One man’s arms.
The line of dancers shifted for a moment, and she suddenly saw John standing across the room, as if her memories had summoned him there. For one second it felt as if the years fell away and she saw him for the first time. Her throat tightened, and she felt the pounding of her pulse under the high, tight collar of her gown.
She sat up straighter as his stare focused on her. She couldn’t look away, and it seemed that neither could he. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing in his cheek, and she felt just as she had that very first day. When she’d seen him across a room and something had tightened inside her, pulling her to him. She hadn’t been able to explain it then, and she assuredly could not explain it now.
Nor did she want it. She looked away, and when her gaze flickered back to him he was smiling down at a pretty redhead beside him. One of Queen Mary’s Marys, who laughed up into his eyes and laid her hand on his arm. He let himself be led away by her, and they vanished into the crowd.
Celia slumped back on her seat, as if the band that held her to John had suddenly been released.
“Are you quite well, Mistress Sutton?” Lord Knowlton asked, his voice concerned. “You look pale.”
She shook her head. “I am well, Lord Knowlton. Merely tired, I think. Perhaps I am not entirely recovered from the journey.”
“Then let me fetch you some wine.”
“Nay, I thank you. I think perhaps I should retire. Queen Mary looks as if she may dance until dawn, and I know I shall fade before then.”
Lord Knowlton gently touched her arm. “Shall I escort you?”
His touch made her feel so warm, pleasant—not overwhelmed with desire and need for more. Aye, he would make a fine match for her. If she could summon up more enthusiasm for the notion of marrying again.
“I can find my chamber now, Lord Knowlton,” she said. “I would hate for you to miss the dancing. I shall see you tomorrow?”
“Certainly, Mistress Sutton.” He kissed her fingertips and let her go with a regretful smile. “Have a good rest.”
Celia made her way back through the crowd, which had become noisier and warmer as the night went on. The music was faster, the press of bodies closer. She needed air.
She was almost to the doors when someone caught her hand. She spun around in a sudden panic, ready to slap them with her free hand.
Only to be brought to a skidding halt by John’s blue eyes looking straight into hers.
“Going so very soon?” he asked.
Chapter Fourteen
Celia wanted to pull her arm free, turn her back on him and those eyes that saw too much. She wanted to push him away, slap him, force him out of her mind. But she just went very still and gazed back at him. “I am tired. I don’t feel like dancing tonight.”
“Ah, Celia, but I fear our work is never done. Come, dance with me. There are matters we must discuss.”
She glanced over his shoulder, through the doorway to the dancers. The hall seemed even more crowded now, a thick press of people all the way to the far walls. The music was faster, louder.
“I don’t remember dancing being a requirement of this task,” she said.
“Oh, many things are required of you now, Celia,” he answered, with an infuriatingly charming grin. “Come now. One dance. I promise I will not let you fall.”
Too late for that, Celia thought wryly as he held out his hand to her. But she was meant to keep a watch over Queen Mary, and that wouldn’t be accomplished by running away. Nor could she keep running from John. There was no place far enough away where she could forget him.
She slid her hand into his, and his fingers closed over hers. She felt the heat of his touch, the slight roughness from where he gripped a sword or a jousting lance. His smile widened, and he drew her with him back into the hall.
The last dance had ended, and couples were taking their places for the next as the musicians warmed up for a volta. Queen Mary still led the dance with Lord Darnley, and she seemed not tired at all. A brilliant smile lit her beautiful face, and she clapped her hands together to summon everyone else into the form for the dance.
Celia often forgot how young the Queen actually was: only twenty-two—Celia’s own age. A lifetime of being queen had bestowed upon Mary a regal confidence that belied her years, but now, with the pleasure of the dance, she looked young and happy. Whereas Celia felt a hundred years old.
Until John touched her waist and drew her closer to his body. His smile faded as he watched her, his eyes narrowing. His hand tightened, and she felt the press of him through the satin of her bodice, as if he touched her naked skin. His fingers slid around to the small of her back.
Celia licked at her dry lips, and his stare flickered to that small movement. “I haven’t danced for a long time,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I remember the steps.”
“Just follow me and I’ll show you the way,” he said. “I’m sure you remember far more than you think
you do.”
She did. She remembered dancing this same dance with him, laughing merrily as he swung her in the air and drew her close.
The music started, the lively strains washing over her just as they had back then. How she had once loved to dance! How she had revelled in the movement and sound, the energy of the other couples around her. And she had never had another partner like John, never danced with someone else who moved as he did, all lithe, graceful power. They’d danced together then, and did so now, as if their bodies knew each other, moved naturally in perfect unison.
Just the same way their bodies had sex. As if they had always been together, with a warm, delicious intimacy and need. A belonging.
John’s hand on her back flexed and he led her into the figures of the dance, smoothly guiding her steps. One, two, sway, turn, leap. She did remember how it went now. She went up on her toes as he spun her under his raised arm, and her feet seemed to tingle with happiness at dancing again.
