Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  She stood up with a jerk. “What do you imagine—that I intend to follow you about the way I did when I was a child?”

  “Sit down,” he said in the same tone he had used to intimidate Alan. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

  Her skin was burning from her scalp to her neckline. “And I’m not one of your junior seamen. I shall pay no heed to your commands.”

  His mouth twisted, as if annoyed, and he rose and came to stand over her. Mayhap he wasn’t accustomed to having his orders defied? She could feel the heat of his body, just inches from hers. An astonished cry escaped her as one of his hands reached out to wind itself into her thick red hair.

  Jesu! “What are you doing?”

  He made no reply. There was sharp escalation in the quakings that had been rippling through her belly ever since this conversation had begun. He tilted her head back so she would have to meet his eyes. His pupils were dilated so much that the brown of his eyes was merely a rim around two black, heated centers.

  They stared at one another in silence. It was an angry stare, a challenge, almost. At least it began as such. Then something altered in the depths of his eyes. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, and pulled her flush against his body. “Alix,” he breathed, his lips brushing her ear.

  She knew she should extricate herself, and she would, of course, in just a moment. His embrace was most improper. He was holding her against him in such a manner that she could feel all the planes of his body, his hard muscles, his throat, his chest, his belly, his hips and, good heavens, what was that? How very interesting. She ought to make him stop. It would be highly wanton of her not to protest at all. But she couldn’t seem to shape the words of any sort of objection. It felt very nice. In fact, it felt lovely.

  “You’ve grown up to be a woman I could easily fancy,” he said in that same soft, seductive tone. He took her chin between his fingers and allowed his thumb to rub rhythmically over her lower lip, which relished the sensation. She shivered deliciously as her heartbeat accelerated. Was he serious? “I desired you from the moment I saw you primly praying by your dead lover’s tomb.”

  She was sure her eyes must be round with surprise; she probably looked an idiot. She didn’t know what to do or say. She thought perhaps she should try to draw away, but before she could do so, his grip on her tightened. Her head spun. She didn’t want to draw away, of course. She liked being right where she was.

  “Were you really innocent of him?” His hand slipped down over her throat, fingering the opal pendant where it lay flat against her skin just below the hollow at the base of her throat. The pendant seemed to be burning into her as he stroked it. He tugged on it a little, and the simple cord she had threaded it on loosened at the back of her neck. The pendant slid lower on her chest, and the tumult inside her increased as his hand slid lower also. She heard a soft rustling of cloth as his fingers explored her. Was he going to…? Jesu! She gasped as he touched one of her breasts through the simple homespun fabric. The sensation was intense. It ripped through her, causing hot tingles from head to toe. Her body arched against his, and his hand further disarranged her low-cut bodice. She felt warm fingers against bare skin. As he caressed her gently, the tips of her breasts hardened, feeling full and exquisitely sensitive. The tightening in her belly blossomed into a fiercely throbbing ache.

  “Roger, I really don’t think…” her voice trailed off as she made a halfhearted attempt to free herself. He couldn’t be serious!

  “What, shy? I wonder how long that would last if I put my mind to arousing you. Red-haired women are said to be lusty.”

  His head inclined as if to take her lips, and she could scent the wine on his breath. Of course! He had been drinking. That was why this was happening. If he hadn’t been in his cups, he would never even have noticed her.

  Hurt and furious, she tore herself away. “That’s enough.” She retreated a couple of steps. “I’m not some tavern wench to be toyed with in your drunken lechery.”

  His entire body tensed, his nostrils flared, and for an instant, she sensed that he might seize her again. Would he force her to respond to his caresses? Not that he would have to use force, she admitted to herself, painfully aware of the sensual excitement churning in her blood.

  He swallowed and visibly regained control. He looked abashed, regretful even, but his voice was harsh as he said, “Get away from me, little virgin. Go to bed before I prove to you that you’re not as different from tavern wenches as you seem to think. I could take you, and make you swoon in pleasure under my caresses. But I’ll be damned if I’ll wed you.”

