Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  Robert scowled. “I think I liked you better without humor.” He turned toward the door, halting as he spied the bundle Thomas had brought into the room. “What’s this?”

  “Ah yes. I almost forgot. Open it.”

  Robert did so, blinking in wonder at the silver casket. “Thomas? Is this—” He reached out and ran a finger over the engraved “F” on the lid.

  “It is for Francis II, Mary’s first husband.”

  His eyes widened. “Queen Mary’s?”

  Thomas nodded. “’Tis the rest of Walsingham’s proof. I’m to deliver it along with Duncan’s compliments.”

  “Is it conclusive?”

  “If the letters are real, they will seal her fate.”

  Robert yanked his hand away as if the box were a live coal. “By the rood, but you’re a cold fish to stand there and speak so calmly! Men would die for this.”

  “I imagine they would. In fact, some might still.”

  Robert looked puzzled. “Why does MacLean provide so much for Walsingham?”

  “I don’t know. He spoke of a debt paid, but no more.”

  “I knew Walsingham was dealing below the table!”

  “Aye, you did. I’ve already sent word to Walsingham and asked to meet.”

  Robert nodded, a cold smile on his face. “I shall look forward to that meeting.” He placed the casket back on the dressing table beside Fia’s small writing desk. He looked at her desk for a moment, then asked abruptly, “Thomas, have you read any of Fia’s plays?”

  “Nay, why?”

  Robert flipped open the small desk and took out a sheaf of papers. He paged through them, selected a section, and held it out to Thomas. “This is my favorite. Fia read it to me while we were on the ship and it was vastly amusing.”

  Thomas looked at the sheaf of papers. What would Fia write about? Hopeless passion? Murder and mayhem? ’Twould be interesting to find out. He took the play and thumbed through it.

  Robert was already digging back through the writing desk. “I vow, that’s a beautiful jewel.” He withdrew a large amulet, the center a large piece of the purest amber.

  The stone gleamed, overshadowing the elegantly chased silver edging that held it in place. It was beautiful. Thomas held out his hand and Robert reverently placed it into Thomas’s palm.

  His fingers closed about it, the smoothness of the metal work hinting at its age. The jewel was oddly warm against his skin. “This must be part of the MacLean jewels, although the laird spoke only of rubies.”

  Robert lifted a strand of large rubies from the box. “Mayhap he meant these? ’Tis rare to see jewelry of such quality.” He examined them a moment, then replaced them. “Shall I return the amulet?”

  “Nay. I’ll hold this a moment more.” What was making it so warm? The warmth was invading his thoughts, calming him, allowing him to see things—life—more clearly.

  “Very well. Read that play. ’Twill impress you.” Robert rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “Be certain you hide yon casket, too. ’Twill be difficult enough to sleep without that lying about.”

  “I’ll hide it, never fear.”

  Robert’s gaze brightened. “The secret hiding place?”

  “I must have been mad to tell you about that.”

  “Nay, you were drunk on Michaelmas ale. I remember it well.”

  Thomas looked at the huge, black hearthstone that outlined the fireplace. “I hope I can remember how to trigger the latch. It’s been years since I last tried.”

  Robert regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “Had I a secret hiding place in my house, I would keep all my silks within.”

  “’Tis not a closet, Robert. There’s barely room for the box. I shall lock that away immediately, but first, pray replace my pillows.”

  Robert looked at the pillows still tucked beneath each of his arms, blinking as if surprised to find them there. “But you’ve many more. I count two, three, four—seven pillows still upon your bed. These would scarcely be missed. Besides, I need them for my sore head.”

  “’Twill make you even more sore if I have to yank them from beneath your slumbering head.”

  Robert sniffed. “Fine. Take your damned pillows.” With a great show of dignity, he laid the pillows on a chair by the door. Then, after a slight bow, he quit the room, slamming the door in his wake.

