Bess wrote to Elizabeth, to Cecil, to Robin Dudley, and to Syntlo. Her husband was the only one who replied.
My own sweet Bess:
I have spent hours upon my knees to the queen on your behalf and feel hopeful about a speedy release. For your own sweet sake, I deny myself the pleasure of coming to you, so that Elizabeth's wrath will not be visited upon you further. I am sending coal for your fire and the scented candles you love. Tell Cecily of your needs, and I shall fill them immediately. Be brave, my darling. Somehow I shall appease the queen.
Your faithful and loving
husband, Syntlo
Bess threw the letter on the fire. “You cannot appease a tyrant!” She lit one of the scented candles Cecily had brought, hung up her fresh clothes, and handed her serving woman the linen that needed to be laundered. “Would you bring me a mirror tomorrow, Cecily?”
Bess's nature did not adapt well to being confined; she had far too much energy. She loved to embroider, but after three solid hours of peering at a tapestry she was working on, she was ready to throw it on the fire. She had no option but to play a waiting game with the queen and at times felt more sorry for Syntlo than she did for herself. No doubt Elizabeth had forbidden him to visit his wife, and he did not have the guts to disobey his queen. The dear man was now impotent in every way.
At the end of September Catherine Grey gave birth to a son. Though she was confined to the Tower along with her young husband, the lieutenant of that fortress, Warner, was kind enough to allow the new father to visit his son, and all gave thanks that the mother and child were healthy.
As October slowly evolved into November, a hope kindled in Bess's heart that Elizabeth would release her for Christmas. It would be unthinkable to spend the Holy Days imprisoned in the Tower. She wrote letters to her mother, her sister Jane, and her aunt Marcella. She advised Sir William about the New Year's gifts for her children and occupied herself with Chatsworth's accounts, which were brought to her every month by James Cromp, who was in charge in her absence.
Bess also wrote to Sir George and Lady Pierrepont to negotiate the espousal of their son and her beloved daughter Frances, but she received no reply.
Sir William's daily letters described his duties to the queen regarding her festive plans for Christmas and New Year's and for an upcoming progress Elizabeth planned early in the year. He told her that he beseeched the queen daily for her release and encouraged Bess to write to Her Majesty and beg her forgiveness. Bess was livid; she'd be damned if she'd beg for forgiveness when she had done nothing wrong!
Bess's hope of being released before Christmas was dashed as December came and went without any word of a reprieve. Bess became depressed when she realized she had been in the Tower for four long months and there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. More and more Bess had the feeling that she was very much alone and felt as if she had been abandoned. Wrapped in solitude, she had far too much time for reflection and introspection.
She had no patience for Will's letters with the pathetic dried teardrops on the paper. If only he were stronger; if only he would command the queen, instead of beseeching her. I don't need a man who will go on his knees; I need a man who will go and pull Elizabeth through a bloody knothole! Bess knew Cavendish would have done it, but William St. Loe was not William Cavendish. Bess sighed. She could not ask pears of an elm tree. Finally, Bess admitted to herself that in times like this, she did regret marrying Syntlo, as the Earl of Shrewsbury had predicted.
By the end of January, Bess began to experience disturbing dreams, then she had her old recurring nightmare, where she lost everything. Was it possible that she could really lose everything? Even her life? Her anger was gradually being replaced by apprehension, which slowly but surely grew into full-blown fear.
It began to dawn upon Bess that perhaps she was not here because of anything Catherine Grey had done. Perhaps she was here because she knew too much about Elizabeth! Not many people knew that Thomas Seymour had been her lover; even fewer knew that she had possibly been carrying his child. How many had known that when Seymour married Catherine Parr, Elizabeth had lived with them at Chelsea in a ménage à trois? All who knew for certain—besides herself—were now dead!
