Rose Bride (21 page)

‘Virgil,’ she managed again, her voice high and unfamiliar, then gave herself up to the pleasure, twisting molten beneath him.

Swiftly he straightened, slipped the leather phallus from between her thighs and unfastened his codpiece. His eyes were intense, his mouth tight, a dark flush in his face as he spread her with expert fingers.

A moment later, Margerie felt the smooth head of his cock pressing inside, and groaned at the sensation of warm male flesh after the impersonal phallus.

‘Yes,’ she told him, gripping his strong forearms as he pushed her skirts higher and began to thrust. ‘Take me.’

His smile was more of a grimace. ‘I intend to.’

Virgil bent his head and took her mouth too, drugging her with a long passionate kiss even as his hips worked against her. ‘Yes,’ he muttered too, closing his eyes, his face taut.

It did not take long, a testament to how aroused he must have been when he tensed and drove hard inside only a short while later, groaning out his pleasure. She felt the spreading warmth of his seed inside her, and knew a flicker of fear – once again she had risked the disgrace of a child out of wedlock! – but it was swept aside by the look on his face, still flushed but heavy-lidded now, smiling, a kiss planted softly on her forehead as he withdrew.

‘You see, it pleases me when
you
are pleased,’ he told her, meeting her eyes.

‘I should not have . . .’

She could not finish, the thought slipping away into a wonderful drowsiness. Though part of her knew it was too dangerous to be here, in his workshop, her skirts raised, quite clearly this man’s mistress. Lord Munro would not be pleased if he knew of it, for he had taken her as a mistress, not a wanton who was intimate with other men, and he would not wish to look foolish.

He came back to stand between her thighs, a cup in his hand. He drank deeply, then set the cup down by her head. She smelled the dregs of strong wine, and looked at him, surprised.

‘I was thirsty,’ he explained, then stroked between her thighs, playing the slick tender flesh there for several minutes until she moaned. ‘Do you wish for wine?’

She shook her head, staring at him, breathing hard again, still aroused, her body aflame.

‘For love, then?’ he asked, watching her with that disturbingly intent gaze.

Margerie whimpered, moving to the insistent rhythm of his fingers. ‘But surely . . . you have only just . . .’

His smile was dry, almost ironic. ‘Give me a few minutes more, my sweet mistress, and I swear I will surprise you.’

Virgil studied her wanton figure, skirts around her waist, her thighs apart for him, then leant forward, kissing her exposed breasts, pushed up by the tight bodice and aching for attention. She gasped at the realisation that he was still partially hard, his thick length pressed against her inner thigh, and he gave a throaty laugh.

‘I told you I would surprise you, did I not?’ His lips met hers again, and his tongue slipped inside, tender and provocative at the same time. He raised his head, looking down at her. ‘We have hours ahead of us and more playthings to explore. We have barely started. Wait until I tie you down and make you take me in whatever way I choose. Then you will understand the meaning of pleasure.’

‘Virgil,’ she groaned, and lifted her hips in eager submission.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Let me see,’ Her Majesty said abruptly, and Margerie, who had been kneeling beside her with a mouth bristling with pins, scuttled backwards, head bowed.

Queen Jane walked slowly about the dressing room, then turned to consider her reflection in the narrow glass. ‘The kirtle is too short,’ she pronounced after a moment’s consideration. ‘Make it longer. I will not have the court gawping at my ankles in the dance.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Kate Langley said soothingly, then nodded to Margerie. ‘It shall be done exactly as you wish.’

Margerie knelt again beside the restless queen, refixing the heavy swaying kirtle to a more decorous length. Her fingers worked nimbly over the dark green silk, and with pleasure, for this was her skill, almost her trade. Whatever in life she had done poorly, or failed to do, at least no one could condemn her skill with a needle.

‘And the foreskirt to match,’ the queen insisted.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Margerie replied.

The queen watched in silence as she worked. It did not disturb Margerie, for she was confident in her business. Though she did wonder if her skills were being assessed for a darker purpose, for instance if she was about to be dismissed. The court was rife with gossip about her and Lord Munro – which was precisely what his lordship wanted, to distract attention from his other interests.

Though in truth, she might have visited Lord Munro several times now, and waited in his chamber while he busied himself with his lover, but it was quite another man she was bedding. And she was sore from his relentless passion – and hers.

She had not known a man could reach his peak and recover as quickly as Virgil Elton did. Yet he was not selfish with his powerful lusts, for he brought her to pleasure even more frequently than he came himself, and seemed aroused by her climaxes, seeking them out with his lips and fingers, and the curious playthings he liked to use on her body.

She blushed to remember the visits she had paid him, and the places where they had coupled these past weeks, shameless in their desire until afterwards, when he would escort her back to the women’s quarters without a word, his arm tight about her waist.

Her heart was becoming engaged, and she feared what lay ahead. Each time they met, she wondered when it would end. When Master Elton would cease to send her notes or appear out of the darkness to whisk her away . . . That day must come, for every man eventually tired of his mistress. And she was thankful for that, even as she dreaded it. For to grow so close to a man she could never have was dangerous and foolhardy.

By the window, Kate and the other ladies of the royal wardrobe were laying out a dozen bolts of material for the queen to examine, fresh come from the docks: rich luscious silk to make the mouth water, and stiff taffeta, their colours dark and sombre, for the queen claimed to despise the bright yellows, golds and dazzling silvers once so common at court.

Margerie thought she knew why. Queen Jane was busy distancing herself from her flirtatious predecessor in every way possible. One could never be too guarded with a jealous husband.

‘Leave us, ladies,’ the queen said sharply, without warning. ‘I would speak privily with Mistress Croft.’

Margerie looked up, taken by surprise, then glanced at Kate. Her friend curtseyed low with the other women, then left the room, not daring to meet her eyes.

