A VERY TUDOR CHRISTMAS (4 page)

Chapter Four

The bride looked beautiful, Beatrice thought as she
stood beside Meg and watched Anne Cecil, now the Countess of Oxford, proceed
into her parents’ great hall on her new husband’s arm. Her gown, white satin
embroidered with gold-and-silver thread twined in a pattern of vines and
flowers, gleamed in the light of thousands of wax candles. Her hair fell down
her back in a tumble of artful brown curls, bound around her brow with a wreath
of pearl flowers. She looked as every bride should, Beatrice thought—like a
fairy princess.

Yet she didn’t even glance up to acknowledge the cheers of the
crowd gathered for her wedding banquet, or the flower petals they showered over
her. She gazed at the floor as she walked behind her parents, holding on to her
new husband’s arm, almost as if she was marching to the gallows.

The Earl of Oxford, however, just as splendid as his bride in a
doublet of white and gold with a pearl-edged cap on his pretty head, waved and
bowed. He didn’t look at his bride with her bent head.

It would not be thus when she married, Beatrice vowed as she
tossed her last handful of petals. Her husband would look only at her. He would
not care if they married at Westminster Abbey before hundreds of courtiers and
the queen herself, as Anne Cecil just had, or if there were satin and pearls or
roasted peacock on gold plate. He would not care if she wed him barefoot in her
shift, for he would want only her. She was determined on that.

As the newlyweds made their bows to Queen Elizabeth, who had
attended the wedding herself and now sat on a dais to watch the feast, Beatrice
leaned forward to see if she could catch a glimpse of Peter Ellingham. As she
had suspected—and hoped—he watched her, too. He was so handsome, so witty and
full of fun, and such a fine dancer. She did so enjoy his company, his pretty
compliments, and his sweet notes and bouquets.

But she was not yet ready to march down the wedding aisle
herself. She was no Anne Cecil to be forced to wed so young. If Peter Ellingham
would but wait a while...

He grinned and waved at her, and Beatrice covered her giggle
behind her hand.

Meg tugged at her arm. “Beatrice, please! What if Her Grace saw
you?”

“The queen is too busy talking to the happy couple to notice
me,” Beatrice whispered back. “Besides, we aren’t at the Abbey now—we needn’t be
solemn. We can have a little fun before the masque.”

The edge of Meg’s lips quirked in a quickly hidden smile.
“Well—just a bit of fun, mayhap. You deserve it after all your good work on the
masque.”

“And so do you, Meg! You have been working so hard of late. You
must promise me that you will be merry tonight, too.” Beatrice clutched tight to
her cousin’s hand. Meg was always so serious, so responsible. She always took
such good care of Bea at court. Meg deserved so much more than one evening of
dancing. She deserved— She deserved...

She deserved a fine prince of her own. A man who saw her great
beauty and would marry her in her shift if need be, just as Bea dreamed of.

Beatrice scanned the gathered crowd, the swirling, bright
kaleidoscope of brilliant silks and velvets, emeralds and pearls. Everyone
watched Queen Elizabeth, the peacock-center of it all in her blue-and-purple
gown, her high-piled red-gold hair twined with sapphires and amethysts. Everyone
but one man.

And he was looking at Meg.

Beatrice studied him carefully. It was Sir Robert Erroll, the
current star of the court who had newly arrived from Muscovy. A tall, handsome,
mysterious man who all the ladies giggled about. Unlike the brilliance around
him, he wore dark colors, tawny and black, his dark hair waving away from a face
even Bea, who was choosy about male looks, had to admit was quite perfect. His
eyes, a glowing blue even from across the crowded room, were focused on Meg.

And Meg, Bea was fascinated to see, pointedly looked anywhere
except him.

Most interesting indeed.

The bridal couple took their seats just below the queen on the
dais, signaling the start of the dancing. Musicians, hidden high on a balcony
above the revelers’ heads, struck the first notes of a pavane as servants moved
through the crowd offering spiced wine and trays of delicacies.

