The Greatest Lover in All England Page 22

  “They’re retiring early tonight and plan to stay until Lady Honora is better. Perhaps even through the holidays, for they say they’ll scarcely make Cornwall in this vile weather.”

  He knew that. He knew it all, but he didn’t want her to leave, and he struggled to think of something else to discuss, something comforting, something not related to the horrible events of the day.

  She glanced down at their still-entwined hands, then up at him. “May we continue with my reading lessons?”

  Her reading lessons? She’d come for her reading lessons? “Certes!” He looked for the materials he’d used to teach her her letters, but didn’t see a quill. Had one of the servants cleaned his study again?

  He frowned, and she said, “If you’re too busy…”

  “Not at all.” Not for her. Thinking fast, he said, “I think we’ll read a real book.” Tugging her by the hand, he pulled her along until she stood beside his desk, and he picked up his Bible. “’Tis a gloomy, vaporous night, and we’ll sit by the fire and read.”

  She caught her lower lip in her teeth and gazed at the massive Bible. “Read a book?”

  “Exciting, isn’t it?”

  She accepted it, and her hands trembled as she touched the leather binding.

  She seemed almost reluctant, and he promised, “I’ll help you.” She nodded and sat on one of the straight-backed chairs. He dragged a table beside and behind her, placed a candelabra on it, then drew his chair close. Seating himself, he said brightly, “There. That’s cozy.”

  The room grew very quiet. The gilt edges of the pages seemed to fascinate her. She ran her finger along them many times, then took a breath.

  At last he realized the problem.

  The big Bible intimidated her. She knew sections of it by heart. But to read it…ah, that would surely frighten her. Perhaps she feared that she would make a mistake, or that he’d laugh at her, or that the great mystery of written speech would not open for her.

  “I know you anticipate your first chance to read a book,” he said. Anticipation didn’t seem to correctly describe her expression, but he plowed valiantly on. “You know the letters and many, many words. I’ve never met a pupil as clever as you.”

  Her gaze flashed to his. “You’ve never met a pupil as old as I.”

  Ignoring that, he continued, “I had wondered if someone taught you your letters years ago, for you seem to know them almost without my telling.”

  She looked around at the room with that expression she sometimes wore when the ghosts of the house were speaking to her. “Who would have taught me my letters?”

  “Perhaps your father?” She didn’t answer, and he said, “In fact, I’ve actually put off allowing you to read a book for fear you’ll decide you don’t need me anymore, and these quiet hours will stop.”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  “I’ve enjoyed it.” He smiled back at her. “Have you?”

  She watched him from beneath her lashes. “Very much.”

  Her shy admission quickened his heartbeat, and he almost reached for her. He wanted to hug her, to hold her against him, to assure himself that she still breathed, that the blood still coursed through her veins, that her skin still flushed with warmth, that her lips still guarded paradise….

  “Tony, are you sure you wish to read tonight?” She cocked her head like a kitten unsure of its welcome.

  “Read?”

  “You seem far away.”

  Waking to the dangerous trek of his thoughts, he subdued them. “Nay, I am too close.”

  Her lashes fluttered again. “Tony?”

  “We’ll read,” he said firmly. Taking her hands in his, he helped her open the book. “This is Cranmer’s Great Bible, published after our beloved King Henry declared himself head of the Church of England. Look at the illustrations.” He helped her stroke the pages back. “Aren’t they colorful? When I learned to read, ’twas with this very book. ’Twas given to me by the lady I called ‘Mama,’ and she told me when I couldn’t decipher a word, I should rest my mind by studying the illustrations.”

  She glanced up at him. “You can’t decipher all the words?”

  “I can now.” He guided her to turn another page. “But I couldn’t when I was learning to read. My tutor used to complain that I was a difficult student to teach. That’s because I wanted to be outside, riding with my father and brother. You put me to shame with your eagerness.”

  She turned a page on her own, and he slowly released her hands. He contemplated her as she studied the page. She’d never looked lovelier, with her hair swept back and her expression intense. She squealed suddenly and pointed. “Look! ’Tis the word ‘and.’”

  “So it is.”

  “And ‘the.’” She pointed again and again. “‘Thou,’ ‘time.’” She paused, then announced triumphantly, “‘Borders.’”

  He sighed in feigned despair. “I knew your ability would make a mockery of mine. Can you read a sentence?”

  Flipping the pages, she looked until she found one she liked. “Ten fat oxen, and twenty oxen out of the—”

  He leaned over and looked. “Pastures.”

  “—Pastures, and—” Growing bored, she bravely flipped through until she found another she liked. “’Tis a song. We should like this.”

  “A song?” Craning his neck, he tried to see what she read, then suggested, “Why don’t you sit on a stool here, where I can see the book?” Today, death had been close. Tonight, he craved her proximity.

  She seemed of like mind, for she pulled up a stool and seated herself at his knee. She even leaned against him, warming his leg with her back. He liked the fine, short wisps of hair that grew along her neckline, the tracery of veins that outlined the shell of her ear, the scent of carnation that rose in waves to stimulate him.

