The Mer- Lion (35 page)

He laughed. "Perhaps you'd rather I come to yours."

He took her by the elbow to lead her off, but she pulled free. "Don't even think of it."

"Then, it's settled. My room. Within the hour?"

"Keep your voice down, damn you," she hissed. "And don't hold your breath. I shan't be coming."

"Then, I promise I'll come search you out. And I'll make such a row 'twill wake even drunken Henry up."

She stopped again and stared at him speculating. "You wouldn't?" She corrected herself. "You would. Even if it were a sentence of death, you'd do this, wouldn't you?"

He took her hand in his and smiled, the teeth gleaming against his tanned skin. "I would. As to my death sentence, how long do you think I can wear this tabard?" He raised her hand to his lips, and entreated, "Anne, it's important. I must talk to you. Tonight."

"I don't know. I'll think on it Now, let me be."

He raised his voice so that the curious would make no mistake: "My lady, I shall deliver your message of good wishes to my master, James of Scotland, immediately upon my arrival in Scotland. And if I see you not tomorrow before I leave, I wish you well."

She was taken aback. "You leave so soon?"

He nodded, then doffing his hat to reveal that thick silvery hair, he bowed and was gone, leaving her to stare after. Although she had known he must not remain in England long, womanlike she had avoided thinking on it Now, faced with fact, she alternated between hurt and anger. How dare he make his plans without consulting her? How dare he be so matter of fact? How dare he leave her? That settled it. It would be she who sent him away, regretting every step he took, desiring nothing but his return to her. And she knew just how to accomplish this.

CHAPTER
14

Slowly, silently, the string tied to the latch tightened and drew taut, the bar-latch itself rising in response. Fionn, awakened by the first faint footstep outside the door, eased himself, dirk in hand, out of the bedroll placed strategically against the door. Alerted by Fionn's movements, de Wynter carefully slipped sword from scabbard and hid it among the bedclothes. The candle he moved noiselessly closer to hand, to be doused if need be. Then, he leaned back against the bolsters and pretended to read. He and Fionn had rehearsed for assassins and would sell their lives only dearly.

Although de Wynter reclined, feet crossed, apparently relaxed, his. nerves were taut, his muscles tightened; catlike he could be up and first to strike the unwelcome visitor. He watched warily as the bar came free and the door moved inward. It stopped, blocked by Fionn's bedroll, then was forced open. Only the rustle of Anne Boleyn's skirts saved her from Fionn. De Wynter collapsed back on the bed and laughed with relief.

⁴
'Oh, it's only you." Ignoring the lackey as he restored dirk to sheath, she shoved the door closed behind her and leaned against it.

"Whom were you expecting, the Queen of England? Or had you forgotten you invited me?" De Wynter rose in one lithe move from the bed.

"Quite the contrary," he said. "We thought you had forgotten the invitation. Come in and welcome."

She ignored that, just as she ignored Fionn. "What an ugly room."

Compared to her own lavishly ornamented state apartment, it was. The walls were plain whitewashed brick, the floor covered with rushes, the window of bad glass undraped. There was no armoire, de Wynter's clothes hung from pegs in the wall. There was no fireplace, no chest, no chair, no stool, no bench, no place to sit. Only a bed in the center of the small room. Without waiting for further invitation, Anne Boleyn crossed the room and appropriated it, sinking deep into the featherbed mattress. De Wynter made do with the high but narrow windowsill; and Fionn, without being told, gathered up his bedding and slipped from the room, carefully pulling the latch closed behind him. A niche down the way would shelter him as he kept watch the rest of the night.

Neither Anne nor de Wynter seemed eager to breach the silence. She fingered the fine hangings of the bed with their Mer-Lions rampant embroidered all over. Thick and draft-proof, the silk inner and wool outer drapings were not in keeping with the rest of the room, nor were the featherbeds and quilts and pillows that made up the bedclothes.

"My mother's doing," de Wynter answered her unspoken question. "She insisted if I were to starve because of bad English food, I must at least sleep well."