Beatrice saw Peter Ellingham making his way toward her, an
eager smile on his face.

“I suppose you will want to dance with the handsome young Lord
Ellingham now, Bea,” Meg said.

Indeed she did. Peter was an excellent dancer, and one of the
few men who could keep up with her in a galliard or volta. But Bea had a new
mission in mind now for the evening. She hurriedly scanned the crowd looking for
Robert Erroll. He was still watching Meg, a small frown creasing his brow. Meg,
though, still would not look at him.

Bea tried to give him an encouraging smile, nodding toward her
cousin. Maybe she could get him to ask Meg to dance. His frown turned
puzzled.

And Peter was nearly upon her.

“Indeed I do want to dance,” Bea said quickly. “But only if you
will, too, Meg.”

Meg laughed. “You know I don’t often care to dance, Bea. I
enjoy watching others more graceful than me. You go dance, and I will have some
of Lord Burghley’s excellent wine.”

Meg took up one of the offered silver goblets, and Bea tried to
see if Sir Robert had gotten her little hint. He had vanished into the
crowd.

Peter reached her side, bowing over her hand in an elaborate,
courtly salute that made her giggle. “May I have the honor of this dance,
fairest lady?”

“Go, enjoy yourselves,” Meg said. “Just remember we must change
into our costumes soon, Beatrice.”

“I remember.” Beatrice let Peter lead her into the forming
dance. As she took his hand and waited to begin, she whispered, “Do you happen
to know Sir Robert Erroll, Peter? I thought I saw you with him at
rehearsal.”

“Never say I have lost you to him already, fairest one!”

Beatrice laughed. “Of course not! He is so old. He must be all
of twenty-six. But I did see him watching my cousin.”

“Your cousin? Was he?” Peter’s eyes lit with a spark of
interest. He was always up for a fine lark—that was one of the reasons she liked
him. Perhaps he would even help her with a bit of matchmaking in a good cause.
“As it happens, I do know him a bit. His mother is a kinswoman to mine. But I
have only talked to him a few times since he returned to England.”

“He is very handsome,” Beatrice said. “But he seems quite
lonely.”

“Lonely? Nay, he is always surrounded by people in his
lodgings.”

Beatrice remembered the way Robert Erroll had looked at Meg,
with such passion and longing. She shook her head. “What your kinsman needs,
Peter, is a good, strong-hearted wife....”

* * *

Meg carefully slid through the crowded hall to find a
spot near one of the tapestry-hung walls. All around her was music, the patter
of dancing, leaping feet, the rustle of rich silks and satins, the scent of wine
and expensive perfumes. All the desperate energy made her head spin.

She took a goblet of spiced wine from a footman and sipped at
it as she scanned the dancers for a glimpse of Beatrice’s golden hair. Her
cousin was skipping and twirling with Peter Ellingham, the two of them
whispering and laughing together. Bea seemed very well-occupied at the
moment.

And Robert Erroll was nowhere in sight. At least for the time
being, she could take a deep breath. She had been able to avoid him ever since
their kiss in the abandoned hunting lodge. She had almost—almost—been able to
forget it herself.

Meg closed her eyes as she took a deep gulp of the wine. Why,
why did he have to return now, when she had nearly forgotten how foolish she
once was? And why did he have to be even more handsome than before? She didn’t
need the terrible distraction of him in her life.

“Will you dance with me?” she suddenly heard someone say behind
her, his voice low and intimate.

Startled, Meg whirled around to face him. Some of the wine
sloshed from the goblet onto her silk sleeve.

“God’s teeth,” she whispered. “How could you startle me so?
This is my best gown.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” He reached for her hand, his long,
sun-roughened fingers closing around her wrist as his other hand took away her
goblet and handed it to a passing servant. He took out his own handkerchief and
gently blotted at the small stain. “I must speak with you, Meg.”

