A Valentine Wedding

by Jane Feather

  “Thank you.” Alasdair took Emma’s hand again and led her to the flight of stairs at the rear of the stone-flagged entrance hall. They climbed one flight and Alasdair turned down a corridor.

  Emma was intrigued. She had decided that they must be in the village of Chelsea. But why had Alasdair paid off the watermen? Perhaps they were to return by road. He may have considered that it would be too cold later to return by water.

  Alasdair opened a door at the end of the corridor and stood aside to let her pass through. She stepped into a large corner apartment, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows on two sides. A log fire blazed in the grate, crocheted rugs were scattered over the luminous polished floor. A four-poster bed dominated the room.

  She glanced up at Alasdair with an inquiring eyebrow.

  “That’s for later,” he said, reaching over her shoulders to unclasp her cloak. “First we have supper.” He indicated a gate-legged table and two carved wooden armchairs drawn up before the fire.

  The table was set with silverware and platters, crystal glasses and two pewter candlesticks. There was a scent in the warmed air, of lavender, rose petals, and apple blossom. Emma looked for the source and found it in a small pan of potpourri simmering on a trivet over the fire.

  Everything about the chamber was soft and sensual. A fragrant, languorous room that seemed to exist in its own space and time. There were no sounds from the building around them, no sense that there was anyone in the world besides themselves.

  She turned to look up at Alasdair, who was watching her, smiling, her cloak still hung over his arm. Then he tossed her cloak onto the window seat, sent his own after it, and strode to a sideboard set against the far wall.

  Emma’s eyes followed him. There was food on the sideboard. A great silver platter of oysters, opalescent in their craggy gray shells, mounded on lemon-strewn ice. There were quails in aspic, bright pink lobsters with a saffron sauce, a delicate puree of green peas. A feast for the eyes as much as the taste buds.

  Alasdair was opening a bottle of champagne, easing off the cork with his thumbs. He poured the straw-colored foaming liquid into a cup.

  Emma hadn’t noticed the cup before but as he brought it over to her she gasped with delight. It was a two-handled chalice of engraved silver, studded with emeralds and sapphires.

  “A loving cup,” he said, smiling with pleasure at her reaction.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Norway, I believe, sometime in the twelfth century. It’s been in my family for generations.” He held it to her lips.

  She drank the champagne, feeling its effervescence on her tongue, the bubbles exploding against her palate like ripe berries. This was no ordinary champagne. Alasdair drank from the other side, his eyes holding hers over the cup.

  “The loving cup is only used on certain occasions,” he said gravely, tipping it to her lips again. “We must drink to the bottom.”

  Emma drank again. They drank alternately until Alasdair said softly, “Hold it yourself now. See how beautiful it is on the inside.”

  Emma did so. She looked into the cup. The reverse facets of the jewels had a dull glow like a stained glass window on a cloudy day. A small amount of champagne lay in the bottom of the cup, and something winked up at her through the pale liquid. She tilted the cup and there was a tiny little clink.

  Delicately she reached into the cup, dipping her fingers into the champagne, and drew out a circlet of chased gold. Sapphires of the deepest, darkest blue were embedded in the gold.

  She looked up at Alasdair in wonder, unsure what to say or do.

  He took the ring from her. “Do you know what day it is, Emma?”

  “Tuesday,” she answered, confused by the question.

  He took her left hand and held it for a minute. He shook his head at her in mock reproof. “It’s the feast of Saint Valentine. There was a time not so long ago when you decided it would be a very important day for you. Have you forgotten so soon?”

  Emma said, “It seems to me that I’ve already achieved what I said I would.”

  Alasdair slipped the ring on her third finger. “A lover, and a future husband. Was that right?”

  “You know it was.” She held up her hand to the light. Sapphires were her favorite stones and these were heart-stoppingly beautiful. “I didn’t expect a betrothal ring this time,” she said with a rueful little smile. “Having thrown the last one in your teeth.”

