Lovestorm

by Judith E. French

  Part Two

  Chapter 14

  Sotterley, Essex

  December 1664

  Elizabeth moaned with pleasure as Cain’s hand cupped her bare breast and brought his hungry mouth down to lave her love-swollen nipples. Tendrils of his blue-black hair brushed her tingling skin, and she trembled beneath him as waves of intense desire swept over her. The throbbing, incandescent heat between her thighs became an agony of yearning as she arched her hips against his hot, hard body. “Cain,” she whispered, “love me. Please . . . please love me.”

  His mouth teased and sucked the hard, erect peaks of her breasts as his strong hands claimed her willing body, stroking . . . tormenting until she cried out with the sweet aching of wanting him. “Eliz-a-beth,” he murmured huskily, “my own . . . my wife.” He raised his head to stare into her eyes, and his lips crushed hers in a searing kiss of total possession.

  Elizabeth wrapped her legs around his and dug her fingers into his broad shoulders as tremors of pulsating delight coursed through her. “I’ve wanted you,” she cried softly, “by all that’s holy, I’ve wanted you here in my bed.”

  “Why did you doubt me? Did not this one promise he would come for you?” Cain caught her face between his hands. “Touch me,” he entreated her. One hand dropped to close over hers and move it to the turgid source of his passion. “Touch me,” he repeated in a breathy whisper.

  Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around his engorged shaft, and she felt him shudder with pleasure. Slowly, she began to stroke him, letting her hand slide up and down his silken member as he covered her breasts and belly with scalding kisses.

  “Eliz-a-beth,” he groaned. He wound one hand in her hair, and let the other trail down her hip to rest on the mound of tight curls between her legs.

  The intensity of the sensation brought her upright in the great poster bed. Elizabeth stared about her in confusion. The covers and pillows were all awry, and Betty’s sleepy face was just appearing over the foot of the bed.

  “M’lady! Are ye all right?” Betty was as naked as the day she was born, and her hair stuck out all over her head like an overripe cattail. “I heard ye cry out.”

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Elizabeth stammered. Breathless, she fell back against the goose-down feather pillows and tried to reconcile reality with the vivid memory of her dream.

  “Yer fevered, m’lady,” Betty insisted. “Look at ye. Shall I fetch Bridget?”

  “No,” Elizabeth answered sharply. “Go back to your pallet. It was only a bad dream.” She ran her fingers through her damp, tangled hair and pulled the covers up to her neck. It was only a dream, she reminded herself, only a dream.

  She began to shiver and wondered if she really was ill. Her body was drenched in sweat, and her heart was beating in a rapid, irregular rhythm. Her mouth and throat were as dry as chalk. She licked her lips to moisten them, then sat up and reached for the water goblet beside her bed. It was empty.

  “Betty! Betty,” she called. “Fetch me something to drink. I’m parched.”

  The girl mumbled sleepily, and Elizabeth heard the rustle of clothing as Betty fumbled for her shift.

  “No need to go belowstairs. There’s wine in the japanned cabinet.”

  Betty brought the silver chalice, filled to the brim and spilling over. Elizabeth leaned over the edge of the high bed and took a sip, unwilling to stain the rose silk sheets. She waved the child away, then retreated to the center of the curtained bed with the cup.

  After several sips of the unwatered wine, Elizabeth’s brain began to clear. It was the same dream, the fantasy she’d experienced over and over in the months since her marriage to Edward.

  You’re a fool, the voice in her head said sternly. Cain is back in Virginia by now. He’s forgotten you, and you must do the same by him.

  She sighed and took another swallow of the strong Dutch wine. Why can’t I forget him? Why must I torment myself night after night with these sinful desires? She smiled wryly in the darkness. “If I knew that—”

  “M’lady?” Betty called. “Did ye want-”

  “Go to sleep. No.” Elizabeth scooted to the end of the bed and parted the heavy drapes. “I wish to be alone. Take your pallet into the dressing room and sleep there.”

