Until You (18 page)

“You’ve had your eye on my lady’s Annie,” Glenkirk said. “She’s a respectable lass, Dermid, and her mistress would be most distressed if you treated her badly.”

“Oh, nay, my lord! No man will ever treat Annie badly. She’d lay them out, she would, if they tried. I’m thinking of courting her, for there is none at home who pleases me as well. She’s got a good temper on her, does Annie. She’ll make fine bairns for a man. I’d even be willing to stay in England for her.”

“If she loves you as well, Dermid, she will come home to Glenkirk with you,” the earl said. “But there is time before either of you must make such a decision.”

Dermid nodded. Then he went to fetch what he would need to shave his master, and after returning quickly, he set to work removing the growth of dark beard, streaked here and there with silver, that the earl had grown in the last few weeks. When he had finished, he said frankly, “Well, you look better without a beard than with one, my lord. Younger by far, I’d say.”

Patrick winced at the remark. Dermid had meant nothing by it, but it was a reminder of the years that separated him and Rosamund. He arose from the table, and thanking his servant, went into his bedchamber. Stripping off the drying cloth, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe. He was still lean and hard of body despite his years. He knew men far younger grew flabby, but he had not. His hair was yet dark, though here and there he saw silver. He had all his teeth, and none were rotting. His gaze was still sharp, and his appetite for Rosamund’s fair body grew with each passing day. He was, he knew, still a very vigorous lover. Turning, he looked for the hidden door that would connect their chambers, and finding it, pressed the lock, and when the door opened, he stepped through into the next room.

She lay dozing again, the graceful curve of her back to him. He realized how difficult a journey it had been for her, though she had never once complained. She had removed her cloth and was as naked as he was. He lay down next to her, and she murmured softly as she felt the bed sag.

“Patrick?” she said.

“Nay, ’tis the king of your heart,” he told her, and she rolled over into his arms to face him. He gave her a slow, sweet kiss.

“That is nice,” she whispered against his mouth when he had broken off their embrace. “I have missed the leisure of laying in bed with you, my lord.”

“Is that all you have missed?” he teased her. The touch of her, the fragrance that emanated from her lovely body, excited him. He was shocked by his body’s swift reaction to the mere touch and smell of her. “My God!” he said quietly.

Rosamund laughed softly. “I am as bad as you are, my darling.” Reaching out, she caressed his love rod. “I am more than ready, Patrick. I shall surely die if you do not put yourself into me now!”

He complied, finding her hot, wet, and indeed very ready to receive him. He had barely begun the rhythm when he felt the head of his manhood drenched by her love juices. Now it was he who laughed. “Rosamund! Rosamund!” he groaned against her ear, and his own juices burst forth to flood her womb. “I need make no apologies, sweetheart,” he told her. “And now that we have satisfied our lust, we shall begin anew, slowly, slowly until you are weeping with your satisfaction.” He withdrew from her.

She sighed happily. “I have missed our passion so very much, Patrick. Forgive me for my eagerness, which was but matched by yours.” She propped herself up on an elbow and stared down into his face. “I love you so much, my lord. I regret we cannot make a child together.”

“So do I,” he told her, and he drew her down so that her auburn head was against his broad chest. “Are your daughters like you, Rosamund?”

“Philippa and Banon are said to favor me, but not Bessie. She is her father’s lass. He was a good father, Owein Meredith. You were a good father too, I think.”

“I tried,” he said. “If loving my son and daughter was being a good father, then aye, for I loved them both well. Janet’s loss broke my heart. Yet now that I am here again with you, it is different, sweetheart. I remember that time, but it somehow does not seem so cruel to me anymore. We tried to get her back, you know, but we could not.”

“You have never told me what happened,” Rosamund said.

“The long and the short of it was she was kidnapped by slavers and sold in the great market of Candia for a large sum of money. She was young, a virgin, and very beautiful. My son, Adam, still seeks for her, despite the years that have passed. He is determined to find her, though she may be long dead. I do not know. She is lost to me.”

“I am sorry,” Rosamund told him. “I think it is better to know that someone is dead than to not know what has happened to them.”