"A considerate woman, your mother. I think I could like her."

"Eventually. I wager you'd both begin by hating one another though. Of course, there's only one way to be certain. Come back to Scotland with me."

"James, we've been through this before. Nothing is changed. And if that be the important matter you intend to discuss, I shall take my leave now." But she made no move to get up. Quite the contrary, she leaned back, bracing herself on outthrust hands, brazenly thrusting her bosom forward. With every breath she took, he became more conscious of it. She was dressed like a linen maid, in simple drawstring blouse, linsey-woolsey skirt and floor-length apron. But she invested even this commonplace outfit with elegance. Working her fingers within the covers, she drew back with an oath, her finger cut on the razor-sharp edge of de Wynter's sword. He was off the windowsill and by her side instantly, all contrite apologies.

"It's nothing," she said, attempting to hide the hand in her skirt. His hand would not be denied, and she was forced to yield hers up first for his inspection, then for his kiss upon the small cut. Then another.

"My mother taught me this, too," he said. "It speeds the healing."

When she made no move to pull away, he kissed the cut still
a
third time
...
then the tips of each of the other fingers, his hps lingering finally on that small fingerlet she normally tried so hard to conceal. His head bowed solicitously over her hand, his lips began retracing their path, gently mouthing each sensitive fingertip, until her lips grew envious of her hand.

But here, within reach of her hand, was his thick, lustrous mane falling over his forehead in waves of silver gray. She could imagine its soft silkiness. Without thinking, she reached out, one finger lighdy tracing the curve of a wave. The slightest of caresses,
a
butterfly's touch, yet he felt it and looked up. Like Anne with her sixth finger, he normally hated to have his hair touched, but tonight was different. Tonight belonged to Anne Boleyn, and whatever she wanted, he wanted. He smiled. Approval of her caress, especially of her blouse, which had slipped off one shoulder, baring her alabaster skin. He promised himself that his hps would taste her there too, and elsewhere before this night was over. One inch and one caress at
a
time. First her palm, then her wrist with its pulse throbbing wildly.

"Your mother never taught you that."

"No, some things a man must teach himself."

She hated the women on whom he had practiced. Unable to resist any longer, she dipped her hand into those silky locks, letting diem slip like silk through her fingers, only to catch them up again.

Nothing could be more innocent. He kissing her hand and wrist, she playing with his hair. Why then was she breathing more quickly? She shivered.

"You're cold. Here, let me draw the curtains and shut out the draft."

Before she could more than feebly protest, he had swung her legs up on the bed and begun pulling the hangings about them. As he did, he blocked out most of the light. She liked that. It seemed salve

to her conscience. When he gently- but firmly pressed her back against the bolsters, she yielded.

The hour was late, she was tired, the pillows invitingly soft. She was all acquiescence until his genuine concern spoiled everything.

"Your hand, does it still hurt?"

"Damn the hand," she exploded. "Let it fend for itself!" "What? Is that jealousy, I hear?"

She could hear the silent laughter in his voice; it exasperated her. "I, jealous of my own hand?"

"Maybe your lips are?" Before she could reply, a gentle fingertip explored her lips, leaving them to ache for more.

"Or the curve of your proud neck?" Again a caress proved him right.

"Or the gentle slope of your shoulder?" Again, his hand accompanied his words. "Or maybe your sweet breast?"

As his fingertips traced the outline of her small breast, she could feel her nipple react to the touch. A touch repeated, ever so slowly. And again. And again. And still again. It was too much. She tried to jest. "What are you, a one-breast man?"

"Ah, the other, the right is jealous." But his hand left not off its play; instead she could feel his warm breath through her blouse as his mouth sought its goal, gently sucking.

"No, no," she protested. "Not through the blouse. It will shew."