  “Well, I’m going to make certain you don’t have the chance to do that again.” He reached inside his waistcoat and drew out a paper and a small twist of tissue.

  “I have here a special license and a wedding ring. The local vicar will be ready for us in the morning, and until then …”

  He caught her chin on his palm, his expression a curious mixture of gravity and amusement. “Until then, my sweet, you and I shall stay in this chamber. I intend to ensure that come morning you will be too exhausted to do anything but stagger up to the altar and stammer your responses. There’ll be no flight to Italy this time.”

  “There’ll be no need for one,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

  Alasdair nodded slowly. “The feast of Saint Valentine,” he mused. “It seemed to me that there was a curious resonance to the idea of spending our prenuptial night in the arms of the patron saint of star-crossed lovers.”

  “His blessing might forestall further star-crossing, you mean?”

  “Sometimes a little extra help can’t go amiss.” He reached behind him to the sideboard and took an oyster from the salver. “Open.”

  Emma opened her mouth and he fed her the oyster. The cold, fishy, sea-tasting morsel slithered down her throat, and she closed her eyes involuntarily. “I’m not sure I need aphrodisiacs,” she murmured.

  Alasdair took the loving cup from her. “I think supper will have to wait.” He reached for her hands and pulled her against him. Holding her tightly, he fell back with her onto the bed, rolling her beneath him. Leaning on his elbows, he looked down at her. “God, but you’re so beautiful, Emma. I want you so fiercely.”

  “Then have me,” she said with a wicked little grin. “I am yours, sir.” She flung her arms wide on the coverlet in a gesture of mock surrender. “But don’t tear my gown, or else I’ll have to stand at the altar in my shift.”

  “An irresistible invitation,” he murmured, his eyes alive with passion. He kissed her with the savage desire she was inciting, biting her bottom lip so that she could taste a little bead of salty blood. His hands were at the neck of her gown of delicate spider-gauze. He ripped it from neck to hem, and Emma laughed exultantly.

  She reached for his shirt and tugged, heedless of the buttons flying loose, lifting her body on the mattress so that he could free her hips and thighs of the half-slip of blue silk she wore beneath the gauze. Her silk stockings tore under a raking fingernail as he felt for her. She tore at the buttons of his waistband, freeing the hard jut of his erection.

  He lifted her legs onto his shoulders and in the same movement drove deep inside her. His gaze, as exultant as Emma’s, scanned her. He reached down to touch her face with his palm, then he began to move within her, ever deeper, ever more probing, so that she felt more truly possessed than she had felt before. She turned her face and bit his palm as the great fierce joy grew and grew until it could no longer be contained. And then just as she knew she was lost, he withdrew to the very edge of her body, holding himself there. Her eyes, drowning in need, lost themselves in his.

  Slowly, very slowly, he smiled, then inch by inch sheathed himself within her again.

  And they both cried out in savage triumph as the hot juices of their loving flowed and they clung to each other, jubilant in ecstasy.

  And Emma thought, as weakly she drew Alasdair down into her embrace, that Ned had been a very powerful deus ex machina. She kissed Alasdair’s damp shoulder and felt his lips on her breast. And she knew that he too was thinking of the man who had insisted that against all appearances, against
all the odds, they belonged together.

  About the Author

  JANE FEATHER is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow’s Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over six million copies of her books in print.

  Jane Feather’s stunning finale to the “Kiss” trilogy …

  KISSED BY SHADOWS

  available now

  Don’t miss the unforgettable story of Penelope’s

  equally headstrong sister, Pippa.

  With a touch of his hand, Pippa feels an instant connection to the dark stranger who should have been her greatest enemy. But what this handsome man knows about her will put both their lives in the greatest danger—even as they slip under the spell of a daring seduction that will turn them into passionate outlaws … and legendary lovers.

  Read on for a preview….