“You know that I love you, don’t you?” he replied, changing the subject adroitly.

“And you know that I love you,” she answered him, understanding that he did not wish to speak on the subject of his daughter any longer.

“I shall have Celestina make you a wardrobe to suit a princess,” he said. “You cannot meet the duke until you are properly garbed. I am so proud of you and of your beauty that I would flaunt you, Rosamund.”

“I am not beautiful,” she protested. “Perhaps very pretty, but surely not beautiful.”

“If another woman demurred so,” he told her, “I should think her being coy, but not you, my darling. However, I find you beautiful, and so will the duke. He has a roving eye, Rosamund, so beware of him. He will charm you as he does all the lovely women who cross his path. He has been widowed for years, but is content to remain so.”

“As you have been,” she teased him. “You widowers do not dupe me. You love being able to flit among the ladies like a bumblebee among the flowers.”

“Buzz! Buzz!” he harried her, nuzzling the soft hollow between her neck and her shoulder. “I am your bumblebee, my darling, and like the bumblebee, I wish to make love to my beautiful English rose.”

Rosamund giggled as his tongue tickled the whorl of her ear and a frisson of a shiver rippled down her spine. “Will you sting me, Master Bumbles?” she asked mischievously.

“Indeed, madame, I will, for I have a rather large stinger just waiting to dip itself deeply into your honey pot,” he growled in her ear. His tongue licked at her shoulder and then slowly climbed the column of her slender throat. “You taste delicious,” he said softly.

She stretched her full length before him, and he lowered his dark head and began to draw his fleshy tongue over her offered body. Rosamund closed her eyes and relaxed in the feel of the warm wetness, which was followed by the warm breath from his nostrils cooling her moist flesh. His head moved slowly, for he did not miss an inch of her skin. He licked at her breasts and suckled upon the pointed nipples, then lower across her torso, sliding across her taut belly, finding the soft insides of her thighs, which he spread without resistance. He opened her secret place to his view, his tongue touching her with the most delicate and exquisite finesse.

“Oh, Patrick!” she half-moaned. “Yes!”

The marauding tongue lapped at the pearlescent juices that dappled the rose flesh. It found the core of her womanhood and began to harass it with just the tip of his tongue. He was becoming dizzy with his burgeoning lust and the hot scent of her.

“Don’t stop!” she begged him. “Oh, God! ’Tis so wonderful, my love!”

“You are a wanton,” he groaned, unable to help himself. She was open to him, and he thrust his tongue into the cave of her sex, pushing it as far as he could, using it as he might his manhood, hearing her whimper with her need for more.

Rosamund was almost mindless with the pleasure he was giving her. She wanted to give him pleasure as well. When he raised his body to cover hers, she pulled him forward so that he was kneeling over her breasts. Reaching out, she drew him closer until she was able to draw his manhood into her mouth. Tugging on it gently with her lips and tongue, she heard him moan. She held him steady so she might lick the length of him, run her tongue about the fleshy tip, lap the pearl of his juices.

“Enough!” he finally groaned, and he loosened her grip so he might enter her body in another way. She wrapped her slim legs about him and helped him to thrust deeply into her eager and waiting body. He almost wept to feel her love sheath tightening about him.

“Yes!” she whispered fiercely. “Yes! Dear heaven, how you fill me, Patrick!” She ached with the sweetness he offered, and her arms drew him as close as they could.

She was tight. She was hot. She was an endless delight of which he could not get enough. He thrust and withdrew. Thrust and withdrew, moving slowly at first, and then as their desires burgeoned, his rhythm increased, as did hers. He heard her low keening and his own groans of satisfaction. His head was spinning. He felt her sharp fingernails raking down his long back and swore softly at her, his fingers closing hard about her wrists and forcing her arms up where she could not damage him again. “Bitch!” he growled against her mouth.

“Devil!” she hissed back, and then she screamed softly as her body was convulsed with a series of shudders. “Ohhh, Patrick,” she sighed.

His own completion met hers, and he flooded her with his juices. “Rosamund! Rosamund!” he half-sobbed.