“Really?” Meg murmured, trying to look anywhere but at him.
Trying not to feel anything at all when he touched her. She wasn’t succeeding.
“Surely we said all we needed to three years ago. It was the merest flirtation,
quickly over.”

His hand tightened over hers. Startled by the suddenness of the
movement, her gaze flew to his face.

His blue eyes were dark as he stared down at her intently. “It
was not meant to be. Surely you knew that?”

Meg was confused. Her memories seemed so clear from those few
precious days they’d had together. He had kissed her and then left for France;
surely that made it a mere flirtation, the likes of which she saw every day at
court. But her feelings from then were so much more mixed-up, like the swirl of
spices in her wine. “I know no such thing. You were a worldly gentleman of the
court, and I was a young girl who knew little but her own home. A fine
amusement. When you hid me from your parents...”

“Because I knew I had to prove myself to you, to everyone. Only
then could I present myself to you properly and honorably. I told you all of
that. I thought, hoped, you were waiting.”

Meg’s confusion grew, and she shook her head. Was he speaking
some foreign language she did not know? For she could barely comprehend his
words. It was like a romantic epic poem of the old chivalric days or some such.
“How could I have known such a thing? Did you think me a mind reader?”

Robert scowled. “It was in the letter I gave your maidservant.
I dared not go to your house to find you.”

“I never received such a letter! When you left without a word
of farewell, I knew I was only a trifle to you.”

“Meg, I never...”

“Meg, we must away to dress for the masque!” Beatrice suddenly
cried, cutting off Robert’s bemused words. Dizzy with confusion now, Meg pulled
her hand away from Robert and spun around to face her cousin. Peter Ellingham
stood just behind her, watching them.

Beatrice’s bright eyes flashed between Meg and Robert. “You
must be the famous Sir Robert Erroll! No one can speak of anything but your
exotic travels of late. I’m sorry to whisk away my cousin, but I will return her
after the masque.”

“And I must show you something very important, Robert,” Lord
Ellingham added. He and Beatrice gave each other strange, secret little smiles,
quickly gone.

Beatrice seized Meg’s arm and drew her away, chattering all the
while about the masque. Meg glanced back, desperately seeking one more glimpse,
one more word, from Robert. What had he meant? What letter?

But he was gone, vanished into the crowd with Peter Ellingham.
And Bea, surprisingly strong for such a sprite, kept dragging her away.

They made their way out of the crowded hall through a doorway
hidden behind one of the tapestries. Beatrice led Meg up a narrow staircase and
down a long corridor, chatting all the time. Occasionally she would pause to
peer out a window, her words slowing but never halting.

As they turned down yet another corridor, Meg had a sudden
suspicion. There were no other people in that part of the house, but she
couldn’t get even a word in between Bea’s laughter.

At last they reached a closed door at the darkened end of the
corridor. “Here we are!” Bea cried. “We must change quickly.”

“Beatrice, what are you...”

Beatrice pushed open the door and shoved Meg inside, cutting
off her words. Before Meg could even spin around and demand to know what was
happening, the door slammed shut. She heard the sound of a bolt clanking into
place and Bea’s light footsteps running away. Only the echo of a giggle was left
behind, and Meg was alone in a dim, windowless chamber seemingly lit only by one
candle.

Fear and anger tangled up in her mind. “Beatrice!” she cried,
banging her fists on the door. “What is the meaning of this? Come back at
once!”

“She won’t be able to hear you,” a voice came from the
darkness. “I fear we are alone.”

Her heart pounding, Meg whirled around to see Robert standing
in the single circle of candlelight, his arms folded across his chest as he
smiled at her.

She was quite trapped with him. Alone.

Chapter Five

“What is the meaning of this?” Meg cried. She was
trying to stay calm and coolheaded, to not show him her emotions at being near
him again. Leaving herself open to him had only wounded her last time. But her
voice came out sharper than she’d intended, and she couldn’t seem to stop
shaking.