How many things she had forgotten in life. How many things John was bringing back to her. As she jumped lightly from one foot to the other and turned against him she actually laughed. She lost herself in the moment, the music and movement and his touch, and for a few precious moments it was all she knew. All she wanted.
But all too soon it ended.
She curtsied low as the music spun to a stop, and John bowed. When she looked up he smiled at her.
“You see, Celia,” he whispered. “You do still know how to dance.”
Only with you, she thought. He was the only one who could ever make her feel like that.
Suddenly his gaze went over her head and sharpened. His hand tightened on hers as he drew her up beside him. Celia glanced back to see Marcus standing in the doorway. Marcus gave a small nod.
“Come with me,” John said roughly.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“You always ask so many questions,” he muttered. “Can you never just trust me?”
Celia feared she was beginning to trust him again too much, and that realisation frightened her to her core. She could not trust John Brandon again, could not open herself to him. The first time had nearly broken her, and her heart had never entirely mended. One blow would surely shatter it beyond redemption.
“Nay,” she said. “I cannot.”
Still holding onto her hand, he slid a long glance down her body—a look she could swear she felt on her bare skin.
“Are you wearing your dagger?” he asked.
Celia nodded.
“Then if I prove untrustworthy, if I break the trust you give me, pull it out and use it on me,” he said. “That should keep me in line.”
Celia doubted anything at all could stop him from what he wanted to do. But she followed him out of the crowded hall and into the corridor where Marcus waited. He leaned against the panelled wall, his arms loosely crossed over his chest and a small smile on his face. He looked the image of a lazy, careless courtier, but Celia saw his sharp glance take in her hand in John’
s.
“News?” John asked.
Marcus shrugged. “Of a sort. Come with me.” He led them up a staircase, past couples deep in quiet conversation, and down a narrow corridor to a small closet. The open window let in a cold breeze, flakes of snow, and the only light in the chamber was the silver glow of the moon. It fell on two chairs and an empty fireplace.
“We aren’t alone here in Scotland,” Marcus said.
“Of course not,” John answered. “All of Europe has a stake in Queen Mary’s marital plans.”
“But I think now one of them may be ready to take action.”
Marcus outlined all he had discovered—all the factions aligning against Queen Elizabeth here at Mary’s deceptively bright Court. The French Guise family, who didn’t want to lose Mary and her royal French connections, the Spanish, who wanted control of Elizabeth’s northern neighbour, and Mary herself—so unpredictable.
And the unknown agents who worked for one or all of them.
Celia’s head began to ache. She could scarcely fathom what she had found herself embroiled in. And it grew late.
“Let me escort you to your chamber,” John said, as if he sensed that she grew weary.
She barely heard Marcus as he made his excuse and left the room, the door sliding shut silently behind him.
Celia felt the light touch of John’s hand on her back, just over the lacings of her bodice. She gave him a smile over her shoulder, and prayed she looked far cooler and steadier than she felt. She needed all her wits about her now.
“I do know the way there,” she said.
“The hour is very late,” he answered. He didn’t smile in return, merely watched her, that hand very still on her back.
“I don’t think our foes would attack me in the very halls of Queen Mary’s palace,” Celia said. “I am merely a simple lady-in-waiting, no threat to their plans.”
He did smile at that, his mouth flicking up at the corner as that dimple flashed in his cheek. “You were never a simple anything, Celia. But there are drunken men roaming free here, and I don’t entirely trust your skill with that dagger.”
“Oh, do you not?” Celia whispered. Something about his too-smug tone, the hot touch of his hand on her back, awakened a spirit of mischief in her that had slumbered for too long. She slowly turned, sliding her body against his until she stood pressed to his chest. She slid her palms flat on his abdomen, tracing the hard ridges of his muscles under the brocade doublet. He tensed beneath her touch, and she could see the fire catch in his eyes as he looked down at her.
“Perhaps you would care for a demonstration of my—skill,” she said, and she barely recognised her own voice because it was so low and soft. He made her feel that way, so full of passion and need.
John’s arm closed around her back, pulling her up hard against him. “Celia...”
She grasped the slippery, rich fabric of his doublet in her fists and slid it up until she could ease her fingers beneath it and up over his chest. She could feel every hard inch of his body under his thin linen shirt. He felt so strong, so solid under her touch, as if he really could keep her safe. As if she could curl up in his strength and forget the rest of the world for ever.
But who would protect her from him? She had always had more to fear from him than anything else.
And she was so tired of fear. Of always feeling cautious, as if she always walked on a knife’s edge of disaster and pain. She drew her hands out from his doublet and flattened them over his heart to push him back against the wall. His other arm came around her waist to trap her to his chest like iron chains. But she wasn’t running. Not yet.
She wound her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in the hair that curled over his collar. John drew her up until she was on tiptoe, leaning into him until every inch of their bodies were pressed together.
His erection throbbed against her belly through her skirts, iron-hard. Celia moaned softly and closed her eyes. Her head fell back.
