Mary wrapped her arms around his neck as firmly as she could and held on for dear life. Inch by inch, she felt them slide up the slope of the ice—the slope she had been unable to climb. It was painstaking. She could hear the guardsmen grunt as they tugged, then counted to three and tugged again. It was slow work—they must be heavy.
Mary almost laughed to think she was such a burden for three guardsmen, but then she looked down. Her skirts were soaked. Her legs must have been in the water—why hadn’t she noticed?
Again, she heard the count and felt the tug. She still could not feel her feet, but she could feel the ice shifting. They were running out of time.
“Faster!” Sir Charles gave a clear command, and she felt the tugging again. How could she help? If only she was not weighed down . . .
Before the thought was fully formed, Mary acted. She let go of her grip around Sir Charles and lowered just a bit to reach into his boot for his dagger.
“Mary, hang on!” She could hear the panic in his voice and grabbed him around the waste with one arm as she quickly sliced through the waistband of her skirts with his dagger. With the next count and tug, she shimmied free of the burdensome sodden wool and felt the strength of the tug slide them farther up the ice.
Charles laughed as he loosened his hold on her. “You are quite a woman.”
Two more pulls had them at the peak and able to stand up for themselves on the compacted ice against the bridge. Well, almost able to stand. Charles scooped Mary into his arms before her numb legs had a chance to give way.
Mary felt strangely warm again as Charles picked her up, clad only in her bodice, chemise, stockings, and boots. Charles had saved her. She had saved the baby. Mary felt like laughing. Like crying. Actually, more than anything else, Mary felt like sleeping.
• • •
“You cannot sleep yet. Stay with me, Mary-my-love.” Charles gently shook Mary’s face, trying to keep her awake. He had dealt with victims of extreme cold, and the worst thing was for them to fall into a sleep. She had lost both slippers and one stocking; he could see the dark outline of the veins on her exposed white leg as he carried her. She was frozen through. He needed to warm her immediately.
A crowd had gathered, mostly curious courtiers, against the balustrade of the London Bridge as Charles and his guard had worked to save Mary and the boy. Most were applauding him as he climbed over the rail and settled on the frozen pavement. Some were whispering maliciously about Mary’s state of undress. Would this petty spite never end? Mary deserved better than this.
“Sir Charles, We thank you for your services to Our person this day.” Queen Elizabeth was atop the bridge, surrounded by her ladies, some looking more distraught than others. “Mistress Parry will accompany you to the closest inn and then to the palace at Whitehall to see to Mistress Mary’s care.” Mistress Parry stepped forward with purpose, leading the way to a waiting carriage. “We will have words with you upon your return to the palace. And worry not—the babe will be well cared for.” With a demanding flourish of Her gloved hand, Queen Elizabeth gestured Sir Charles on his way.
Charles felt like a callous fool. He had not even thought of the boy since he had handed off the small shivering bundle. His concern had been Mary—but then he knew that she would care for the well-being of the child. Swallowing against a lump in his throat, he held Mary close, giving her his warmth. She risked her life for that baby. That boy had better survive and live well every day in thanks to Mary’s sacrifice.
Not that it was a sacrifice, if he had anything to say about it.
The carriage brought them less than a half-furlong away to a clean inn. Mistress Parry alit the carriage almost before it had stopped to order a hot bath to the inn’s best rooms immediately. By the time Charles was inside with Mary, now unconscious, Mistress Parry had seen to it that they had the private use of a toasty chamber and the beginnings of a hot bath.
Charles almost laughed to himself as he cut Mary out of her bodice and corset. Who knew that his dagger would see so much action? She would laugh when he told her about this later. Once he freed her from her clothes, he lowered her limp form into the tub.
“Work her feet,” Mistress Parry instructed as she placed Mary’s frozen hands under the hot water and started to massage the fingers. Charles did the same on Mary’s toes, both Blanche and Charles uncaring of the water soaking their own sleeves or of Mary’s nudity. They had to get the blood flowing back into each digit, but also had to be careful not to chafe her skin.
