by Nina Mason
To hasten my return, I have decided to forgo my planned side trip to Balloch Castle. Before I departed for London to join the royal household, Captain Claverhouse promised to post a guard at the gates, so I must trust that he has kept his word. I just pray I reach London before I am too late to see my dear little lad one last time…
Rather than risk his reports falling into the wrong hands (including the king’s, given his criticisms), Robert burned all his notes before setting off on the long journey home. Nineteen days later, he reached London, saddle-sore and bone weary. He’d barely slept, eaten, or bathed after leaving Edinburgh. He was too eager to see his wife and son to squander precious time on his body’s trivial needs.
On the road, he learned—from a group of soldiers drinking in a pub—of the battle that had taken place at Sedgemoor, if indeed the confrontation between Lord Monmouth’s raw recruits and the vastly superior royal army could rightfully be called a battle. The soldiers also told him the duke had been captured and was now locked in the Tower of London, awaiting execution.
Robert approached the palace from St. James’s Street, announced himself at the gatehouse, and rode through the archway, into the quadrangle. As he looked up at the palace’s soaring brick face and toothed towers, his heart beat faster. In a few short minutes, he would be reunited with Maggie.
Dismounting his horse, he handed the reins to a waiting yeoman, who he instructed to deliver the horse to the stables and inform the king of his return before asking the way to his apartments. The man directed him toward another gate, which led to another quadrangle he called “the Chair Court.” The state apartments, he told him, which faced the garden and St. James’s Park, could be entered from there.
Robert hastened on his way, through the gate and quadrangle into a passage, which took him to a sweeping staircase of great elegance. At the top was a gallery displaying weapons in various patterns. He passed through that room into another with a grand fireplace, over which were the initials H and A were united by a true-lover’s knot—a sad reminder of the fickleness of some men’s hearts.
Fortunately, his was constant and true. If anything, he loved Maggie more fully and deeply than the day they were wed. So struck through was he by Cupid’s arrow, he would not have believed his feelings would deepen, but deepen they had.
From the room with the monogram of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, he obtained entrance to the hallway from which the state apartments could be accessed. He hurried along, checking the numbers, until he reached the one the yeoman had said was his. A quiver of excitement went through him as he stopped before the door. Maggie was within. Unless she was out, but pray, let her not be.
He stood there a moment, suddenly apprehensive. Would she be surprised? Would she be happy to see him? Would she be repulsed by his ripe scent and grubby appearance?
There was but one way to find out. He raised his fist and rapped upon the door with purposeful force. His pulse quickened when the sounds of movement came from within. Might it be Maggie? Oh, please let it be. Then, he grew afraid. What if she was unwell or had changed toward him?
The sounds from within sharpened into footsteps and grew steadily louder. His anticipation spiked, depriving him of thought and breath. The latch clicked, the knob turned. The heavy door swung open with a groan.
His heart stopped beating. There stood his beautiful wife in all her glory. She stared blankly at him for a moment before recognition dawned in her eyes. Then, joy lit up her whole face and lifted the corners of her lovely mouth. God, how he wanted to kiss her. As he stepped forward to do just that, she flew at him, threw her arms around him, and gave him a rib-cracking hug.
“Oh, Robert, is it really you? It feels like you, but you might only be a dream.”
“I promise you, I am real.” He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “The rebellion has been quashed and I have at last come home to roost.”
“I am so glad,” she said into his chest, “for I have missed you fiercely.”
Locked in her embrace, he could feel the tension drain from his body. He ran his hands up and down her back to absorb the reality of being in her arms once again.
“Oh, Maggie, my darling, my treasure.” The words came out a croak, so he cleared his throat before continuing. “I missed you just as much, if not more.”
When she lifted her gaze to his, he kissed her hungrily. As their mouths fused and their tongues entangled, he tasted savory gravy and sour ale—a feast for his tastebuds. She smelled just as appealing, like honeysuckle, home, and happiness. The kiss ignited a fire in his breeches. Clinging to her, trembling with need, he walked her back inside the apartment and kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot.
He could not bring himself to let go of her, but he needed to see where he was going. Breaking away from her mouth, he looked around for a place to settle. The room, though splendidly furnished, was much more homely than were their apartments at Whitehall. The curvaceous French furniture was gilded with gold and covered in petit-point florals and scenes.
The walls, covered in flocked crimson damask, displayed a variety of gilt-framed portraits and mirrors. Over the carved limestone mantelpiece hung a portrait of Maggie’s grandfather, Charles I, in a suit of armor.
The candles burning in the central chandelier and standing candelabras on either side of the room cast a warm, womb-like glow over the whole interior.
“I like it,” he said.
“So do I.”
“How does wee Jamie fare?” He asked it casually, to cover his terrible fear of the answer.
“He is well. He came down with the smallpox, but is now out of danger.”
A weight lifted off his shoulders. “Good,” he said. “I have been dreadfully worried.”
“Gemma helped me nurse him,” she said. “She was of great help and comfort to me in your absence.”
This surprised him exceedingly. “Was she?”
“Yes, though let us not speak of it now,” she said, pressing her fingers to his lips.