  Thomas tucked the play under his arm and hung the amulet about his neck, then he quickly hid the casket, closing the latch and smudging the area with soot to make it blend in once again. As he crossed to wash his hands in the washbasin, he glanced up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. The sunlight caught the silver chain where it pooled on the dark wood and brightened a warm glimmer in the amulet. His gaze narrowed. The inside of the stone seemed to swirl like a mist washing over stone. Thomas shook his head and looked again. The mist still swirled, mysterious and beckoning.

  Good God, what’s this? He picked up the amulet, but in the direct light, all he could see was a faint outline of his own reflection, the center of the stone cold and still. Frowning, he dropped the amulet back to his chest and reached for the play, glancing back in the mirror as he did so.

  The mist in the center of the amulet grew lighter, almost white, and Thomas was unable to look away or move. It was as if his entire body was frozen inside the amber, locked between times or places.

  The mist in the amulet parted and there, in the center, was the ghost of an outline of a woman. He knew immediately who the woman was, her long hair tumbled about her, her feet shod in sensible boots as she made her way between the rocks, the mist alternately concealing and revealing her.

  Thomas fought with all his being to look away, but the illusion was just as stubborn as he and it would not let him go.

  The figure came closer and finally seemed to catch sight of him, for her face brightened. A glorious smile parted her lips and she said in her honey-rich voice, as clear as if she were really standing in front of him, “Thomas, I am your—”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and just as suddenly as he’d been pulled into this odd awake-dream, Thomas was released. All that was left was the strangely glowing amber amulet, warm against his chest.

  For a long moment. Thomas merely stared, his heart thudding as hard as if he’d just run a race. Outside his room, a servant passed carrying a load of firewood for someone’s bedchamber. As the servant’s footsteps faded, Thomas forced himself away from the mirror. He yanked the amulet from his neck and threw it into the writing desk with the other jewelry, then slammed it closed. Heart sill racing, he stacked every book he could find on the top.

  “Bloody hell, I’m becoming as fanciful as Fia!” He rubbed his face with both hands, his heart returning slowly to a normal pace. He forced a laugh. “Mayhap I should be the one writing plays.”

  Shaking his head, he pulled out the sheaf of papers and took a chair as far away from the writing desk as he could find. A sensible, straight-backed chair with solid legs that rested firmly upon the ground. Then, with only an occasional glance toward the writing desk, Thomas read Fia’s play.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Och, now, what might you be doing?”

  Thomas jerked upright, slamming his head into the stone fireplace. A huge puff of soot billowed into the room and he began to cough, one hand wiping his streaming eyes, the other uselessly fanning the ashy air.

  As he staggered away from the fireplace, one foot came down squarely on Zeus’s tail. The dog yipped and Thomas spun away, tripping over a chair, his arms flailing uselessly.

  For a second he tottered unsteadily . . . then crashed onto the floor in a cloud of soot.

  Fia blinked in amazement. She’d just come to find her animals, who for some strange reason continued to migrate to Thomas’s bedchamber the second she opened her door each morning. He was usually up and gone by the time she arose, so she had been surprised to find him still in his room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He put a hand to his head but made no move to
rise.

  “Thomas?” Fia tiptoed closer, peering through the haze at his blackened face.

  Thomas’s hair was no longer gleaming black, but a dull, dusty gray. Black soot splashed trails across his head and shoulders, leaving only his neck and a small triangle under his nose the color of flesh. His eyes, which had filled with tears at the sudden fall of ash, were so reddened they could have frightened off the most stout-hearted of heroes.

  Fia sank to her knees beside him, heedless of the ash dirtying her gown. “Thomas! Can you rise?”

  “Aye,” he choked out, rubbing his eyes with the back of a grimy hand. “Only . . . give me a moment to . . . recover my . . . breath.”

  Sweet Saint Catherine, if this is the luckiest man in the country lying here in the soot, then God help England.

  She choked back a laugh, carefully wiping some of the soot from his face with the edge of her skirt.

  He took a calming breath and shot her an irritated look. “God’s breath, you scared me nigh to death.”

  “I’m sorry; ’twasn’t my intention. What were you doing with your head up the chimney?”

