by Anne Carsley
“They did it well, don’t you think? The queen’s plans were the talk of the court; more fool she to go out with the temper of the city the way it is. I thought it a good time to settle the vexing thing between us, and you will have to admit that it worked.” He stretched lazily, but the wary eyes never left hers.
“Did you expect me to be so grateful that I would tumble into your arms?” She observed with dismay that the blackened end of the brand was falling off, the fire dying from the rest.
“It did not matter so long as you came with a minimum of fuss and maidenly cries.” He came up to his knees and crouched there so that he was partly between Julian and the fire.
She edged back and groped for another brand, but he moved so quickly that she was forced to retreat. She stabbed at his shoulder, and the still hot end came down on the flesh with a little hiss. He ignored it and stalked her intently as she moved toward the door.
“My man stands guard out there, and he will not let you by.”
“You are indeed the foul fiend!” She swung the brand before her in an effort to fan the flame, and in that instant he caught her. Her weapon clattered to the floor and rolled free to smother out in the residual dampness there. Charles swung her up in his arms and carried her back to the cloak. He held her for a moment, then lowered her to it.
“Now, madam, I can bind you and take my pleasure. You will surely admit the hunger that I have felt in you. Satisfy it and we can both lead our separate lives with no more ado. I have no time for foolishness such as this. I should have tumbled you in one of the empty rooms of Whitehall and had done.” He spoke harshly, but there was a puzzled look in the depths of his eyes.
Julian stared at the straight, lithe body, at the leashed power of it, saw the determination in his face, and knew that he meant every word he said. He would have his pleasure of her before she left this room. Her flesh tingled at the thought.
“I am virgin.” She hated herself for saying it, for bending her womanhood before the attacker as she remembered the fervor with which she had sung “Green-sleeves” to him, but her only future lay in marriage, and no man would have a despoiled woman.
“You can lie about it. All women do. I will not wed you.” His eyes went black and dark for an instant as he gazed beyond her. “I am betrothed; she is meek and amiable as you are not.” Charles smiled suddenly, and the young man he had once been was very evident.
Julian wanted to weep more for what she wished she could have with him than for the rape she faced. “I did not ask it, did I? Take what you will and set me free. I do not suppose it will do any good to say that I did not lure you, although I cannot deny the feeling that came unbidden.”
He sat down beside her and touched her shoulder gently. “Aye, Julian. I know. How well I know. It is with us still. Yield to me and I swear you shall be free.”
The tears sprang to her eyes and trickled onto her cheeks. “I am not weeping from fear of you. I am angry.” She dashed her hand across her face and glared at him. “You have proven yourself a liar.”
“Come, lady. Julian. Fair one.” He drew her to him and kissed her so gently on the lips that little chills began to slide up and down her arms. One hand rubbed her neck slowly and played with the curls at her ears. “Do you yield the day?” He bent his head and kissed the long curve of her throat where the pulse hammered, then continued the soft, slow kisses until her skin ached with it and she leaned toward him.
“Aye, I yield.” The words came in a soft moan as she put both hands on the broad shoulders that were so invitingly near. They looked long into each other’s eyes before his mouth claimed hers again in a long drugging kiss that seemed to meld them into one fiery unit of passion.
They nestled deeply into the cloak that lay on the rich rug in front of the fire. Julian remembered the virginals she had played, the lute the woman at court had caressed, and knew that Charles did the same to her body now. His mouth left hers, went to the hollow of her throat, down to her rosy nipples, lingered there, then went to the curve of her stomach and down her slender legs, then up to her nipples again. His hands were feathers drifting over her warmth, they were brands to burn and heal, they were igniters that did not quench.
She felt the tightness in her loins ease as the sweet juices began to loosen. Her breasts ached and throbbed, the feeling repeated in her maiden softness. It seemed that her blood ran very near to the surface and that she had been empty all her life. Her flesh burned and her hands reached out to touch and fondle him, rejoicing in the hardness that sought to make her his in a union that seemed foretold by the stars.
His mouth took hers again, and this time she yielded eagerly to the probing thrust of his tongue, knowing it to be the precursor of another thrusting that soon would not be denied. His hands moved along her naked sides with almost maddening gentleness that set up quivers under the skin. She felt her breasts crushed against his chest and moaned softly that their hunger grew apace.
She lay beside him now, in the crook of his arm, her legs spread wide against the new throbbing that made her writhe as his fingers touched her softness there, withdrew, then thrust a little more deeply, returning to touch and linger. Her lips reached up for his, the kiss slow and deep as they drank of each other’s banked passion. Soon his hand was spread across her woman’s mound, moving and inciting, as her hips shifted slowly and the fires grew higher. He touched and lured her with an exquisite tenderness.
Beyond the hands that stirred and excited her, beyond her own shy touching of his rampant manhood, beyond the eagerness and fear that seemed to grow with equal parts, Julian remembered how she had crouched on the edge of a cliff in her childhood and wondered how it would be to jump, to fly through the mist. Now the gray eyes were of that mist, and all life had come down to a dark man who was teaching her glory undreamed; a man both harsh and gentle, a man of contradictions.
