FLAME OF DESIRE (10 page)

I may as well have taken religious vows, he thought angrily, for my body has been forced to be as celibate as has Roderick’s own. What a cruel jest life had played upon him.

And now to find the woman he had dreamed about, only to have to turn away from her. If only he had not crawled through her father’s window that night, had not waited to light the lamp, had not gazed upon her beauty, had not kissed her, perhaps then he would not be suffering this agony which was far more painful than his wound. That she seemed to feel the same about him was added torture. He had seen the spark of  attraction in her eyes. How could he extinguish it without breaking her heart and his as well?

Hearing the loud tread of footsteps, he turned his eyes toward the door. “How you be feeling?” The man named Harold Perriwincle stood in the room. He had tended Richard faithfully and for this, the dark-haired man was grateful.

“I fear I won’t be dancing any jigs for a while,” Richard answered, “but I do feel better than I did last night.”

The old man’s eyes were kind as he smiled his toothless grin. “Bloody shame it is, you being wounded and all. London is going to ruin, I say. Too many people. Not like the old days.” He seemed to lapse into memories of days gone by. “Too much violence.”

“Times are changing. With the enclosure of lands by the wool merchants, I fear there are many who would soon starve if they did not flock into the cities. We cannot begrudge them, my friend.”

“No, I suppose not,” the old man answered. “Still, it breaks me heart to think of what is happening. Bloody shame. Bloody shame.” He reached into a large box nearby and came up with a bottle. “Got a surprise for you. This will heal you right proper. ‘Tis a present from Mistress Heather.”

“A bottle of ale. You sly devil, you.” At the sight of it, Richard’s throat felt dry. Heather had given him many potions of drink, but he knew well that this would heal him more readily. He eagerly accepted the gift, somehow wanting to feel the oblivion this brew could render.

Periwinkle poured the drink into two mugs and offered one to the man who lay before him. He liked this man. This was the kind of man he had fought with in the old days. A man of honesty and courage. Just the right man for Mistress Bowen. It would be good to see her married off and far away from that pinch-penny father of hers. But what if this man already had a wife? That would be the rub. Clearing his throat, crossing his fingers, he asked, “Is there a loving wife at home who will be worrying her head about you?”

Richard took a swig of the drink, feeling the molten fire trickle down his throat. “A
loving
wife? No,” he said in bitterness. He drained the mug in an instant and held out the cup for another mug full.

Perriwincle smiled. So this Richard Morgan was free. Cocking his eyebrows, he resolved to do everything in his power to see the two of them thrown together.

“Has she returned yet?” Richard asked, feeling the warmth of the ale course through his blood. His face was ravaged by worry, which did not go unnoticed by Harold Perriwincle. He smiled in approval. He was not wrong, then; this man did have an eye for the mistress and perhaps cared a mite more than even he knew.

“Don’t you worry about Mistress Heather. She is more than a beautiful face. I don’t know where she went off to, but I know for certain that she will be back soon. You have my bloody word on that.”

Richard Morgan tried to stand up. He had to go after her. He had to make certain that she was all right. His knees buckled under him and he cursed aloud in his defeat.

Harold Perriwincle was beside him in an instant. “I don’t think you be going anywhere.” He helped his patient to sit back upon the rough, hard bed. “Tell you what. If the mistress still be gone at the tolling of the last bell, I’ll go out in the wagon. On that you have my bloody word.”

His promise soothed Richard Morgan, who leaned back upon the bed. Usually ale gave him stamina, but tonight it seemed to loll him to sleep. Closing his eyes, he soon was snoring much to Perriwincle’s amusement. Tiptoeing out of the stable loft, the old man closed the door.

Heather opened the creaky wooden door and stood looking down at the man on the bed. Her gaze wandered over him, capturing the memory of his muscular strength nestling close in her arms. A feeling of anticipation overcame her, a pleasant vision of years together that they would share. She felt that her life was just now beginning, that she had never lived before her encounter with him.

