair. “I will not let them separate us! Whomever they shackle me to, I shall love only you, Jasmine.
Only you.
”

She felt the tears pricking at the back of her eyelids. Damn! Why was life so terribly complicated?
I love you, Henry Stuart
, she thought silently, but I will never tell you. It would not be fair to the lady who will one day be your wife. I have been a wife, and I know how much a woman needs to know that her husband loves her. But I will stay with you, my dear lord, as long as you desire me.

She felt him slide within her, and she arched herself to meet
him. Fiercely he rode her, and freeing her other hand, she put her arms about him, holding him close to her, returning his kisses with fiery kisses of her own. He thrust into her over and over and over again until Jasmine was aflame and shuddering with her own passion. Still, he could not seem to satisfy himself.

“It is not enough!” he half sobbed. “It is not enough! I cannot have enough of you, my lamb love!” He ground deeply into her.

“Ahhhhh, my Hal! Ahhhhhh, my dearest!” Jasmine cried out to him as her voluptuous body reached its crisis for a third time. “No more, I beg you! It is too much!”

“No! ’Tis not enough!” Henry Stuart insisted, and he pressed his aching loins harder against her, forcing her legs up and back that he might propel himself deeper into her hot passage. His manhood was a weapon that thrust, parried, and withdrew as he plunged himself into her again and again.

Never, Jasmine thought dreamily through the haze of sensation enveloping her—nay, overwhelming her!—never had a man plowed her furrow so deeply. His rod was like iron, driving into her with a painful sweetness, until she thought that she could surely bear no more, that he could give no more; yet he pushed onward. Thrice she had gained pleasure from him in this one encounter, but now she could feel a wildness building up within the very core of her deepest being. He lay atop her, his loins pistoning against her, his hands clutching at her breasts for balance. She had long since ceased to hold him. Her arms lay helplessly over her head as he drove her onward into madness.

Their bodies were wet with their striving. Henry Stuart suddenly tensed.
At last
, he thought. At last he would gain victory over her sweetly yielding body. The walls of her passage tightened like a nutcracker about his throbbing member in a manner he had never before experienced. He groaned. It was as if she were struggling to extract every drop of his life force from him. He felt as if he would explode as she gripped and released, gripped and released him. It was almost enough, he realized with relief.

Sobbing with her passion, Jasmine gasped, but half aware, beneath her lover. He had never loved her like this before. It was wild, and it was wonderful. She was going to die, and she did not care. She could hear someone crying out with a sound of intense pleasure even as the waves of joy washed over her,
drowning her in such happiness that it didn’t matter if she ever saw the light of day again. Then she was swept down into a whirlpool of dark warmth, and with a cry, she yielded herself to it, unafraid.

When she finally came to herself again, it was to find Henry Stuart sprawled across her body, shuddering with his own pleasure, still buried deep within her. “Ohh, Hal! You are still so hard!” she whispered.

“You fainted, my love,” he whispered back. “I flooded your sweet womb but did not withdraw. You must give a little more, Jasmine, before I am content this night.” Raising himself slightly, he kissed the corners of her mouth.

“You almost killed me, and you want more?” She ran her little pointed tongue swiftly over his sensuous lower lip.

“Aye, I do,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Then love me sweetly and gently this time, my lord,” she told him, and he did, finally withdrawing from her utterly satisfied.

As they lay quietly now, Henry Stuart said, “I want you to have my bairn, Jasmine. I have never before had a bairn.”

“That must be as God wills it, my lord,” she returned, “but I should not be unhappy if I could please you in this matter.” The thought of Robert Cecil arose in her mind, and she giggled.

“What is it?” he asked her, and she told him. “Damn Cecil for an impertinent dog!” Henry Stuart grumbled.

“He tries to think of what would be best for you, my darling,” Jasmine told him, surprised to find herself defending the king’s chancellor.

“What they want is for me to marry some pious, ugly virgin of impeccable royal lineage. Have you seen the miniature of the Infanta Maria Anna? She has an overbite, and looks like a rodent, I vow!” he groused. “This is what they would have me get my sons on.”

