Tarnished Rose of the Court

by Amanda McCabe

  “Did you and Marcus discover what happened today?” she asked.

  For an instant he grew tense against her, before drawing her closer and relaxing again. “It was nothing. Merely a young hothead of a Puritan, a disciple of Queen Mary’s great enemy Knox. He thought an abandoned building at the edge of the city was being readied to be made into a Catholic chapel so he set it afire. Unfortunately barrels of whisky were stored there for a tavern down the street and the place exploded.”

  “Was it really going to be a chapel?”

  “Certainly not. The only Catholic chapel left in Scotland, aside from secret ones, is the Queen’s own, here at Holyrood. She has declared that Protestantism will remain the faith of Scotland even as she follows her own faith privately.”

  “Was the man captured?”

  “Aye. But there are plenty to take his place.”

  Celia trailed her fingers along his arm again, thinking of all the trouble, all the evil that lurked in the world. The grave danger of coming into the orbit of princes. Her poor brother had learned that lesson all too well, and here she was in Scotland, surrounded by things she only half understood.

  “And will the Queen marry soon?” she asked.

  “Almost certainly. She is not the sort of woman who can be long without a man.”

  “Darnley?”

  “Aye.”

  “But why?” Celia asked. “He is the veriest knave. And she is a queen.”

  “A queen with few options. There are few eligible princes of her rank in Europe, and her pride won’t let her wed a subject.”

  “Queen Elizabeth has offered Leicester.”

  John laughed. “Mary is a woman of pride—a great deal of it. She won’t take her cousin’s man.”

  “So that leaves Darnley.” Celia had never thought she could pity a queen—not in her own impoverished, homeless state. And yet she found she did. She pitied Mary and Elizabeth both, trapped by their lives. They would never know a feeling like she had with John, and even when she knew she should not feel that way she could not let it go.

  “Mary does not see Darnley as we do,” John said.

  “Does she not?”

  “Nay.” He wound a long strand of her hair around his wrist, running it between his fingers. “I have learned a great deal about people in my life, Celia. How to read them, how to guess what they will do next.”

  “About women?” She knew he could read women all too easily, their secret needs and desires.

  He gave a humourless laugh. “Aye, about women. Though some are harder to understand than others.” His arm tightened around her. “Some I can’t fathom at all.”

  “And Queen Mary?”

  “Even though she grew up at the French Court, a viper pit if there ever was one, she is terrible at prevarication. She wears her heart on her sleeve, her emotions at the surface. She is very impulsive. And she is lonely. She has been a widow for a long time.”

  “And Darnley is handsome,” Celia said. But she knew too well what happened when a woman looked beyond a handsome face.

  “He is, and charming when he wants to be. And, as Mary’s cousin, he is nearly as close to the English throne as she is. It is all she can see now. The surface.” He released her hair and smoothed it over her shoulder. “But after she weds him she will soon come to regret it. He will not be a strong consort for her.”

  Aye, Celia no longer envied queens at all. And she was suddenly weary of them and their labyrinthine doings. She only wanted John right now, and the way he made her feel. She rolled over to face John and sat up on the bed, letting the blanket fall to her waist.

  “What about me, John?” she said. “What can you read about me?”

  He reached out to wrap his fingers over the curve of her hip and drew her closer to him. “You, Celia—you drive me mad,” he muttered. He pressed his open mouth to her belly, just below her navel. “I want to know you, to see you, but you keep slipping away from me.”

  Celia wove her fingers through his tousled hair and held him against her. Her head fell back and she closed her eyes as she let the pleasure of his kiss wash over her. Perhaps she did understand something of what drove Queen Mary onward to disaster—she missed this, this sensual haze created only by a lover’s caress. The heat of a kiss, another person nearby in the darkness. A man and a woman and the mystery of what happened between them.

  His fingers tightened on her buttocks and he drew her closer to his mouth. He dipped the tip of his tongue into her navel and traced it lower over her abdomen in a hot, sinuous pattern. It was a slow, careful touch, as if he branded her skin with his tongue and marked her for ever.

  Behind her closed eyes she felt him slide lower on the bed, until his mouth was over her womanhood. He laid her down flat on the pillows and parted her legs. He blew a soft breath over her and she gasped at the ripple of sensation. She ached for more, but he merely touched his mouth lightly to her damp opening.

  “John...” she whispered brokenly.

  Then his tongue slid over her, licked her slowly up and down before he plunged into her. He tasted her deeply. His fingertips caressed that tiny spot just above and pleasure overwhelmed her. She arched up into his mouth, holding onto his hair as he kissed her there, deeper and deeper.

  He took her leg and draped it over his shoulder, so he could slide even deeper between her legs. Somehow it felt even more intimate than when they coupled, as if he could see into her soul, become part of her. And she did not even care. She wanted him there, in every part of her. Needed him there.

  He pinched lightly at that spot and speared his tongue into her hard, making her cry out as a climax built in her core. It broke over her, and John groaned against her, making the feeling even more intense.