  How he loved her! He wanted to hold her close, whisper of his love, lie down with her, breast to breast, stomach to stomach….

  “’Tis called the song of songs, which is”—she faltered, then sounded it out—“Sol-o-mon’s.”

  He sat up straight. The Song of Solomon? She’d found the Song of Solomon? He’d always taken pleasure in the proof of such lusty delight in those long-dead patriarchs of the Bible, but to have Rosie read it aloud…Nay, he should not allow it.

  “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.” She stopped and stared at the page, then looked up at Tony. “Is that right?”

  She wasn’t asking if she’d read it correctly, and he ought to stop her.

  In a voice warm with approval, he said, “Exactly. Go on.”

  She turned the page. “He brought me to the—”

  He helped her when she faltered. “Banqueting.”

  “—Banqueting house, and his banner over me was—” She hesitated again, but not because she didn’t know the word.

  “Was?” he encouraged.

  “Love.”

  The word dropped into the quiet like a pearl into a cup of rich, intoxicating wine. She waited for his reaction, and he whispered, “You said it just right.”

  “Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love.” She turned her head slightly, presenting her profile, and watched him from the corner of her eye. “Does it mean ‘I am sick with love’?”

  “So am I.”

  She turned all the way to face him, her amber eyes wide and softly glowing like heated coals. “I meant…”

  He smiled, and he saw the movement of her throat as she swallowed. “Read this,” he instructed, pointing at the page.

  “How much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb; honey and milk are under thy tongue….”

  She paused and when he leaned forward to look at the word, she turned her head. They were nose to nose, and with a little adjustment…but it was a long distance, he reminded himself. A very long distance indeed. If he closed it, he would have leaped, wide-eyed, into the
canyon of desire, and he’d already proved himself too weak to leave without tasting every delight.

  Her breath, scented sweet with mint jelly, fanned his face. “That reminds me of you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your tongue is honey when you speak. You say the most wonderful things.” She looked into his eyes. “As when you told me the reason for kissing was for lovers to get so close they couldn’t see their differences.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “You did. And it works. Like this.” Tilting her head, she closed that very long distance between them. She pressed her dry, soft lips to his.

  It was a gesture of trust, and he treasured it, not seeking to deepen it at all. He let her take the lead, willing to let her guide him along the edge of the canyon.

  Then she pressed her tongue into his mouth and shoved him off the cliff.

  He tried to jerk back, but she caught his head in her hands and kissed him again.

  Cotzooks, she remembered every trick he’d used to pleasure her, and she applied them to him without a shred of conscience. She licked and probed at his mouth, matching the rhythm of her tongue with the pressure of her hand on his groin.

  How the hell did her hand get on his groin?

  He jerked his head back and glared at her. “We can’t do this.”

  She opened her eyes slowly, and her swollen lips parted in a smile. “I only wanted to express my admiration for your heroism today.” Her hand lingered on his groin, testing the heat and length of him before he picked up her fingers and removed them.

  “Are you always so big?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re straining your codpiece.”

  He was, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He just wanted to pretend that that part of him in his canions didn’t dictate his actions. He could scarcely articulate, but he managed to say, “Read.”

  Picking the book off the floor, she opened it again. “Where was I? I can’t remember exactly.”

  She tapped her lower lip with her finger, and he looked at that lip and that finger, imagining how they would feel on his bare skin. He’d taught her to kiss; had he taught her how to caress with hand and mouth?

  “This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.”

  He closed his eyes and imagined taking one of her grapes in his hand, in his mouth.

  “I am my beloved’s, and his desire is toward me.”

  It was. He wanted Rosie so much that when she laid her arm across his lap, his hips shifted to press the length of him against her. Somehow, that part of his body believed he’d gain relief if she touched him—but he didn’t. It only made him want her more.

  “Let us get up early to the vineyards: there will I give thee my loves.”

  Making love with Rosie outdoors in the spring. What a fantasy that was. Warm sun on his back, warm Rosie beneath him, and the earth beneath them shaking with exaltation as he planted his seed.

  “I like this.”

  So did he.

  She read, “Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. Tony, you are comely, and the sound of your voice makes shivers run up and down my spine.”

  Only one relief existed for his condition, and it was so close. She could hike up her skirts and he could open his canions and she could face him. He could hold her legs over the arms of the chair, and thrust until he’d buried himself deep inside her.

  “Tony?”

  “What?”

  She placed the book on the table and stood up. “Would you mind if I sat in your lap?”

  “Do—”

  She sat.

  “Not.” He grasped her waist to push her off and realized she wore no stiffening at all beneath her bodice.

  Laying her head on his shoulder, she said, “I just wanted to be close to you. Today I thought”—her voice quavered—“that you’d been killed. I imagined how lonely the world would be if we could never touch again, and I just want to touch you.”

  Her fingers traced the outer shell of his ear while she snuggled closer. And closer. And he discovered she wore no petticoats beneath her skirt.

  Except for her gown, she was as good as naked in his arms.

  Such a stupid thought! She still wore stockings…didn’t she?