The door closed softly behind them. The sunlit dressing room was quiet. She was alone with the queen.

Margerie’s heart began to thud with a sickly erratic beat. She remained on her knees, staring up into the queen’s face, waiting to hear her fate with the forgotten hem still clutched in her hands.

Queen Jane indicated that she should rise. ‘The court is not a safe hiding place for a wanton, Mistress Croft,’ she said coolly, looking directly at her.

Heat blossomed in Margerie’s cheeks. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘These past months, I have heard rumours of your association with several gentlemen of the court. Such lewd behaviour does not please me.’

Margerie did not bother to lie or dissemble. Where would be the point? The court was rife with spies. Any one of them would attest to the known fact of her wanton nature.

‘No, Your Majesty,’ she whispered, and bent her head.

What was it to be? A public whipping and dismissal? She would not be the first lady of the court to suffer such cruel chastisement for her lack of chastity. If only it might not come to her grandfather’s ears . . .

‘Look at me.’ Queen Jane’s thin eyebrows arched at the tears in her eyes. ‘Why do you weep?’

‘I am ashamed, Your Majesty.’

‘Dry your eyes. You are not to be punished.’ Queen Jane’s mouth twisted at Margerie’s incredulous look. ‘My family has long been connected with that of Lord Munro, and his lady mother is not . . . not displeased. As long as you keep in mind that you are a royal servant, there can be little harm in it. Only I must warn you to be less forward in your dealings with his lordship. His Majesty found such sport entertaining at first. But his amusement will soon pall, and you would be well advised to learn discretion.’ There was contempt in her well-bred face. ‘If you are capable of it.’

Margerie was tempted to deny the whole thing. But she had made an arrangement with Lord Munro, and she instinctively shied away from breaking her word. If she was not to be punished . . .

‘However, as for your meetings with the physician, Elton,’ the queen continued, ‘these must stop.’

Merciful heavens. How much else was known that she had so foolishly dreamt private?

The queen hesitated, frowning. ‘You are perhaps unaware of that gentleman’s history. But . . .’

That gentleman’s history.

She must mean Virgil’s betrothal. What else? She had never thought his intentions anything but dishonourable. Nor cared, she told herself stubbornly, even as she acknowledged a secret pain in her heart. Marriage was not a state she would ever enjoy – nor be forced to suffer.

Queen Jane walked to the window, the gown dragging on the floorboards, and looked out in silence. Her fingers tapped restlessly on the sunlit sill.

‘Well, his history is neither here nor there. Let it be sufficient that I have forbidden you from pursuing the association. Henceforth you will eschew Master Elton’s company.’

Margerie tried to respond. She was shocked by her own hesitation. The queen had given her a direct command. What was wrong with her? She had known their meetings must end. There was no conflict here, merely a resolution reached more abruptly than she had expected.

‘Mistress Croft?’ Jane turned, her expression suddenly haughty, a still-new queen on her dignity. ‘I have not heard you answer me. But perhaps you did not understand aright. You must no longer associate with Master Elton, or you will face my displeasure. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, Your Majesty.’

The queen studied her a moment longer.

Perhaps the unexpected pain showed in her eyes. With an effort, Margerie lowered her gaze to the level of the queen’s lustrous pearls. She held her breath in the same way she had held the hem, unable to let go.

Queen Jane nodded, seemingly relieved that the problematic conversation was at an end.

‘You may recall the other ladies now. I have changed my mind about the length of this gown. Leave it how it was. I do not think it lewd to be fashionable. I shall take care not to dance to any tune that is not a stately measure,’ she added naïvely, ‘that is all.’

‘Your move, my lord.’

Munro frowned, leaning forward, his chin on his fist. Chess was not his lordship’s natural game, Margerie thought, watching his deliberations. The relentless monotony of the black and white squares defeated him every time. Too harsh a simplicity.

She looked away. It was dark outside, but she had heard the bell toll eleven while considering her own move. Queen takes bishop. An unlikely pairing.

‘Oh, I had forgotten . . . I have a gift for you.’

Her head turned, and she found herself smiling at his lordship. ‘A gift, my lord? For me?’

‘In the eyes of the court, you are my mistress. It would be strange indeed if I did not reward you for your services with a gift from time to time.’ Lord Munro rose and fetched a small package from the bedside. Returning, he handed it to her with a shy smile. ‘I hope you like my choice.’

She unwrapped the package and gasped at the beautiful and costly gold necklace, a rose pendant dangling from a chain, the rose shining with a large single emerald. ‘Oh, but it is beautiful! I love it. Thank you so much, my lord.’

‘Here, allow me.’

She raised her hair while he clasped the necklace about her throat. He stood back to admire the effect. ‘Yes, I was right. The emerald matches your eyes.’

There were footsteps in the corridor. Munro stiffened, looking round, a sudden flush in his cheeks. Someone scratched at the door. He hurried to the door like a servant, then stopped just short of it.

His voice was cautious. ‘Who is there?’

‘Quince.’

A password.

Enthusiastically, Munro opened the door, and gestured the other man inside. ‘Hurry,’ he said, dismissing the impassive servant who had accompanied his visitor upstairs, then closed the door. ‘You were not seen? Not followed from court?’

It was the broad-chested, silver-haired gentlemen she had seen on her last visit here. She ought not to have peeked, she told herself. Then she would not now feel so uncomfortable.

The man shook his head, removing his rain-damp cap and cloak. ‘I stopped and changed my route several times to make sure.’

‘Good, that’s good. Very . . . good.’

The two men stood looking at each other, then Munro seemed to recall her presence.

‘Do you know Mistress Croft?’ he said, grimacing, aware how awkward this moment was for all three, yet persisting with the
politesse
of it. ‘Margerie, this is Sir Thomas Whitley.’