Gavin solemnly agreed. “It’s a fine place, Annie. I promise you.”
At last they came to a great walled fortification. Gavin had ridden ahead then, and the drawbridge was already down, providing safe passage above the moat. Within the walls, a stone castle rose several stories into the night sky. Outside the walls, the countryside they’d been riding through was lush and fertile, and there were numerous cottages. When they reined in, Gwenyth looked at Rowan with weary but curious eyes.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“It is called Dell,” he told her.
“I see,” she murmured, though she did not.
“It is mine,” he told her.
“Yours?”
“A gift from the Queen of England. I hold it through no one,” he added quickly, thinking she might surmise he had gained the estate through his marriage to Catherine. “I accomplished a small service once for Queen Elizabeth, and therefore, I am Lord of Dell.”
“I see,” she repeated, and this time her smile was dazzling.
They were greeted by his steward, an amiable man named Martin, a corpulent and cheerful fellow who was delighted that his lord had returned to his English land and quickly had a very fine meal prepared. The men joined them for the late supper, and there was much discussion about the storage of crops and the maintenance of the castle, so Gwenyth excused herself as quickly as she could.
Rowan had seen to it that Gwenyth was given the chamber kept in preparedness at all times for the ambassadors and nobles who often stopped here on their journeys to the north and south. The bed was vast, the mattress firm and not at all lumpy. The hearth was huge, the fire warm.
Shortly after he saw Gwenyth leave, Rowan excused himself, knowing his men might well enjoy his hospitality long into the night.
This time, he came upon Gwenyth in the bath. He slipped silently into the room, where she was resting her head on the rim of the tub, appreciating the hot water after their long ride.
“Ah, m’lady Gwenyth. I’ve brought towels,” he said.
“Annie is on her way back,” she advised him gravely when he entered. “She thinks that I must have some warmed wine, if I’m to sleep well.”
“We’ll bolt the door.”
“And how will I explain that?”
“Simply say that you’re already half-asleep.”
“You don’t believe she’ll suspect some…danger?” Gwenyth teased.
“Do you want me to leave?” he queried.
“Nay, m’laird, never!” she protested. “But perhaps you should hide in the wardrobe.”
“My dear Lady Gwenyth, it is far beneath my dignity to hide in a wardrobe,” he replied.
As he spoke, there was a tapping on the door, and Annie’s anxious voice sounded softly. “M’lady? Are you all right? I thought I heard voices,” she said. “Should I send for the guards?”
Rowan turned and opened the door, despite Gwenyth’s gasp.
Annie stood in the hall, her jaw dropping. Afraid she would also drop the tray with the pitcher of wine and chalice, Rowan quickly rescued it.
“Please, dear woman, I’m quite afraid some small spider might drop into your mouth. Close it, and do come in,” Rowan told her, setting the tray on a trunk.
Annie snapped her jaw shut and entered the bedchamber. She stared from Rowan, still resplendently handsome in the formal attire he had donned for dinner, to her mistress.
Gwenyth was afraid that the maid who had tended her so lovingly and so well for so long now was going to voice her sternest disapproval. She was equally afraid that their affair might be given away. Instead, to her astonishment, Annie grinned, and then she began to laugh outright.
“Well, well. So ye’ve both finally realized what all the rest of us have long seen,” she said.
Gwenyth frowned.
“Oh, nay, y’er not suspected of this,” Annie said, still laughing. But then her laughter faded, and she set her hands on her hips and stared at Rowan. “This is nae a round-heeled maid to satisfy yer fancy—m’laird.”
Rowan leaned against the wall, amused. “Nay?” he inquired.
“Nay,” she echoed a fierce frown.
Rowan gave her his deepest, most charming smile. “Annie, I have promised the lady I will wed her. Thus far, she has refused me.”
“What?” Annie’s jaw dropped again.
“I have my reasons,” Gwenyth said.
