He seemed to remember, too, staring down at her, at her parted lips.
‘I doubt anything at all would impress such hard hearts,’ Lord Langley said.
‘Oh, we are not so immune as all that,’ Rosamund said, glancing away from Anton. But even as she watched the red-gold ripple of the fire the spell held, and she was entirely aware of him beside her; their shoulders were touching. Through the thick wool and fur, her bare skin tingled. She worried for a moment they would cause gossip, but the Queen could not see them.
‘We are impressed by diamonds and pearls,’ Catherine said.
‘And fine French silks!’ said Anne.
‘Furs are rather nice, too,’ added Rosamund. ‘Especially a nice sable on a day like today. And books! Lots of books.’
‘I dare say we could also be impressed by great feats of strength,’ said Catherine. ‘It is a great pity there are no tourneys in winter.’
‘We shall just have to make do with what we have, then,’ Anton said, all mock-sadness. ‘As, alas, we have no pearls, silks or tourneys to fight in. I challenge you to a race on the ice, then, Langley.’
Lord Langley laughed, pulling out his own skates from his saddlebags. ‘Very well, Master Gustavson, I accept your challenge! If the ladies can provide a suitable prize, that is.’
‘You shall have our undying admiration,’ Rosamund said before Anne could venture something quarrelsome. ‘And a share of our picnic.’
‘A prize worth fighting for indeed,’ Anton said. He bent to strap one of the skates to his boot, tying the leather thongs tight over his instep and calf until the thin, shining blade seemed a part of him.
‘Will you gift me with your favour, Lady Rosamund?’ he asked as he strapped on the other skate, raising his head to smile at her.
Rosamund smiled back, as she always did when he looked at her that way. His merriment was infectious; it chased away the doubts and fears that plagued her in the night. Until she was alone again, and it all came back.
But not now. Now, she just wanted to feel happy and young again, as she had not done in so long.
‘I have never gifted a favour for a skating contest,’ she said. ‘Or for anything else, either, except country fairs.’
‘Is that not what life is about, my lady?’ he said. ‘New experiences, new—sensations?’
Rosamund shivered, remembering all the new sensations he had shown her already. ‘I am beginning to think so.’
She snapped one of the ribbons from her sleeve, a shining bit of creamy silk, and knotted it around his upper arm. It showed there, pale against the brown fabric, and for just a moment Rosamund felt some satisfaction at the mark. He wore her favour, fought for her, even if it was just here at this quiet pond with friends watching.
‘And a kiss for good luck?’ he said teasingly.
She laughed, shaking her head. ‘When you have claimed victory, Sir Knight.’
‘Ah, so you are right, Lord Langley—your English ladies are hard of heart,’ Anton said. ‘But I shall defeat all foes for you, my lady, and claim my prize ere long.’
He stood up from her side, launching himself onto the frozen pond in one long, smooth glide. As he waited for Lord Langley to finish putting on his skates, he looped around in long, lazy-seeming patterns, backward and forward again. He left smooth scores in the ice, unbroken lines and circles that showed the precision and grace of his movements.
Yet his hands were clasped behind his back, and he whistled a little madrigal as if it was all nothing.
When Lord Langley was ready, they stood side by side on the ice, poised to break into motion.
‘Mistress Percy,’ Johan Ulfson said as he and the three ladies gathered at the edge of the pond. ‘Perhaps you would do the starter’s honours? And help to keep count—three laps around the pond.’
Anne drew a handkerchief from inside her sleeve, waving it aloft. ‘Gentlemen,’ she cried. ‘On your marks—one, two, three—go!’
The handkerchief fluttered to the ground and the men shot away. Lord Langley was good, powerful and fast, but not quite with the same easy, leonine grace as Anton. Lord Langley tried to push ahead with sheer, mute speed, but Anton bent lower to the ice, his feet a blur as his steps lengthened.
He truly seemed one with the ice, encircled by the same elegant, easy power, the same single-mindedness of purpose he showed on horseback or in dancing. The rest of the world seemed to vanish for him, and he was entirely, intently focused.