Bess realized she also knew more about the queen's intimacy with Robin Dudley than any other living, breathing person. She had even witnessed their conversation when Elizabeth had taken it for granted that Robin had poisoned Amy so he could wed her. This imprisonment was a warning for Bess to keep her mouth shut. She fervently hoped it was only a warning, because there was a more permanent way of ensuring her silence! She could not confide her fears to her husband. She would never make him privy to the secrets she knew, and St. Loe would never believe Elizabeth capable of wickedness.
Her fear grew stronger throughout February. Her incarceration became intolerable when she thought about spring. The Tower ravens were starting to mate, and their caws were raucous. The snowdrop would give way to the crocus, then daffodils would blanket the gardens. Bess was ready to sell her soul to be astride a horse, to feel the wind whipping her red hair about her shoulders. She ached to tuck her children into bed; her heart longed for Chatsworth. She had been held in close confinement for six endless months and feared that if she did not soon escape her cage, she would go mad.
Perhaps because spring was in the air, Bess suddenly found herself with no sexual release. Since Cavendish had died she had managed, one way or another, to suppress her sexual needs. Never fully satisfied by Syntlo, Bess had channeled her sexual energy into restarting the building at Chatsworth and overseeing and expanding her vast landholdings, while performing her Court duties and still fulfilling her roles of wife and mother.
However, now that she had nothing to do but think and worry, her body turned traitor on her and began to ache for comfort and fulfillment. Her dreams became erotic, which only filled her waking hours with an intense longing, making her feel as if she were about to come out of her skin. All this compounded the fear that she was losing her mind. Bess was fast approaching the moment when she considered death preferable to imprisonment.
THIRTY
When Bess opened the door to the loud knock, the warder announced, “Ye have a gentleman visitor, Lady St. Loe.”
“It's about time,” she answered peevishly as the warder departed to bring him. Bess was angry with her husband, and she was beyond pretense. Though she knew he had kept away for her own good, she needed her husband's strength to lean on, his shoulder to cry on. Suddenly, fear gripped her by the throat. He has come to deliver bad news.… He has come in person to soften the blow!
As the dark shadow fell across the threshold, her black eyes went wide in stark terror, then she stared in disbelief at the tall figure who stepped into the chamber and secured the door. “Shrewsbury,” Bess whispered.
“Bess, why in the name of God did you not get word to me that you were incarcerated?” he demanded angrily.
“You came,” she murmured in wonder.
“Of course I came, and would have come a hell of a lot sooner if you had sent for me.”
“Shrewsbury,” she repeated whimsically.
He towered above her for one endless moment, then swept her into his arms. He was knight errant and savior rolled into one. He was the strongest, most powerful man she had ever known, and he had come to rescue her. Bess melted against his iron-hard chest and offered up her mouth for his ravishing.
She reveled in the sheer strength of his arms as he wrapped them tightly about her and held her secure in an all-powerful embrace. His mouth descended upon hers in total possession and instantly ignited a flame that blazed up out of control in seconds. Bess had never felt so weak and vulnerable and feminine in her life. Overwhelming relief mingled with the hot passion she felt and rendered her ready to surrender to him body and soul.
Shrewsbury had never felt more a man in his life. His response to Bess and her plight made power surge through his veins, giving him the heady feeling of omni
potence. He felt exultant that he had the means to give her everything she needed. In one fell swoop he would free her, yet bind her to him forever!
Bess responded blatantly to his virility. She did not want to think, only to feel, and he made it so easy. She gazed up into his brilliant blue eyes as if she were seeing his compelling face for the first time. He was so virile and magnetic, she could hardly bear waiting for him to take her. Her eyes closed, her mouth curved sensually, and she offered herself up to him, her supple, luscious body promising to do all his bidding.
Talbot's sure fingers undid the buttons of her gown, then he slid the heavy, brocade sleeves from her shoulders so she could slip her arms free. Now bared, her arms wound about his neck as she went on tiptoe to fit herself against him. The top of the dark green gown fell about her waist, revealing a frothy seafoam-green shift. “How utterly feminine to wear enticing undergarments even when there is no one to see them.”