  “By the Mass, nobody asked you! You do have a high opinion of yourself, I see.” She wrenched the bodice of her frock back into its proper place so violently that she jarred the pendant cord, loosening it further. The pendant slipped off and fell among the rushes at their feet. Absurdly, tears came into her eyes. “And you’re a whoreson bastard when you’re drunk.”

  Roger reached down to retrieve her gift, but because she was determined not to let him see her watery eyes, she turned away before he could hand it to her. “Good night,” she mumbled, seizing one of the candles from the mantelpiece to light her way. Without looking toward him again, she fled in the direction of the stairs.

  “Alix, stay!” His voice sounded sober, as if he’d realized how vilely he’d behaved. But she pretended not to hear. With her candle casting long shadows on the stone walls around her, she flew up the winding staircase to her familiar chamber.

  *

  Lying face down in the middle of the huge four-poster that took up most of the space in the small room, Alexandra reviewed the events that had just taken place. Her body was alive with a maddening tension that increased as she relived the feel of Roger’s thumb on her lip, his fingers on her breast. Lust, she told herself, a little dazed by the idea. She was lusting after Roger!

  Dear heavens, she moaned, flinging herself over so she was stretched out on her back. She pushed herself up on her elbows and surveyed her breasts, belly, and hips as if she’d never seen them before. Tears forgotten, she smiled at her slender young woman’s body, and then abruptly broke into laughter. So this was what sexual passion felt like. For years she had wondered what it would be like to yearn after a lover. She had felt stirrings, certainly; she had fallen madly in love with her share of cheeky grooms and handsome men-at-arms, but never had her desires been deliberately aroused by any member of the opposite sex. She was a gentlewoman, and betrothed to the heir of Whitcombe—no man would have dared to dally with her. Only Will Trevor had possessed the right to do so, and he had never touched her.

  Before Will’s death, Alexandra had often wondered what their intimate life would be like. She had not been drawn to him. Will had never aroused this aching in her loins. But Roger… I could take you and make you swoon in pleasure under my caresses. Her cheeks flamed at the image his words evoked. No doubt he was right!

  Still, she reflected with no small degree of regret, it had been the wine speaking. He didn’t really feel that way about her. How could he? As her mother was constantly reminding her, she was too tall, too slender, too awkward, and nowhere near alluring enough.

  In the morning he would be embarrassed. He would very likely apologize. She recalled his tone of voice at the end as he’d tried to call her back. He’d already realized that his treatment of her had been reprehensible.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have fled so precipitously. She shouldn’t have left his gift behind. He probably thought she had torn it off on purpose, no longer wishing to keep a present from him. This was untrue, and she didn’t want him to think her so petty and ungrateful. Perhaps she should go back down and claim it.

  The sensual tension in her lower body tightened at the thought of going back down to that dark, cavernous hall where Roger Trevor lounged in front of the flickering fire. What if he touched her again? What if he took her in his embrace and kissed her eager lips, running both hands over her breasts this time, and pressed
her even closer, his loins moving against hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth…

  Dear heavens. She swallowed hard, then crossed herself, asking God to preserve her from lustful thoughts. She was going to retrieve her pendant, that was all. He had called her back and she had discourteously ignored him. It was his first night home. She must apologize and give him the chance to do the same. Courtesy demanded that she put things right with him.

  Without further examining her motives, she rose, straightened the skirts of her gown, and made her way back down the narrow stairs. At the bottom, she heard voices coming from the hearth in the great hall. She had imagined him sitting there alone with his wine cup, wishing himself back in the Middle Sea, where he had only to contend with minor annoyances, like Turks and corsairs. But instead it sounded as if he had found himself a companion.

  Pausing on the threshold of the archway, Alexandra peered into the great hall. Through the gloom, she could see Roger and Francis Lacklin sitting facing the fire with their backs to her. They gave no indication of having heard her quiet footsteps on the stairs.

  Damnation! She didn’t want to speak the lighthearted little speech she’d been preparing on the way down the stairs in front of the dour Mr. Lacklin. Well, there was no help for it. She was about to enter when she heard the mention of her own name.