“Well, not a one of them can be good enough,” Annie said with complete certainty.
Gwenyth did not have a chance to tell Annie any of her reasons, because Rowan stepped in and informed her maid, “The queen would allow no conversation about my second marriage until her own domestic situation is settled. She was quite fierce on that score. But, Annie, I am a man of my word. I am quite aware that Lady Gwenyth is no lightskirt.”
Annie stared at Gwenyth. “Ye will marry the laird, m’lady,” she said sternly.
Gwenyth had to laugh, then looked at Rowan. “We needn’t wait for the queen. Annie says that we must marry.”
“Don’t ye go mocking me,” the older woman said sternly.
“Never, Annie,” Rowan said solemnly. “I give you my most solemn vow that I will marry your mistress.”
He was serious, Gwenyth knew. Wrong reasons, right reasons. At that moment, it didn’t matter. He was there. He had made a vow. And he would never give his word lightly.
Annie was shaking her head as she started from the room. “Don’t ye be mindin’ me. I’m off—minding me own business.” Then she paused and turned back. “There be a bolt on that door. I suggest ye use it.”
“It is my castle,” Rowan reminded her politely.
“Mayhap,” Annie sniffed, but happily. “I still say, bolt the door.”
“Thank you. I stand well-advised,” Rowan said.
He bolted the door as soon as Annie was gone. He set down the wine, walked to the tub and reached down, then, soap and all, pulled Gwenyth into his arms. If he had been ardent before, he was doubly so now. If she had longed for him before, it was with an ever-greater desperation now.
Now she knew what it was to feel the power of his muscles, the sleek ripple of his flesh beneath her fingers. Now she knew that his kiss would make her feel as if she had never really lived before.
It mattered not to either of them that she soaked his fine clothing through, for even as he took her from the tub, he had begun to cast it all aside.
She never knew where it went, only that she was touching him, unafraid to explore. She was half-maddened in her desire to stroke him, feel the vital contraction of his muscles and bask in the feel of her flesh against his. She cupped his hand in her palm, her lips upon his throat as she savored the drumbeat of his pulse. She was learning to play, to tease and taunt, and the taste of his flesh beneath her tongue was purely erotic. She could not be close enough to him, and as she pressed herself against him, she did so with the sole intent of feeling some part of his flesh along every inch of hers. She caressed him with her fingers, trailing them along his body as he had trailed his along hers. She was not so experienced a lover yet that she was not hesitant at times, but his ardent whispers urged her along, drove her to new heights. She grew bolder, feeling his hands always upon her, yet he let her play and experiment first, and she could tell from his response that she was instinctively learning all that was most seductive. She dared to let her fingers dance upon his erection, followed by a harder touch, a liquid caress. She savored the hoarse cry of surprise and pleasure that issued from his lips, the fierce ardor with which he grasped her to him, the trembling power with which his arms held her when he made love to her, when he was one with her, and it seemed the world itself shook with the wild ferocity of their passion.
He did not leave her in the night but lay by her side and held her.
When the morning’s light broke gently through the arrow slits, she woke and was immediately aware that he had already wakened and still lay by her side, leaning on one elbow, watching her. “
When you grow to be a very old woman, m’lady, you will still be a beauty.”
She laughed, her brow furrowing. “M’laird, when I grow to be a very old woman, I will be quite wrinkled.”
“The soul never ages,” he told her. “Did you know that?”
“Are you saying I have a beautiful soul?” she queried.
“Aye, that I am,” he said gravely. “But this morning, when I woke, it was your face, I must admit, that I noticed. That, and perhaps the way the sun’s rays fell upon the length of your back…perhaps even how it made your hair catch fire.”
“My hair will turn gray,” she told him.
“It will. But no matter how you age, you will have beauty in your face, in your eyes and smile.”
She wondered if it was possible to be any happier as she curled closer to him and said, “You will be a very striking old man.”