“Heather?” Richard’s eyes opened as if aware of her scrutiny. “You’re back!” His joy at seeing her was plain upon his face, and she smiled.

“Of course I’m back. Did you think otherwise?” Heather was in a teasing mood. The success of the afternoon had gone to her head like Richard’s mug of ale.

“Then it is done. The letter is in Lord Vickery’s hands?”

“It is done,” she whispered, relating to him quickly all about her entry into the Tower, Northumberland’s anger with the new queen, how she had quickly sought out Lord Stephen Vickery, the kiss, her own fright when she thought she would be punished for being caught in a lie of having been summoned by the queen.

All the while she spoke, he looked at her. Surely dressed in that blue gown, the French hood perched atop her dark red hair, she looked as regal as any lady of the court. Lord, what a beauty! He could nearly imagine in his mind’s eye the scene she related to him, could see the proud tilt of her chin as she stepped forward. He had never seen her dressed like this before. Always it had been the shapeless dresses and gowns she wore, or her loose chemise, but now he could fully appreciate her loveliness, could see the outline of her tantalizing breasts. Round, high, firm, they seemed to invite his touch. He found himself wanting to see the rest of her, to strip away those full skirts and view what lay beneath. The hot ache of desire sparked within him and it was all he could do to fight the urge to reach out for her. Tearing his gaze from her, he sought to control his baser urge.

“And so all went as planned,” he said. “Not only do I thank you, but Mary Tudor will do so as well.” He sat up quickly, too quickly. Reaching up a hand to his head, he fought off the dizziness which consumed him.

Heather was beside him in an instant, offering her arms to steady him, assailing him with the beguiling scent of roses which came from her hair. Her hands reached out to touch him, to caress him, and that touch was his undoing.

“God’s blood. What are you doing to me?” His fingers closed around hers, all reason and caution gone from his mind. “Are you a witch, to so cast a spell upon me?” His eyes seemed to devour her, hypnotize her.

As she stared into his eyes, Heather’s heart began to hammer at the glitter of desire she read there. She found herself remembering the firm gentleness and pressure of those warm lips against her own. Without any awareness of what she was doing, she leaned toward him, the soft material of her gown tightening across her breasts as she did so, making him aware of their tempting allure.

With a groan he dropped her hand and reached for the soft swell of her breast, caressing it with gentle, exploring fingers.

“I’ve wanted to touch you like that for so long. Since first I saw you.”

Heather shivered with pleasure, remembering another time he had touched her breasts, that time that he did not remember. “And I to have you touch me.”

They moved together into an embrace as he kissed her, her mouth opening under the pressure of his as the kiss deepened in intensity. The kiss had the taste of ale and was just as intoxicating as she was caught up in the tide of their passion.

He pulled her with him to the hard bed, ignoring the pain that blazed in his shoulder. For a man once so close to death, desire had given him sudden strength. He was completely ruled by his emotions, as all his resolve, his vow not to touch her, was swept away in the tide of his passion. All thought of Edlyn and his married state was gone from his mind. He only knew that Heather was beside him and that he wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman. She was lovely and tempting and warm. Since that first night in her father’s storehouse he had wanted her.

He clasped her in his arms, and they lay side by side, he tugging at the hem of her gown and cursing the stiff farthingale, she hurrying to remove it and toss it aside. His muscles strained against the softness of her curves as they continued to drink of each other’s kisses. Heather gave herself up to him, feeling as dizzy as Richard Morgan had only a moment before.

“Heather. Lovely, lovely Heather,” he breathed. His fingers parted the neck of her gown and he reached inside her bodice to feel the warmth of her, stroking and teasing the peaks of her breasts until she moaned low and whispered his name just as he had whispered hers. She yielded to his hands, those hands that searched out the secrets of her woman’s body.

Richard Morgan was on fire. Sliding his hand up the smooth velvet of her thigh, muffling her moan of protest with his lips, he reveled in her softness, seeking the petals of her womanhood.

Heather stiffened slightly, unprepared for the touch of his fingers upon her legs, that part of a woman that must never be seen. Despite her desire, she began to struggle against his questing fingers, looking at him with questioning eyes.