That was how he kissed, too, Rosamund thought as her cheeks turned warm. How he would make love to a woman—as if she was his entire focus, his whole world.
At the end of the pond, they twirled round and circled back. Anton did not even seem out of breath, nor at all distracted from his task, his goal. The onlookers, including Rosamund, cheered as the racers dashed past, and Lord Langley looked up to wave. But Anton appeared not to even hear them.
Three laps was the agreed length of the race, and Rosamund watched, transfixed, as Anton circled around again. He bent closer to the ice, hands behind his back as he flew along faster than she would have thought humanly possible.
Lord Langley, though quite fast when starting out, expended his energy and fell behind. By the time they finished their final loop, and slid past Anne’s fallen handkerchief for the last time, he was at least two steps behind Anton. He stumbled off the ice to fall onto the log, laughing and winded.
‘I am defeated!’ he declared. ‘I cede all victory in ice-skating to the barbaric Northman for evermore.’
Anton grinned. He still stood on the ice, balanced lightly on his blades, but he leaned his hands on his knees. His shoulders lifted with the force of his expelled breath. ‘You only cede in skating, Langley?’
‘Aye. I challenge you to a horse-race next. We Englishmen are renowned for our horsemanship!’
‘I would not be so quick to brag, Lord Langley,’ Catherine said. ‘Did you not see Master Gustavson at the hunt yesterday? It seems the Swedes do not neglect their equestrian education either.’
‘And yet they do seem to neglect their dancing,’ Lord Langley said. ‘What say you, Lady Rosamund? How goes your tutelage?’
‘Quite well,’ Rosamund answered. ‘I think he will surprise you on Twelfth Night, if he will apply himself to his lessons.’
‘That will be no hardship, I think,’ Anton said. ‘Given the sternness of my teacher.’
‘’Tis true,’ Rosamund said, pouring out a goblet of wine and finding a serviette in the hamper. ‘I am a very stern teacher, indeed.’
As the others turned to the food and the fire, she went to the edge of the pond, watching as Anton removed his skates. When he finished, she held out the wine and cloth to him.
‘They are poor spoils for the victorious hero, I fear,’ she said.
Anton laughed, wiping at his damp brow. His dark hair clung to his temples, and a faint flush stained his high cheekbones, but those were the only signs of his athletic effort. He looked as if he had just finished a stroll in the garden.
‘I would prefer that kiss for my prize,’ he murmured.
Rosamund shook her head. ‘Patience is another virtue heroes must possess, I fear.’
‘And kisses are not so easily won?’
‘Hercules, a hero if there ever was one, had twelve labours, did he not?’
‘You will not make me clean a stable next, will you?’
She laughed. ‘That remains to be seen!’
He laughed too, and took a long swallow of the wine. She watched the movement of his throat muscles, fascinated. ‘Come, Lady Rosamund, walk with me for a while.’
‘Should you not sit and rest?’ she asked, glancing over at Lord Langley, who lounged on the fallen log as Catherine fed him marzipan.
‘Nay—he will be sorry when his muscles ache tonight,’ Anton said. ‘It’s better to keep moving until the body is cooler.’
Rosamund shivered as another gust of wind swept around her. ‘That should not take long.’
Anton left the
empty goblet and his skates near the fire, taking her arm as they walked out of the clearing. They went through the narrow, wooded path where Rosamund had walked on her journey into London on that day she’d first seen Anton. Then the bare trees and tangled pathways had seemed somehow ominous, lonely, her heart full of trepidation.
Today, with him by her side, they were beautiful, a Christmas marvel of glass-like icicles and glittering frost. She did not even fear masked Lords of Misrule and dark warnings, not when she was with Anton. She had never met anyone she trusted more to keep her safe; he was so steady, so firm of purpose. So determined.
‘I remember when I first saw you,’ he said. ‘You suddenly appeared there by that very pond, like a ghost or a fairy. I thought you an illusion at first.’
‘And I you,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t know people could perform such feats on the ice. I am sorry I ran away so quickly.’
‘Ah, yes. When you vanished, I was convinced you were an illusion!’ he said. ‘That I imagined a winter-fairy. No human woman could be so very beautiful.’