  Betty rubbed her eyes with her fists. “But m’lady, the lord bade me—”

  “Sleep at the foot of my bed like a dog,” Elizabeth finished. “As if you could prevent me from putting horns on him if I wished to do otherwise.” She made a sound of derision. “Never mind, ‘tis not your fault. At least drag your bed near the fire. ‘Ods-heart! I cannot break wind without you there to hear and repeat it to Dunmore.”

  Betty began to sniffle as she tugged her pallet toward the fire. “I didn’t mean t’ get ye in trouble, m’lady, I swear. His lordship only asked me did we go t’ early service, and I—”

  Elizabeth sighed impatiently. “No, ’tis nothing, Bett. I’m not angry with you. You had no way of knowing I’d lied to him. You must obey Lord Dunmore, of course. Go to sleep, child.” She drew the curtains closed and slid back against the heaped pillows. “None of it is your fault,” she finished softly.

  Two and a half months a bride, she thought, and I’m not yet a wife. No wonder Edward was eaten up with jealousy.

  She and Dunmore had been wed with all pomp and splendor on last Michaelmas Eve. The simple marriage ceremony had been followed by a grand supper at Sommersett House. Both the King’s brother, the duke of York, and the Lady Castlemaine had danced at her wedding, and the festivities had gone on until daybreak the following day.

  According to custom, she and Edward had been undressed and put into bed together some time after midnight. She had been willing, if not enthusiastic, to complete this essential part of the ritual, but Dunmore had other ideas. As soon as the doors to the chamber were closed, he rose and donned a dressing robe. Ignoring her, the bridegroom spent the better part of an hour drinking beside the fireplace. Then he produced a tiny gilt flask from his pocket, threw back the sheets, and liberally splattered blood on her bare thighs and the linen.

  “Say nothing of this, if you wish to live to enjoy what this marriage has brought you,” he snarled. Then, without another word, Edward called for his manservant, dressed, and returned to the celebration.

  After a suitable time, she followed his example. They danced and laughed and blushed in response to the general teasing. Later, they joined the guests of honor at an elaborate breakfast. When the festivities were over, she went to her own chambers and slept alone. At noon, Dunmore’s man, Jim, came to tell her maids to prepare to depart for his country home in Essex.

  Elizabeth stifled the urge to hurl the costly silver cup against the wall. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she set it down on the table beside the bed and covered her face with her hands.

  Day by day, her frustration had grown. How was she supposed to accept the role of wife and mistress of Dunmore’s estates? How could she provide him an heir if he did not remain at her side long enough to carry out a decent conversation—let alone perform a man’s duty?

  The staff at Sotterley was without reproach; a capable steward, Hugh Cardiff, managed all outside the house, and his wife acted as housekeeper within. Mistress Cardiff instructed the maids, other than Elizabeth’s personal servants, and supervised the kitchen. Mistress Cardiff carried the great ring of keys on a belt at her waist—the keys that unlocked the doors, the spice chests, and the money box. She paid the servants on the first day of every month, and she hired and fired staff members.

  I’m nothing more than a fashion poppet, Elizabeth thought, waiting here on the shelf until some spoiled child comes to play with me.

  She had seen Edward four times since their wedding in September, when he’d come to the country to hunt. They’d shared three meals, including their wedding breakfast, and he’d not spoken more than a few dozen words to her.

  “At least let me come down to London with you,” she’d suggested the last
time he’d been at Sotterley. Autumn was a lively time at court; there were masques and balls, horse races and stage plays. In London, she could expect to be invited to private parties and elegant suppers with all manner of gaming and entertainment. Her sister Ann and her family were in residence there, as well as many of Elizabeth’s friends. “I’ll die of boredom here, m’ lord Dunmore.”

  “I think not,” Edward had replied coldly. “Are we not, after all, honeymooners?”

  “I am not used to inactivity,” she’d flung back at him. “I need something more to do than try on the new gowns you’ve so thoughtfully provided. At least instruct your housekeeper to give over the running of Sotterley to my care. I assure you, sir, I am not ignorant of such affairs.”

  “With your reputation, your time might be better spent in prayer than in the pursuit of frivolous pleasure.”

