The Winter Queen (19 page)

He reached the hem of her chemise, lifting it up, dragging it over her silk stockings until he revealed her
garters, the bare skin of her thighs above. His fingertips just traced that line where skin met knitted silk, and Rosamund thought she might snap from the tension, the anticipation. Her womanhood felt damp, aching with heavy need.

And then, at last, he touched her
there
. His fingers combed through the wet curls then pressed forward to circle one aching, throbbing point.

Rosamund cried out, her knees buckling beneath her with the jolt of lightning-hot pleasure. Anton caught her up in his arms, carrying her to the alcove bed waiting in the darkness.

He reached down to draw back the bedclothes before he laid her down amid the linens. As she pushed herself back against the bolsters, propped on her elbows, he pulled off his shirt, revealing his bare chest to her at last.

The candlelight on the wall outlined him in a contrast of shadows and golden glow, his bare, damp skin glistening.

He was well-muscled and lean from exercise, from a life lived outdoors, and his skin had a smooth, olive cast to it, roughened by a sprinkling of coarse dark hair. It arrowed down towards his hose, as if to draw her gaze.

And she did stare. She had to; she could not look away. He was a truly wondrous sight, powerful and beautiful, like a god from his Norse homeland.

He leaned onto the bed, bracing his palms on the mattress either side of her, holding her a willing captive. His head lowered, his mouth capturing hers in a passionate kiss. A kiss that blotted out everything else. There was no doubt or fear, only the knowledge that, tonight, she was his. And he was hers.

He broke their kiss only to draw her chemise over her
head and toss it away with his shirt. Her legs fell apart, and he eased between them, his body pressed to hers. Through the rough velvet of his hose, his penis was heavy and hard against her.

She almost giggled hysterically as she thought surely he would not look like old Lord Pomfrey! Then he kissed her again and any need to laugh, or even think, fled.

She wrapped her thighs around his hips, arching up against him, trying to feel yet more of him. His naked skin against her breasts made her cry out with need.

His moans answered hers, his mouth trailing away to press the hollow just below her ear. His hot breath against her made her shiver, mindless with desire.

‘Ledsen, hjarta,'
he whispered. ‘I'm so sorry. I need you
now.
'

Rosamund nodded, closing her eyes as she felt him reach between their bodies to unfasten his hose. His penis, long and thick, sprang out against her thigh. She was surprised at how it felt on her bare skin, like velvet over iron, at how hot it was, and how thickly veined.

He gently pressed her legs further apart, and she braced her feet flat to the mattress as his fingers slid inside her.

Then his manhood followed, sliding slowly, ever so slowly, against her damp flesh. She tightened her jaw against the stretching, burning sensation, her shoulders tensing.

‘I'm sorry,' he whispered against her cheek, his whole body held taut above her. ‘I'm sorry.'

Then he drove forward and she felt a tearing deep inside, a flash of lightning-quick pain. She tried to hold back her cry but it escaped her lips.

‘Shh,' he murmured. His body went perfectly still against hers. His breath rushed against her skin, as if he
held his power tightly leashed. ‘It will fade now,
hjarta,
I promise,' he soothed. ‘I will make it better.'

He was right. As he lay still, their bodies joined, Rosamund felt the pain slowly fade away, leaving only a tiny curl of pleasure low in her belly.

She ran her hands down his back, feeling the hot, sweat-damp skin over his lean muscles pressing him closer to her.

He pulled slowly back and drove forward again, a bit deeper, and pleasure unfurled. Every thrust, every movement of his body against hers, every moan and sigh, drove the pleasure to greater heights. It was like a brilliant strand of sunshine unravelling inside her, blinding her with its brilliant light, its hot sparks of pure joy.

He suddenly arched above her, shouting out involuntarily as he pulled out of her.

Rosamund hardly noticed. Those sparks had blown into an enormous explosion of blue, red and white flames that threatened to consume her from within.