  As she floated back to earth he kissed her once more, softly, and rose up on his knees between her legs. She saw him smile in the shadows, saw him raise his fingers to his mouth as he tasted her again on his skin.

  Lust and emotion spasmed deep inside her all over again.

  “So sweet,” he said, and leaned down to bury his face in the side of her neck, in the tangle of hair that fell over her shoulder. He just held her there, inhaled the scent of her hair as if he would draw her into him.

  Celia felt a terrible longing envelop her, and she wrapped her arms around his back. His skin was damp, sleek, and he shifted under her touch.

  “Celia, Celia,” he whispered into her hair.

  Just her name, over and over.

  It made her want to weep. Never to let him go.

  He sat up and drew her with him until she straddled his lap, her legs spread over him. She felt his erect manhood slide against her, and wanted him all over again. She raised herself up on her knees and reached down to guide him into place, so she could slowly lower herself onto him.

  He groaned and thrust his hips up until he was fully inside her, their hips pressed together, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. She let her head fall forward onto his shoulder, and it felt as if they were one being.

  He drew back and thrust up again, a long, slow slide. She could feel every inch of him move against her, inside her. She rose up as he drew back, and then down, finding their rhythm together again. Even their breath, their heartbeats, matched.

  He growled, and his hands closed tightly on her waist as they moved faster, rougher. He thrust up into her hard, his hips grinding against hers, circling.

  “John,” she gasped. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she matched him thrust for thrust. Her breasts slid over his chest, their legs tangled together, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only move. Could only slide her body over his as he thrust against that one pleasurable spot over and over.

  “John!” she cried as she flew apart all over again.

  He threw his head back, the veins in his neck taut, his eyes closed as he pushed into her one more time. “Celia,” he moaned.

  Her name had never sounded quite like that before.

  They sank down to the
bed, arms and legs still entwined. John drew her down on top of him, her body stretched out over his as her head rested on his shoulder. His hand moved slowly through her hair, a gentle caress over and over, soothing her pounding heart.

  She couldn’t say anything. She had no words any longer. She could only hold onto him as she spiralled ever downward.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Celia had to hold her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing as she trailed behind the others from the church after the lengthy—and loud—service. Darnley felt he had to attend John Knox’s Protestant services to establish his religious allegiances in Scotland, and Celia and the others went to keep an eye on him. She wished she could have stayed at Holyrood, or was back at Whitehall with Elizabeth’s clergymen’s short, simple sermons. Knox had railed against the “horrors” of female rule until Celia had feared she would collapse in giggles. Poor Queen Mary—she would surely soon wish she had stayed in France.

  She was so deep in her own thoughts she didn’t realise anyone had moved to walk beside her until she felt a gentle touch on her arm. She looked up, startled, to see Lord Knowlton smiling at her.

  “It makes one miss Queen Elizabeth’s less devout clergymen, does it not?” he said.

  Celia laughed. “Her services are rather shorter, that is true. Knox is slightly terrifying.”

  “Who will win this battle, do you think? Knox or Queen Mary?”

  “They are both strong-willed. I would not care to make a wager. And hopefully by the time matters come to a head between them we will be gone from here.”

  Lord Knowlton gave her a long, searching glance, studying her so closely she had to turn away. She had not spent all that much time in his company, but she had enjoyed his easy conversation. Being with him was simple—nothing like John.

  Yet today Lord Knowlton’s regard felt somehow different. He looked as if he wanted to discover something from her, about her. Everyone here said one thing and thought something very different. She had done the same thing for so long, always hiding, also cautious.

  She was tired of it all.

  She hurried her steps to catch up with the others, and Lord Knowlton stayed at her side.

  “So you are eager to return to England?” he asked. “You do not care for Scotland?”

  “Scotland is most interesting. I’ve enjoyed my time here,” Celia answered carefully. “But, yes, I will be happy to return to England.”

  “And what will you do when you’re there again?” Lord Knowlton said. “Will you remain in Queen Elizabeth’s service? Or perhaps return to your family?”

  What would she do in England? Celia had been trying not to think of that, to push away the future while she concentrated on her work here. Her brief time with John. But Knowlton’s words made her realise how fast the future was bearing down on her.

  “I have no family,” she said. “So I will stay at Court for the time being.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer a household of your own?” he said quietly.

  Celia looked at him, surprised by his words. “I would, but such things are not so easy to find, I fear.”

  He nodded. “I have been a widower for many years, Mistress Sutton, and it is a lonely life. But very soon I will have a great deal to offer a wife, if all goes as I hope.”

  “That is—very good. I am happy for you, Lord Knowlton,” Celia murmured, not sure what to say. He had never spoken thus to her before, and she was bewildered.

  Did he intend her for his wife? And what would happen to ensure his fortune? Did he also work for Elizabeth?

  “Perhaps I may speak to you again on the subject when we return to London?” he said.

  Celia simply nodded, and Lord Knowlton smiled at her as they kept walking. “Tell me, Mistress Sutton,” he said. “What are your impressions of Queen Mary’s Court? I am very curious...”