His mouth refused to obey, but the hand fondling her other breast reached up and pulled undone the drawstring of her blouse. Then, with one quick shucking movement of that agile, strong hand, she found herself naked to the waist. Even in the half-light he could make out the turgid nipples rising so proudly from generous dark circles. One after the other, he licked at them, and they followed his tongue as slave follows master. But that was not enough. He would taste them fully. First one, men the other, his hand comforting the one neglected momentarily by his mouth. She reveled in it. Never had she been so aware or so proud of her breasts.

Her hands buried themselves in his hair while her chest arched up high to meet those now firm, now soft, now demanding, now biting, now barely touching, now drinking lips. God, she envied the wet nurse of this man. If he had been her suckling, never would she have
weaned him. He was driving her mad
...
but slowly. For he, too, savored each moment and would have worshiped at this altar forever. His hands, though, were not so easily satisfied as his mouth, and they would move upward to stroke her shoulders, downward to scribe each rib, span her waist, learn the fastening of her skirt, undo it, and travel on, love's journeyman, feeling beneath apron, skirt, and petticoat, a mounded belly, curved hip, dimpled navel.

Whatever his mind's reasoned plan, it was forgotten as his body took command. It must know her, surround her, encompass her, have her. Throwing his right leg across her, he came comeuppance, skewered on his own forgotten sword. The pain invoked a gasp as his blood spurted forth. With a curse, he dashed the sword from the bed, but the damage was done. His leg cut, the spell broken, the Boleyn freed. Rather, put in command. Rudely, crudely, she shoved him back on his bed. Her competent hands searched and undid his points, rolled down his hose, that she might know the extent of the damage. A moment and several rippings of fabric later and out of her fine linen petticoat she'd fastened a bandage of sorts.

He had lain still for this, but once she sat back, the bandaging done, he would have resumed what he'd begun.

"Nay, lie still till we make sure the blood is dammed."

"Damn the blood, it is only a cut."

"So you said of mine. Shall I, too, kiss you there and make you well
...
or would you have instead that which you seem to love so well?" Leaning over him, she inched her way upward, and then, her right breast in her hand, she teased his lips with it. Like a man dying of thirst, his arms surrounded her and his mouth found her breast. With each greedy suck, her insides contracted. Instead of growing weak and submissive, she grew strong and demanding. Let him know and submit and worship her, for she was woman, giver and denier of pleasure. Like mother with suckling babe, she inserted her finger between breast and mouth and broke the suction. He would have pursued his pleasure further but she would not have it.

"Lie still, you are too dressed. I would feel your skin on mine." Coquettishly, she took her time undoing his laces, opening his shirt. His points were already undone and could be saved for later. For now, she laid her head on his broad chest, her hair cascading over
his arms and belly. Her lips moved more freely over his upper body, caressing the powerful muscles and investigating every part of his chest until finally her lips found one of his own nipples. He moaned as her teeth gently fastened on it. She stopped at the sound, fearing he was in pain, then sensing he was not, rolled her tongue about this fleshy reminder he was born of woman. He flexed his muscles to intervene; she quickly disarmed him. This time with a hand that strayed down to unloose his codpiece and unleash his manhood. De Wynter involuntarily flinched as her scorching lips followed the path taken by her hands: down over his chest, across his, stomach and onto his belly. The curly hair under her cheeks she began nibbling, pulling it with her lips in playful nips.

She was a born tease. As her lips moved lower and lower, and his breathing grew faster, she deliberately began to work her way back up his torso, only to stop and return again and again to the most sensitive area.

She didn't need the half-light to see his response, it was butting itself against her. "Anne, my God, please, don't
..."

She had no mercy. Down his left thigh her mourn moved, nibbling and blowing tightiy as the sensitive hairs on his leg transmitted their message back to de Wynter's brain. She would have thrown herself astraddle him and done the same up the other side but she had pity for his poor wounded leg, its blood soaking the featherbed. Instead her tongue moved to the soft, tender inside of his thigh. When he leached for her head to pull her up to his level, she countered with a firm grip on his wound, and in pain he fell back.