“Muscles do not remain strong forever, and flesh sags. I will be stooped and possibly bald,” he told her.
“Ah, but you, too, will always have your face.”
“Not so delicate as yours, I fear.”
“I don’t believe such a strong chin will ever go weak. And your eyes…even if the color begins to fade, they are so deep a blue that they are nearly black. They will always be fierce,” she said gravely.
He gently stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “And to think you had little good to say about me once.”
“Mary is a good queen,” she told him earnestly.
“Aye, she has proven so,” he agreed.
“You still do not sound certain.”
“Twenty years from now, I shall be certain,” he said, and he threw off the covers, then held himself poised above her. “My lady, you serve her well in her chambers—may we keep her out of ours?”
He waited for no answer. The morning had come, but he did not intend to forget the night.
At last he lay beside her again, cradling her to him, surprising her with his passion when he spoke.
“If only we could remain right here.”
“If we remained here,” she reminded him, “we would not reach Elizabeth. We could not convey to her the respect in which Mary holds a man’s choice of religion. We could not make her understand that Mary is her proper heir, deserving of recognition.”
His fingers threaded through hers. “We could not return to the queen and gain her consent for our marriage,” he said flatly.
Gwenyth rolled to him, rising up on her elbow, seeking his eyes. “Rowan, I swear…I’d not trap any man into marriage.”
“Well, you were certainly bold,” he said softly, and with affection, “but I do believe that I did the trapping.”
“I suppose that’s what you must believe,” she teased.
“It is the truth, and therefore what I believe.”
He pulled her close again, and kissed her long and tenderly. But when that kiss threatened to become more, he drew away with regret. “There is nothing I would like more than to remain here,” he said with a sigh, his eyes still tender. “But we have to ride. We are still only in the north of England.”
He turned away then and rose, but he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead before he picked up his strewn clothing, dressed, and at the door bid her rise.
“Breakfast, then the road,” he told her.
“Aye, I shall move,” she promised him as he closed the door in his wake.
The sheets still held a hint of his scent, so she remained where she lay, hugging her feather pillow.
It seemed impossible to be so happy.
She would never leave him, she vowed.
And surely, whether he said so or not, surely he loved her. Would do so always.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LONDON.
The city seemed huge.
Gwenyth reminded herself that she was quite accustomed to Paris, and London was not so different, merely very…
English.
Rowan’s townhouse was near to Hampton Court, just down the river. A handsome barge sat out back, which could quickly bring them to an audience with the queen.
Although she had known that Catherine was English, Gwenyth had not realized just how welcomingly Rowan was received in his wife’s country. As they moved about the city, they constantly met people who knew him and were glad to see him back in England, and who stared at her with ill-concealed curiosity.
Rowan took her to Westminster Cathedral so she might see the coronation church of the English royalty, and they were received, as well, by the warden at the Tower of London. At home, she was given her own wing, which included a parlor just behind the bedroom, with access to the floor above, where Annie had her room. Rowan’s master’s quarters included a room with a massive oak writing desk and chairs for his accountant and other business attendants.
Their first days in London seemed almost magical. They rowed upon the Thames, walked in the parks and visited the markets. He did so as her escort, and in public, they were entirely circumspect.
The nights, however, were hers.
At last the day came when they received a letter from Queen Elizabeth. She had set aside an evening to spend time with her “dearest Laird Rowan,” and professed herself anxious for all and any messages from her “dearest cousin, Mary of Scotland.”
“She sounds most genuine in her affection,” Gwenyth told Rowan.
He arched a brow at her, amused. “Don’t rely on ‘beloved cousin’ for victory,” he warned her. “Elizabeth is a crafty queen. And she is careful always,” he added.
The steward of this house was a cheerful old fellow named Thomas, and Thomas—if he noticed the closeness of Laird Rowan and Lady Gwenyth—was careful not to comment upon it. Rowan had assured her that he had employed the penniless old soldier for his ability to keep a strict confidence, and he didn’t seem at all alarmed by anything said or done in the man’s presence, but for the sake of Gwenyth’s honor, he was circumspect.