Silence enveloped the small chamber, broken only by the servants as they brought up more water and set it to heat by the fire. Charles worked both feet at the same time, moving up Mary’s calves. She looked so still, so pale. There was no spark of life, and yet her heart still beat and her chest still rose and fell with each shallow breath. He could not think of her as his Mary—he had to focus on the task at hand. He’d seen many soldiers succumb to cold and lose toes, feet, and worse. He had to stay on task and get her blood flowing into her extremities.
“She did a noble thing.”
“Yes, and a foolish thing,” Charles murmured as he coaxed warmth into Mary’s icy feet. “There were any number of guardsmen that would have helped if she had asked.”
“True.” Mistress Parry gestured for the serving wench to add another ewer of hot water to the tub. “I doubt the thought even occurred to her.”
Charles sat back on his haunches, his soaked arms resting on the edge of the tub, waiting for the girl to finish pouring the water. Mary looked so helpless, so small. And yet she had been strong and sure out there on the ice, saving that boy and finding a secure line to hold to. Ha! She had even cut off her own skirts. No, she was no fragile lady of the court. She was much better than that. Charles could not even consider the possibility that she may not make it. She had to make it. She was too strong to simply succumb.
She would recover, and they would laugh about it all later—at least, after he scolded her for taking such a risk. And then, what? She would remain a “guest” of Mistress Parry until she returned to the country? Thank God she was no longer with the Oxfords. It was incredible to think that Mary could have stood to serve in the same household as the man who killed her betrothed. Charles remembered the incident a few years ago when Ned had skewered that young man. Thomas, Mary called him. Ned had been acquitted of wrongdoing, which, due to his rank, he would have been regardless of his actual innocence. Truth be told, it really had seemed to be just a tragic accident. But that didn’t change that a man had died.
Breaking from his thoughts, he noticed Mistress Parry gazing at him quizzically. “Mistress Parry, why has Mary never married? I mean, I know she lost her lover and her baby, but neither of those seem adequate excuses. She should have married since.”
Mistress Parry shook her head. “The fact that she has no title or wealth is, I am sure, a contributing factor.”
“True, but that would be balanced out by her beauty.”
“You are so innocent in spite of being half de Vere.” Charles glowered as Blanche continued. “Lovely, penniless, low-born women are not sought out as wives, Sir Charles. Mary is lucky that she had enough of a good reputation to earn her living as a companion to a noble lady.”
Mistress Parry’s use of past tense did not escape Charles. Had. Yes, her reputation, at court at least, was ruined. She could not fix that even if she did find out who’d actually stabbed Oxford.
Mistress Parry continued, never looking away from her task, “She has made herself notorious, whether she wanted to or not. The best a woman of her breeding and wealth could wish for was to be unremarkable. Any hope of that is long gone.”
“Why can’t she go back to her family?”
“She implied that she had burned that bridge. She will most likely go back to the country and resume her duties as a ladies’ companion to Mistress LeSieur.”
“Henry LeSieur is a good man. He always takes his responsibilities very seriously. I’m sure he has a resp
ectable household. Do you think they’ll welcome her return? After all of this?”
“Yes.”
At least she would be taken care of, but she would never be able to show her face at court again, not without risking censure. Charles should feel relieved, but he did not. If she left for the safe haven of the country, he would never see her again.
“Do not worry for me—I will be content there.” Mary’s voice shocked Charles from his irrational self-pity. “I had planned to return after Twelfth Night anyway.”
Thank God in all His mercy. Charles offered up his silent prayer and closed his eyes, relief pooling there in unexpected tears. “Mary, I . . . ” Charles released Mary’s foot softly into the warm bath. “I’ll fetch a towel.”
“Welcome back, child.” Mistress Parry’s tone was soothing. “You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?”