  He tried to look, but he dared not turn his head, and his rigid neck ached with the effort of stillness. By moving only his eyes, he located her foot, and saw she did indeed wear a stocking. A red stocking. A red stocking which glistened, catching the light.

  Where had she located such fine silk? How would it feel beneath his palm? Would it be a short stocking, or a long stocking? Would it be tied at her knee, or would he have to seek the garter closer to her downyshire? And would he wish to remove it at all, or would he prefer to experience the smooth frictions against his arms while he moved her hips up and down, up and down.

  Her bottom, warm and lush, stroked him with small restless movements. Her arms circled his neck, and she kissed his jaw. Again he swiveled his eyes, not daring to look into her face for fear he’d have to kiss her, and kiss her, and never let her go.

  “Tony, you’re stiff all over,” she crooned. “Let me massage you. ’Twill relax you.”

  She stood up and Tony experienced the relief of pressure—until his manhood stretched toward her. Then she hiked up her skirt.

  The red stockings went to her thighs.

  She straddled his knees.

  He pushed her off.

  She landed with a thump and a cry, and Tony shook his finger in her face. “Don’t you know the danger you’re courting? If you continue as you are, I’ll have your skirts over your head and your legs wrapped—”

  His finger waved too close, and she bit it. He tried to jerk it back, but she caught it in her hands and pulled it back to her mouth—and sucked it.

  His heart and respiration stopped. He was aware of only two things; the wet, hot mouth suckling his finger, and how it would feel around his man-root. Then she pushed his hand aside, leaned forward into his lap, and placed her lips there. She blew gently, and the fire fed on her breath and raged out of control.

  “That’s it.” With his arms beneath her armpits, he jerked her to her feet. “I’m going to—” On tiptoe, she kissed him, and when she released his lips, he said, “Aye, I’ll do that, too.”

  He picked her up and looked for the bed.

  Ridiculous notion. There was no bed. But there was a desk, broad, long, covered with papers. He sat her on a clear corner, and with a sweep of his arm, disposed of everything in their way. He didn’t know why Rosie was so insistent, but he hadn’t been able to resist her when he’d made the advances. What manner of man could resist when she did?

  She laughed quietly when he lifted her skirts. The sound infuriated him. Toy with him, would she? Take control, would she? She’d learned the art of seduction quickly, but he’d been born with the knowledge and, through hours of practice, had mastered each technique. With a stroke of his tongue, he could steal her superiority and reduce her to the same witlessness that affected him. With several strokes of his tongue…he slid her bottom to the edge of the desk and knelt.

  “What are you doing? Tony?” She tried to walk backward on her elbows. “Tony?”

  He listened for her first gasp when he licked her and chuckled when it came. Then he listened for the frantic objections, the faint screams, then the swelling moans. He liked it all. He especially liked when she began to struggle against, not him, but herself. He tasted her, he tested her temperature; then he loosened his canions and stood. She clung to the edge of sanity; he pushed inside and drove her over the edge. Her body spasmed around him and, leaning his hands on the desk, he waited until she finished. “Rosie,” he called, and when she opened her eyes, he demanded, “Again.”

  19

  ’Tis in my memory lock’d,

  And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

  —
HAMLET, I, iii, 85

  “Sir Anthony!”

  The door handle rattled and Rosie groaned. The rug lent little softness to the floor, the room was chilly, but Tony held her in his arms and she’d never been so comfortable.

  “Sir Anthony!”

  Tony stirred and his grip on her tightened. “Damn,” he whispered. “’Tis scarcely dawn. Couldn’t they leave us alone one more hour?”

  The dying fire licked his hair with red highlights and gave his complexion a golden glow. His beard shadowed his chin, but no shadow marred the satisfaction in his eyes.

  She’d done that. Last night when she’d come in, he’d been so serious she scarcely recognized him. Now he was Tony again.

  Her Tony.

  A few weeks ago, he’d made love to her. Last night, she’d made love to him. It made all the difference in the world to be the aggressor, yet the result was the same. They’d both found pleasure—on the desk, then on the floor, then on the chair, facing each other, with her legs over the chair arms and Tony’s hands on her hips. He’d seemed to enjoy that quite a lot, although he assured her that with her, the worst was wonderful.

  “Sir Anthony, I beg of you.” Hal’s frantic voice hissed through the keyhole. “There’s a messenger here. ’Tis from the queen.”

  Tony stiffened. “Now?” he whispered, then louder, “Make the messenger comfortable. I hear and come at once.”

  There was a silence, then they heard Hal shuffling away.

  “Queen Elizabeth must have planned to interrupt,” Tony said.

  “She must truly be a jealous woman.”

  “For good reason.”

  Rosie licked her finger and ran it across his lower lip. He sucked the tip inside his mouth, and she quoted, “My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold—”

  The truth dawned on him, and his eyes narrowed. “Why, you little snoke-horn.”

  “His locks are bushy, and black as a raven.” She grinned at him insolently. “Only your locks are blond as a finch.”

  “I was gently encouraging you, nursing you along, and you weren’t reading. You had every word memorized.”