The Greatest Lover in All England (20 page)

“
—Pastures, and—
” Growing bored, she bravely flipped through until she found another she liked. “'Tis a song. We should like this.”

“A song?” Craning his neck, he tried to see what she read, then suggested, “Why don't you sit on a stool
here, where I can see the book?” Today, death had been close. Tonight, he craved her proximity.

She seemed of like mind, for she pulled up a stool and seated herself at his knee. She even leaned against him, warming his leg with her back. He liked the fine, short wisps of hair that grew along her neckline, the tracery of veins that outlined the shell of her ear, the scent of carnation that rose in waves to stimulate him.

How he loved her! He wanted to hold her close, whisper of his love, lie down with her, breast to breast, stomach to stomach….

“'Tis called the song of songs, which is”—she faltered, then sounded it out—“Sol-o-mon's.”

He sat up straight. The Song of Solomon? She'd found the Song of Solomon? He'd always taken pleasure in the proof of such lusty delight in those long-dead patriarchs of the Bible, but to have Rosie read it aloud…Nay, he should not allow it.

“
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine
.” She stopped and stared at the page, then looked up at Tony. “Is that right?”

She wasn't asking if she'd read it correctly, and he ought to stop her.

In a voice warm with approval, he said, “Exactly. Go on.”

She turned the page. “
He brought me to the—
”

He helped her when she faltered. “Banqueting.”

“
—Banqueting house, and his banner over me was—
” She hesitated again, but not because she didn't know the word.

“Was?” he encouraged.

“
Love
.”

The word dropped into the quiet like a pearl into a cup of rich, intoxicating wine. She waited for his reaction, and he whispered, “You said it just right.”

“
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love
.” She turned her head slightly, presenting her profile, and watched him from the corner of her eye. “Does it mean ‘I am sick
with
love'?”

“So am I.”

She turned all the way to face him, her amber eyes wide and softly glowing like heated coals. “I meant…”

He smiled, and he saw the movement of her throat as she swallowed. “Read this,” he instructed, pointing at the page.

“
How much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb; honey and milk are under thy tongue….
”

She paused and when he leaned forward to look at the word, she turned her head. They were nose to nose, and with a little adjustment…but it was a long distance, he reminded himself. A very long distance indeed. If he closed it, he would have leaped, wide-eyed, into the canyon of desire, and he'd already proved himself too weak to leave without tasting every delight.

Her breath, scented sweet with mint jelly, fanned his face. “That reminds me of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your tongue is honey when you speak. You say the most wonderful things.” She looked into his eyes. “As when you told me the reason for kissing was for lovers to get so close they couldn't see their differences.”

“Did I say that?”

“You did. And it works. Like this.” Tilting her head, she closed that very long distance between them. She pressed her dry, soft lips to his.

It was a gesture of trust, and he treasured it, not seeking to deepen it at all. He let her take the lead, willing to let her guide him along the edge of the canyon.

Then she pressed her tongue into his mouth and shoved him off the cliff.

He tried to jerk back, but she caught his head in her hands and kissed him again.

Cotzooks, she remembered every trick he'd used to pleasure her, and she applied them to him without a shred of conscience. She licked and probed at his mouth, matching the rhythm of her tongue with the pressure of her hand on his groin.

How the hell did her hand get on his groin?

He jerked his head back and glared at her. “We can't do this.”

She opened her eyes slowly, and her swollen lips parted in a smile. “I only wanted to express my admiration for your heroism today.” Her hand lingered on his groin, testing the heat and length of him before he picked up her fingers and removed them.

“Are you always so big?” she asked.

“What?”

“You're straining your codpiece.”

He was, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He just wanted to pretend that that part of him in his canions didn't dictate his actions. He could scarcely articulate, but he managed to say, “Read.”

Picking the book off the floor, she opened it again. “Where was I? I can't remember exactly.”

She tapped her lower lip with her finger, and he looked at that lip and that finger, imagining how they would feel on his bare skin. He'd taught her to kiss; had he taught her how to caress with hand and mouth?

“
This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes
.”