  “The flue was stuck,” he answered shortly.

  “Why would you worry about that? There’s no fire.”

  “Aye, but ’twas making a breeze.” He was thankful Fia hadn’t come a moment earlier, or she’d have seen a place cleared of soot where he’d moved the lever to open the secret compartment. He’d been smearing it back over when she’d startled him.

  Fia tilted her head to one side. “Do you think you can stand?”

  Zeus shuffled over and sat beside Thomas, his tail thumping uncertainly, stirring small puffs of soot.

  “Och, look at that. Zeus has come to see how you are.”

  “’Twas all his fault,” Thomas grumbled, then sent a hard look at Fia when she giggled. “Thank you, Mistress Mirth, but ’tis not a laughing matter. I was nigh killed.”

  Zeus tilted his head curiously at the familiar voice coming from the soot-covered face. He leaned over and sniffed loudly at Thomas’s ash-blackened hair, then promptly sneezed in his face.

  “Damn cur!” Thomas reached for Zeus, but the dog scrambled out of the way, his crooked tail wagging as he hid behind the high bed. “That mangy, good-for-nothing, ill-mannered, foul-smelling—”

  “Half-eared,” Fia added helpfully, still kneeling at Thomas’s side.

  Thomas favored her with a flat stare.

  She bit her lip, knowing that to burst out laughing would be a grave error.

  He saw her laughter anyway, for his gaze narrowed and without warning, he grasped her shoulders. “It has just occurred to me that I am so very, very dirty, whilst you are so very, very clean.”

  Before she could comprehend his intent, he pulled her against him and then rolled her under his long length. She was trapped on the dusty floor, soot rising in a foggy cloud around them.

  His ash-covered face loomed above her, his white teeth gleaming as he grinned.

  “You—you—” Words failed her.

  His grin widened. “You must take your medicine.” With deliberate slowness, he wiped the back of his hand on the front of her dress, lingering an unnecessary length of time on the swell of her breasts. “You owe me a forfeit, my lady.”

  A long smudge led down to where his hand cupped her intimately. Heat flared through her body, and she had to bite her lip to keep from pressing against him. “Laughing is not against our rules, so I owe no forfeit.”

  “Ah, yes. Our rules. I had forgotten them. What were they again? No dancing, correct?”

  “In public—yes, that’s one. And for you, no shouting.”

  “I hope my surprised yell when you snuck up on me doesn’t count.”

  “Nay, not this time.”

  “That’s generous of you.” He traced a sooty finger down her cheek. “My other rule was ‘No public displays,’ I believe. ’Tis a good thing we’re in private now. I find I’m rather fond of public displays here.”

  She had to laugh. He was so tempting when he was like this—mussed and smiling, charming and teasing. How could she resist?

  And yet she must. The last three days had been difficult. She’d found herself staring at the wall that separated their bedchambers, restless and lonely in her bed.

  Thomas shifted and winced, his hand going to his forehead.

  “You’re wounded!”

  “I’ll have a bruise or two. No more.”

  Duncan had always said that sometimes you had to grab fate by the throat to make it yours. She’d thought that was a rather violent way to do things, but perhaps there was something in it.

  “Does it hurt”—she placed her hand on Thomas’s chest—“here?”

  His gaze went to her hand. “No.”

  Her heart thudded harder. “Good. But mayhap you hurt”—she moved her hand to his hard stomach—“here?”

  His chest rose and fell faster, as did hers; the air about them suddenly charged.

  “Nay,” Thomas said in a husky voice. “It doesn’t hurt there, either.”

  Slowly, so slowly, she slid her hand to his codpiece and rested it lightly there, her fingers curved around him. “Mayhap you hurt . . . here?”

  She almost couldn’t breathe. Never had she been so daring, so bold. Would Thomas reject her? Send her away? Tell her—

  Thomas slipped an arm about her waist and kissed her, his entire body aflame. He needed to feel her against him, under him, with him.

