Until You

by Bertrice Small

  “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 brou
ght 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.

  “The color is certainly right,” Celestina said, “considering I did not know what madame looked like.”

  “It is plain,” the earl said.

  “It is lovely, and Celestina could not waste time or materials decorating a gown without a buyer, Patrick,” Rosamund replied. She smiled at Celestina. “May I try it on?”

  The seamstress nodded, and then she smiled at Rosamund. “He says you are a clever woman with a taste for trade, madame. You were right about the gown.”

  “My cotters weave wool from the sheep I raise,” Rosamund said. “My wools are noted for their quality.”

  “You do not send your raw wool to the low countries to be woven?” Celestina was surprised.

  “Why should I pay good coin to have done in a foreign clime what my own people can do? Besides, it keeps them occupied in the winter months when the fields cannot be cultivated. And, too, I am able to maintain the highest caliber in my product,” Rosamund said in practical tones. “Can you put some decoration upon the bodice? Just a little gold thread embroidery perhaps?”

  “Of course, madame. The gown but waited for an owner,” Celestina said. “I can have it by tomorrow. Try it on now, and we will see what other alterations need to be done to it. And I have brought a variety of materials for madame’s inspection as well.”

  “I will choose the materials for both the earl and myself,” Rosamund said. Then she let Celestina and her helper aid her in getting into the gown and bodice.

  Celestina spoke in rapid Italian to her companion, who from the look of her was the seamstress’ daughter. “The waist will need to come in, Maria. And she is larger in the bosom than I would have anticipated, given her slender stature. The length seems fine. The sleeves will need alteration. This lady is delicately made.”

  “But she is strong,” the earl murmured, and Celestina gave him a broad grin.

  “Aye, Patrizio,” Celestina said. “Your heart is engaged, my old friend, and it does me good to see you happy again. When you left us, your poor heart was broken. This lady has obviously mended it.”

  “She has,” he admitted.

  “What are you speaking about, Patrick?” Rosamund asked. “I do not understand the tongue in which you babble.”

  “Celestina is more comfortable in the Italian tongue, lovey. She says you have mended my broken heart, and I agree,” he told her.

  “You flatter me, especially under the circumstances,” she told him.

  “I should rather have a year with you, Rosamund,” he told her, “than a lifetime with any other woman on the face of this earth. Now, sweetheart, let us decide upon the materials we are going to want.”

  The pale green gown had been pinned where it needed alteration, and so Rosamund removed it carefully.

  Celestina snapped her fingers at Maria, and the girl brought forth a silk garment in the most incredible shade of blue that Rosamund had ever seen. “Wear this instead of that pretty chemise,” she said, proffering it.

  “What is it?” Rosamund asked.

  “The people across the sea here, where they are ruled by the Turkish sultan, wear them. They call them caftans. They even go out into the streets there in them, I am told. I thought it might make a better garment for you indoors than your chemise. Do you like the color? It is the color of the Persian turquoise.”

  “It’s lovely,” Rosamund said. “Thank you, Celestina! I shall very much enjoy wearing this . . . caftan.”

  “And now,” the seamstress said, “let us look at the materials I have brought for you and Patrizio, madame. Maria! The samples. Vite! Vite!”

  The fabrics were brought, and they were indeed a rich assortment in wonderful colors. Silks and brocades and lightweight velvets along with delicate cottons and linens.

  “How Tom would love all of this,” Rosamund said to her lover. “He has such exquisite taste. I can but hope I have learned from him.” She fingered a brocade in a rich shade of green. “It would suit me,” she noted.

  Celestina nodded. “And this sea-blue silk and the russet velvet that matches your lovely hair. Perhaps this cream and gold brocade?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Rosamund agreed, and the seamstress set it aside. “Oh, what a wonderful shade of lavender!”

  Patrick watched indulgently as she chose. And then she turned to him and began to seek his advice on the colors he would wear. “I am a gentleman, and so will be less flamboyant,” he told her.

  The two women gave each other a look and ignored him after that, picking and choosing what they thought was right for the earl’s garments. When they had finished, Celestina gave orders to her helper to pack everything up again.

