Venus (46 page)

Nick had received no communication from the outside world, the governor apologizing for orders that prevented this. Neither had he been permitted to send any—even instructions to Margaret as to domestic financial arrangements. De Winter would see that Polly lacked for nothing, of that he was certain, but nothing could assuage the aching fear for her, the desolation of his utter helplessness, He could feel her, smell her, see her, hear her. He could remember, as if he were still living them, the times when she had angered him, exasperated him, then disarmed him; the times when she had entranced him, had transported him to the outermost limits of joy, had brought him laughter and delight such as he had never known. And he wanted to weep with a loss that his prison walls seemed to insist was final.

“Lord Kincaid?” The ponderous tones of the governor tore him from his reverie.

“Governor, your pardon. I find myself somewhat distracted.” He turned from the leaping flames and the dancing memories, putting his back to the fire as he greeted courteously the man who held dominion over his immediate circumstances. “Ye’ve some news of the impeachment, mayhap?”

“On the contrary, my lord.” The governor was beaming. “A messenger has just come from Whitehall with this.” A parchment was extended, the smile broadened. “I’ll be sorry to lose your company, sir, but I can rejoice for ye.”

Kincaid read the order under Buckingham’s seal for his
release, and the dismissal of all charges, stated or yet to be so. “Why?” he asked softly. “It defies comprehension.”

The governor had no light to shed and, indeed, could not understand why his noble erstwhile prisoner should tarry in questioning. He gestured to an accompanying guard. “Your sword, Lord Kincaid. The carriage awaits you in the court.”

“Then I’ll thank you for your courtesy and your many kindnesses, Governor.” Nick sheathed his sword, feeling himself whole again, belonging to his own world again; the two men exchanged bows. The governor accompanied Nick to the court, where he entered the same unmarked carriage that, this time, bore him beyond the walls of the Tower, into the familiar streets of freedom.

Polly’s wrists stung under the kiss of hot water as she sank into the tub before the bedchamber fire. The sensation brought the most unwelcome thought. “Sue, can ye see any marks on my skin?” She stood up in the tub, dripping, peering down at her body. Buckingham’s sport had caused her no worse than occasional discomfort, but she had not had the foresight to worry about a telltale finger bruise, or a scratch of haste and passion—signs that a chaste and lonely seven days should not have put upon her body.

Sue had been given no details of the nights’ events; she knew only that they had something to do with Lord Kincaid’s disappearance, and it was a secret to be kept guarded with her soul; but she was worldly enough to make a guess at the nature of Polly’s nightly experiences—experiences that sent her, each morning, into hot water, scouring every inch of skin, before she fell into an exhausted sleep for an hour or two. So the request did not cause any exclamations.

Sue examined the slender figure carefully. “Ye’ve a little bruise on your arm, a scratch here.” She touched beneath a pointed shoulder blade. “Naught else that I can see.”

“Apart from my wrists.” Polly sat down in the water again, examining the slightly reddened skin. “Mayhap witch
hazel will help. ’Tis not too bad, but my lord must not notice.”

“My lord!” Sue dropped the soap that she was about to hand the bather. “Is he released, then?”

“I expect him at any moment,” Polly said with perfect confidence. Even Richard had said that a Villiers would not break his word, and somehow, she knew that she had lost her fascination for Buckingham now. He had wanted her, and he had taken what he wanted, proving to himself and to her the extent of the power that she had scorned. He had used her and could now discard her, a cast-off whore of no further interest. He would find fresh challenges, and leave Kincaid and his little actor-harlot to their own devices.

It was a prognosis with which Polly could find no fault. She was perfectly content to leave Buckingham in possession of the field, if that was what he chose to believe. He had thought to debase her, but he had not succeeded. She knew that, and it was her own knowledge that was all-important. It mattered not a jot what the duke thought.

But it might matter what Nicholas thought. Polly sank deeper into the tub. She could not imagine how Nick would react. Would he, as Richard said, treat it as pragmatically as he had their plan that she should spy for them from the duke’s bed? Or would he see her as debased? A plaything of that notorious debauched wencher? Used and discarded, and therefore unlovely and unlovable?

