Margaret Moore (9 page)

“Alas, I must have been distracted by the beauty of the bride, for I did not think of anything at all save to obey my sovereign.”

“Oh, yes, that is all you thought about,” she remarked sarcastically. “Not a title or any other reward.”

He moved closer still.

“You have caught me in a lie, my dear,” he confessed softly. “I have been thinking of
other things that perhaps may also be classified as a reward.”

“Such as?”

With a low chuckle, he put his arms around her and gently pulled her to him for a long and lingering, tender and promising kiss.

He half-expected her to pull away and slap his face—yet she did not.

Amazingly, after a moment’s unresponsiveness, she yielded.

Her simpleton of a husband had indeed been a fool not to kiss her. Why, she had the most perfect lips, both firm and yet softly pliant.

Then, as suddenly as the king had interrupted them, he realized she was doing more than simply yielding to the inevitable. She clutched his shoulders and leaned into him, her desire as obvious as his own.

With mild insistence, craving more, almost dreading that this was some sort of trick intended to arouse him before she rejected him, he insinuated his tongue into her mouth.

No trick. No sudden pulling away as their tongues entwined, doing the old, old dance.

And best of all, no sense that he was merely being used because he was handsome, or famous, or dangerously exciting, a thing to be discussed in the same tone as a fine horse or clever dog or expensive objet d’art.

With his left arm still about her, he ran his
hand through her glorious, luxurious hair. It was as soft as a rabbit’s fur and smelled of wildflowers.

A low moan filled the air between them, and Richard realized it was his.

With less patience, his hand left her hair. He must and would taste her satin-soft skin that stretched so enticingly over her collar bone.

His hand encountered her chemise. He pushed it lower, then slipped his hand beneath.

“I will not hurt you,” he murmured as he caressed her breast, lightly brushing his thumb across her nipple as she drew in a sharp breath.

He felt her relax again and at the same time, he was aware of his own growing passionate need.

In spite of that, he must be patient. She must enjoy this, and she must be ready when he took her. He would not have any kind of pain associated with their intimacy.

Then he nearly gasped himself when she began to stroke his shoulders and move her hands down his back. Her touch was light, almost tentative, as if she wasn’t sure he would like what she was doing.

“Yes, my sweet,” he encouraged, kissing her cheek, her jaw and neck. “Do not stop.”

He tugged her chemise lower, then laid her on her back before capturing her nipple with his mouth, his tongue lightly flicking.

She began to pant, and he continued to taste and tease, using his lips and delicate touches until she arched and squirmed with desire.

It was not yet time.

He stroked her bare leg, and then the one that was still encased in a stocking, moving slowly upward toward her honor.

Suddenly, she sat up. Dismay and disappointment flooded through him—until she writhed out of her chemise and tossed it toward the foot of the bed.

He recognized that this was no vain gesture intended to show off her splendid body, no planned move in a game of seduction.

It was the most exciting moment of his life, until she reached for him and pulled him into her willing arms, robbing him of all self-restraint.

He had to take this incredible woman now.

There was no need for him to wait, for Elissa had never been so passionately excited in her life. Despite her futile attempt to feel nothing when he touched her, she had never known a caress so arousing, a kiss so tender and yet so inflaming.

Were all these things what a husband was supposed to do? How much she had missed! How much more she wanted to discover!

Hot need coursed through her body, engendered by his words, his kisses, and his touch. Burning, she had to discard her garment. She had to be naked. She brazenly wanted him to
touch and stroke and caress her everywhere and anywhere.

With zealous passion, she ran her hands over Richard’s young and muscular body from his broad shoulders, down his back to his taut buttocks and slender hips. William Longbourne had been old and going to fat, something he had hidden well with his finely tailored clothing.

There was no need for disguise with this man.

Boldly, she moved her hand another place. He groaned softly as she discovered, with no true surprise, that Sir Richard Blythe was a very virile man.

With no prompting from him, she parted her legs and pulled him on top of her. She couldn’t wait anymore.