Mary and Mistress Parry spoke in hushed voices while Charles busied himself with setting up bedding by the hearth. As soon as Mary sat forward in the tub to take stock of her situation, Charles knew he should make himself scarce. It had been easier to ignore Mary’s nakedness when she had been unconscious. Now that she seemed somewhat recovered, all he could see when he looked at her was her breasts. Her skin sparkled with droplets of water in the firelight, her nipples just above the waterline in the bath. The best thing to do was look away—or at least only surreptitiously peak through the corner of his eye. Charles would not apologize for being a man, but he should strive to be more of a gentleman. He tried to focus on smoothing out the ticking. Mary would still need to stay warm—the closer to the fire, the better.
Blanche Parry and a serving wench helped Mary out of the tub and wrapped her in flannel towels. “Come and lay by the fire. You need to keep warm and get some food in you.” Mistress Parry gave orders to the serving girl for a tray to be brought up. “You may feel fine now, but it is possible you are in shock. It is best that you rest and stay bundled up so you do not take a chill. Can you feel your toes?”
Mary nodded as she let herself be led to the makeshift bed. “I can feel my toes, but they are tingling so badly that they hurt.” She hobbled as if each step caused pain, like her own weight was too much for her feet to handle.
Charles helped secure the blankets over Mary. “You may have been touched by the frost. We kept you in that bath for some time, but now I would like you to eat some broth and bread. Perhaps have a tincture of willow bark.”
Mary, though wrapped in blankets in front of the roaring fire, had begun to shiver again. In his experience, shivering was a good sign. It meant the body was doing what it was supposed to—it was fighting.
Mistress Parry removed a series of small pouches from the hidden pockets of her skirts and started emptying herbs into a mug of hot water. Charles turned back to Mary to find her gaze on him. She gave a shy smile as he crouched beside her.
“You scared me.”
“I think I scared myself.” Mary laughed softly through her shivers and reached up to steady her jaw. “I wish I could stop shaking,” she said, each word stuttered and jarring.
“This will pass. The worst is over for now. I think you will even be able to keep all your toes.”
“What?!” Mary stiffened in shock, her shivering briefly forgotten.
Charles spread his hands wide. “It happens. I’ve seen it many times—a soldier on the march who does not even realize his feet are frozen . . . I’ve seen much worse than missing toes. You are lucky.” Of course none of this would have happened if Mary had just exited the ice like all the other ladies. Then again, Mary was not like all the other ladies. Chances were good that, if Mary had not noticed, the child would have been lost.
“That is disgusting.” Mary shuddered, or was she shivering again? “I will thank you not to talk of it again.” She smiled through blue lips, her eyes playful in spite of the danger. He could not look away.
His gaze locked with her, Charles gave a half bow and whispered, “As my lady commands.”
Mistress Parry cleared her throat. “I can see you have things under control.”
Charles broke his eyes away from Mary to see Mistress Parry standing in the doorway of the small inn room. She continued, “I will report to the palace and arrange for her safe transportation upon the morrow. In the name of propriety, I have engaged the mistress of this establishment as a chaperone. She will check in on you from time to time. In the interim, I am sure I can trust young Mary to your care.”
Charles rose and gave a reverance. “I am ever at your service, madam.”
He did not miss the mischievous glint in her eye as she nodded her farewells and left with one last instruction.
“Keep her warm.” She winked and turned in a swish of skirts and hurried down the stairwell.
Charles settled the bolt in the latch and hurried back to Mary’s side. “Are you warming up?”
“I feel,” Mary’s teeth chattered, muffling her words, “as if I shall never be warm enough again.”
With a sigh, Charles ran an assessing hand over Mary’s pallid skin. She needed more heat. It was a good sign that she was conscious, but it was not enough to ensure she would recover.