Rosamund’s breath caught in her throat at his words, at the force of them. Anton thought her beautiful! Other men had said so—Richard, men of the Court. Yet they had seemed empty words, polite conventions that they said to every lady. Perhaps that was all it was with Anton, too—but his tone, his gentle smile, had the soft ring of sincerity. And the lure of all she had ever really wanted, despite the danger of reaching out to grasp it.
She had never thought herself beautiful at all, despite the gift of her fashionable pale hair. Next to vibrant women like Anne Percy, Lady Essex, and even Celia Sutton’s dark mystery, she was a milk-faced mouse. But with Anton, she felt transformed, like a rosebud under the summer sun. Or a winter-fairy in the ice.
Would she shrink back inward again, when he was gone, back to Sweden?
‘Perhaps I never should have spoken to you, then,’ she said. ‘I like the idea of being a beautiful winter-fairy.’
‘Nej,’ he answered. He suddenly faced her, taking both her hands in his. Holding them tightly, he pressed them to his chest. His heart thrummed against her gloved hands, flowing through her whole body, meeting her own heartbeat, joining their life forces as one.
‘A warm, human woman with a kind heart is far better than a cold fairy,’ he said. ‘You have been a gift in these English days, Rosamund, one I could never have expected.’
‘And so have you,’ she said, leaning into his body, into the hot protection of his strength. She rested her forehead on his chest, sliding her arms around to wrap all about him, as if by holding tightly she could keep him from flying away. ‘I was so sad, so frightened when I came to Court. But that is all gone when I’m with you.’
‘Alskling,’ he whispered, and lowered his head to kiss her.
Their kiss was slow, gentle, as if they had all the time they wanted. As if there were long hours to come to know one another, not the mere stolen moments they really had together.
He framed her face between his hands, softly pressing tastes to her lips as if she was the finest of wines, the most delectable of delicacies. Rosamund revelled in his tenderness, in being close to him. She wanted to memorise every moment, every sensation, store them up for that time when their moments ran out. She flattened her palms against his chest, the fine fabric of his doublet rubbing against her soft skin. She stared, fascinated, at the pulse throbbing at his throat, feeling the rise and fall of his breath under her touch.
Rosamund slid her hands up to curl over his shoulders, holding on tightly as the earth seemed to tilt under her. She felt so giddy, dizzy, with wild anticipation. She went up on tiptoe, leaning against him as he deepened their kiss. His tongue pressed hungrily, roughly, between her lips, suddenly greedy as if he, too, felt that knife-edge of need.
She wanted everything—all of him! And she wanted to give him everything of herself. Their tongues mated, clashing, unable to find enough of each other.
But then he drew slowly back from their kiss, from the fireworks building up between them, before they could explode in an uncontrollable conflagration. He rested his forehead against hers, his breath heavy, as if he was in pain.
Rosamund closed her eyes tightly, clinging to Anton as if he would vanish from her, as he well could very soon. He was from Sweden, and surely his errand here would end soon enough. He could gain his English estate, but, even then, persuading her parents as to the prudence of the match would be difficult—as would persuading the Queen, who so hated for her ladies to marry.
And, also, he had not talked to her of any tender feelings, any real intentions. Any plans or hopes for the future. She was a foolish romantic indeed. A romantic who put her love before all else.
Yet this moment, alone with him in the cold winter silence, felt right. Right in a way her hurried meetings with Richard never had been. The deep, dark passion was so very different, the urge to be with him, to know him. She had to absorb every tiny sensation of the now, of how he smelled, how his body felt under her touch. The wind swirled around them as if to bind them together.
This moment might be all she had. She had to make it count, make it a memory she could hold onto for the years ahead.
She tilted back her head to stare up at him. His face was etched in shadows, his smile as bittersweet as the feelings in her own heart. She smoothed back the wind-tossed waves of his black hair from his brow, framing his face in her hands. His skin was warm through the thin leather of her gloves, and with her fingertips she traced the line of his high cheekbones, his nose, the chiselled edge of his jaw. A muscle tensed under her caress.