Charles had held back as long as he could, the strain showing in the curve of his mouth, the long erectness of his flesh, and the luminous quality of those gray eyes. His gentleness never wavered, however, as he drew her to him for one long kiss before sliding down with her into the rug itself, his hands firm on her hips.
The first long thrust seemed to Julian that it would split her apart, and she struggled a little under the impaling body that moved only slightly. It was not pain so much as a fullness, an invasion that was not altogether welcome. Charles held her tightly so that she could not move, and his mouth was hard on hers so that she could not twist away. Gentleness was done; this was a commanding man who would take as he had given. The twist of anger translated itself into sudden stiffness, and the next deep thrust brought the beginnings of pain. Her head moved back and forth as his mouth left hers and went to the rosy, turgid nipples.
The drawing, nibbling sensation brought a soft sound to her lips, and Charles looked up to smile at her, a look of possession and hunger touched with a sadness that rendered him oddly vulnerable. He began to move in her then, and Julian forgot all thought, all dreams, all half-rendered pain. Time compressed itself; she was burning, aching, hungry flesh, woman pierced by her lover’s power yet made anew by it. She mounted, soared, teetered at the moment of last endurance. Another thrust and she would die of it, she knew that. Yet they moved together in one fusion, drifted down the river, and came to the rapids. They lifted one long moment, and then Julian was flung upward by the very force of the explosion that seemed to shatter her. Her breath came shallowly and her hands clutched Charles hard.
"It’s all right. Lie quietly.” The gentle arms enfolded her, and his mouth touched her wet forehead where the curls clustered. She could hear his heart as it hammered, and the warm hands shook a little at the very power of what they had caused and experienced.
His voice came again from very far away as she felt him relax against her and flip a corner of the rich cloak over them both. Then there was no sound but the crackling of the fire as the delicious lassitude filled her veins and drew her down into sleep.
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nbsp; It might have been hours or minutes later that Julian woke to the sound of a door opening and of words being whispered in a soft voice. Some strange caution held her still. She opened her eyes slowly and saw that she lay alone before the now dying fire. Charles was standing at the door, clad only in a thin lawn shirt, a glass of wine in his hand.
“. . for the lady. She will be spending some little time here. You know the things to get.”
The person on the other side of the door must have ventured some comment not to Charles’s liking, for his voice rose a little, and she heard the next words clearly.
“Say that I retired to ponder the state of my soul. They will understand. I will be in touch when she palls.” He laughed a short laugh and shut the door quietly.
Julian lay very still as the impact of all that she had heard washed over her. Did he deliberately plan to keep her here? Did she want to leave now that she knew the glories of the flesh? How could she judge?
He settled down beside her and kissed her eyelids as his hands went to her breasts, which already hungered again for his touch. Julian opened her eyes and stretched, smiling at him as she did so.
“It must be late, Charles. I must go back to court. No excuse will suffice for a long absence.” She watched him from under long eyelashes that dipped as if in maidenly modesty.
“You do not wish to stay here? Have you not found pleasure in our joining?” The words were light, almost teasing, but he could not conceal the secretiveness in it.
Pleasure? Ah, God, such delight in the garden of the forbidden. Julian knew now why the priests railed so against the blandishments of the flesh. She hesitated, and Charles took her in his arms, his mouth drinking of hers, evoking her willing and eager response. The sweet fire between them had not been put out; indeed it but burned brighter.
He looked down at her with satisfaction. “You will linger here, then.” It was not a question.
Until she palls. Julian heard the words again. Pride flamed high as she heard him a lifetime ago speaking of his betrothed even while admitting the power of the attraction that drew him and Julian together. She, daughter of the Redenters, mistress of Redeswan, would be no man’s leman.
He cupped her face in one hand and laid the other on her pale breast where his lips had so lately tasted. She shivered as the warmth began to suffuse her. The pulse hammered in his own throat, and the chiseled face was brightened by that quirking half smile of his. She wavered, longing again to feel his hardness in her, to know the delight they could give each other. Together they could make up enough tales to make the court believe them; she had no doubt that gold would buy much silence, and who could prove later that Lady Redenter, faithful lady to the Queen’s Majesty, was no virgin? Why could she not take this joy and be grateful for it?
Half persuaded, she put her arms around his shoulders, feeling the chill that shot over his skin at the barest touch from her. The firm muscles contracted as she, in her turn, pulled him closer. Surely this was a gift from the capricious gods of the Greeks, she thought, for who else could sing of such delights? Aye, she, the virgin, had been shown how passion could be by the man she might have loved had things been different. If their paths diverged as they must in the practical world, would she not have this to remember as she lay beside the suitable husband who would be chosen for her? Her flesh was her own; how could she bear another’s touch after this?
“Julian, lady, I will show you such delights.” His mouth took hers possessively as her fingers sought the curling hair at his nape.