  Prologue

  Winchester, July 26th, 1554

  THE PANELED CHAMBER WAS IN SHADOWS, THE ONLY light thrown from a branched candelabrum on a side table that caught the deep fire of ruby, the golden glow of topaz, the rich flash of emerald adorning the heavy silks and velvets of the six men in the chamber.

  The tall windows were shuttered, closing out the warm summer night, and the air in the chamber was stifling. The men were sweating, dark patches staining the thickly embroidered brocade of their doublets, rivulets trickling down the back of their necks where their hair clung wet beneath jeweled velvet caps.

  As a group they approached the daybed that stood in deepest shadow against the wall. The bed was draped with a white sheet and the still figure upon it looked as if she lay upon her bier. One arm hung down, the fingertips brushing the rich Turkish carpet. Her hair, the color of cinnamon, was loose on the pillow, her thin frame clad only in a linen nightshift. Freckles were visible even in the shadowed gloom, standing out harshly against the extreme pallor of her countenance. Paper-thin eyelids fluttered as if she were dreaming, and then were still again.

  “You are certain she is aware of nothing?” The question was startling as it broke the almost reverent silence in the chamber. The voice, although barely more than a whisper, was a thickly accented rasp.

  “She is unconscious, Your Majesty. She will not come to herself for many hours.” One of his companions moved up to stand beside him as he looked down upon the woman.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty, this will not even invade her dreams.”

  The king turned his head towards this last speaker. He gave a short sardonic laugh. “In general, Ruy, my companions in the games of love are honored and pleasured by my attentions.”

  “This is no game of love, Philip, ’tis insurance,” the other said quietly, with the familiarity of an old and intimate friend.

  The king touched his fingers to his lips, stroked his short beard. “I have no need of the reminder, Ruy.”

  Ruy Gomez merely nodded. “Shall we withdraw, sir?”

  “Or, if Your Majesty prefers, we could move the screen to give you privacy.” One of the others gestured to a tall screen that stood in front of the empty hearth.

  The king looked at the circle of solemn faces around him. His eye fell on one man, who stood isolated from the rest, in the far corner of the chamber. His face was shuttered, averted from the daybed, every line of his body indicating the most acute discomfort.

  “There is no need for the husband to remain,” the king stated. “My lord Nielson, you may wait in the antechamber.”

  The man bowed jerkily and hurried from the chamber without once glancing towards the daybed.

  “Bring forward the screen and the rest of you may withdraw beyond it.” The king’s voice was harsh and determined, as if he had resolved finally upon executing a distasteful duty.

  His orders were obeyed.

  “A single candle at the head,” the king instructed.

  Ruy Gomez removed a lit candle from the candelabrum and placed it in the sconce on the wall above the daybed, then he bowed and withdrew.

  The light shone down on the pale countenance, the still, white figure. The king stood in shadow at the foot of the bed. He unlaced his hose of white doeskin, loosened his doublet of cloth of gold, and brusquely moved aside the woman’s linen shift. He looked down at her as she lay in the pool of golden light, then he leaned forward to part the milky thighs, to run his hands over the pale skin of her belly.

  Beyond the screen the four men waited. The silence in the chamber was profound; it was almost as if it were inhabited only by statues. When the king emerged from behind the screen, they seemed to exhale as one.

  “It is done,” he stated. “Take her to her husband.”

  The man who now approached the daybed was dressed with more simplicity than his companions. His only jewel was a curious brooch at his throat, a serpent of blackest jet with two brilliant emeralds for eyes and a forked tongue tipped with a blue-white diamond. The man’s face was impassive as he bent over the woman, swiftly adjusting the shift so that she was once again completely covered. He touched her cheek, moving aside a lock of reddish-brown hair that had fallen over her eyes.

  The woman’s eyes suddenly opened. She stared up at him. She tried to raise her arm but when he placed a hand over her eyes, drawing down the lids again, she was once more still, her breathing deep and slow.