Then everything fell into darkness. When she opened her eyes, she found herself collapsed back onto the rumpled sheets, Anton stretched out beside her.

His arm was around her waist, holding her close. She turned her head to see that he lay on his side, his eyes closed, his breath laboured as if he too had felt the same wondrous, devastating pleasure as she.

‘Anton…' she said.

‘Shh,' he whispered, not opening his eyes. He just pulled her closer until their bodies were curled together. ‘Just sleep for a moment,
alskling
.'

Rosamund closed her eyes again, resting her head on his shoulder as she felt the cold night air brush over her skin. She would happily sleep for a moment, happily stay just here, in his arms, for all the moments to come.

 

Anton held Rosamund as she slept, listening to her soft breath, feeling her stir against him as the night slipped away from them. The candles sputtered low, and the light at the window was edging from black into pale grey.

Soon, all too soon, he would have to let her go; their magical hours would end.

But they had been magical indeed. Women had always been a large part of his life. He liked them, liked to talk with them, laugh with them and, yes, make love with them. Their minds worked in such wondrously subtle, fascinating ways. He loved to listen to their voices as they sang, loved their perfume, their laughter, their elegance. And they often seemed to like him in return.

Yet never had he met a lady who made him respond as Rosamund did. He found himself so completely fixated on her, wanting to be with her all the time. When she laughed at his jests, his spirits soared. And when they kissed…

He had never imagined he could feel this way about a woman, about anything. Yet Rosamund could not have come into his life at a more complicated moment.

Even with all that faced him—his uncertain circumstances, her position, the dangers at Court—he could never regret finding her. Could never regret the night they had just shared. But he would have to find a way to keep her safe.

He drew her closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. She murmured, her soft skin wrinkling in a frown as if she resented the interruption of her dreams.

‘It grows late,' he whispered.

‘'Tis too cold,' she answered, burrowing closer to him. She laid her freezing feet against his bare leg, giggling when he jumped.

‘I would like nothing more than to stay hidden here with you all night,' he said, and he found he did. More than anything he just wanted to lie there with her in his arms for ever. ‘And then all day, and all night again.'

‘That sounds a wondrous prospect,' she answered. ‘But I don't think I could find enough excuses for such an absence!'

‘Will you be missed for these last few hours?' Anton asked in concern. Would she be caught, just from this one night, because of him and his carelessness?

‘Nay,' she said, shaking her head. Her hair flowed over his chest, a skein of fine silk. ‘Almost all the maids vanish mysteriously at one time or another. And I'm sure Anne will tell some tale for me. She is such a romantic—or maybe just a mischief-maker!'

‘Nevertheless, I never want you to find any kind of trouble,' he said, kissing her forehead. ‘I'm sorry, Rosamund, I should have thought of it before time got away from us.'

Rosamund laughed. ‘We were rather distracted. But I cannot be sorry.' She sat up in their bed, leaning down to kiss him. Her lips were soft, tasting of wine and their night together. ‘Can you?'

Anton wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down on top of him as he kissed her again. ‘Sorry for being with you? Never, my lady Rosamund. You are surely the greatest gift I have ever known.'

She touched his cheek gently, tracing over his skin lightly with her fingertips. Her touch feathered over his brow, his nose, his lips, studying him carefully as if to memorise him. He caught the tip of her finger between his lips, nipping and suckling at the soft skin until she gasped, and he felt his body harden again.

‘I should take you back to your chamber,' he said
hoarsely, reluctant to let her go even as he knew he must.

Rosamund nodded silently. She rolled off him, sitting on the edge of the bed as she reached down for her discarded chemise. The curve of her back was wondrously beautiful, so pale and elegant as the length of her silvery hair fell forward over her shoulders.

He did not resist. He sat up behind her, kissing the soft, vulnerable nape of her neck. She shivered and curled back against him as he wrapped his arms and legs around her, holding her close.