  She had been angry enough to slap his face, but she’d realized it would only further alienate him. Instead she’d curtsied as an obedient wife should and retreated to her own chambers. When she came down the next morning, she learned he’d returned to London.

  Before leaving, he’d subjected her maids to the usual interrogation. On each visit, Edward had gone to great lengths to question all the servants on her daily routine. It had been her resentment of this petty tyranny that had caused her to lie to him about attending church services. Now she’d been caught in a foolish untruth, and she didn’t know if she was angrier at her husband or at herself for stooping to such childish behavior.

  Elizabeth tugged several pillows into position behind her back and curled her legs under her. Pride wouldn’t allow her to shed tears of self-pity. Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, she stared at the glowing coals on the hearth and tried to reason out what had gone wrong with her marriage. Other than this latest exchange of heated words, she knew she had given Edward no reason to be dissatisfied with her.

  “If he was repelled by my experience in the Colonies, why did he go through with the marriage?” she whispered. “Why?”

  Edward Lindsey did not appear to be a spiteful or vindictive man. His round, freckled face, ready smile, and butter-blond hair gave him an almost boyish appearance. His eyes were a clear, pleasing shade of blue, his voice manly without sounding harsh to the ear. A thin, aristocratic nose and a full, sensual mouth added to his charm.

  Elizabeth pursed her mouth. If I didn’t know Edward’s reputation, I might suspect that he was one who preferred his own sex to women. But Edward had kept as many mistresses as any other young man of his station, and Bridget had pointed out several by-blows of his among the flocks of servants’ children that ran in and out of the courtyard. No, her husband was not a lover of men. What then could be his problem?

  She had known Dunmore as a child and had not liked him very much. But then I was a brat myself, she reminded herself. She had quarreled with him—struck him in the face if she remembered correctly. She had been only nine years old; surely, he could not carry a grudge for so many years over so insignificant a matter. The details of the incident were hazy—something about a kitten. Edward had been teasing another girl, and Elizabeth had come to her rescue in a whirlwind of righteous fervor.

  Elizabeth tried to remember anything she had ever heard or seen of Edward’s behavior that might explain his attitude toward her. As she recalled, he had been a lazy boy, rather than malicious. He’d been good at his studies, and was an exceptional horseman. As a young man, he’d gathered a reputation as an unlucky gambler and a heavy drinker, but that was far from unusual among noblemen, especially second sons. Edward had suffered no real disgraces that she’d heard of, committed no crimes.

  As far as she knew, relations between the Sommersetts and the Lindseys were good; Edward’s father and hers had been companions in France. And, even though she was bitter toward her father for insisting on this marriage against her will, she was sure he’d never have knowingly given her over to a monster. Try as she might, she could not come up with an answer to the puzzle.

  By morning, Elizabeth decided that she had been reasonable long enough; it was time to take drastic action. Regardless of what Edward said, she would return to London. “I’ll hunt after breakfast,” she informed the maids as they laced her into her blue wool riding habit. “Mary, go you down to the mews and tell the falconer I want the small merlin.” When the girl was gone, Elizabeth beckoned to Betty. “Do you ride?” she asked quietly.

  “A horse?”

  Bridget tittered, and Elizabeth glared at her.

  “Bett, have you ever ridden pillion behind a man?”

  Betty’s eyes widened. “No, m’lady. I never did.”

  “Then Bridget will go and you must remain here today. Have Mistress Cardiff instruct you in your duties.” Elizabeth patted the girl’s arm. “You belong to me, Betty. You needn’t be afraid. I will look after you, no matter what.”

  Betty nodded. “Yes, m’lady. But what am I t’ do?”

  “Go downstairs and ask one of the cooks for bread and cheese, cold meat, and wine. Have him pack a basket to take with us. If the hawking is good, I’ll stay out until late afternoon.” She motioned toward the door. “Run along with you.”

  Betty hastened to obey, and Elizabeth turned to Bridget. “Dress warmly and pack a change of clothing. Tuck the bundle under your cloak. We ride fast and far this day.”

  Their eyes met meaningfully. “Then I should bring yer jewel chest,” the Irish girl replied. “In case the game turns dangerous.”