He looked at her, her hand still held to his mouth. Her face was raised to his, and her gaze was dark and guarded, like she was hiding something. He could guess what it was. She and Gemma had become lovers. Jealousy pierced his heart as he pictured her and Gemma in bed together, their bodies naked and entwined.
He let his hands drop from her; she kept her fingers upon his lips, then moved them, very slowly, to his cheek, his ear, his throat, his neck. When he did not respond, her expression grew concerned.
“You do not mind, do you?”
He cursed himself for his own stupidity. He had given her leave to bed other women and now he was hurt by it. He had no right to be, of course, but knowing he had no cause did naught to lessen his pain.
He arched an eyebrow. “Is she still here?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, the worry in her eyes increasing. “She is in my bedchamber, looking after the baby.”
When he stiffened involuntarily, she withdrew her hand from his mouth. Not wanting to lose the connection, he seized her wrist, pulled her against him, and dipped his face to kiss her.
Her mouth was unresponsive—another knife to his heart. She drew her lips away to give a quick, anxious glance toward the apartment’s inner chambers.
“We should go where we will have more privacy.”
In a moment of panic, he took hold of her other wrist and shook her. “Maggie, look at me.” When her anxious gaze met his, he stared into her eyes for a long moment, searching for evidence of love. Then, mustering every ounce of courage he possessed, he asked what he had to know. “Do you now prefer her to me?”
He held his breath as he awaited her answer. If she said she did indeed prefer Gemma Crosse’s voluptuous female curves to his hard male muscles, he was sure he would die of a broken heart right here on the Persian carpet.
Her lower lip trembled and her darting eyes searched his. “How can you ask me such a question?”
“I ask because I need to be reassured of your c
onstancy.”
Her voice quavered as she said, “My feelings are what they have always been. My heart belongs to you, Robert. Utterly and completely.”
“Does Mrs. Crosse know this?”
“Of course she does.” Distress puckered Maggie’s brow. “We are bosom friends, and that is all. As much as I enjoy her company, she was never more to me than a stand-in for you.”
Satisfied at last, he bent to kiss her. This time, to his relief, she kissed him back. Her arms went around him and held him close as he paid tribute to her mouth with his own. The blood of desire rushed toward his cock, causing it to telescope and throb. Cleaving to her, he pressed his hardness against her silken petticoat to make her aware of just how fervently he wanted her.
The kiss went on for several minutes before Maggie stepped away. Seizing his wrist, she kissed his fingers and emitted a nervous laugh. “If I let you have your way, I fear you shall kiss me to death.”
He frowned at her. “Would that be so terrible?”
“Not at all,” she said with a smile. “There are, however, other intimacies I hope to share with you before I draw my last breath.”
She plucked a taper from one of the candelabra and led the way into a bedchamber. As she illuminated the darkness, he saw that the room was as elegant and comfortable as the one they’d just left. Instead of gold, however, the walls and fabrics were a mossy green. The canopy crowning the bed was rosewood and intricately carved. A large burl-wood armoire stood against one wall. A wing-back chair and needlepoint loveseat occupied the window alcove adjacent to the ornate fireplace.
As they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, it was as if they were newlyweds again. She put her hands to his face, making his jaw muscle jump beneath her fingers. They did not kiss. Instead, she leaned into him, pressing her face upon his neck, keeping her mouth out of his reach. Her humid breath caressed the skin below his ear. The air in the room was almost as warm. She unfastened one of the buttons on his waistcoat, midway down, and slipped her hand into the gap.
“I can feel your heart beating,” she whispered.
He could feel it, too, pounding in his chest, his temples, and his cock. He thought about their wedding night, when she had been so innocent and afraid. He thought about the Virgin Mary, what she’d said, all the children they’d lost, and the one who’d survived. James Robert, his pride and joy. He wanted to go to him now, but was not quite ready to face Gemma Crosse. Seeing her would only remind him of the tender moments she’d shared with Maggie whilst he suffered such frustrations all those nights beside Juliette.
He had decided to say naught about the vision to Maggie. For the time being, leastwise. He could see no point in worrying her if the vision turned out to be no more than an illusion. If the Virgin’s predictions bore out—and oh, how he prayed they would not!—he would tell her then, but only if knowing would somehow prove helpful.
He raked a hand through his hair, the strands of which were limp and oily. He was sick and tired of denying his needs, of being virtuous. He wanted to do to his wife the one thing another woman could not. Well, at least not with that which nature had endowed her.
Pushing Maggie down on the bed, he straddled her pelvis, raised her arms above her head, and pinned her wrists to the mattress.
Then, lowering his face to hers, he growled, vehemently, “You are mine. Do you hear me? Mine, and nobody else’s.”
Before she had time to respond, a knock sounded upon the front door. Damnation. He should have waited to alert the king of his return until after he’d properly fucked his wife. Grumbling, he climbed off Maggie and the bed, strode to the door, and pulled it open. There, as expected, stood a young man he recognized as one of the king’s pages.
The young man regarded him with eyebrows aloft. “My Lord Dunwoody?”
“Aye.”