They sat there, bound together in silence, in that one perfect moment that was out of time and belonged only to them. Where there was no duty, no danger, just them—for ever.

Feast of St Thomas, December 29

‘'T
idings true there be come new, sent from the Trinity by Gabriel to Nazareth, city of Galilee! Noel, Noel…'

Rosamund bent her head over her sewing, unable to contain her smile as she listened to the other ladies singing. She feared she must look like an utter imbecile, the way she kept smiling that morning, smiling and laughing at every tiny jest. Yet she could not help herself. That small, warm knot of happiness deep down inside would not be suppressed.

She'd had little sleep last night. By the time she'd crept into her own bed, Anton's cloak wrapped over her half-laced bodice, the other maids had been asleep. Even after she had shed her garments, carefully folding the cloak into her clothes chest, and slid under the blankets she'd not been able to sleep. She kept remembering, going over every little detail, every delicious sensation, in her mind.

She was a wicked woman now, surely? But being wicked seemed entirely worth it! Perhaps she would not feel this way come tomorrow, but for today it seemed she floated on a cloud of delight, of close-held secrets.

Unfortunately, that bright cloud obscured her stitchery. She glanced down to find that her seams were all puckered and uneven. She reached for her scissors, trimming away the thread before anyone could notice.

The Queen sat by her window, a book open in her hands. Yet she did not seem to be reading, for she merely stared out through the diamond-shaped panes of glass. The other ladies, the ones who did not sing, also read and sewed or played quiet card-games, like Anne and Catherine Knyvett.

It was a slow, silent day; the moments ticked away by the crackling flames in the grate. Too much time to be lost in lustful daydreams.

As Rosamund reached into her sewing box for a skein of thread, her gaze met the painted black eyes of the Queen's mother. She seemed to warn of the dangers of being wicked, even over the years. The dangers of trusting men, of putting one's heart above one's head and duty.

But it still felt so very good.

‘God's breath!' Queen Elizabeth suddenly cried, tossing her book across the room. It narrowly missed one of the Privy Chamber ladies, who ducked out of the way before going back to her tapestry.

‘I am bored,' the Queen said. ‘I cannot stay in this room another moment. Come, help me dress! We are going down to the frost fair, and perhaps a sleigh ride.'

‘Your Grace,' Mistress Parry said, her voice tinged with alarm. ‘Lord Burghley says…'

‘Forget Burghley,' the Queen said. ‘Staying cloistered in here will achieve naught. I must be out among
my people.' She threw open one of her clothes chests, tossing about piles of sleeves and petticoats as her ladies rushed to help her.

‘Your Grace, please,' Mistress Parry begged. ‘If you must go out, let us find your warmest garments for you.'

The Queen plumped herself back down in her chair, arms crossed. ‘Be quick about it, then! Lady Rosamund?'

‘Your Grace?' Rosamund cried, startled to hear her name. She leaped to her feet, dropping her sewing. Was she in trouble? Her secrets discovered?

‘Lady Rosamund, go to the stables and instruct them to ready my sleighs. We will depart in an hour.'

‘Yes, Your Grace.' Rosamund made a quick curtsy, hurrying out of the bedchamber.

The Privy Chamber and corridors were crowded with courtiers milling about gossiping, hoping for a glimpse of the Queen, a chance to speak to her, to catch her eye. But Rosamund was accustomed to them now, and dodged swiftly around the shifting groups to make her way down the stairs.

Amid all the people gathered there, between the swirling patterns of bright silks, glowing pearls and the wind-like rush of whispers, she caught a glimpse of Anton.

Her stomach lurched in a sudden jolt of excitement. Everything in her cried out to run to him, to throw her arms around him and kiss him. But everyone was watching, always watching, hoping for a new titbit of gossip about someone. Anyone.

Rosamund bit her lip to keep from smiling, and slowed her steps as she passed him, hoping he would see her and come to speak to her, give her some sign that he, too, remembered last night. That it had truly meant something.