Richard Morgan stared into those eyes, green eyes now, filled with a vulnerability that caused him shame. Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he pulled away from her, embarrassed at how quickly he had lost all self-control. At the realization of what had nearly happened, he felt self-disgust. She had saved his neck when Northumberland’s cronies were after him, had saved him from an untimely death, had nursed him, had even taken on his duty to bring forth Mary’s letter, and he had come close to repaying her by stealing her virtue with nary a second thought. If she had been a tavern wench, one used to men before, it would have been a different story, but well he knew her to be an untried maiden. Her reaction to his bold touch was confirmation of his premise.

Heather saw the dark look which swept over his face and wondered at the cause. Did he think her the wanton? Was he disgusted by her lack of constraint? What had she done to cause such a sour look?

The silence grew between them as each was tortured by doubts and shame. It was a long while before she could bring herself to look at him, and her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “Are you in pain?”

“No,” he answered, all too quickly, looking at her then turning away again. She was meant to wed a handsome young man who would cherish her and bring forth many children from their union. He could not offer her marriage. His love would only bring her shame.

“Richard….” She called out, but he did not look at her. She reached out to him but he recoiled at her touch, knowing well that he could easily be again consumed by her nearness. Turning his back upon her, he lay upon his hard bed and closed his eyes. It was as if happiness beckoned to him, only to taunt him all the while.

“Richard…” she whispered again. His eyes met hers for only a moment, then quickly glanced away again. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, why he had pulled away from her, but the words stuck in her throat.

At last she said, “You are tired, so I will leave you for now. If you want me or need anything, Perriwincle will be nearby.” Her eyes swept over him as she donned her farthingale.

He didn’t answer. All his strength and passion seemed to have drained out of him with the realization that she could never be his.

Heather fought against the pain his rejection aroused in her as she stood up and walked toward the door. She wanted him to call her back, ask her to stay, but he did not and she realized that she had best hurry into the house. Surely her father would already be angered by her long absence and perhaps her mother as well. Casting a glance at the figure on the straw bed, she hastened away.

Chapter Twelve

Sitting amid the stack of ledgers and logs, Heather felt like a condemned prisoner. How could she concentrate upon sums and numbers when every fiber of her being longed to be with Richard Morgan? Closing her eyes, she remembered every word they had exchanged, every gesture, the way he had kissed and caressed her. Why had he suddenly changed toward her? What had she done to make him suddenly stiffen and draw away from her? Was it because he had been in pain?

Over and over again in her mind she sought out every detail, finding herself blameless of anything that might have angered or offended him. Had she been too free with her affections? Did he find her shameless to so abandon herself to their passion? Or was she just being too sensitive and foolish?

And there was another matter which plagued her mind. What would happen when her father learned of her bold entry to the Tower? That he would be livid with anger, she was certain. What if her impetuous actions brought forth punishment upon her father’s household? What if Stephen Vickery were found out and under torture told all, implicating her in the delivery of the letter? At the thought her hands shook so violently that she dropped the quill from her fingers.

“Heather!” Coming up behind her, Thomas Bowen nearly shattered any shred of composure that Heather could maintain.

Turning to look at him, her gray eyes wide, she saw him reading a letter and she thought at once that the time had come when she would be forced to answer for her deeds.

“Yes, Father. What is it?” she managed to ask.

His round red face broke into a broad smile. “A miracle, daughter, that’s what. Didn’t I always say that there would come a time when I would be rewarded for my labors?” He thrust the paper in front of her eyes, tapping it with his stubby fingers. “See this! An order for cloth from our new queen herself. Imagine that.”

Heather took the letter from her father’s hands, scanning it quickly. She wanted to laugh aloud, to tell him that he had her to thank for his good fortune, but she held her tongue, fearful that to do so would raise too many questions. There was still Richard Morgan to think of. Although under her watchful eye and tender care he was regaining his strength, she still could not risk his being discovered hidden away in the stable.