  “Don’t underestimate Alexandra,” Roger was saying. “She’s not easily duped. It sounds as if you’ve been overdoing it, anyway. Endless hours of boring prayers? Long sermons on spiritual grace? Jesus, Francis. I thought it was the earthly kingdom you cared about, not the bloody world to come.”

  Alexandra stood poised in the archway, ashamed to be eavesdropping, but too appalled to stop: Francis Lacklin really was the hypocrite she thought him. And Roger knew it.

  “Make no mistake,” Lacklin said. “I believe in the doctrines I teach.”

  “I know you do. But you’ve always insisted that your aims were more political than religious. That’s certainly what you claimed last summer. Now here you are at Whitcombe, leading my father down the garden path of righteousness. I’d be laughing at the lot of you if embracing heresy weren’t so dangerous.”

  Last summer? But hadn’t it been a lot longer than that since they’d been together? They had said they’d known each other when Roger was a fledgling seaman. Alexandra crept closer, keeping well in the shadows.

  Roger paused to drink, still partaking of the wine. “When I didn’t find you in London, I wondered where you’d gone, but I certainly didn’t expect to find you here. What happened, did things get too dangerous for you in the city? Are you taking a respite up here, away from court intrigue?”

  “It was prudent for me to leave London for a time, yes. But I will soon be going back.”

  “Whatever happened to your ingenious plot to assassinate Bloody Mary and put her sister on the throne?”

  Francis Lacklin turned his head, and Alexandra leapt back out of sight, her heart pounding in her throat. Assassinate the queen? That was treason! Was Roger serious? Was Lacklin part of a clandestine rebellion against Queen Mary? She had never liked him, but it hadn’t crossed her mind that he might be a rebel and an assassin.

  Pressing herself back against the wall, Alexandra tried to regulate her breathing. She wasn’t easily frightened, but this scared her. Roger had lied to her, lied to them all. Obviously he and Francis Lacklin were much better acquainted than they had admitted. And if Lacklin was plotting murder and treason, dear heavens, these were heavy crimes.

  “If you refuse to stop drinking that poison, at least keep your voice down,” Lacklin said.

  “I’m celebrating my homecoming.”

  “You’re the very devil when you drink. I felt like smashing your teeth in earlier when you were going on about my skill as a swordsman. Christ, man, have you no sense at all?”

  “It bloody well serves you right for coming here. I suppose you wanted to assure yourself of my loyalty? What’s the matter, don’t you trust me to keep our agreement?”

  “I trust you,” said Lacklin.

  A silence. It was so quiet Alexandra was sure they must be able to hear her breathing. But they were looking at each other and not toward the place where she stood clutching the cold stone wall and condemning herself as a bona fide intruder into Roger Trevor’s dark and twisted soul. His loyalty? Their agreement? Roger had criticized his father for embracing treason and heresy, but it looked as if he was up to his neck in it himself.

  “And I, you,” said Roger to the unbearable Mr. Lacklin. “But I’ve no wish to be hanged, drawn and quartered as a traitor. Or roasted as a heretic.”

  “I need you. You promised me your help.”

  Jesu! With what? Regicide?

  “If you really expect any assistance from me, you will leave Whitcombe. My position here is precarious enough without your presence.”

  “Let me have some of that wine,” said Lacklin, pouring himself a cup. He stared into the fire, and then said, “You might be right. We cannot continue to play so dangerous a game in front of your family, and besides, there is much to be done in London to help our people escape the burnings.” He looked back at Roger. “But if I go, I expect you soon to follow. I need you there,” he repeated.

  Roger said nothing.

  Lacklin’s voice dropped and she missed the next several sentences. Then she heard another name: her father’s. “As you know, Sir Charles has achieved considerable power at court,” Lacklin was saying. “In addition to his public office, he runs a considerable network of papist spies. They report to him, and he reports to the queen and her Council. But he is no devout Mass-goer.”

  Roger laughed harshly. “That’s certain. He may pretend to be pious for Mary Tudor’s benefit, but it doesn’t extend to his private life. I saw him in a tavern in London on May Day with a wench on each arm. His poor wife must get lonely sitting there at Westmor while Douglas makes the most of his freedom at court.”