  He lifted her, wrapping her in the white sheet that had draped the bed. None of the other men looked at him as he passed into the antechamber, where he placed his burden without speaking into the outstretched arms of her husband. Immediately he strode away from the chamber, disappearing into the shadows of the long corridor.

  Within the paneled chamber Ruy Gomez went to the window and threw back the shutters.

  A light breeze wafted into the room, bringing the scent of roses and the sweet song of a nightingale.

  One

  Whitehall Palace, London, August, 1554

  PIPPA WAS AWARE OF THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT BEFORE SHE opened her eyes. She lay still until she was fully awake. She knew almost without waiting for the sensations to make themselves apparent that her mouth would be dry, her limbs heavy, a faint dull ache in her joints. Whenever she slept past daybreak, it was always thus.

  It was so unusual for her to sleep late. She had always awoken at cockcrow, ready for whatever the new day might hold. But in the last weeks, since the queen’s wedding to Philip of Spain, there had been these mornings when she’d awoken feeling leaden and listless, a pain behind her eyes that took half the day to dissipate.

  She moved her body carefully on the deep feather mattress. Stuart was beside her. He had not come to bed with her the previous evening, but that was generally the case. Wine still lingered on his breath and she guessed it had been dawn before he had left his friends and the cards and dice to which he was addicted.

  She turned onto her side away from him, unwilling as yet to ring the handbell for her maid and begin the tedious process of dressing herself for the day.

  As she moved her legs apart she noticed the slight discomfort, the dried stickiness on her thighs. Why? she thought with exasperation. Just why did Stuart only make love to her when she was asleep? She had never shown herself an unwilling partner. Indeed, in the early weeks after their marriage she had done everything she could to make their bedplay inviting and exciting. His enthusiasm had been distinctly muted, she reflected, but at least she’d been awake on each occasion.

  Her husband stirred beside her, and with renewed energy Pippa rolled over, propping herself on an elbow to face him. Even in sleep, even with wine-soured breath, he was utterly beautiful. Fair curls clustered on a broad alabaster brow, thick brown eyelashes were crescent moons on his high cheekbones, his complexion tinged with gold from the sun. Lord Nielson was
an avid hunter, a man who loved all outdoor pursuits as much as he loved the card tables. A man who could burn the candle at both ends without any apparent ill effects.

  As if aware of his wife’s scrutiny, he opened his eyes. Eyes the color of pure aquamarine, the whites as clear as a baby’s.

  Pippa’s voice had an edge to it. “Why didn’t you wake me, Stuart? If you wished to couple last night, why didn’t you wake me?”

  He looked discomfited, reached out a hand to touch her arm. “You were sleeping so soundly, Pippa. I had a great need for you but I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

  Pippa sat up, brushing his hand away. “Why would you keep the pleasure to yourself? This is the fourth or fifth time this month. Do you enjoy making love to a corpse?”

  Hot color flooded Stuart’s fair complexion. He flung aside the covers and almost jumped to the floor, keeping his back to her. “That is a vile thing to say.”

  “Maybe so,” Pippa said, sitting up. “But you must forgive me if I find it an equally vile thing to be used for your pleasure in my sleep.”

  Pippa knew the sharpness of her tongue and in general tried to moderate it with her husband. He became hurt so easily, and then as swiftly sullen. When he was in good spirits he was an amusing, pleasant companion, quick-witted and energetic. He suited her own temperament very well, which was why, she reflected now, she had agreed to marry him. That and his undeniable beauty.

  She nibbled at a loose fingernail, frowning as she watched him thrust his arms into the wide sleeves of a chamber robe, still with his back averted. She didn’t think she was shallow enough to find beauty sufficient in a husband, but Stuart Nielson had also charmed her with his physical prowess, his ability to make her laugh, and not least his devout admiration.

  “I’ll be in my dressing chamber,” he said to the door frame. “Do you wish me to summon Martha?”