“Oh, sweet heaven, yes!” he moaned as he thrust inside her warm, moist honor.

No more coherent thoughts came to her as she wrapped her legs around his slender waist. With strong, powerful thrusts he took her, and made her his wife in the eyes of God and man.

Excitement and tension took control of her. She writhed beneath him in an ecstasy of tension, until, with a cry that was both shocked and triumphant, the tension burst.

With a low growl rising in his throat and resounding in her ear, Richard pushed hard
once more. Then, sweat-slicked, he collapsed against her.

She felt him still throbbing inside her before the rhythmic pulse slowly subsided.

She kissed the top of his head and ran her hand over his dark, curling hair.

“Odd’s fish, I do believe a stocking should come sailing forth at any moment.”

Elissa gasped at the sound of the king’s voice.

“Zounds, I had forgotten,” Richard muttered as he slowly pulled away and sat up.

“So did I,” she confessed, pulling the sheet over herself, for she would not put it past the king to shove his head between the curtains again.

“You did?” he asked, genuine, almost boyish pleasure in his voice.

“I did.”

He chuckled softly. He had a very nice chuckle. “Your limb, if you please, madam.”

She sat back, lifted her leg slightly and put her foot in his lap.

“Have a care, my sweet, or tonight’s bout may be our last.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied with a hint of laughter in her voice.

“So you should be,” he muttered merrily. “I have guarded those particular valuables well, and I will not lose them now, no matter how charming and beautiful their destroyer.”

She bit her lip as he slowly removed her
stocking. He made even this incredibly exciting.

“You have exceptionally lovely limbs, wife.”

“Do I?”

“You do, and I am a connoisseur of such things.”

Of course he was.

And of course he was an expert at lovemaking, given the number of mistresses he had had. Still had.

Perhaps they all learned of his “prologues,” and became like warm clay in his hands, soft and pliable and willing to do whatever he wanted. Willing to pay any price to have him in their bed again.

Perhaps he was counting on those very skills to pry away what was rightfully hers, and to steal what was her son’s.

She sat up, grabbed her stocking from him and threw it through the curtains. A boisterous cheer sounded on the other side.

“Come, ladies and gentlemen, let us retire,” the king said. “We shall not let Sir Richard and his bride have all the sport tonight!”

“I thought I was the impatient one,” Richard noted dryly as the courtiers noisily departed.

Still clutching the sheets over her breasts, she searched for her chemise in the bundle of coverings at the foot of the bed.

Richard gently took hold of her arm. “Come back to me, my sweet. Now we are alone.”

“I want my chemise.”

She felt him shift and, with a glance over her shoulder, saw that he was sitting up against the headboard again.

She went back to searching.

“I don’t know why you need it. I shall keep you warm.”

“I don’t want to lose it.”

“Ah.” He remained silent, then she realized the sheet was slowly being tugged away from her.

She yanked it back and held it over her breasts. “What are you…?”

He leaned forward and pulled open the bed curtain. A shaft of moonlight muminated his handsome, smiling face, his boyishly disheveled hair and his most unboyish body. “I want to see you.”

“You have,” she muttered as she resumed her search.

“You sound very peevish all of a sudden, my sweet.”

She finally found her chemise and quickly drew it over her head. Then, still covered by the sheet, she pulled it down over her body.

“I’m tired,” she said, moving back to her place and trying to ignore his puzzled frown.

She lay down as far away from him as she could get. Otherwise, he might be tempted to make love with her again, and she might be tempted to let him.

Her strategy didn’t work, for he nestled beside her. Despite her chemise, she could feel
the length of him just as well as if she had been naked.

She would need a chemise of iron to prevent that, she decided grimly as she willed herself not to pay any attention.

“I am exhausted, too,” he murmured as he lifted a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers, “but most agreeably so. Tell me, my sweet wife, when do you wish to leave for Leicester?”

“At once.”

“I do not think the middle of night would be convenient for anybody.”

“I meant tomorrow, if possible.”