  * * *

  Celia was tired and puzzled as she made her way towards her chamber, weary of the effort of smiling and laughing with the Queen’s ladies when all she wanted to do was find somewhere quiet to think. She had much to consider. The two Queens, Lord Knowlton, John—it was all too much.

  At last she reached the door of her chamber and pushed it open—only to find she was not to be alone after all. John lounged on her bed, leaning back lazily on the bolsters as he studied a stack of papers beside him. As she closed the door behind her, he looked up at her with a roguish grin.

  Celia suddenly wished with all her might that he would not smile at her like that, would not confuse her even more, torment her with all she had once longed for and couldn’t have. But truly he was not the one who did the tormenting. It was her own heart, her own feelings.

  “I wondered when you would be returning,” he said. “Do you feel properly pious now?”

  “I feel it was quite unfair that you managed to stay here while the rest of us had to listen to the sermons of hellfire,” Celia grumbled.

  She put her gloves and prayer book down on the table and unpinned her veiled cap from her hair. As she smoothed the windblown strands she caught a glimpse of John in the looking glass. He’d braced his hands behind his head and leaned back as he watched her with hooded eyes. His doublet was open and his shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, reminding her of what he looked like naked. What they had done to each other last night in that very bed.

  What she suddenly wanted to do again.

  She licked her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and his stare sharpened. He sat up straight and watched her as she unfastened her surcoat and let it drop from her shoulders. She slowly untied the high frilled collar of the chemise that rose above the low, square bodice of her black velvet gown and parted the fabric.

  “And did you learn anything enlightening today?” John asked, his eyes never wavering from her.

  “Oh, a great deal.” Celia tugged the pins from her hair and let the heavy dark mass fall over her shoulders as she took up her brush. “Lord Darnley is very good at counterfeiting piety when he wishes. And Knox practically froths at the mouth with hatred for women rulers. I fear Queen Mary would have done better to stay in France.”

  She drew the brush slowly through her hair, closing her eyes. She heard him leave the bed and move to stand behind her. The heat of his body wrapped all around her, drawing her closer to him.

  He took the brush from her fingers and his hands slid slowly, caressingly, through the fall of her hair as he drew it back over her shoulders. She hardly dared breathe as she felt him ease the bristles through her hair.

  “Anything else you observed?” he whispered in her ear.

  “I think Lord Knowlton is going to propose to me,” she blurted out.

  The brush ceased moving and John tensed behind her, but only for an instant. Then the slow, gentle motions resumed. “Hardly surprising. Many men surely want to marry you, Celia.”

  But not you, she thought sadly. “He also said something rather odd about how soon he would be in a position to offer much to a wife.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  Celia shrugged. “That soon his fortune will increase, I suppose. They do say his present estate is rather modest. Perhaps Queen Elizabeth has promised to reward him, as she has with us. Or perhaps...” A thought suddenly struck her.

  “Perhaps what?”

  “It is silly. Lord Knowlton is the quietest, most mild-mannered gentleman I have ever met, and seems as devoted as any courtier to Queen Elizabeth. Yet Lord Burghley did say we would have to face French and Spanish spies who all have their own ideas of Queen Mary’s marital plans.”

  She felt foolish even as she said it. Lord Knowlton? A foreign spy? But she had to think of such things. Suspect everyone.

  Not that she could think much at all when John touched her like that.

  “It sounds as if we should keep a closer eye on Lord Knowlton,” John said. “And what will you say to his proposal?”

  “He has to make one first,” Celia murmured. “But I will have to marry someo
ne, and he seems as good a choice as any. I doubt he is anything like my first husband.”

  “Should you not consider other offers first?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Which offers would those be?”

  He didn’t answer. He dropped the brush and she felt him gather the length of her hair in his hands as he drew the slippery mass to his face and inhaled deeply. Celia let her head fall back until it rested on his shoulder, and he kissed her, open-mouthed and hungry, on her neck.

  She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair, letting the short silken strands drift over her skin as he tasted her. His teeth nipped at her, and she gasped.

  “Celia,” he groaned, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much, thought of you so much in all these years. Beautiful Celia...”

  His words made her heart pound in her breast, as if it was coming alive within her after being frozen. Had he really thought of her as she had him? She felt such hope, but also fear. What did that mean for the past—and for the future?

  She slowly turned in his arms and stepped back to look up at him. She laid her hands lightly on his shoulders and studied his eyes. He went very still under her touch, and his eyes were dark and full of stark pain. She had never seen him like that, and it made her tremble.

  But she forced herself to keep watching him, staring into his eyes. Once she had hated him for making her love him and then leaving her. When she looked at him now she could see he was not the same impulsive, roguish young man who had swept away her foolish, girlish heart. He had seen things—things she could not fathom and which she longed to know. She wanted to know him, as he was now, every part of him.

  She reached up and traced her fingertips over his face. She felt the sharply curved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, his knife-blade nose, the sweep of his brow. His eyes closed under her touch, and she drifted a caress over his lips. They parted and he caught her finger between his teeth and sucked it.

  “John,” Celia whispered. She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “John.”

  “I am here, Celia,” he answered. He swept her up into his arms and carried her with him to the waiting bed.