She pressed her back to the locked door and stared at him in
the flickering shadows. The candlelight carved his face into stark, elegant
angles and cast his eyes into mystery.

“I think you will have to ask your cousin that, fairest Meg,”
he answered, far too composed for her liking. There was even a hint of amusement
lurking in his voice. “And my kinsman Lord Ellingham. He was the one who led me
here.”

Beatrice and Ellingham, conspiring together in this prank? Meg
almost laughed. It was so silly, if it wasn’t also so infuriating! What could
Bea possibly be thinking? “Why would they do such a thing? Bea is mischievous,
’tis true, but not cruel.”

Meg closed her eyes. Nay, Beatrice was not cruel. So whatever
her intent was in this prank, it was because she thought she was being kind. Had
Meg somehow showed her feelings for Robert to her cousin? She had always been so
careful not to speak of him to anyone.

Yet here they were, together, alone, with nothing but the hurts
of the past lurking between them like a gray ghost. Meg studied his face, so
close yet so far. He was not the beautiful, laughing young man she remembered,
and had cherished so secretly in her memories. He was harsher, darker, with
secrets of his own in his eyes. He drew her to him even stronger than before, in
a way she had never known before.

“It’s been so very long, Meg,” he said roughly. “I thought
about it, wondered how it would be when we met again at last.”

He had thought about her, as she had him? Against her will, Meg
found herself intrigued, curious. “Is—is this how you imagined it?”

He laughed, the rich, deep sound all-enveloping in the small
room. “Not in the least. But you are more beautiful than ever, Margaret. And I
know your tender heart is still in there.”

Suddenly, in one lithe, swift movement, he was across the room
and at her side.

With a rough groan, he dragged her against him and covered her
lips with his. As his tongue slid into her mouth, she met him eagerly, longing
for the emotions only he could make her feel.

No matter how they had come to this strange, unreal moment, no
matter what would come after, she knew she needed him. It had been coming for
such a very long time, and now it was upon them.

His fine velvet doublet had been unfastened, and she pushed it
off his shoulders. It fell to the floor and she slid her hands under his thin
linen shirt to touch the warmth of his bare skin. She wanted more and more of
him.

“Meg,” he whispered. “Are you sure?”

But she didn’t want him to talk. She didn’t want anything to
yet intrude on this dream.

She nodded, and in answer he kissed her again, roughly, nothing
held back. Her head fell back as his tongue plunged deep into her mouth. She met
him with her own bound-up passion, her arms holding on to him tightly as she dug
her nails into his back through his shirt.

He picked her up off her feet and whirled her around until they
tumbled together dizzily to the floor. She was vaguely aware that Beatrice and
Lord Ellingham must have left them provisioned, for they didn’t land on a cold,
bare wooden floor. There were soft blankets piled there, and her foot pushed
over a jug of wine with a metallic clatter. But then Robert was over her, above
her, and he was all she knew.

He tore his shirt off over his head and tossed it away before
he leaned back into her. He kissed her throat, the soft skin swelling above the
pearl trim of her bodice.

“How have you become even more beautiful?” he whispered.

Meg longed to believe him, to believe this moment was real. But
she couldn’t hear his words just then. She wanted nothing to mar her dreams.

“Shh,” she said. Her hand slid along his strong, muscled back,
and skimmed over his hard backside before she traced the band of his breeches
and tugged their laces free. Maiden she might have been but few others at court
were, and she had listened to their chatter about the bedchamber. And she had
imagined just such a moment with Robert for too long.

His manhood sprang free from the fabric confines, hard as iron.
She traced her fingertips lightly over its hot length, and he groaned deeply.
Bolder, she touched him closer, up and down, fascinated by it. By him.

“If you don’t stop, fairest Meg,” he said hoarsely, “I fear
this will be over before it begins.”