Thomas had brought the queen’s letter to his master’s quarters, and Rowan, though not completely dressed, had crossed the hall to Gwenyth’s realm. She hadn’t risen, but rather enjoyed the services of Annie and Thomas here; each morning, one or the other of them brought her a tray of coffee and pastries. She had never had coffee before, though Rowan told her it was a popular drink in Constantinople. It was far less popular in London, though, and most of the country had never so much as heard of it. But years before, when Rowan had been a lad, the elder laird had taken his young son on a long voyage that took them to the Continent and even to the East, where he had developed a taste for the bitter beverage. “All things can be obtained, my lady,” Thomas had assured her, “when you know the right merchants. And, of course, can afford the price.”
She didn’t really understand all of Rowan’s holding, nor did she really care about his property or wealth. With all her heart, she simply loved the man.
She couldn’t, however, regret the fact that he could afford coffee. She loved it, especially when Thomas served it with rich cream and sugar, another commodity that was not always easy to purchase.
That morning, she had just set the tray aside when Rowan came in to show her Queen Elizabeth’s letter. He’d handed it to her, and she had marveled at the fact that it had been handwritten and closed with the queen’s seal. It had offered such a familiar tone of friendship.
“It sounds as if you know Queen Elizabeth better than Queen Mary,” she told him a little primly.
He laughed. “I happened to be in England and was able to support the queen when things were not going in her direction.”
“Oh?”
He sighed, stretching out upon the sheets of the bed he had left not long ago. “Now it seems that Elizabeth sits so comfortably upon her throne, while Mary is still gaining the support of her people, but it has not always been so easy for Elizabeth. Believe me, she understands Mary’s dilemma well. And while there are others besides Mary with claims to the English throne, there are none so viable. And I believe that is Elizabeth�
�s personal opinion, as well.”
“Then she should simply sign her name to that,” Gwenyth said, moving closer to his side.
He smiled. “Nothing is ever so easy and you know why. Mary has yet to sign the Treaty of Edinburgh.”
“She can’t sign the Treaty of Edinburgh, because as it is currently written, she would be giving away her claim to the throne of England.”
“There’s more,” Rowan said with a shrug, smiling and slipping his arm around her. “Think of it this way—Elizabeth came to the throne at the age of twenty-five, young and beautiful. She was, beyond a doubt, the most outstanding marriage prize to be had.”
“But she has turned down all those who have requested her hand.”
“She has said many times that if she marries, it will be as queen.”
“And that means?”
He gently touched a lock of her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “It means that she loves to be loved—she is still a striking woman in a man’s world. She will not marry a Catholic prince and give power to any other country over her own, and she will not marry an English noble, because she will not give power to one family over another. If she marries, she intends to keep her title in reality, as well as in name. She will rule and no other. She has learned, however, the difficulties of being both a queen and a woman, with a woman’s heart. Robert Dudley was one of her favorites, and many thought they were far too intimate, especially since Dudley had a wife. His wife died—her death was deemed an accident, but many believe it was suicide, that she was distraught over her husband’s assumed infidelity with the queen. But she held her head high throughout the scandal, and she has made it clear that she will not marry Dudley. Indeed, there’s been rumor that she’s offered him as a potential bridegroom for Mary.”
Gwenyth gasped. She was indignant. “Queen Elizabeth would suggest such a man, her…discard, to our queen?”
Rowan laughed, pulling her toward him. “Such pride! But, indeed, I am quite certain that Mary would never accept Elizabeth’s discard, as you call the man. Actually, Elizabeth has a sense of humor and thinks that perhaps she should have married Dudley, as long as she had his promise that he would then marry the Queen of Scots if she should die. By marrying two queens, the man would have double the chance of fathering at least one royal heir.”
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