He
did
see her and smile, an exuberant grin that
transformed his solemnly watchful face to youthful radiance. Her heart seemed to skip a beat at the sight, then pounded in her breast.

He excused himself from his Swedish friends, making his way past the crowds to her side. At first, his hand reached out for hers, as if he too longed for their touch. But then he seemed to recall that they were not alone, and just smiled down at her.

He looked so very handsome in the light of day, his dark waves of hair smoothed back to reveal the amethyst drop in his ear. The gold-embroidered high collar of his purple-velvet doublet set off his olive-com-plected skin perfectly, and he was every inch the consummate, cosmopolitan courtier.

Yet she recalled how he had looked last night as they'd kissed goodbye outside her door—his rumpled hair and sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. The way their lips had lingered, their hands clinging together. How wonderfully beautiful he was.

‘Lady Rosamund,' he said, his voice low, caressing. That voice, with its faint touch of a musical accent, its velvety texture, seemed to touch her as his hands could not. ‘How do you fare this morning?'

‘Very well indeed,' she answered. She gazed into his eyes, trying to send him her thoughts, her feelings. To convey all that last night truly meant. ‘I hope that you are the same?'

‘I have not seen a finer day yet in England,' he said. ‘Perfect in every way.'

Rosamund laughed happily. ‘I think Her Grace agrees. We are to visit the frost fair, then go for a sleigh ride along the river.'

‘Indeed? A sleigh ride sounds most delightful on a such a perfect day.'

‘But perhaps commonplace to you? You must use such conveyances often in Sweden.'

‘And a taste of home would be welcome.'

‘Then I am sure the Queen would be happy to see you there. Perhaps we will meet you at the frost fair?'

‘Perhaps you will, Lady Rosamund.'

She curtsied as he bowed, still trying to hold back her exuberant smile, her laughter. She hurried on her errand, but could not help glancing back over her shoulder.

He still watched her.

 

The frost fair was truly an amazing sight. As Rosamund walked with the other maids between the booths, she feared she was gawking like a silly country-maid. But it was all too easy to be continually distracted by the sights and smells.

The booths, peddling everything from ribbons, embroidered stockings, gloves, spiced cider and warm gingerbread, were hung with bright pennants. The streamers of red, green and white snapped in the cold breeze, blending with the cries of the merchants, the laughter of the shoppers.

On the wide lanes between the booths people skated past, dodging around the strollers and gawkers. Beyond were sleds and sleighs, even people on horseback using the frozen river as a new kind of road.

It was very crowded, noisy with merriment that was a welcome respite from the hardships of such a cold winter. No one even seemed to notice the weather, especially as Queen Elizabeth came among them.

One would never have guessed that there had been any danger of late, any darkness hanging over the Queen's holiday celebrations. She went into the crowd
of her subjects with a warm smile and happy words. She accepted bouquets of fresh greenery, a goblet of warm cider, kneeling down to speak to one shy little girl.

Rosamund observed the faces of the people who gathered around, all of them shining with joy to see their Queen, awestruck, hopeful, thrilled. As if Elizabeth was made of some winter magic. It was inconceivable in that moment that anyone could want to hurt her, want to mar that golden aura that surrounded her and touched all who looked on her.

No one even seemed to notice the extra guards who surrounded their little procession, who kept such close watch on the exuberant crowds and held their pikes and swords ready. Lord Leicester, especially, stayed close to the Queen's side, scowling at any who dared edge too near.

At one moment Elizabeth turned to him with a smile, tucking a sprig of holly into the fastening of his doublet. ‘Do not frown so, Robin,' she murmured. ‘It is Christmas!'

He smiled back at her, and in that moment Rosamund glimpsed something profound. The Queen looked at Leicester as she herself looked at Anton. There was such tenderness and longing in their smiles. How could she be trying to marry him off to the Scottish queen?