The straps of her petticoat proved no obstacle to Talbot; she was bared to the waist in seconds. “Your skin is as pale as priceless alabaster from being in this damned place.” He swallowed hard. “Your breasts are exquisite, more beautiful than I ever imagined, and I swear I've imagined them every day of my life.”
Bess licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Mistress Tits, you called me. Do you remember?”
“I recall every word we've ever exchanged, as well as every lusty thought I've ever had about you, Vixen.”
Her hands went of their own volition to the fastenings on his doublet. “Hurry!” she urged.
His face was too taut with desire to smile, as his arousal mounted savagely. He threw off his jacket and tore the buttons from his linen shirt in his great haste to feel her naked flesh against his own.
When Bess saw his heavily muscled chest covered with its pelt of blue-black hair, it drew her lips instantly, then her tongue, and finally her teeth, as desire took control of her. As her passion mounted by leaps and bounds, her fear diminished, then vanished altogether as the powerful emotion of lust obliterated all else.
When his hands swept her gown to her ankles, the froth of petticoat followed. Bess stepped from the circle of clothing and kicked it aside impatiently. Clad only in lacy stockings, the red-gold curls on her mons looked like flaming tongues of fire.
“Vixen.” He wanted to touch it, taste it, and thrust into it, all at once. His fingers threaded possessively through the tendrils, and his hot palm pressed over her pubic bone, yet she was so much hotter than his hand, he felt scalded.
Bess's fingers tugged insistently at his remaining garments. He helped her to bare his flesh, and once more she kicked aside the heap of cloth that lay at their feet.
He lifted her onto his jutting shaft and gasped at the deep pleasure he felt. She clung to him as if her life depended on him, as in actuality it did!
Both of them were in such need of immediate gratification, the thought of the bed never entered their minds. Shrewsbury took two steps, pushed her against the stone wall, and impaled her with his iron-hard weapon until it was seated to the hilt.
Bess cried out with sheer pleasure-pain as she frenziedly wrapped her white thighs about him, needing every inch he could give her. Their burning lips fused, then, open-mouthed, they moaned incoherent, dark words against each other's sensitized flesh.
He thrust savagely, like a stallion with a mare, and was ready to spill before her, but not much before. He hung on for a tormented minute and was rewarded by an exultant feeling when he heard her scream as she spent with him.
“Shrew … Shrew … yes, oh, yes!” She collapsed upon him and would have fallen to the floor if the strength of his body had not supported her.
He swept her up and carried her to the bed, knowing full well her legs were too weak for her to stand. He sat her on the bed, combed his fingers into her flaming, disheveled hair, and lifted her face to his. “My beautiful Vixen. We are so alike. We give all and take all at the same time.”
Her eyes were heavy-lidded with need. “It's a match made in either heaven or hell, and at the moment neither of us cares which.” He was like too-potent wine she had quaffed greedily, and she was now intoxicated with his power and thirsted for more. She felt mesmerized at the sight of his supple body, entranced by his male scent, and insatiable for the taste of him. Shrewsbury was all male— hard, demanding, dark, dominant, and dangerous—and he appealed to every one of her womanly senses.
Then the kissing began. Neither of them could stop. If Bess thought she had been in danger of going mad before, it was nothing compared to the insanity that gripped her now as she willfully urged him to steal her senses. Now, as before when he had taken her to his black and gold bedchamber, Bess wanted his hands and his mouth on her body; she wanted his long, thick, marble-hard manroot filling her emptiness. She arched her hips beneath him, squirming and rutting until his cock swelled against her woman's burning center. She drew up her knees, sliding them up his hips, then allowed her thighs to fall open in blatant invitation.
He breached the portal in a heartbeat, wanting to go slow, to draw it out forever, but he could not. His body had a will of its own. His thoughts mocked him—he knew he'd have to have her a hundred times before he could pleasure her slowly and sensually. This time he did not have to wait even a moment for her. Bess arched up off the bed with a cry that echoed his own. Both matings had been primal, all thrusting tongues and feverish, driving lust, as his hard flesh beat and pounded against her softness. Yet still his sexual energy was not all spent.