She yielded for a moment, and then a small, stern face rose in front of her. Julian saw the glory that lit Mary Tudor from within as she laid herself bare for love of the deceiving king of Spain. She remembered Lady Gwendolyn, dying in savage pain, crying out to the husband that only she could see, whose memorial she had been, “None but you, Lionel, so did I swear it!” And now Charles, scheming and entrapping her, taking her though she herself had gloried in the taking. To this pass could love and passion bring you. Julian Redenter would be herself, inviolable. So her decision was taken.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Julian drifted her fingers around the side of his cheek and moved her head so that his lips touched her cheek. She shivered a little, and as she had hoped, Charles leaned away to look at her.
“You are cold, lady mine?” The deep voice held an undertone of a passion beginning to build all the more strongly for delay. The fire crackled and threw long shadows on the rich walls.
Julian said, “You will surely think me peasant, Charles, but I vow I am most terribly hungry. For something hot, that is. And I feel sticky. Would it be possible to fetch water for me?” A poor excuse, she thought, in view of all the pleasures they had had, that she could even think of anything so mundane as food. He will think me addled. She almost said the words out loud and caught herself just in time. “Humor me, I beg you.” Her lashes drooped down again in what seemed a parody of modesty to her.
“For you, my dear, anything that you wish.” He smiled down at her with a look so intimate that her heart actually hurt. “We will take time for ourselves, will we not?”
Julian thought that she could not carry through with her scheme. How could they have shared that passion and not . . . ? She fought the thoughts back; her path was chosen. Here was no chivalrous lord of romance but rather a man of the world, accustomed to taking what he wanted and tossing the rest aside. She knew nothing of him but that bit of gossip and the way he had connived to have her. Did she use him ill? Even now she could turn back.
He was saying, “I’d best go myself and rouse the servants. I will not be gone long, Julian. Take wine and refresh yourself.” He rose and began to dress sufficiently so that the rest of the household might not be shocked.
She had counted on this, for his tone had been so dismissing of the servant earlier that no one would be expecting any other instructions. If this were like other great houses, and there was no reason to suppose that it was not, he would be a good ten or fifteen minutes simply reaching the servants’ quarters. They had not come that far from the street, and the passageway was emblazoned in her mind.
“Charles?” Her cry was suddenly frightened as she held out both hands to him.
He turned back to her, and behind the casual manner, the half smile, she saw the cynicism in his eyes. Just so had many women called to him, she knew. The expertise that had given her pleasure beyond the telling was well earned. He caught her up and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Do not fret, sweeting, I will hasten. Pleasure delayed is pleasure doubled, or so they do say.” The door banged behind him, and she heard his retreating footsteps.
Now there was no time for thought or regret. She tossed on shift and skirts, wrapped the torn gown around her and secured it with the cloth from her coif, which had been brought along after the skirmish in the streets. She thrust stockingless feet into the old shoes and pulled her cloak over her shoulders, then slipped into the quiet hall.
Every step that she took seemed to echo back as if a giant clumped behind her. Even if she were discovered, he would do nothing but rebuke her, perhaps hold her prisoner for a time until, shaming words, she began “to pall.” Still, Julian went cautiously along the narrow passage, took the turn she remembered, and saw the door at the end that led to the doubtful safety of the streets.
Suddenly she heard a muffled clatter and a bang as if someone had dropped something heavy, but there was no sign of a panel or any visible doorway along the wall here. She assumed that a room must be somewhere just beyond, possibly even the kitchens. That thought drove her to fright, and she rushed at the bolted door that had given way so easily to Charles’s knocks.
Her small hands were strong, but the bolts did not give way easily although they had been freshly oiled. She heard the clattering sound again, and this time some ripe curses came clearly to her. She slammed again at the bolts and saw that they were beginning to move. With a strength she did not know she had, Julian threw them back
just as a light began to shine at the far end of the passage.
She almost tumbled into the street and pushed the door shut. Moments later she was around the corner and scuttling rapidly down the lane, her heart hammering as though she had been battling for her life. The air was cool and bracing, the time something like midafternoon. Was it possible that she had been with Charles only a few hours? More like eternity, she sighed.
The passers-by paid no attention to her, but Julian pulled the cloak up and over her bright head and held it under her chin with one hand. She bent her legs and began to walk with a slump that might have come from years of carrying the burdens of the poor. Julian had learned much from her games with the village children and from listening to Elspeth’s tales; the commissioners who came to investigate the family each year had more than a few times thought the daughter of the house to be “strange in the head” for the staring looks that she put on. She had been scolded for it, but the pretense had turned more than one inquiry.
The Thames was not far away, the smell of fish and mud mingling with the freshness of impending rain. Charles’s house would have fronted on the river, and now she must find some way to get out of the neighborhood in which he was likely to send pursuit, if he inclined to so lower his pride. She sped on, taking relief in the simple act of motion as she went toward St. Paul’s.
Ordinarily she would have taken excited interest in the rushing life of the streets with processions, gawkers, beggars, merchants, booths, and shops of all descriptions, but now she was conscious only of the plan that had come to her in those moments of decision in Charles’s arms. Once again the streets were wider, and she saw now that bands of soldiers walked along, their faces grim and set. One such band' surrounded several prisoners whose hands were bound behind their backs; they looked so young that Julian was driven to pity for wondering what their crime might be.