  “It but remains for me to measure Patrizio,” she said with a wicked smile. “Come, my lord, and let me see how you have grown over the years. You do not look greatly changed, but one can never tell.” She took out her tape and began, muttering to herself beneath her breath, making little scratches with her charcoal stick on the tiny piece of parchment she had brought with her. When she had finished, she arose and tucked the notations she had made into the pocket of her skirts. “You are as fine a figure of a man as you ever were,” she chuckled. “I shall be back for a fitting tomorrow, and I shall bring the pale green gown with me when I come, madame. Its bodice will be nicely, but simply, embroidered,” Celestina promised. Then she turned and was quickly gone from the apartment.

  “She moves swiftly for a lady of such girth,” Rosamund noted.

  He chuckled. “So you are no longer jealous?” he teased her.

  “I did not say that, my lord, for her hands were all over you, especially when she measured the length of your legs. I thought she came a bit too close to your manhood, and I thought that you seemed to enjoy it,” Rosamund said with a small smile.

  “Celestina always had the most clever hands,” he remarked, and then, pulling her into his arms, he kissed her soundly. “But you, my darling, seem to be clever all over, and I adore you for it.”

  “Is there anything that we need to do now, my lord?” Rosamund asked him.

  “See that Dermid and Annie have supper on the sideboard when we want it and then disappear so we may be wanton together without fear of being disturbed?”

  “Are you suggesting, my lord, that we go back to bed?” she asked him innocently.

  “Aye, lass, I am,” he replied, a slow smile lighting his eyes. “We have several weeks of loving to make up for, Rosamund, and I am ready to begin.”

  She smiled back at him. “Then I shall not need this caftan for a while,” she said. “Shall I, my lord?”

  “Nay, sweetheart. You will not need it for some time to come,” he agreed, and taking her hand in his, he led her back into her bedchamber.

  Chapter 6

  Sebastian, Duke of San Lorenzo, was a man now closer to sixty than he was to fifty. He was still what would be considered a fine figure of a man, if perhaps a bit portly. His once black hair was now steely gray, but his black eyes were as sharp as they had ever been. He pinned his gaze upon the man he had never again thought to see. They had not parted amicably. How could they have? The Earl of Glenkirk’s daughter was to have married his heir, Rudolpho. But then the girl was stolen by slavers. Even if they had gotten her back, and the Blessed Mother knew he had attempted to retrieve Janet Leslie, there could no longer have been a question of her marriage to his son. She would certainly have been despoiled. His negotiations with Toulouse for one of their princesses had been, he thought, secret. But Patrick had known immediately, even before it was confirmed his
daughter was lost forever, that her match with Rudolpho di San Lorenzo was no longer a possibility and that the formal betrothal celebrated just a brief few weeks before was annulled and San Lorenzo’s duke was seeking another bride for his son. The duke and the Scots ambassador’s previously cordial relationship had soured badly. They had parted formally, neither expecting to ever see the other again.

  “While I am certainly astounded to see you, Patrick,” the duke said, “I welcome you back to San Lorenzo. I can see the years have not been unkind to you.”

  “I thank you, my lord duke,” the earl replied.

  “Patrick, my old friend,” the duke said jovially. “Surely we may still be friends? Has time not softened the memories?”

  “Perhaps yours, Sebastian, but not mine,” Patrick responded, but his tone was mild. “Still, here I am in San Lorenzo again.”

  “And returned with a beautiful lady, I am informed,” the duke chuckled. “You were ever a man for the fairer sex, my friend. But why are you here?”

  “The lady and I wished to escape the harsh northern winter and the curiosity of King James’ court,” the earl said.

  “Nay, I do not believe that. I have a letter from your king asking me to extend to you every courtesy,” the duke answered. “If you were just an ordinary man with his lover, I might accept your explanation, but you are not, Patrick Leslie,” the duke said.

  “The less you know of the purpose of my visit, Sebastian, the better for you and for San Lorenzo,” the earl answered him. “I am here to meet with some people, but it is better that our concourse remain most private.”

  “So your king has suggested, but he has also said that if I am not content with that explanation you will give me a better one.”

  Patrick sighed. He did not trust Sebastian di San Lorenzo. Not after what had happened. Still, he had no choice in the matter. To gain the duke’s cooperation and goodwill he must tell him the truth. “You know of the Holy League?” he asked.