A Woman of Passion (6 page)

She bent low over her mount's neck and urged her on in an encouraging tone. Bess knew it was only a matter of time before he overtook her, if indeed he had taken up the chase. She resisted looking back. She would find out soon enough. His gelding was far more powerful than her horse and he was astride, while she was hampered by the sidesaddle. Once she reached the trees, she could guide her smaller mount more quickly than her pursuer would be able to guide his, but it was inevitable that the hunter would capture his quarry.

A
powerful hand took the reins and brought her horse to a halt. “Why the devil did you flee from me?” His words shot out like steel-tipped arrows.

For the sheer pleasure of it!
Bess gazed at him wide-eyed, breathless. “Because I was afraid.” It was not wholly a lie. Would he vent his anger on her?

“God's death, I won't rape you!”

Her breasts rose and fell as she gasped for air. “Do I have your word on it, sir?”

“Certainly.” His eyes narrowed. “God's blood, you're a clever wench; you've already got me on the defensive.”

“A position you detest.” Her eyes danced with laughter.

“I'll show you a position,” he growled, but the amusement was back in his eyes and she decided to trust him, though not too far. His hand never left her bridle, and now he led her deeper into the woods at a leisurely pace. They rode at least three miles before he found a small clearing beside a shallow brook.

“Privacy is a precious commodity.” He dismounted
and tethered their horses where the animals could nibble the grass. Then he moved close to her stirrup and looked up into her face. “For the next few hours you are for my eyes only.”

He held up powerful arms and watched Bess linger long over her hesitation before she came down into his arms in a flurry of velvet skirt and petticoats. Audaciously, he held her captive against him after her feet touched the ground—not long enough to frighten her, but long enough to savor her lemon scent of verbena, and certainly long enough to press her breasts against his chest and brush his hard shaft against her soft belly. When she pulled away, he did not prevent her.

Cavendish wore a short, rakish cloak, which he unfastened from his shoulders and spread on the grass in a patch of sunshine. “Be at ease, sweeting.”

She accepted his invitation and sat down upon the cloak. He knelt beside her. “The real reason for wearing green is so that the grass stains won't show,” he murmured intimately.

“Rogue Cavendish, you are far too experienced for my liking!” she said bluntly, and made as if she would arise and leave him.

“And you are far too innocent for mine,” he said, taking possession of her hand to keep her beside him.

Her dark eyes were enormous. “Liar,” she whispered softly. “My innocence excites you.”

He groaned. “Oh, Christ, you speak the truth; I don't know what to do to you first.”

“Oh, you rogue!” she gasped. Then she looked straight into his eyes. “Will you always be so honest with me?”

He nodded. “If my honesty excites you.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and ran the tip of his tongue across
her palm, then placed his lips upon her wrist to feel her rapid pulsebeat.

Bess watched him avidly as he began to toy with her fingers, tracing their delicate length, then he separated them and slipped one into his mouth. She gasped as he began to suck on it. She experienced a tiny pulsebeat between her legs, and she saw that he was so wise in the ways of women, he knew what had happened to her. She snatched away her hand and heard his deep chuckle.

When Cavendish raised his hand toward her face, Bess drew back slightly. “I promised not to ravish you, but I do intend to awaken you a little.”

She considered for a moment and decided to let him take a few liberties. It was time to dispel some of her ignorance about the things that happened between men and women. Bess had heard endless gossip about sexual matters but had no firsthand experience. She had chosen him for her tutor, so why not let him commence his lesson?

When he brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, the corners of her mouth lifted. “You are so un-earthly fair.” He pulled off her snood and caught her silken hair as it tumbled into his hands. The sight of the red-gold mass took his breath away. His fingers splayed through it sensuously. “Bess, you have the most glorious hair I've ever seen.”

“Why does my hair fascinate you? Is it the color?”

“Aye, it's like flames. I could warm my hands at the blaze, and it marks you as special; you make blondes and brunettes seem commonplace.”

“ 'Tis said it is the mark of a hot temper, and in my case it is true,” she confided.

“That in itself is exciting. What man can resist the urge to tame a hellcat?”

She laughed with delight. “Tell me more.”

“Do you want the truth?”