They lay together until their breathing became slower and softer once again. Reaching out, he took her hand in his, kissing each finger as he did. Rosamund closed her eyes and sighed, well satisfied. She knew, as she had known from the moment their eyes met, that this passion they shared could not be forever, but for now it was wonderful, and she would not think about tomorrow. If she died in her sleep tonight, what they had was more than enough. She reached out lifted the hand holding her, and kissed it. Then she placed it on her heart. Neither of them said a word. Words were not necessary.

They slept, awaking a while later to a tentative knock upon the bedchamber door.

“Yes?” Rosamund called.

“Master Pietro has come to say the seamstress will be here in half an hour, my lady,” Annie called.

“We will be ready for her,” Rosamund called back. She poked her lover gently.

“We have to get up, my lord, and wash the scent of our lust away. The tub will be cool now, but it will suffice.”

They went back out upon the terrace, and to Rosamund’s surprise the water was not at all icy, for the sun had kept it lukewarm. She and Patrick climbed into the oak vessel and quickly bathed again. She had forgotten to pin her hair up, and the tips of it were wet when she exited the water. She dried herself quickly and then dried Patrick as well.

“Well, I have a chemise to wear,” she said, “but what will you wear? Not that Signora Celestina hasn’t already seen what you have to offer, my lord,” she taunted him.

He chuckled. “Dermid has had Pietro find me some haut-de-chausses and hose, and I have a shirt. I shall be more than respectable when I meet with Celestina again.”

“Then go and dress, my lord, so we may at least give the impression of respectability,” she told him.

He nodded and walked back into her bedchamber and through the door into his own quarters.

Rosamund looked for the saddlebag and found it on the floor by the bed. Opening it, she pulled out a lace-trimmed chemise. It was clean and of excellent quality. She put it on and then sat upon the edge of the bed to brush her hair out and braid it up neatly. She was eager to wear a gown again.

She heard voices in the dayroom beyond. Then came a knock upon her bedchamber door, and Rosamund opened the portal and stepped through into the dayroom. At the same time, the Earl of Glenkirk came from his bedchamber. The large woman with the black hair and black eyes ignored Rosamund and shrieked as she saw the earl.

“Patrizio! Santa Maria be blessed, for I never hoped to see you again!” She flung her arms about him, enveloping him in a suffocating hug.

Patrick was hard-pressed not to burst into laughter. This was Celestina after eighteen years. He remembered the seductive, sulky-mouthed girl who had become his mistress all those years ago. He managed to squirm from her embrace, and taking her by her broad shoulders, he kissed her firmly upon her red lips. “Celestina! Santa Maria, there is three times as much of you to love now!” Then he set her back. “You have changed little, cara,” he told her.

“I’ve changed a lot,” she said with a hearty laugh. “For every bit of flesh I have put on my bones I have put as much in my purse, Patrizio! I have six children, as well.”

“And how many husbands have you buried, cara?” he teased her.

“Husbands?” She burst into laughter. “Who has time for husbands, Patrizio?”

Now her gaze swept across the room and lit on Rosamund. “This fair little girl is your latest mistress? We will have to feed her, for she does not look as if she eats. Does she speak some language with which I can communicate with her?” They had been speaking in Italian.

“French, Celestina, but speak slowly, cara. And do not attempt to cheat her. She is the owner of a large estate, which she manages herself, and quite successfully.”

“Scotch?” Celestina inquired.

“English,” the earl replied. “And your father has explained to you that I am here privately to visit my old friend, the duke. You will not gossip, cara, eh?”

“There is an English ambassador here now,” Celestina said, gauging his reaction.

“I know,” the earl replied, “but Rosamund would not be anyone of importance that he should know about. She is not connected with the royal court.”

Celestina nodded. “Madame,” she said, walking across the room to Rosamund, “I have brought a gown that will serve you until I can make you a wardrobe.” She was now speaking French.

“Thank you,” Rosamund replied. “May I see it?”

“Maria! Quickly!” She called to the young girl accompanying her.

The gown was brought, unwrapped from its covering, and displayed. It was pale green watered silk with a very low neckline and full puffed sleeves trimmed lavishly in ecru-colored lace. The seamstress and her helper spread the gown over a chair.