  She reacted as he’d known she would, with wild abandon. She strained against him, her arms about his neck, her tongue seeking his. Her hips lifted in an unconscious invitation. He had to steel his every nerve against the urge to immediately bury himself into her, so intense was the pleasure.

  But this time he wanted to linger, to savor, to explore. He pulled back and looked into the smoky blackness of her eyes. “Easy, comfit,” he whispered, then bent to gently nip her full bottom lip, laving the mock injury with his tongue. She moaned and closed her eyes, her thick lashes black crescents on her cheeks.

  He smiled gently at the gray streaks that marred her creamy skin and whispered against her mouth, “I fear I’ve shared more of this soot than I intended.”

  She blinked up at him, comprehension rising slowly in her arousal-clouded eyes.

  “I’ve always wanted to make love in front of a fireplace.” She chuckled, the sound running through him like a rushing brook through a parched plain.

  “You look more like you’ve been inside a fireplace, comfit.” He placed small kisses along her delectable mouth and firm, rounded chin.

  “As do you,” she murmured, igniting him with the need to take her there, now. “Stop talking, please. Just kiss me.”

  He did so as he slid his hands into the luxury of her hair, instantly welcomed by the silky curls. He ran his hands past her waist to the curve of her hip and on to the firmness of her thigh.

  With an impatient tug, he pulled her skirts up until he could cup the roundness of her leg in his hand. She was made for his hands, he thought possessively, kissing her with renewed passion.

  Fia gasped as his hands began their ascent past her knee. Just as she tensed, his mouth was on hers, warm and demanding, his tongue questing. She threw one arm around his neck and placed the other on his back, running it up and down the hardness of his rippling muscles. When he touched her, she forgot everything else. Even all smudged with soot, he was still heart-rendingly beautiful.

  “Take me,” Fia whispered, the words wrenched from her secret heart as if he had placed her under a spell.

  He slowly lowered his mouth to place an almost reverent kiss on her lips. She groaned and kissed him back, her whole body writhing with urgent passion. He plunged his tongue into her mouth in an insistent, seductive rhythm and she unconsciously ground her hips against his, her hands tugging at his clothing.

  He began to loosen her dress. As her skin was exposed to the chilly air, her nipples hardened. He moaned and his mouth, hot and insistent,
covered one taut peak as his hand cupped the other. She gasped, arching into him.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  Without ceasing to ply his heated tongue to her breast, he managed to free her dress and he stripped it from her, his eyes burning.

  He lifted himself to look at her, his eyes moving slowly from her face and beyond, lingering on her body until she thought she would burst into flames from embarrassment. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

  She tugged at his shirt. “Undress.”

  He stared at her, a sensual smile playing across his lips.

  “Undress,” she pleaded again.

  “Nay, sweet lady, I’ll have you undress me,” he whispered against her mouth, his hands never still.

  She moaned and writhed as he nipped at her ear, his hand sliding up her thigh to brush ever so lightly against her moistness.

  She began to pull on his shirt laces, crying out when they refused to loosen.

  He chuckled and grabbed her frantic hands. “Softly, my sweet.” His brown eyes glinted warmly into hers as he leaned forward to gently brush her lips with his. The kiss deepened and she felt his hand slide between her legs to thread gently through the curls.

  Hot, molten liquid rushed through her veins. She was afire with want. She threw an arm about his neck and ran her other hand over his shoulders, down his back, and lower, kneading his firm muscles. She reached to cup his manhood and he groaned into her mouth—and moaned again as she stroked him through the cloth.

  She tried to undo the lacing, cursing her trembling fingers, yet still he did not help her. Frustration made her bold. “Undress,” she demanded, thrusting her hips against him for emphasis. His eyes clenched shut as though he were in pain.

  “Sweet Jesu, do not move!” he hissed, his face strained, a damp sheen moistening his lip.

  For a second he lay still, his forehead dropping to rest against her cheek, his breathing rasping harshly through the room. Then his fingers were tugging and yanking at his own laces with satisfying desperation. In an instant he was naked, his skin warm against hers.