He withdrew his phallus from her sheath and moved down her body until his face was level with her belly. He kissed her and caressed her, rubbing his cheeks against her silken skin, tasting her, inhaling her woman's scent, learning her essence.
Slowly, Bess opened her eyes and the room stopped spinning. When she looked down she saw her breasts still rising and falling from her wanton exertions, then she looked beyond them to where his dark head lay against her belly, his mouth still lavishing her with adoration.
It began to dawn on her what they had done. They had both committed adultery! Never had she allowed her heart to rule her head, and in truth she hadn't this time. But she had certainly allowed her body to rule her head. Guilt washed over her. Strangely, the guilt she felt had nothing to do with her present husband. Rather, it was for betraying Cavendish with a lover. Bess reached out her hand until her fingers touched his blue-black hair. “Enough,” she whispered.
“Let me make love to you again, Bess.” His face was still hard with desire.
“What we did had nothing to do with love—it was lust, pure and simple.” Honesty made her admit, “It was magnificent and exactly what I needed, but it was lust.”
Shrewsbury knew that lust was not all he felt for this glorious woman, but he kept a wise silence.
Bess sat up and tossed back her disheveled mane. “Shrew, I have betrayed my husband, and you have betrayed your wife. We cannot undo it, but we can make sure it never happens again.”
Never again? You must be mad to ask the impossible. His sensual mouth curved. Bess could no more deny herself such passionate pleasure than he could. Reluctantly, he reached for his clothes, finally remembering why he had come. “Tomorrow I shall come again and take you to the interrogation room. It shouldn't be long after that when you will be freed.” As Bess went to retrieve her petticoat, he spoke urgently. “Don't dress! Let me see you nude until I leave.”
She hesitated only a moment. He had brought her so much pleasure, how could she deny him such a fleeting favor?
After Shrewsbury departed, Bess realized he had brought her more than pleasure—he had banished her dark fears, restored her hope, and given her back her confidence. Her resilience was renewed, as she pondered how much longer she would have to remain in the Tower of London. Bess smiled a secret smile. She had been here seven months; she could do the rest of her time standing on her head, she decided with bravado.
As promised, Shrewsbury returned the following day.
Bess kept a cool distance between them, knowing that his closeness would make mincemeat of her resolve. As a tangible reminder of their wantonness, she held one of his shirt buttons that she had picked up from the floor. When she tightened her fingers, the sharp mother-of-pearl cut into her palm.
In the interrogation room Shrewsbury questioned her about her knowledge of Lady Catherine Grey's marriage, how long she had known of it, and if she had aided and abetted the girl to deceive the queen. Bess told him the truth, as was her wont, and she saw Talbot's mouth quirk with amusement. Impatiently, she confessed her privy thoughts. “My incarceration has little to do with Catherine—it is a warning to keep my mouth shut about all the secrets I guard!”
Talbot put a quick finger to his lips. “When I take you before the council, admit nothing, deny all.”
“Is it because you are a senior member of the privy council that you were chosen to interrogate me?”
“That and because I am chief justice of the north, where your home and property are located. However, I wasn't chosen, Bess; I insisted it was my right.” He moved toward her and took her hand.
Bess felt an immediate physical response to his powerful masculinity. She hovered on the brink of going into his arms but caught herself in time. She opened her fingers, revealing the shirt button and her bloodied palm. She lifted her black eyes to his and saw raw desire blaze up in them. Her lashes came down to conceal her own desire as he took her hand to his lips and tasted her blood. She took back her hand and replaced it with a tiny barb. “My blood is not nearly blue enough for you, milord.”
He cocked an amused brow. “ 'Tis not blue at all, Vixen.”
“You arrogant raptor,” she whispered, adding the insult to the toll she would make him pay before she was done with him.
A Woman of Passion Page 34