  “As you will. But take the contents and leave the box. I’ll have no wench report the loss until we’re safe away.”

  “Leave it to me, m’lady,” Bridget answered with a saucy wink. “Me darlin’ mother always said I had a quick hand.”

  Elizabeth rode out across the frost-tipped fields of Sotterley later that morning with an entourage of two grooms, four men-at-arms, three foresters, the chief falconer, and her maid, Bridget. At first, the head groom had been reluctant to saddle the horses Elizabeth had picked out, but she had insisted.

  “I’ll ride the gray. Saddle that roan for my maid.” She needed good horses. It was eighteen hours of hard riding to London if the roads were passable.

  The man had hesitated, fear and doubt showing plainly on his weathered face “The horses be spirited, m’lady. If ye were t’ come t’ harm . . .”

  “Are either of the animals vicious?”

  “No, m’lady, but—”

  She’d dismissed him with a haughty wave of her hand. “Saddle them, I say. At once! The hawk grows restless.” The ladies’ horses at Sotterley were well-bred and sweet-natured. Such a mount was a delight to ride on a leisurely outing, but for the excursion Elizabeth had in mind, a gentle palfrey would not do. The Sommersett women were all accomplished equestriennes, and hardy Bridget could ride like a Cossack. Elizabeth was sorry to have to leave Betty behind, but she could send for the wench later if need be. For now, Elizabeth prepared to ride hard and fast and to let no one stand in her way.

  Sotterley lay north and east of London, not far from the highway that led from Colchester to the capital. Essex was heavily wooded and dotted with rivers and marshland; the old Roman roads had scarce been repaired since they were built and were in poor condition. Still, an unusually cold spell had frozen the ground, and Elizabeth knew that the highway would get worse, not better, before spring. If she intended to act, this might be her best opportunity.

  Elizabeth commanded her huntsman to lead the party wide around a farmer’s field of winter wheat. Then they trotted their horses through a park of ancient oaks and across a low-lying meadow beside the river. Elizabeth reined in and signaled the falconer to bring up the merlin and transfer the bird to her leather gauntlet. The other men fell back a distance, allowing the huntsman to seek out game for the lady’s sport.

  Speaking softly to the hawk to calm it, Elizabeth removed the hood and cast it skyward as one of the huntsmen startled a pair of ducks from the water. Like a bullet shot from a gun, the merlin rose
and plunged toward the prey.

  Elizabeth signaled to Bridget, and both women brought their quirts down across their horses’ rumps. The animals leaped forward and galloped headlong toward the narrow bridge across the river. Elizabeth’s gray thundered across the wooden bridge as the first of the men-at-arms whipped their horses into a run. Bridget’s mount was a half length behind, and the women urged the horses up a bank and down the path on the far side of the water.

  For nearly a mile, Elizabeth drove the gray gelding at breakneck speed along the winding trail. Once, she slowed the animal enough to allow Bridget’s roan to catch up. The Irish girl’s cheeks glowed red from the cold and her eyes sparkled with excitement as she leaned low over her horse’s neck.

  “Are you all right?” Elizabeth cried.

  “Aye, but they’re right behind us!”

  Elizabeth laughed and touched the gray’s neck with the crop again. The spirited animal quickened the pace. She had deliberately chosen what she felt were the best animals in the stable, and she and Bridget were lighter burdens than the men. She didn’t expect to stay ahead of the men-at-arms indefinitely, just long enough to give them a merry chase.

  Just ahead, the path split. One leg followed the edge of a woods; the left disappeared among the trees. Elizabeth chose the open way. They’d gone not more than a few hundred yards, and this trail too led into the forest. The women reined the animals to a canter and ducked their heads to avoid the low-hanging branches.

  The path twisted and turned through the woods. Once, they crossed a clearing where a dirty-faced man paused, axe in hand, to watch them pass. Then, as the trees thinned, Bridget suddenly cried out. Ahead, blocking the trail, were two of Dunmore’s mounted huntsmen.

  Elizabeth pulled hard on the reins and tried to ride around the men. One threw himself out of the saddle and seized the gray’s bridle.