She wanted to memorise every detail. ‘Some day, when I am an old woman huddled by my fire,’ she murmured, ‘I will remember this moment. I’ll remember a young, strong, handsome man who held me in his arms like this. I’ll remember everything he made me feel, and made me know about myself.’
He reached up to take her hands in his, holding them tightly. ‘What do you feel?’ he said roughly, his accent heavy. Usually his English was nearly impeccable, she thought wonderingly, but in moments of emotion the edge of his words turned lilting, musical.
‘I feel alive,’ she said. ‘When I’m with you, Anton, I feel all warm and tingling with life. As if I could fly higher and higher like a bird, above these trees, above Whitehall and London and everything. Fly until I find my own place, where there is safety and happiness always.’
‘Oh, alskling,’ he said, pressing her open palm to his cheek as he smiled sadly. ‘There is no place with happiness always.’
‘There is when you find your true home, your real place,’ she insisted. ‘I have always believed that. It is just not easy to find, I fear.’
‘And what should one do when it is found?’
‘Hold onto it with all your might, of course. Fight for it. Never let it go.’
In answer, he kissed her again, pulling her up on tiptoe as their bodies pressed together. Their kiss was swift, hard, a deep caress that tasted of promise. Of hope.
‘Rosamund,’ he murmured, hugging her close. ‘We will meet tomorrow, yes? I think we have much to speak of.’
And more kisses to share? Rosamund could only hope. Feeling absurdly happy, she nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’
Rosamund paused at the top of the stairs leading to the maids’ apartment, peering down over the carved balustrade before she turned down the corridor after Anne and Catherine, who had already disappeared. Anton still stood down in the foyer with Lord Langley, laughing over some jest.
How she did love it when he laughed! When he looked so young and happy. It made the whole room seem to blaze with the light of a thousand torches, and warmed her own heart more than any fire could.
If only it could be thus all the time.
He glanced up to find her watching him, and his smile widened. Rosamund waved, laughing, and ducked away.
Perhaps it would not last long, she thought, but surely it would be glorious while it did. She saw now what drove people like Kather
ine Grey and her secret husband to dive headfirst into foolish passion—it was a force impossible to resist. It was like a sonnet, brought to vivid, unruly life. She did not want to put her reputation, her family’s opinion of her, in danger again. But she could not seem to help herself.
She drew off her gloves, holding them carefully as she remembered how she’d touched Anton’s face. How she’d felt the heat of him through the leather. Then she laughed at her silliness. Soon she would be pilfering his cap-feather or eating-knife, making a treasure of them!
‘Lady Rosamund,’ she heard someone say, startling her from her giddy romantic fantasies.
She looked up to find Celia Sutton emerging from one of the chambers. She still wore her mourning colours, a black-velvet surcoat trimmed in dark fur over a violet and black gown. She smiled, yet it seemed tense, unsure, as if she did not often use it.
‘Mistress Sutton,’ Rosamund answered. At home, they had sometimes called each other Rosamund and Celia when they’d met, but now that felt too strange. ‘How do you do this day?’
‘As well as one can be, in this crowded, cold city,’ Celia answered. ‘I look forward to the day I can return to the country, as I’m sure you do too. You must miss Ramsay Castle.’
‘Of course,’ Rosamund answered. ‘But Court has its own attractions, I’m finding.’
Celia’s smile stretched tauter. ‘Like the Court gentlemen, perhaps?’
‘They are handsome, I believe. And fashionable.’
‘And clever? Unlike our men of the countryside.’
Rosamund remembered Celia’s late husband, Richard’s elder brother, who had seemed to be a man who’d enjoyed hunting and hawking and not much else. His conversation at local weddings and banquets had always revolved around how many stags he’d killed on his last outing, how many pheasants bagged, or the new hounds in his kennel. A good-looking man, but a dull one.
Everyone had been secretly surprised when he’d married Celia, the granddaughter of Sir Walter Leonard, a landowner of old and distinguished family from another county. It seemed an uneven match, especially once they met Celia and found she was a dark beauty, well-educated for a lady and very elegant.
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