  “I doubt if Douglas wastes much time worrying about his wife,” Francis Lacklin said dryly.

  Her heart slamming, Alexandra slipped away from the archway. She felt sick, and she couldn’t listen anymore. She had cramps down deep in her belly at the thought of her father with a wench on each arm.

  That’s what you get for eavesdropping, she told herself miserably.

  She crept back up the winding staircase, not daring to make the slightest sound lest they discover her. She had spied upon them; they had probably killed people for less. She had a disagreeable vision of them catching her, forcing her to tell them how much she knew, and debating various lethal ways of silencing her. Nonsense, she said to herself as she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber. Roger Trevor might be a hypocrite, a traitor, and a potential assassin, but surely he would never hurt her, his oldest friend. She wasn’t so certain, however, about Francis Lacklin.

  She threw herself in bed, overwhelmed by a heavy exhaustion. Just before she sank into sleep, she remembered her lovely silver and opal pendant as she had last seen it, lightly held between the lean brown fingers of Roger Trevor’s hand.

  Chapter 4

  One week later, Alexandra stood at the dressing table in Lady Douglas’ bedchamber at Westmor Abbey trying to arrange her mother’s glimmering gold hair. The wood-and-glass casements of the onetime monastery had been flung open to let in the morning light, and the fresh scent of late-summer flowers helped dispel the less pleasant odors of human habitation which were unavoidable around a large household, even one as meticulously clean as Westmor. Lucy Douglas was fanatical about cleanliness, making certain that both her person and her surroundings were subjected to frequent scrubbing. She had just emerged from her daily bath, which her servants considered an oddity.

  Alexandra was having difficulty with her task. Each time she secured one of the heavy locks with a hairpin, several stubborn strands would fall loose. Lucy Douglas frowned at her in the polished metal mirror.

  “Sometimes you are quite hopeless, Alexandra,” she said, reach
ing up to assist her daughter.

  “You know I’m no good at this, Mother. Where’s your maid?”

  “Abed with the ague, or so she claims. She’s probably got herself with child again, the little slut. If it weren’t so difficult to find a competent attendant, I’d be rid of her.”

  “I’ll send mine in if you wish.”

  “What does she know about hair, that trollop you insisted on employing? She never touches yours, I vow. You usually wear it loose or hanging down your back in braids, like a schoolgirl. Really, daughter, you ought to develop some sense of style.”

  “Unmarried maidens are supposed to wear their hair loose,” said Alexandra in as neutral a tone as she could manage. She was anxious to finish. She had several errands planned for the day, and the sun was already well up.

  “You are a grown woman. It’s high time you added some feminine accomplishments to your arsenal of Latin, Greek, and, may the Lord bless us, violent physical exercise. Your ability to swim faster than all the village boys is not going to help you find a husband.”

  “I’m not looking for a husband.”

  “No, you’ve never had to look, never had to worry. With Will Trevor alive, your future was assured. But matters are different now that you must go to London seeking a husband. Your lack of skill in the courtly arts is quite appalling.”

  Alexandra had heard this before. She did not doubt it was true. She could knit the coarse country woolen or stitch herself an everyday gown, but she was hopeless at embroidery and needlepoint, and she couldn’t have done a stately dance to save her life. She couldn’t sing or play the virginals, and the only thing she knew about current court fashions was that her own clothing and accessories were several years out-of-date.

  “‘Tis silly to learn all those things; you’ve told me that yourself. You wanted me to be able to read and write, Mother. It was you who first sent me to Alan’s tutors. You never did a stitch of needlepoint, you said, once you were wed.”

  “I wanted a literate daughter, certainly; but I never intended you to make a scholar of yourself. If I hadn’t been able to read, write, and cipher, we’d have been in a pretty pass with your father never home to manage things. Lord knows I’ve had my hands full. That miserable bailiff couldn’t add a column of figures if his neck depended upon it. There’s a bit coming loose on the left side.”