He closed his eyes and imagined taking one of her grapes in his hand, in his mouth.

“
I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me
.”

It was. He wanted Rosie so much that when she laid her arm across his lap, his hips shifted to press the length of him against her. Somehow, that part of his body believed he'd gain relief if she touched him—but he didn't. It only made him want her more.

“
Let us get up early to the vineyards: there will I give thee my loves
.”

Making love with Rosie outdoors in the spring. What a fantasy that was. Warm sun on his back, warm Rosie beneath him, and the earth beneath them shaking with exaltation as he planted his seed.

“I like this.”

So did he.

She read, “
Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely
. Tony, you are comely, and the sound of your voice makes shivers run up and down my spine.”

Only one relief existed for his condition, and it was so close. She could hike up her skirts and he could open his canions and she could face him. He could hold her legs over the arms of the chair, and thrust until he'd buried himself deep inside her.

“Tony?”

“What?”

She placed the book on the table and stood up. “Would you mind if I sat in your lap?”

“Do—”

She sat.

“Not.” He grasped her waist to push her off and realized she wore no stiffening at all beneath her bodice.

Laying her head on his shoulder, she said, “I just wanted to be close to you. Today I thought”—her voice quavered—“that you'd been killed. I imagined how lonely the world would be if we could never touch again, and I just want to touch you.”

Her fingers traced the outer shell of his ear while she snuggled closer. And closer. And he discovered she wore no petticoats beneath her skirt.

Except for her gown, she was as good as naked in his arms.

Such a stupid thought! She still wore stockings…didn't she?

He tried to look, but he dared not turn his head, and his rigid neck ached with the effort of stillness. By moving only his eyes, he located her foot, and saw she did indeed wear a stocking. A red stocking. A red stocking which glistened, catching the light.

Where had she located such fine silk? How would it feel beneath his palm? Would it be a short stocking, or a long stocking? Would it be tied at her knee, or would he have to seek the garter closer to her downyshire? And would he wish to remove it at all, or would he prefer to experience the smooth frictions against his arms while he moved her hips up and down, up and down.

Her bottom, warm and lush, stroked him with small restless movements. Her arms circled his neck, and she kissed his jaw. Again he swiveled his eyes, not daring to look into her face for fear he'd have to kiss her, and kiss her, and never let her go.

“Tony, you're stiff all over,” she crooned. “Let me massage you. 'Twill relax you.”

She stood up and Tony experienced the relief of pressure—until his manhood stretched toward her. Then she hiked up her skirt.

The red stockings went to her thighs.

She straddled his knees.

He pushed her off.

She landed with a thump and a cry, and Tony shook his finger in her face. “Don't you know the danger you're courting? If you continue as you are, I'll have
your skirts over your head and your legs wrapped—”

His finger waved too close, and she bit it. He tried to jerk it back, but she caught it in her hands and pulled it back to her mouth—and sucked it.

His heart and respiration stopped. He was aware of only two things; the wet, hot mouth suckling his finger, and how it would feel around his man-root. Then she pushed his hand aside, leaned forward into his lap, and placed her lips there. She blew gently, and the fire fed on her breath and raged out of control.

“That's it.” With his arms beneath her armpits, he jerked her to her feet. “I'm going to—” On tiptoe, she kissed him, and when she released his lips, he said, “Aye, I'll do that, too.”

He picked her up and looked for the bed.

Ridiculous notion. There was no bed. But there was a desk, broad, long, covered with papers. He sat her on a clear corner, and with a sweep of his arm, disposed of everything in their way. He didn't know why Rosie was so insistent, but he hadn't been able to resist her when he'd made the advances. What manner of man could resist when she did?

She laughed quietly when he lifted her skirts. The sound infuriated him. Toy with him, would she? Take control, would she? She'd learned the art of seduction quickly, but he'd been born with the knowledge and, through hours of practice, had mastered each technique. With a stroke of his tongue, he could steal her superiority and reduce her to the same witlessness that affected him. With several strokes of his tongue…he slid her bottom to the edge of the desk and knelt.