“God’s wounds, Celia, but what you do to me,” he whispered roughly.
“What do I do to you?” she said. Did she drive him to madness? Drive him out of himself? For that was what he did to her. Had always done to her.
He lowered his head and she felt his lips at her temple, his warm breath stirring her hair, brushing over her skin.
“I don’t know if I should kiss you,” he muttered, “or tie you to my bed and give you a sound spanking.”
Celia gave a startled laugh—and then trembled at the erotic vision his words created in her mind. Herself, bound to John’s bed, naked, available to all his desires. She could never trust anyone enough for such games again, never be so helpless, but it was an alluring fantasy.
“I think perhaps we should try both,” she said, twisting his hair around her fingers. She gave a sharp tug and pulled his head up. “But I would prefer you tied to my bed, John Brandon.”
“We shall see about that, fairy queen,” he growled. Suddenly his mouth slammed down over hers, hard and open, taking what he wanted from her with no quarter given.
Not that Celia wanted to surrender. Not with her own desire rising up within her as if it would obliterate all else. She wanted John, yes, but she didn’t want him to obliterate her. To shatter her heart again. She didn’t want to be that naive girl any more.
She wanted John as the woman she was now, a woman who knew how cold and desolate the world was and craved the heat of him to drive it all away for a moment. To fall into that warm intimacy that closed around them when they were alone together.
She opened her mouth to his kiss and met the thrust of his tongue with her own, twining with his, tasting him. He tasted like the most wondrous of forbidden nectar, wine and herbs and his own dark essence. She wanted more and more of that.
And he wanted more too. She could feel it in every tense muscle of his body, every hungry thrust of his tongue against hers. She drew harder on his hair as if she could bring him closer, closer, meld him into her. Get drunk on him.
He growled deep in his throat, the primitive, animal sound of it echoing through her body. He pulled her up, up, until he could shove her skirts back and wrap her legs around his waist. Celia braced her arms on his shoulders and tightened her thighs on his hips. Her skirts were tossed up between them, and she felt his penis pressed to her spread pelvis with only the velvet of his breeches between them. She arched into him and he moaned.
Celia laughed, filled with a bright joy that he wanted her, that she could pleasure him. That he was ever so briefly in her power, as he always held her in his. She pressed her legs closer to his hips until he could feel the outline of her dagger, encased in its sheath above her stocking.
“La, John, but I do think you’re right,” she whispered against his neck. “There are men waiting to accost poor ladies-in-waiting in these very corridors. Whatever should I do?”
“Get on your knees and take me into your mouth?” he suggested hopefully.
Celia shook her head and laughed. “Use my dagger on it, mayhap?”
“Witch.” He groaned. “You are no fairy queen—’tis obvious now you carry evil magic with you.”
Celia pressed her parted lips to his neck, just beneath the hard arch of his jaw. She slid her mouth down the strong, bronzed column, lightly scraping her teeth over the damp skin until she could lick at the pulse pounding at its base. He tasted of salt and wine, of that masculine essence, of John.
She tugged open the jewelled buttons of his doublet and slid the edges apart until she could see a vee of his chest under the loosened shirt lacings. Smooth golden skin overlaid with a rough sprinkling of dark hair.
She nuzzled him there, kissing his skin as she inhaled deeply of his essence. “Then teach me to use it only for good, John.”
He groaned, a sound of agonised pleasure deep in his chest, and claimed her mouth again. A hard, desperate kiss, a claiming of lips and tongue that sought to seize something deeper, more profound from her. Celia let her head fall back to her sho
ulders and surrendered to the emotions that raced through her.
Then she heard a sound, a stumbling footfall outside, a soft laugh that echoed down the corridor. It was quickly silent again, but Celia suddenly knew where they were. What they were doing—what she was doing.
She dragged her mouth from John’s and sucked in a deep breath of air. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, his own eyes dark with desire. She glimpsed a flash of anger deep in their depths.
Anger? She was surely the one who should feel that towards him, this man she should distrust with every fibre of her being and yet who kept drawing her in to him. Closer and closer, until she feared she would fall back into him all over again.
She unwound her legs from his waist and jumped to her feet, so desperate to get away that she stumbled. His hands tightened on her arms, holding her steady.
“Come to my chamber with me now, Celia,” he whispered in her ear.
His fingers slid up her arm to her bare shoulder, caressing the skin there until she shivered.
So tempting. She could see how it would be in her mind, the two of them entwined on his bed, skin to skin. But the emotions that went with it were far more frightening.
She shook her head and stumbled back a step from him. His hands fell away from her.
“Not tonight,” she said.
“Celia...”
She shook her head again, and spun around to hurry away as fast as her shaking legs could take her. Once she was not with him, once she could take a deep breath that did not smell of him, she’d feel stronger.
He called her a fairy queen, a witch, yet he was the one with a magical spell. He cast it over every woman who came near him, drawing them to him with his smile, his raw aura of power and sensuality. She was no different. Her body knew him, wanted him.
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