She looked into his eyes. “Always.”

“It's a constant reminder that the curls between your legs must be red too.”

“Oh!” Her lips parted in genuine shock. “Is that what men think about?”

“A thousand times a day,” he said solemnly.

She decided he was teasing her unmercifully. “Damned rogue.”

“A truthful rogue.” His hands left her hair to cup her face, then slowly, with great reverence, he lifted her mouth to meet his.

Bess closed her eyes so that her other senses became heightened. His male scent enveloped her, his touch and taste intoxicated her. She opened her lips and kissed him back. “Ooh, I've wondered so long what a kiss would be like. It's such a relief to know I like it excessively!”

“Have you never been kissed before?” he asked, stunned.

Her dark eyes were luminous, her lips trembled. He reached out to trace the outline of her mouth, and her body was taken by a great shudder. Suddenly she grabbed his hand and bit down on the fleshy part of his thumb, then looked appalled.

“You shouldn't have done that, Bess.”

She stared at him with enormous dark eyes.

“It reveals far too much about you, sweeting.”

She managed a breath when she saw his amusement.

“It tells me your emotions run deep. It tells me you are a woman of passion. Though barely awakened, you possess an earthy sensuality that men will respond to all your life.” He swept her into his arms and this time kissed her thoroughly. His mouth became insistent, and
her lips parted beneath his. As he molded his mouth to hers, she clung to him, responding with fire. Heat leapt between them, threatening to melt and fuse them together permanently.

His hand was on her breast, and Cavendish knew if he did not put some distance between them he would have her naked in the grass. To his utter consternation he realized his conscience was pricking him. Abruptly, he got up from his knees and went to his horse. What the hell was the matter with him? Making love to Elizabeth Hardwick had obsessed him since the minute he'd laid eyes on her. The whole point of coming to Chelsea was to get her to lie with him!

Now they were alone in the woods; what was there to stop him? With a little gentle persuasion he could arouse her to the point where she would willingly lie naked in the grass. She was clearly virginal, with no notion that full, intense arousal was so compelling there would be no stopping, no turning back. But afterward she would believe he had betrayed her, and the trouble was, he desired more than one tumble. He wanted her on a more permanent basis. Immediately, he realized the responsibility was his.

William opened his saddlebags and took out food and a wineskin. He closed the distance between them and unwrapped the linen cloth that held roast capon, sharp cheese, and crisp apples. Bess smiled her delight, and he knew he had himself under control. There was nowhere on earth he would rather be at this moment, and they were going to enjoy their time alone together. He would temper his wooing with soft words and gentle hands that would not take them beyond the point of no return.

William enjoyed watching her eat. She bit into a capon leg with gusto, and when the tart juice from a green
apple ran down her chin, she licked it off with relish. “Let me show you how to drink from a wineskin.” With his hands guiding hers, he showed her how to squeeze it with just the right pressure and how to position her mouth to catch the dark red stream of wine. The lesson involved a great deal of laughter, and William realized just how wonderful it was to be with a female who enjoyed laughing as much as he did.

When the wine was done, he lay back in the warm sunshine and pulled her down so that her breasts were cushioned on his broad chest and he could look up into her beautiful face. They spent the next hour kissing, whispering, touching, and laughing. With much difficulty William kept his rampant desire under control, but he was amply rewarded by knowing how much pleasure Bess received from his nonthreatening dalliance.

When they heard a distant hunting horn, she sat up and searched for her snood. William found it and put it on her, gathering her wildly disheveled hair into the confining net.

“Sweetheart, I have to go to Dover to do an inventory of the monastery of St. Radegund. It will take some time because I have to assess their lands and rents.”

“When must you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Will you miss me?”

“Perhaps … a little,” she teased.

“Tell the truth! You'll miss me fiercely!”

With mock solemnity she placed her hand upon her breast. “You take my heart with you, William.”

He sat up and kissed her temple. “Sweetheart, when I return I'll have a question to ask you regarding a more permanent relationship. I want us to be together.”

The horn sounded again, closer. William got to his feet and pulled Bess up beside him. “You go first so we
are not seen together. Chelsea is in yonder direction. I'll join the hunt for a couple of hours.” He lifted her into the saddle with possessive arms, kissing her in the process. “Remember that I adore you.”