“His Majesty requests that you attend him straightaway.”
Robert clenched his jaw. Expecting the summons did not make him begrudge it any less. “Pray, may I take a moment to tidy my appearance?”
“Yes, my lord. Provided you are quick.”
“I shall be as quick as a wink.” Robert closed the door and turned to Maggie, who had followed him into the room. “Where might I find my valet?”
He had left his manservant behind when he went to Scotland and had not yet seen him.
“I know not,” she said, looking as troubled as he was. “What do you think my father wants with you?”
“I can only suppose he wishes to hear of my exploits and take me to task for failing to follow orders.”
Now trepidatious, he went into his bedchamber and stood before the looking glass. His face was grimy, his chin was stubbled, his hair badly needed washing, and his clothes were covered in dust. With limited time and no valet, there was little he could do to make himself more presentable. He started by taking off his coat and beating it with his hand like a carpet. He couched as the dust rose from the velvet in clouds. Satisfied he’d done his best, he tossed the garment on the bed and went to his washstand, where he splashed his face with water from the basin and ran a brush through his hair. Finally, he wiped the caked mud and clinging dust from his boots with a handkerchief.
Retrieving his coat, he turned to go only to find Maggie standing in the doorway. He eyes were tear-filled and her expression was troubled.
“Shall I wait up for you?”
As much as he wanted her to, he did not wish to ask it of her. She already looked tired. Had she been unwell or just passed a restless night?
“No. Go to bed. I can wake you upon my return, if you wish it.”
“Pray, do,” she said in earnest.
Besieged by longing, he stepped up to her, took her face between his hands, and pulled her mouth against his. The kiss was brief, yet heartfelt. “I just pray he does not lock me in the Tower of London.”
Worry etched Maggie’s features. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he is merciless.”
It was a hot night in mid-July. The palace was muggy and still, despite the open windows. Under his heavy velvet suit, Robert was sweating profusely. Inexplicably tense, he looked around him as he followed the page through the halls of the smaller palace. Having never been inside St. James’s before, all he beheld was new and interesting to his eye.
He thought about poor Monmouth, condemned to a traitor’s death by his own uncle. Aye, his brother’s bastard son was a spoiled simpleton who had wronged James more than once, but he still might have shown him charity. Doing so might have won him some much-needed support, for the handsome young duke was a favorite among the Protestants.
Sadly, the king coveted vengeance more than approval. He wanted to make an example of Monmouth—as a warning to other would-be usurpers, especially his son-in law in Holland, who by all accounts had encouraged the duke’s play for the throne.
For his part, Robert rather liked Monmouth, despite his cheek, mostly because the duke hated Lord Mulgrave with a fervor equal to his own. And, as everyone knew, nothing could unite men quite as well as a common enemy.
The page led the way past the guards and into His Majesty’s apartments. At the last door, the young man knocked in a way Robert recognized as a signal. In his youth, he had served Charles II as a Page of the Bedchamber—a position known more commonly at court as the royal pimp.
When a muffled reply came from within, Robert took a deep breath to prepare himself for whatever might come. When the page opened the door to admit him, Robert stepped inside.
The room was handsomely appointed with dark paneling, elaborate plasterwork, French tapestries, and Turkish carpets. A regal canopy bed stood at the center, near a carved marble fireplace, over which hung a medieval triptych depicting the Annunciation. No fire burned in the grate, God be praised, for the room was already sweltering.
On the wall opposite the bed, a bank of leaded windows ran the length of the room, offering a striking view of the star-filled sky and crescent moon. Though some of the panes
had been opened to let in the air, Robert could feel no breeze coming through them.
The king, looking weary and drawn, sat behind a large desk strewn with books, charts, papers, and letters. He wore a quilted pale blue banyan over a ruffled shirt. No wig covered his close-cropped graying hair, owing no doubt to the heat. Lord Mulgrave and Colonel Churchill stood on either side of his chair like a pair of Protestant bookends.
Robert bowed at the waist. “Your Majesty. My Lords. Good evening and may God bless all in this room.”
The king offered him an amiable smile, easing his mind a little. “It gladdens me greatly to see you have returned to us in good health, Your Grace, though I do wonder why you did not remain in Edinburgh a few more days to bear witness to the execution of the traitor you helped bring to justice—a service for which you shall forever have my gratitude.”
Relief gusted through Robert, blowing away his anxieties. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I am not one to treat beheadings as a spectator sport—or hangings, either, for that matter.”
“What a pity,” said the king, frowning at him. “For another such event will take place in two days’ time—one that is not to be missed. For I have enlisted Jack Ketch especially to execute the main attraction, as it were.” He smiled at his pun, which Robert thought in poor taste. “Surely you will not disappoint me by choosing to stay away.”
The king’s statement made two points clear to Robert. The first was that he was expected to attend Lord Monmouth’s execution, whether he liked it or not. The second was that the king intended to make his nephew’s beheading as grisly as possible. For Jack Ketch was the butcher who had botched the decapitation of Lord William Russell, a Member of Parliament and staunch anti-Catholic who had done everything in his power to keep James off the throne.