Pdchard thought of his play, which had just begun its run. The players didn’t need his supervision anymore, surely, and Minette would recover from her “ailment” as soon as another man, preferably a rich one, asked her to a late supper.

He thought of the people he would leave behind, including the loyal Foz, who could always come to visit Leicester. Indeed, the man had no other calls upon his time.

New excitement filled him as he thought of leaving London for his family home with his bride.

“I shall have to get my few pitiful goods and chattels together. Will after the noon suit you? We could get a fair bit out of the city before dark.”

“That will suit me perfectly.”

“Sleep well, then, my sweet,” he whispered contentedly as he rolled onto his side.

In another few moments, he was sound asleep.

While Elissa stared unseeing at the bed curtains.

Hurrying to his cramped lodgings above the cheese shop, Richard took the stairs two at a time. As he did so, he rejoiced that this was the last time he would have to endure the stench of cheese as he tried to sleep, or listen to the incessant cries of the street-sellers, or have to endure the coal smoke, offal, and other detritus of life in London.

He also thought of his wife, still sleeping peacefully in Whitehall Palace.

How pretty and charming she looked as she slumbered, the pale light of dawn illuminating her face. Her luscious lips had been parted ever so slightly and it had taken a very great effort not to kiss her. He had not because he had not wanted to wake her when they had a long journey ahead.

So instead, he had contented himself with watching her as he dressed as quietly as if he were a housebreaker with the occupants all at home.

He would have to write to the king to express his thanks for bestowing such a woman upon him. Never had he enjoyed such passionate lovemaking, although enjoyed seemed
far too pale a word for the excitement and fulfillment he had experienced with Elissa.

He opened his door and halted in some confusion as Foz, attired in the most vibrant violet jacket and breeches Richard had ever seen, turned to face him. His friend yanked his abundantly plumed hat from his head and made a little bow of greeting.

“Dear, faithful Foz!” Richard cried, his eyes growing somewhat better accustomed to the sartorial splendor before him. “I might have known you would come to bid me farewell.” His brow furrowed. “You look very distressed. What has happened?”

Staring at the floor and shifting like a naughty boy, Foz ran the large white plume of his hat through his gloved fingers.

“Come, what is it?” Richard demanded. “I am in some haste.”

Foz shrugged. “I simply wish,” he began in a low mutter, “that is, I am sorry that…”

He suddenly raised his face and forcefully declared, “Ods bodikins, I hate marriages! What’s a fellow to do when all his friends get married and leave him?”

Richard subdued a grin as he went to pull his battered wooden chest, which had stood him in good stead all the years in Europe, from beneath the ropes of his bed. “I would say, my friend, that he had better get married himself.”

“That’s easy advice for a man like you to offer,” Foz mumbled.

With a petulant frown on his round face, he went to the narrow window and leaned against the sill.

“A man like me who was ordered into marriage by the king?”

“No. A handsome man like you who has more women flocking around him than bees around a honeycomb. You could have been married ten—no, a hundred times!—by now, if you wanted to.”

Richard opened the lid of the chest, then straightened. “You could have been married many times by now yourself.”

Foz made a derisive grunt.

“You could have. After all, you’re rich, you’re titled, you possess the finest garments and wigs of any man at court, and you are quite the nicest fellow there, too.”

Still Foz did not look mollified.

“What have I said that is not true?” Richard demanded.

Foz shrugged again: “I thank you for your compliments—but I also know this: You have lost estate and fortune, you wear nothing except plain, dull black, you do not even sport a wig, you can be shockingly rude, and yet women love you. You are handsome, Richard, and I am not, and all the nicety in the world cannot change that. Indeed, I would give up
my entire wardrobe to have even a portion of your looks.”

Richard sat on his bed and regarded his friend. “Foz, there are many women who could care deeply for a man like you, and I am not talking about your money and your clothes.” Richard thought of Elissa. “You cannot judge all women by those we encounter at court or the theater.”

“Well, where else is a fellow to meet women?”