Meg laughed, and suddenly everything was wonderfully real. He
pulled out of her arms and stood to hastily divest himself of the rest of his
clothes. Soon he stood before her splendidly naked, his bare skin turned golden
by the candlelight.

“I—I feel rather overdressed now, I fear,” she said.

Robert laughed. “Let me help you with that, then.”

He drew her up beside him and unlaced her fine bodice, her
satin skirts and farthingale. As the garments fell away, she suddenly felt shy,
unsure. She shivered, half-drawing away from him.

But then his lips touched the bare curve of her shoulder, and
the cold uncertainty turned to the fire of need. She trembled as he traced the
tip of his tongue over her skin, as he drew the jeweled pins from her hair and
let the length of it tumble free. His breath caught, grew rough, and she knew he
was as enraptured by the moment as she was.

She lay back in the blankets and stared up at him in the
flickering light. He studied her, too, and she could only hope he enjoyed what
he saw as she did with him. He was so glorious, like an ancient god, and for
that night he was hers as she had dreamed of for so long.

She held out her arms to him and he came to her, kissing her
lips, her neck, her shoulder, the softness of her bare breast, until she could
bear it no longer.

She wrapped her legs around his lean hips and pulled him
against her. His skin was satin-smooth, hot, damp. She traced her eager touch
over his back, his strong shoulders. She pressed her lips to the pulse at the
base of his throat, tasting the salty-sweetness of him. She craved him like she
never had anything else, needed him.

“Meg,” he whispered. He buried his face in the curve of her
shoulder, holding his body taut above hers. “Have you dreamed of this as I
have?”

“Yes,” she gasped, but then she could say no more. She could
hardly breathe as his mouth, open and hot, slid over her skin. He swept aside
her tumbled hair to kiss the shell of her ear.

She felt the rush of his breath, the light bite of the edge of
his teeth on her soft earlobe, and it made her shudder with a lightning-rush of
heat. She arched up into him.

“Do you like that, my Meg?” he said.

“I feel as if I’m falling,” she gasped as the room seemed to
whirl around her.

“I’ll be here to catch you.” His fingertip slid between her
parted legs, tracing her seam before he slid deep into her wet core. And Meg let
herself fall free into the pleasure.

“Please, Robert,” she begged, wanting so much more.

His breath was ragged as she spread her legs farther and
pressed himself between them. His hips drew back and slid forward, and she felt
the stretch and burn as he slid inside her. She gasped at the new sensation, the
fullness of him joined with her at last.

He plunged past her maidenhead and he went very still.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his arms rigid as they
braced against her.

“It’s better now,” she whispered. Afraid he might leave her,
she tightened her legs around his hips to hold him with her.

And it was better. The burning ache faded as her body grew
accustomed to his, leaving only an enticing glimmer of sparkling pleasure.
Leaving only him and her together.

He drew back one slow inch at a time, almost sliding out of her
before he flexed his lean hips and drove deep again.

“Oh!” Meg gasped as he moved again and again, faster, deeper.
That twinkling heat of pleasure grew and grew, expanding low inside her until
every part of her ignited to fiery life. She instinctively learned his rhythm
and met him as they moved together, faster, more frantic.

Behind her closed eyes there were sparks of gold and silver,
shining, burning. She heard a strange humming in her ears, growing louder in a
rising chorus. She cried his name aloud, wanting more and more. More of him.

Then all thought, all sense, flew apart as those sparks
exploded. She felt as if she was soaring free into the sun.

Above her, Robert shouted out her name, his back arching, his
head thrown back in abandoned pleasure. He fell to the blankets beside her,
their arms and legs entangled.

Meg slowly sank back down to earth from the stars. She had
never felt so tired and light—so confused and giddy. She was with Robert now, in
a way she never could have imagined. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow,
or even in the next hour.

But right at that very moment, she knew she was where she
should be.