“What are you doing? Tony?” She tried to walk backward on her elbows. “Tony?”

He listened for her first gasp when he licked her and chuckled when it came. Then he listened for the frantic
objections, the faint screams, then the swelling moans. He liked it all. He especially liked when she began to struggle against, not him, but herself. He tasted her, he tested her temperature; then he loosened his canions and stood. She clung to the edge of sanity; he pushed inside and drove her over the edge. Her body spasmed around him and, leaning his hands on the desk, he waited until she finished. “Rosie,” he called, and when she opened her eyes, he demanded, “Again.”

“
Sir Anthony!
”

The door handle rattled and Rosie groaned. The rug lent little softness to the floor, the room was chilly, but Tony held her in his arms and she'd never been so comfortable.

“Sir Anthony!”

Tony stirred and his grip on her tightened. “Damn,” he whispered. “'Tis scarcely dawn. Couldn't they leave us alone one more hour?”

The dying fire licked his hair with red highlights and gave his complexion a golden glow. His beard shadowed his chin, but no shadow marred the satisfaction in his eyes.

She'd done that. Last night when she'd come in,
he'd been so serious she scarcely recognized him. Now he was Tony again.

Her Tony.

A few weeks ago, he'd made love to her. Last night, she'd made love to him. It made all the difference in the world to be the aggressor, yet the result was the same. They'd both found pleasure—on the desk, then on the floor, then on the chair, facing each other, with her legs over the chair arms and Tony's hands on her hips. He'd seemed to enjoy that quite a lot, although he assured her that with her, the worst was wonderful.

“Sir Anthony, I beg of you.” Hal's frantic voice hissed through the keyhole. “There's a messenger here. 'Tis from the queen.”

Tony stiffened. “Now?” he whispered, then louder, “Make the messenger comfortable. I hear and come at once.”

There was a silence, then they heard Hal shuffling away.

“Queen Elizabeth must have planned to interrupt,” Tony said.

“She must truly be a jealous woman.”

“For good reason.”

Rosie licked her finger and ran it across his lower lip. He sucked the tip inside his mouth, and she quoted, “
My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold—
”

The truth dawned on him, and his eyes narrowed. “Why, you little snoke-horn.”

“
His locks are bushy, and black as a raven
.” She grinned at him insolently. “Only
your
locks are blond as a finch.”

“I was gently encouraging you, nursing you along, and you weren't reading. You had every word memorized.”

He seemed truly insulted, and she said, “I did read
the words at first, but the Song of Solomon is one of Sir Danny's favorite parts of the Bible. I've heard him quote it to every ladybird he's courted.”

Raising himself, he leaned over her. “I ought to punish you.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she asked with anticipation, “How?”

“By getting up and putting on my clothes.”

Action followed his words, and she sighed in gusty disappointment.

“Serves you right,” he said, plucking one of his hose off the candelabra, one off the bookshelf. “To so deceive me.”

Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around her bare knees. “
His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh
.”

“Flattery will not replace you in my good graces.” He pulled his waistcoat out from under the desk, and his doublet off the rod that supported the tapestry.

“
His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires
.”

Looking down at his flat stomach, he declared, “There are no sapphires on my belly.”

“A little lower, 'tis as hard as sapphires.”

He threw her shift at her head. “Put your clothes on, woman, and stop trying to tempt me.”

Dragging the shift away from her face, she quoted, “
His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars
.” Standing, she slowly shimmied into the shift.

He watched and proved himself ready as a stallion, but he ignored his condition. Undaunted, he found her skirt and bodice stuffed under the chair and tossed
them at her, and she wasn't surprised. Tony might appear to be nothing more than lively and handsome, but she knew without a doubt his loyalties ran deep. He would go when his queen called, and for her he would shed each drop of his blood.

Did his loyalties to his queen run deeper than his loyalties to her? She didn't know, nor did she want to know. Did her loyalty to Sir Danny run deeper than her loyalty to Tony? She didn't know, and she couldn't bear to seek the answer.

As Tony lifted his shirt off the bronze andiron, she realized one sleeve hung in black tatters. It had fallen too close to the fire and smoldered.