A loud banging at the street door resounded through the house. She heard his voice, his quick tread on the stair, and all such anxieties fled for the present. He was safe, and that was all that mattered.

She sprang from the tub, running into the parlor, to fling herself, naked and dripping, into his arms as he pushed open the door. “Nick! Oh, Nick!” she sobbed repetitively against his chest, holding him with all her strength, clasping her hands at his back, squeezing tightly. “I have missed you so!”

For a few moments he just held her, saying nothing as he allowed the feel, the shape, the scent of her to become a part of him again; then, gently, he prized apart her hands at his
back and stood away from her, holding her arms wide at her sides. “Let me look at you.”

“But I am all wet,” she hiccuped on a half laugh, half sob.

“Why should that prevent my looking at you?” he teased, the emerald eyes devouring her with the hot flame of need, until she thought she would dissolve into his gaze.

“I said it would be a mistake and you would come back,” Polly whispered, realizing that she must make some comment about this return that was supposed to be a surprise.

“Aye, so you did.” He pulled her back against him, running his hands down her back, cupping her buttocks, pressing her against him. “I do not know what the devil has been going on, but I intend to discover.”

Polly arched backward to look up at him, although her lower body remained cemented to his. “But you might stir the waters again,” she objected on a ring of anxiety.

“If I do not know what lay behind it, love, I’ll never be sure it will not happen again,” he pointed out, kneading the firm, rounded flesh beneath his hands. “Nay, some game is being played, and I must discover it. ’Tis possible Richard will have some inkling. Have you seen him?”

“Yes, every day,” she said, sliding her hands beneath his coat again, feeling the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. “Must we talk of this now? I have been so afeard for you.” She pressed her lips against his chest as her fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt.

“I have not been entirely sanguine, I’ll confess,” he said, his fingers raking through her wet hair. “Why do you bathe at this early hour, moppet? You are not accustomed to doing so.”

“I have been unable to sleep, and I thought it might refresh me,” she extemporized, reflecting that it was not entirely an untruth. “But what of you? Have you breakfasted? Will you bathe, sleep—”

“There is but one thing I wish to do,” he interrupted, a changed note in his voice, a purposeful smile playing over his lips. “And I shall not be able to do it, foolish jade, if you
catch an ague, standing around in your wet skin on a bitter winter’s morn.”

“My joy at the sound of your voice would not admit of such mundane considerations,” Polly returned, with a haughty sniff. “And I take it mighty ill in you, my lord, that you should find fault when … Ouch!”

“Cease your railing, shrew!” Nick swept her up into his arms, the gem-bright eyes laughing down at her mock indignation. “I had thought, after such an absence, to woo you with soft words and tender kisses, but it seems you’d liefer have a tumbling match!” So saying, he strode with her into the bedchamber, tossing her unceremoniously onto the bed.

Picking up the towel that Susan had left beside the bath, he set to work on Polly’s wriggling body, rubbing her dry until her skin glowed and the blood ran swift in her veins. Laughing and squirming helplessly beneath the hands that lost no opportunity to explore, tickle, probe, that tossed her and turned her as if she had no more resistance than a straw doll, Polly thought of those other hands that had rendered her as helpless as these were doing. But here she was helpless with pleasure, in thrall to the magic of one who knew and cared how to pleasure her. There was no comparison, even if the fundamental act had been the same. She let the thoughts and images slide away from her, sloughed like an outworn snake’s skin.

“Have I missed anywhere?” Nick mused, hovering over her, towel still in hand.

“I think you forgot my toes,” Polly responded, wriggling them invitingly. “They are all damp ’twixt and ’tween.”

Nick grinned. He knew well how sensitive were Polly’s feet. “How remiss,” he murmured, slipping an arm beneath her knees and sweeping up her legs, circling the narrow ankles between thumb and forefinger.

“No!” Polly squealed as his tongue licked along the sole of each foot, stroking into the high-arched instep. “Oh, you know I cannot bear it!” She thrashed wildly on the bed as the delicious torment continued, and he took her toes into his mouth, suckling on each one, his thumb massaging her
heels and soles, setting up a chain of sympathetic reaction all over her body. It was as if every nerve in her feet was connected to some other part of her. Finally exhausted, she ceased her struggles and protests, abandoning herself to the wickedly skilled arousal, the slow sensitizing of each nerve and pleasure center.

