Rose Bride (40 page)

‘And the babe?’

‘I fear only time will tell, my friend.’ Virgil leant on the bed, breathing harshly, his head bowed as he realised that the crisis was over. ‘We must pray for both their lives, and keep administering a few drops of this foxglove tea every six hours, to strengthen her heart.’

It was raining in the narrow lane as it reached eleven of the clock, the church bell tolling in the distance and a chill September rain falling that seemed to mark the end of summer. The hedgerows were still richly woven with flowers though, the tall white and purple spikes of foxgloves thrusting upwards from their dark pendulous leaves, all the heavy-headed grasses bent over with seed. Above his head, starlings were already dancing in black swarms over the meadows and woodlands, ready to fly away to some warmer clime. His eyes followed them in silence.

Coming to the familiar ramshackle buildings at Applegate, Virgil climbed wearily over the damp stile in the rain, and jumped down into his grounds. He was so exhausted, he had no memory of stumbling through the garden and entering the house until he found himself swaying at the bottom of the stairs, hair curling wet and unkempt, cap in hand, half-asleep where he stood.

‘Virgil?’

He opened his eyes. It was Margerie, swollen-bellied in a rich green gown, at the top of the stairs. She was in her time of confinement and could not leave the house, for fear the babe should come.

He looked up at her longingly. He had barely spoken with her since his return home, every nerve in his body bent towards making sure of Christina’s return to health. Now he could think of nothing but burying himself in his wife’s body, of forgetting the fear that had driven him here from court . . .

Vaguely, he became aware of others watching him too. His steward and housekeeper standing in the doorway to the kitchen, both staring. His mother standing beside him, a hand on his arm, tugging at his sleeve in distress.

‘Speak to us, Virgil, please speak to us,’ his mother was sobbing, her face stained with tears. She crossed herself. ‘Is poor Christina dead?’

He wondered then how long he had been standing there, silent and unmoving, deaf to his mother’s pleas.

‘No, no,’ he managed hoarsely, and drew a hand across his own face, finding it wet – and not just with rain. ‘The fever broke. She will live. I came back because . . .’

But Virgil found he could not continue, staring up at his waiting wife. He handed his rain-damp jacket to his steward, Hayes, spoke a few words of comfort to his weeping mother, then took the stairs two at a time.

Margerie welcomed him into the darkened bedchamber and shut the door against the world. Her red hair had been plaited loosely and lay over one shoulder in a homely fashion, her green eyes searching his face anxiously.

‘My love,’ she whispered, and then he was kissing her fiercely, pressing her towards the bed.

They lay together in the shadowy room, her vast rounded belly between them, kissing hotly, tongues playing against each other, his heart beginning to race.

‘I want you,’ he muttered against her throat.

‘The baby—’

‘It will not harm the child,’ Virgil told her confidently, then found her mouth again, teasing along her lower lip with his tongue. She gasped and he smiled. ‘Indeed, I know several respected court physicians who swear by this method.’

‘Method?’

‘Of bringing on a speedy birth.’

Her eyes widened, then she was laughing. ‘Virgil Elton, you are making that up!’

‘No, I promise you.’

He raised her green skirts, his hand tracing up her thigh to the soft curls between them. Margerie whispered his name, so he pushed a finger inside her snug heat, then two fingers, stroking in and out, his mouth on hers, persuading her to sport. He ought to have been too fatigued to make love after nursing Christina back from the brink of death, yet something deep inside was urging him on towards this intimacy, this moment of ultimate closeness, as though to remind him that he too was alive.

Her hands were busy too, reaching for his codpiece. After a moment’s play, he rolled onto his back and let her work unencumbered. He watched her with a smile. His heavily pregnant wife, his one-time mistress, infamous wanton of the court of Henry Tudor – and yet utterly innocent at this moment, wrestling with his codpiece, her reddened lip caught between white teeth.

‘Let me,’ he said, and brushed her hands aside, freeing himself in an instant.

‘Well, you cannot blame me if I have forgotten how,’ she said sotto voce, looking at him from under lowered lashes, ‘when you have not come to my bed for months.’

‘Master Greene refused to release me before now.’

Her eyes darkened, and he realised belatedly that she thought he had only returned to attend Christina in her hour of need. Not for the birth of their child.

‘Virgil,’ she whispered. ‘There is something I must tell you before—’

‘Speak then.’

‘It is not her fault, for I pressed her, but Christina has told me of your childhood. How your stepfather beat you when you visited her house against his orders.’

‘Hush,’ he said, shutting his eyes against that painful memory. ‘I do not want to speak of that. Not now, in our bed. Those days are done, Margerie, they are in the past. Let old injustices lie there and be forgotten.’

‘Forgive me,’ she murmured, watching him.

‘You have done nothing wrong. It is I who need to beg your forgiveness. I have not been a good husband.’

Her smile did not deceive him. ‘Then perhaps you should make amends,’ she said teasingly, but he could see from the shadows in her eyes that she was still unsure of him, careful not to reveal her true thoughts and feelings.

‘Margerie . . .’

But suddenly his wife was kissing him again, her tongue slipping into his mouth, and the moment was lost in a flood of desire.

He undid her plait, playing with her hair until it fell in a soft red cloud about her shoulders and down her back. He dragged down her gown until her breasts were exposed, bigger than ever before, white and swollen with tiny blue veins, her nipples soon stiff and erect in his mouth. She writhed beneath him, gasping and begging for more, and he smiled at her passion, taking her hand and placing it on his cock.

‘Get me ready,’ he ordered her, and her green eyes widened at his command, hungry and intent, eager to be dominated even when she was heavy with child. Now his cock was freed from its trappings, her fingers moved there skilfully, stroking and squeezing, soon bringing him to full erection.