He looked at her. She looked at him. She tried to contain her amusement, she really did, but when he glared a snigger escaped her. She covered her mouth, but it was too late. Tossing the shirt away, he donned his waistcoat and doublet, found his canions beneath the edge of the rug and pulled them on.

He held his hose in his fist and glanced around, and she asked, “Looking for these?” She dangled his garters.

“Give them to me.”

“Certes.” She grinned. “When you come and get them.”

His eyes narrowed, and he considered her. “I see I have been led astray by a temptress.” Approaching her with the dexterity of a duelist, he reached for the garters, but she put them behind her back. “A temptress,” he repeated, and caught her around the waist. Smiling, he kissed her. Kissed her until her mind clouded with a fog as thick as the mist outside. As he drew back, she opened her eyes.

“Steady?” he asked, and when she nodded, he snatched his garters and stepped away. His shoes he retrieved from two separate corners of the room, and he watched her suspiciously as he finished dressing.

“You're looking rather rumpled,” she observed.

“Good enough for the queen's messenger,” he answered. Fully clothed, he came to her and lifted her chin. She pursed her mouth and closed her eyes, but he chuckled. “Nay, I can have no more of that this morning, or Her Majesty would have to wait.”

Pouting, Rosie opened her eyes. “Then she'll wait.”

He shook his head. “She was furious when she ordered me from court, and if she sends me a message now, it can mean only one thing. She needs someone she can trust, and she needs him desperately. 'Tis I, Rosie, and I'll go to her at once.”

“You'll do what you must, and I send you gladly,” Rosie said. “But the queen treasures you for more than your reliability, I think. Don't forget to come back.”

“How can I?” He stroked her cheek and pushed back her hair as if he had to touch her. “We were lucky before, but this time you are surely carrying my child. I take full responsibility for the time in my bedroom, Rosie, but I recognize a seduction when I see one, and last night you seduced me.”

“You were in a weakened state,” she said solemnly.

He reared back in indignation. “Weak? Cotzooks, a man would have to be a gelding to ignore—” He saw the twinkle in her eye, and cuffed her softly on the chin. “When we're wed, I promise always to be so weak.” She said nothing, and he said anxiously, “We must wed, and wed before I leave. Will you so agree?”

She thought of her childhood dream—to move an audience to laughter and tears. She thought of her new dream—to possess Odyssey Manor all on her own. Then she thought of the dream she'd never dared to dream—to have a family, a place to put down roots, and a man to grow old with. With Tony, that dream could come true, and in such generous portions she knew her
self blessed. Did she carry Tony's child? She hoped so. She prayed so. And she would marry him regardless.

He must have read her reply in her face, for he picked her up and swung her around. “I'll call for Parson Selwyn at once. We'll wed this evening after supper, and I'll leave in the dawn.” Putting her down, he kissed her hands and walked to the door. “You do me too much honor. And for God's sake, woman, brush your hair. You look like a wanton.”

Her hair? She touched the tangled locks. She stood clad in a shift, and he thought her hair looked wanton?

Opening the door just a slit, he blew her a kiss.

“Wait!” she cried, remembering her other worries.

Looking like a felon awaiting sentencing, he stepped back into the room. “Aye?”

“When you go to London, will you take me with you?”

“Not if there's danger, as I suspect there must be.”

“Is there not danger here, where arrows fly through the air and rocks drop from the sky?”

“Aye, that is why I'll ask my sisters to take you with them when they leave.”

She sucked in a breath of dismay. “Leave Odyssey Manor, and go to some foreign place where Sir Danny cannot find me?”

A strange expression crossed his face, and he looked almost ill. She hadn't been tactful, she realized, but she didn't want to leave Odyssey Manor, not without Tony—because of Sir Danny, and because this place had become a haven. “I'll know no one,” she faltered.

“You'll know Jean and Ann, and I imagine Lady Honora will go, too. You'll meet my brother and his family, and my father.”

Although she understood Tony's concern, she didn't want to go. She didn't want to meet more strangers, be left alone again.