Master Macintosh seemed to feel the same. He fell into step with Rosamund as they continued on their way, and she saw that he too watched the Queen and Leicester, frowning.

But he just said, ‘'Tis a fine day, is it not, Lady Rosamund?'

She gave him a polite smile, not entirely trusting his sudden friendliness. ‘If you like ice and chilly winds, Master Macintosh.'

‘In Scotland, my lady, this would be a balmy summer's day!'

‘Then I am glad I don't live in Scotland.'

‘You do not enjoy the winter, then?'

Rosamund remembered Anton skating on the ice, and their warming kisses amid the frosty woods. ‘Winter does have its own pleasures, I think. But spring has many more. Sunshine, green things growing…'

‘Ach! You English are a delicate lot,' Macintosh scoffed.

‘Not all of us, I think,' she said. ‘Some of us seem most eager to travel to your windswept country, Master Macintosh. Lord Darnley, for instance.'

Macintosh's expression seemed to close, even as he still smiled at her. ‘I understand he wishes to visit his father, who is in Edinburgh.'

‘So I hear. It is very touching that family affection can overcome even the rough weather you speak of.'

‘Indeed so, my lady.'

Rosamund remembered Celia emerging from the Scots' apartments, walking with Lady Lennox. Perhaps she was also intrigued by the Scottish weather. ‘And surely there must be others among us frail English you have found to be hardy souls?'

‘Well, there is you, Lady Rosamund.'

‘Me?' She shook her head. ‘I fear I am the least hardy among us.'

‘Oh, I do not believe that, my lady,' Macintosh said. ‘You seem filled with many—hidden depths.'

‘Yes?' Rosamund said warily. ‘My family would disagree with you. They think I am as shallow as can be.'

‘Nay. I would say you are more like what lies beneath this ice under our feet,' he said, tapping at the bluish-silver ice with his boot. ‘Swirling winter tides.'

‘I am a simple female, Master Macintosh. I want
only what everyone wants—a home, a family.' And freedom to gain what she desired with no danger.

‘And you think to find that here at your Queen's fancy Court?'

‘I think to do my duty here, until I am needed at home again. It is an honour to be asked to wait on the Queen,' Rosamund said, even as she knew very well that was no longer true. She did not want to go home. She wanted to stay close to Anton for as long as possible. No matter the perils.

‘So, Lady Rosamund of home and hearth,' Macintosh said, again all teasing smiles. ‘What do you think of Court life?'

‘I like the fashions very much indeed,' Rosamund answered lightly, holding out her velvet skirt. ‘And I have heard that your Queen Mary is most stylish. Tell me, Master Macintosh, is she as tall as they say?'

They went on to speak of inconsequential matters of fashion, but still Rosamund could not quite erase the sensation that Master Macintosh wanted something from her, some nugget of information about Queen Elizabeth and her matrimonial intentions for Queen Mary. She would have to be even more careful of everything she said in the future, to be always cautious. It was easy to forget that, but she could not afford to.

Once they had walked round the whole fair, stopping to admire the wares at the various booths and watch the skaters, they all made their way back to their transport. The Queen's sleighs waited for them, piled high with blankets and furs, the horses' bridles jingling with silver bells.

As Rosamund watched Leicester hand the Queen into the grandest sleigh, the one at the head of the procession, Anton appeared at her side. She did not see him at first, but she knew he was there. His warmth seemed
to surround her; his clean scent carried to her on the cold breeze like a spell.

She smiled, closing her eyes to imagine that she hugged his very presence close to her.

‘My lady,' he said. ‘Will you join me?'

‘Of course,' she answered, turning to face him. She was quite sure she would join him wherever he cared to lead her, come what may. He held out his arm, and she slid her hand atop his woollen sleeve, resisting the urge to cling, to run her fingers up his arm to his shoulder and plunge them into his hair, to pull him close for a kiss. She had to remember her resolve to be careful, to be wary of the eyes of others.