“I have indeed seen the Infanta’s miniature, and you do her a great injustice, my lord,” Jasmine scolded him. “She is a lovely young girl with fine large eyes, a most dainty nose, and a luscious-looking mouth. Her hair is fairer than yours too.”

“And short! I do not like short hair, but her aunt, the French queen, has made it fashionable. A woman should have hair that is at least shoulder length,” the prince announced. “Besides, there is the matter of religion. The Spanish are as obdurate about it as are the English. At least a French princess,
though holding to her faith, would not interfere with the bairns. I think a French lass would be more acceptable to the English.”

“You are so old-fashioned, my lord,” she teased him. “Why, you are beginning to sound just like your royal father.”

“God’s boots,” he groaned, “not that!”

The Christmas season arrived. Viscount Rochester was appointed the Lord of Misrule over the entire court. Jasmine, in concert with Sybilla and their mother, oversaw the decorations at St. James. The palace was decorated with a variety of greens. There was yew, reputed to be a good defense against sorcerers and witches, of which King James was sore afraid. Since the king would certainly visit his son at some point during the season, the yew was hung in deference to him. Bay was an ancient sign of power, and as Henry Stuart would one day be England’s king, Jasmine thought it appropriate. The bright red berries on the deep green holly leaves stood for the drops of blood that fell from Christ’s crown of thorns. The ivy garlands—ivy being sacred to the ancient god Bacchus—were believed to protect against drunkenness, of which there seemed to be much at court. Mistletoe was held to protect against evil spirits and to promote peace among men.

Her own apartments Jasmine decorated with laurel garlands. Laurel was thought to be a protector, and symbolized honor. Woven in with the laurel was bay, and rosemary for remembrance and friendship.

Although Jasmine knew many people at court now, she had no real friends except among her family. Her position as Prince Henry’s mistress made her an easy target for gossip, but her family and her servants would not gossip about her and the prince. They could not be bought, nor even importuned to intercede for some petitioner eager for royal favor. Most amazing of all to those who peopled the court was that neither Lady Lindley nor her family sought any gain for themselves from her most advantageous position.

“They must be very stupid, provincial people,” a courtier said in the hearing of Lady Essex and the Earl of Glenkirk.

“Nay,” Frances Howard replied, a small, amused smile upon her face. “They are simply very rich.”

“But they could be richer!” the courtier said in disbelief.

“There are some people in this world who put honor above
personal gain,” the Earl of Glenkirk explained to the surprised courtier. “Lady Lindley and her family are such people.”

“I still think them foolish not to benefit when they could benefit most handsomely, my lord,” the courtier said.

“Are you going to Robin Southwood’s Twelfth Night fete?” Frances Howard asked the earl, dismissing the courtier, who was not particularly important. “Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones have devised a most magnificent masque for the occasion. The prince will play the role of Oberon, the faery king, and Lady Lindley, Titania, his queen. I am told that her costume is most scandalous. One of my maids knows one of the women who sews for Master Jones. They say you can see right through it, and that she will wear it with nothing beneath! Do you think she would dare?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” the Earl of Glenkirk replied, sounding bored. “Tell me, madame, what costume will you wear?” he asked, diverting her attention to herself.

Frances Howard looked about her, and then said in a half whisper, “Will you swear to me, my lord, that you will tell no one if I tell you? There is so little imagination among the court, and a good idea is pounced upon to be duplicated a dozen times over. I do not wish to see myself coming and going at the Earl of Lynmouth’s gala.”

“I swear, madame,” he whispered back, and then said, “I shall even share my own secret with you first. I intend to come as myself.”

“
Yourself?
” Frances Howard made a little moue with her mouth. “That is really not particularly interesting, Glenkirk. Have you, like the king, no fondness for a fete? Is this a Scottish trait perhaps?”

He laughed. “Actually I do enjoy a fete, madame, and when I tell you that I am coming as myself, I mean that I shall be garbed in my full Highland dress. Have you ever seen a Scot in a kilt?”