“I would be more at ease,” he said, “if you would go.”

“You must promise me one thing.”

He relaxed. “Anything.”

“You must promise you will find Sir Danny and keep him safe.”

Something changed in him. He seemed intense, quiet, determined. “I had already resolved to do that.”

She thought he wanted to say something else. She waited, obscurely anxious, while he struggled to speak. “In the short time I knew him, I realized how precious Sir Danny is to you. You have the heart of a lion, and if Sir Danny were in danger, I know you would go rescue him.”

“Certes, I would.”

Her fervency seemed to answer a question in his mind, and he said, “I can do no less.” Keeping his hands to his sides, he leaned over her and kissed her mouth. “Lady Rosalyn, you honor me by accepting my proposal. I'll do everything in my power to be worthy of you, to make ours a happy union. Do you believe me?”

She liked the way his hands half rose as if he wanted to pull her close again. She wanted to wipe the troubled expression from his face. She wanted to reassure him of her love. But how did one express love? Sir Danny had never said he loved her, although she knew he did. Uncle Will's characters expressed love eloquently, but somehow she thought she should be original. She struggled to say something, something wonderful, but by the time she'd found the words, he'd slipped out.

She looked at the door until she was sure he wouldn't return, then used the ancient words so many people had used before her. “
His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem
.”

So she was to be married, and married to Tony. Most women would be jubilant, but what did a former actor-gypsy know about marriage? She wasn't jubilant, she was worried.

She laughed softly. Who was she trying to chicane? She
was
jubilant. Singing an off-key, off-color ballad, she dressed in her wrinkled gown and looked for her shoes and hose. She couldn't find either, but it wasn't the shoes that concerned her. She'd found the red silk hose in one of the old trunks she'd explored, and she knew without consulting anyone that they were wicked and likely to tempt a man. Perhaps Lady Sadler had used them to entice Lord Sadler. Perhaps they'd made love in this very study.

She glanced around and shivered.

Spooky, to think of the long dead making love, maybe making a baby…maybe making her.

She shivered again. Silk hose. She wanted her silk hose. They were rare commodities, and were hidden, no doubt, somewhere beneath the papers strewn across the floor. With a sigh, she picked up a pile of papers and set them on the desk. Then another pile, then another. While she worked, she entertained herself by reading a word here, a word there. Then she tried whole sentences, then whole letters.

The urgency of the correspondence captured her interest first. Here at Odyssey Manor, Tony seemed like nothing more than a country gentleman of leisure. But she held proof he was more than that. He was the master of the Queen's Guard, and a man named Wart-Nose kept him constantly apprised of any threat to the safety of the kingdom.

Rosie recognized many of the names of the trouble-makers who roamed the streets. The theater attracted that sort.

But the more she straightened Tony's office, the more she came upon the names of Essex and Southampton. Tony had been watching them before she and Sir Danny had come to the estate, and his efforts doubled after their arrival—after Sir Danny had told him what they'd heard, she supposed. She avidly read the letters containing their names, finding the words difficult at first. Her fascination helped her comprehend more, and quickly.

Since she'd left London, the situation had disintegrated. Essex House proved a magnet for every dissatisfied subject of Her Majesty, and with Southampton's encouragement, Essex himself raged like a madman against the queen.

As the letters became current, she read eagerly, looking for one specific name. Looking for Sir Danny.

And she found him—in Newgate Prison, condemned to death for treason against the queen.

Nay, she must have read the letter wrong. Her skill must be at fault. Sir Danny couldn't be in the Tower. He couldn't be condemned to death. If something so dreadful had happened, Tony would tell her. He wouldn't keep such news from her.

Would he?

Taking the paper to the window, she held it close to her face and slowly read it again. She lowered it and closed her eyes.

It was true. Sir Danny had gone to Whitehall Palace, given up a letter of recommendation from Tony, demanded to speak to the queen, and had been taken by Essex's men. With a little political finagling, Essex had managed to have Sir Danny declared a traitor and condemned to death. An effective way—indeed, the only way—to quiet Sir Danny.