“Monster!” she whispered, defeated by delight.

“You asked for it, my love,” he replied in perfect truth, smiling, still holding her legs as he looked down on her flushed face and heavy eyes, the rise and fall of her breasts in response to the thudding of her heart and her swift breath. He moved his hands to the insides of her legs and slipped slowly down their length, spreading them wide as he caressed the tender satin of her inner thighs, approaching with tantalizing delicacy the throbbing cleft, while Polly lay, breathless in expectancy, poised for the touch that she knew would send her surging over the edge to which he had brought her with such demonic knowingness.

Her eyes implored him, her tongue ran over her lips, her body became as molten wax, a formless puddle on the featherbed, centered only on that nerve-stretched apex. Hot tears of near unbearable delight scalded her cheeks. The muscles in her belly tightened, sending little flutters across the surface of her skin; and then, when there seemed nothing in the world but the tension of expectancy, he touched her.

Her body leapt as if beneath a burning brand, and she thrummed like a string of a plucked lute. It was as if, after an eternity of denial, she had been given back what she had lost. The loving touch of bodily joy, the turbulent plane of ravishing bliss were hers again.

“Come to me, love,” she whispered, “inside me,” desperate in her urgency for the fusion that would make them both whole again.

Nick stripped, careless of buttons and hooks in his haste, then he gathered her against him and, as she lifted her hips, pressed deep within her. Her body closed around him, holding him within her silken toils; he exhaled slowly, smiling in
soft satisfaction. “Such honeyed delight, love,” he whispered, bending to kiss her eyes. “Velvet and honey, you are.”

“No spice?” she murmured. “Such a concoction sounds a trifle sickly.”

“There’s salt enough upon your tongue to add savor to marchpane,” he said. “Shall I punish you for that?” Slowly, he withdrew to the edge of her body.

“Quarter, my lord,” she begged. “Indeed, ’twas a thoughtless impertinence.” Her legs curled around his hips, pulling him toward her again.

“To respond to compliments in such fashion is, indeed, impertinence,” he said gravely, tightening his buttocks in resistance against the pressure of her heels.

“I crave pardon, and will accept any penance except this.” Her hips arced as her heels increased their pressure, and Nick chuckled, yielding with a show of reluctance.

Then the laughter died from his face, and his eyes burned into hers. “As you love me, sweetheart, do not move. I would have you with me, but one wriggle and I shall be lost.”

She smiled. “And I would have you lost. I shall be with you, never fear.” Slowly, she tightened her inner muscles around him, saw his face dissolve with joy, tried to keep at bay her own tempest the longer to enjoy his pleasure; and then was engulfed herself.

“God’s grace, but I have missed you.” Nick opened his eyes, his heart slewing against the still rapid beat of the one below. “I have missed being angered by you, as I have missed being entranced.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, the cleft of her chin. “Tell me what you have been doing this sennight.”

“Apart from worrying?” Polly asked, feeling her heart race again, a light sweat misting her palms. Stage fright, she told herself sternly.

Nick frowned. “You look worn to a frazzle, love,” “’Tis nothing, now that you are back. I could not sleep, and there has been the playhouse … Oh, what is the
time?” She sat up in a panic not entirely feigned. “We are to rehearse this morning.” She sprang to her feet.

“Is there a play this afternoon?” Nick rolled off the bed, since clearly the moment for softnesses and cuddling was past.

“Nay, but tomorrow we are to perform Master Dryden’s new play,
Secret Love.
’Tis monstrous funny in parts. Melissa becomes Master Florimell.” She struck a pose, beginning to mime the combing of a full peruke. “‘Save you, Monsieur Florimell! Faith, methinks you are a very jaunty fellow.’”

Nick laughed at the absurdity of her naked femininity and the very masculine swagger she produced. “Does Edward play opposite you?”

“Aye, as Celadon, my lover. ’Tis very awkward, as he challenges me to fight at one point.” She twinkled mischievously.

“And how does the fair Florimell avoid such a happenstance?” he asked, much amused, and no longer aware of the signs of strain that he had noticed a minute ago.