‘Virgil,’ she murmured, staring down at him. There was a deep flush in her face. He thought she had never looked more beautiful, swollen with child and hot-cheeked, her lips glistening wetly from their kisses.

My wife, he thought deeply. My wife.

Then she knelt, smiling at him, bent her head to his groin, and drew him into his mouth.

His head fell back and he groaned at the wet slide of her mouth down his shaft. My wanton, he thought. God’s blood, my sweet wanton.

He let her play him with her mouth awhile, then, panting, he pushed her away. ‘Mount me,’ he said curtly.

She knelt over him, hoisting her gown up, open-mouthed, her eyes like green lightning. Then he felt her against him, wet and tight, sliding down his length, encasing him like a glove, unbearably snug.

His hands bunched the covers, and he arched his back, moving with her.

It was too much, he thought wildly. Too much. Margerie rode him, and he moaned low in his throat, taking her heat, the weight of her pregnant body. He remembered the starlings dancing in the sky, and the aching need built inside him, inexorably.

It had began to rain more heavily outside. Pattering now, rattling the shutters. The earth in the pasture would be turning to mud soon. Sticky and wet. She cried out, a strangled noise, and his hands came to her hips, moving her faster, faster . . .

They were joined together in the shadows, riding together, rising and falling, gasping and crying, the light in the distance growing closer and closer. Suddenly the world was spinning faster. She snatched at the air, her strong thighs bunched, working hard on his cock.

Her back was sweating, her breasts taut and tingling, and still she rubbed back and forth, falling into the good rhythm, the one that kept her labouring because she could not stop, because even the ache of tired muscles was pleasurable.

Rain drove against the battered old shutters. Margerie hissed too, every inch of her skin alive to his touch, his male scent, throwing her head back, hair tumbling. He caught it in his hand, twisted red strands between his fingers. She was lost, pumping on his cock, so hungry and feral, she felt like a wild cat, caught in her oestrus. His cock caught the fever too: thickened and lengthened inside her, she could feel the broad head swelling out her lips.

She brought him to the wet edge, then sank back down, taking him all the way with her.

‘Margerie,’ he growled.

Her fingers found the tiny moist bud just above where she was taking him inside. She rolled it, then pinched herself, crying out, enjoying how his thick organ stretched her walls.

Clearly impatient, Virgil groaned with frustration. His hands lifted her, then brought her down, a series of short hard thrusts, impaling her mercilessly, pumping to his own rhythm. ‘Christ,’ he bit out, blaspheming.

She knew what he was feeling because she was feeling it too. Her fingers pinched, rubbed at herself. She cried his name, ‘Virgil!’, her body abruptly exploding with heat. Pleasure shot up her spine, and she shook with it, utterly taken over, still riding but only by instinct. Then she collapsed on top of him, suddenly no longer able to hold herself up, her legs weak and trembling.

There was a dark flush in his face, sweat on his brow. He forced her up again, taking her full weight, grunting as he continued to slam into her, his hips jerking up into hers. His lips were drawn back in a grimace, his hands tirelessly lifting her up and down as though his forearms were made of iron.

Suddenly he thrust deep and held her still against him. He gave a great cry, and came, pumping his seed into her body.

‘Margerie, oh my love, my love,’ he gasped.

His hands slipped up her back, dragging her forward over him. He continued to cry out even after his climax was done, gripping her compulsively.

‘Oh God,’ he sobbed, his whole body shaking, and she realised he was weeping. ‘I love you.’

Margerie turned her head and kissed her husband, their mouths meeting warmly, tenderly.

She had not dared to hope he would ever admit it aloud.

‘I love you too,’ she whispered, and her heart was singing like a bird.

They woke some hours later, still tangled together in the darkness, loose-limbed and drowsy. The rain was falling more softly now, a low rhythmic sound that lulled them. Virgil forced himself to slip out of bed and kindle a fire, filling the chamber with flickering light, then he undressed properly. He joined her in bed again and helped her disrobe, his hands gentle and confident with her swollen body.

He could not quite believe he had wept as he climaxed. Him! Master Elton, always so controlled, the one in charge. He did not know the meaning behind it, but he had never experienced such joy and unutterable love as he had felt at that moment, joined with his wife in sweet release. Now he felt so close to Margerie, as though he could say anything to her, do anything with her, and still be loved.

It was a wonderful and yet unsettling feeling. He would have to make love to her like that many times, he thought drily, before he grew accustomed to it.

Lying beside her again, both of them comfortably naked, Virgil buried his face in her hair. ‘I am going to have to attend Christina while I am here. She is still weak, but I hope her health may improve now that I have found a possible medicament for her condition.’

‘She is with child, do you know?’ Margerie whispered.

He nodded.

‘She has been so happy this summer,’ she whispered. ‘But afraid too. She fears she may die before the child can be born.’

‘I will do my best to avert that tragedy,’ he said firmly.

She stroked a slow hand across her own large belly. ‘Sometimes I am afraid too, Virgil. He kicks so hard some nights. What if my body does not understand its task when the time comes? What if I am not strong enough to push him out?’

‘Him?’ He smiled wryly, then shifted down the bed, laying his cheek against her hard belly. ‘Or
her
. You need not be afraid, my love. You will not be alone at the birth. The midwife will instruct you what is to be done. And I shall be there too, and help you push.’

‘You?’

‘Do not sound so shocked,’ he said drily. ‘I am a doctor, you know. And Master Greene has given me permission to stay until you have been brought to bed. The queen’s own child is not due until next month, and I have a strong feeling our child will make its appearance long before October.’

She lay very still. ‘
Our
child?’

‘
Ours
, yes.’

Virgil closed his eyes, enjoying the hard warmth of her belly against his cheek almost too much to stay awake. It was a while before he spoke again, for he was drowsy and content.