Without a word, he removed his doublet and undid the lacings of his slops. He had removed his sodden boots when they arrived, but had not wasted another thought on his own discomfort. His slops and stocking were still cold and wet. He tossed them near the hearth, hearing a sizzle as the wet woolens met the hot stone. Removing his shirt, he draped it over the back of a chair before retrieving a warm towel to dry himself off. Mary needed his warmth now more than anything.
She was shivering still as he slid under the blankets behind her. He nestled one arm under her head and wrapped the other arm around her ribs, under the soft swell of her breast. Her body was cold, so cold, that the skin-to-skin contact was a shock. All he could do was cradle her with his heat until the shaking stopped and the tension left her shoulders. He sighed in relief and, no longer fighting his own exhaustion, pressed a soft kiss against her forehead and closed his eyes. She sighed softly and burrowed closer, her breathing regular as she fell asleep.
Chapter Sixteen:
On the Eighth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Eight Maids A-Milking . . .
Mary cracked her eyelids and took in the glow from the smoldering fire in the hearth. She was warm and safe. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the embrace of her quilt and pillows, sighing deeply as her body sank heavily into the feathered mattress.
She was unwilling to leave her dream. A dream of warm hands. A soft touch up along her hip and rib, cupping her breast and kneading. His touch made her skin tingle, as he gently smoothed his thumb over the peak of her nipple, and sent tendrils of heat through her body. It was almost too much sensation for her to sleep, but by God, she did not wish to wake yet.
She placed her hand over his as it trailed down over her torso to her abdomen. She shivered when he toyed with the curls at the top of her thighs, teasing. She wanted more and pressed him lower.
Her fingers laced with his, she felt the cords in his hand contract as he edged one long finger farther. His touch was almost rough as he pressed deeper. She urged him on, feeling her own wetness as he found her opening and slipped inside.
It was so sweet, his touch, his heat. She opened herself more to him, hooking one knee back over his thigh. He pressed deeper and his movements increased. She felt his erection against her back as his body shifted behind hers, pressing toward the juncture of her thighs. She knew what she wanted, what he wanted, as the hot length of him brushed against the curls between her legs.
She felt him slide against her. Her hand still over his, his fingers parted her folds as his cock pressed, firm and urgent against her opening. She leaned forward instinctively and arched one leg back more, opening herself more for him.
Then he was where he was meant to be, slowly gliding inside. She stretched around him and groaned, the sound reverberating throughout her body. This was what she had want
ed.
It was no dream—she was sure of that now.
She leaned forward to take him deeper, her hand still over his as he clutched her hip, pulling her back against him with every slow thrust.
“Charles . . . ” Mary’s voice came like a rasp as the tension inside her grew.
“Shhh, we are dreaming.” His voice was strained, his breath a sweet caress against her shoulder. He pressed a hot kiss to the back of her neck, his teeth lightly scoring her skin.
She gasped and arched her back, opening herself for more as his hips ground against her, pushing him deeper and deeper. “I never want to wake from this.”
She clutched his hand against her mound as his finger found her sensitive bud and lightly stroked. Each movement more intense than the last, sending jolts of sensation through her body with each thrust, each soft touch. She could feel her own moisture around him, how swollen and stretched she was, welcoming him into her body with slick suction. Skin meeting skin. His touch. His heat. All of it brought her to the edge.
With one final gasp her body shook, the sudden shivers more intense than cold could ever cause. Her muscles gripped him tight as he drove in to her one final time and cried out, his breath harsh against her back.
She lay there, secure, wrapped in his body, still holding him inside her.
“Mary.”
“Yes?” She turned her head sideways, and he brushed a soft kiss on her cheek.
“This is how every night should be. You and me, together like this.” Charles’s words were whispered, but she felt the intensity of them like a thunderclap. “With you, in my bed. In my arms like this . . . This is the perfect start to a new year.”
Tears burned her eyes as she willed sleep to come. This was perfect. It was everything she could have dreamed for. But there were only four days left.
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