Bess rode back to Chelsea Palace in a state of wonder. Was this what it felt like to tumble head over heels in love? Rogue Cavendish adored her, he had admitted it freely. When he returned from Dover, would he ask her to marry him? It all seemed too fantastic to be real, yet Bess believed with all her heart that fate had something glorious planned for her.

The king's red-haired daughter, Elizabeth Tudor, had spent days wandering about Hampton Court Palace, exploring every nook of every chamber, antechamber, gallery, and staircase. The most spectacular of these was the King's Staircase, whose walls and ceiling had been painted by Italian masters. Remembering that this staircase led to the State Apartments was more important to the Lady Elizabeth than its artwork.

Learning the layout of a royal residence was the first order of business for Elizabeth Tudor. It gave her a measure of confidence and security, as well as providing her with an escape route from unpleasant scenes and people she detested. She remembered Hampton so vividly, recalling the happy moments with her mother and the hours of shattering sadness.

She paused as she reached the Long Gallery. An unbearable lump of sorrow rose in her throat for her sweet stepmother, Catherine Howard. Elizabeth pictured her running down this gallery, screaming for the king when she learned she had been charged with adultery.
Lord God, was it only a year ago February that she was beheaded? It
feels as if I've been mourning for years.
Then she thought again of her mother, Anne Boleyn, and knew she would always be in mourning.

Elizabeth Tudor forced the tragic memories away and let happier thoughts fill her mind. Catherine, so young and gay, had been unfailingly kind to her, mothering her as no other woman had done. Catherine Howard had been cousin to her real mother, Anne Boleyn, and she had answered all Elizabeth's questions about her mother and the fateful marriage to her father, King Henry. Elizabeth had been wildly curious for years, but whenever she had dared whisper her mother's name, she had been hushed up with slaps.

Elizabeth remembered her other stepmother, Jane Seymour, who had liked to walk in the Clock Court here at Hampton before she gave birth to the little prince Edward. Elizabeth was only four at the time, but she remembered how cruel her stepmother had been to her, coldly banishing her to Hatfield so that she would be eighteen miles away from her father, King Henry.

Elizabeth Tudor smiled a secret smile of satisfaction.
Jane Seymour schemed to replace my mother, but the sly bitch also ended up in her grave.
Still, Jane's short reign as queen hadn't been a total loss. It had produced a brother for Elizabeth and provided her with an uncle, Thomas Seymour. Elizabeth smiled again, just thinking about him. Thomas was like a golden god and one of the very few people she loved and trusted in the entire world.

Elizabeth moved toward the latticed window, opened it, and leaned out. It was much too pleasant a day to stay indoors, and she decided to explore the gardens. She saw a barge arrive at the landing stage, and curiosity kept her at the window to see who arrived. When a gaggle of females disembarked, Elizabeth squinted her eyes to see
if she knew them. She recognized Frances Grey, Marchioness of Dorset, because of her girth. She liked Frances, who never put on airs, but thought her young daughter, Lady Jane Grey, was a pious little dog turd, utterly devoid of wit or mischief.

Elizabeth was well aware the child was being considered as a consort for Prince Edward and would likely soon join the royal nursery so they could be educated together. A few nobles' sons already were being educated at Court along with Prince Edward; the schoolroom would soon bulge at the seams. Elizabeth laughed out loud as she thought of the Earl of Warwick's sons. The Dudley brothers would make Lady Jane's life hell!

Elizabeth slipped into the library and selected a book of verse to take into the gardens. Any day now the cruel winds of autumn would denude the lovely flower beds and strip the leaves from the shade trees. To avoid the visitors she made her way from the royal lodgings toward the lesser rooms of the outer courtyard.

As she cut through the Silver Stick Gallery, Elizabeth saw a female coming toward her from the opposite end of the gallery. When they got within five feet of each other, both stopped dead in their tracks and stared. Both girls, gowned in purple, had the same startling red-gold hair. Both were slim, of the same height, and each carried a book. The striking resemblance did not end there, for both had the same straight carriage and held their proud heads high. The encounter was like looking in a mirror.