The Virgin's Lover ttc-4 Read online

  Gently, he put her into a chair and closed the shutters and bolted them. He unsheathed his sword and laid it to hand, on the table.

  “Robert, I thought he had come for me. I thought he would murder me, where I walked in my own garden.”

  “You’re safe now, my love,” he said gently. He knelt beside her chair and took her hand. She was icy cold. “You are safe with me.”

  “I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where to run. I could only think of you.”

  “Quite right. You did quite right, and you were very brave to run.”

  “I wasn’t!” she wailed suddenly, like a child.

  Robert lifted her from the chair and drew her onto his knees. She buried her face in his neck and he felt her sweaty face and the wetness of her tears. “Robert, I wasn’t brave at all. I wasn’t like a queen at all; I was like a nothing. I was as full of fear as a market girl. I couldn’t call for my guards, I couldn’t scream. I didn’t even think to turn and challenge him. I just went faster, and when he went faster, I went faster.

  “I could hear his footsteps coming behind me faster and faster and all I could do…” She burst into another wail. “I feel such a child! I feel like I am such a fool! Anyone would think that I was the daughter of a lute player…”

  The enormity of that shocked her into silence, and she raised her tearstained face from his shoulder. “Oh, God,” she said brokenly.

  Steadily, lovingly, he met her eyes, smiled at her. “No one will think anything of you, for no one will know,” he said softly. “This is between us two and no one else will ever know.”

  She caught her breath on a sob and nodded.

  “And no one, even if they knew, could blame you for being afraid, if a man comes after you. You know the danger that you are in, every day. Any woman would be afraid, and you are a woman, and a beautiful woman as well as a queen.”

  Instinctively, she twisted a tendril of hair and tucked it back behind her ear. “I should have turned on him and challenged him.”

  Robert shook his head. “You did exactly the right thing. He could have been a madman; he could have been anyone. The wisest thing to do was to come and find me, and here you are, safe. Safe with me.”

  She nestled a little closer to him and he tightened his arms around her. “And no one could ever doubt your fathering,” he said into her red hair. “You are a Tudor from your clever copper head down to your swift little feet. You are my Tudor princess and you always will be. I knew your father, remember, I remember how he used to look at you and call you his best girl Bessie. I was there. I can hear his voice now. He loved you as his true-born daughter and heir, and he knew you were his, and now you are mine.”

  Elizabeth tipped her head back at him, her dark eyes trusting, her mouth starting to curve upward in a smile. “Yours?”

  “Mine,” he said certainly and his mouth came down on hers and he kissed her deeply.

  She did not resist for one moment. Her terror and then the feel of safety with him were as potent as a love potion. He could smell the sweat of her fear and the new scent of her arousal, and he went from her lips to her neck and down to the top of her gown, where her breasts pressed tight against the laced bodice as she panted lightly. He rubbed his face against her neck, and she felt the roughness of his chin and the eager licking of his tongue and she laughed and caught her breath all at once.

  Then his hands were in her hair, slipping out the pins, and taking a handful of the great tumbling locks and pulling her head back so that he could have her mouth once more and this time he tasted of her own sweat, salty on his mouth. He bit her, licked her, filled her with the heat of his desire and with the very taste of him as he salivated as if she were a dish he would devour.

  He rose up from the chair with her in his arms and she clung to his neck as he swept the scroll from the table and laid her on it, and then climbed up, like a stallion covering a mare, onto her. His thigh was pushing between her legs, his hands pulling up her gown so that he could touch her, and Elizabeth melted under his touch, pulled him closer to her, opened his mouth for his kisses, ravenous for the feel of him everywhere.

  “My gown!” she cried in frustration.

  “Sit up,” he commanded. She did as he obeyed and twisted around, offering the laces on the back of the tight stomacher. He struggled with the threaded laces and then pulled it off her and threw it aside. With a groan of utter desire he buried his hands, and then his face, in her linen shift to feel the heat of her belly through the thin fabric, and the rounded firm curves of her breasts.

  He threw off his own doublet and tore off his shirt and pressed down on her once more, his chest against her face as if he would smother her with his body, and he felt her sharp little teeth graze his nipple as her tongue lapped at the hairs on his chest and she rubbed her face against him, like a wanton cat.

  His fingers fumbled at the ties of her skirt, and then, losing patience, he took the laces and with one swift tug, broke them and pushed her skirt down from her waist so that he could get his hand on her.

  At his first touch she moaned and arched her back, pushing herself against his palm. Robert pulled back, unlaced his breeches, pulled them down, and heard her gasp as she saw the strength and power of him, and then her sigh of longing as he came toward her.

  There was a loud hammering on the front door. “Your Grace!” came an urgent shout. “Are you safe?”

  “Knock down the door!” someone commanded.

  With a whimper, Elizabeth rolled away from him and flew across the room, snatching up her stomacher. “Lace me!” she whispered urgently, pressing the tight garment against her throbbing breasts, and turning her back to him.

  Robert was pulling up his breeches and tying the ties. “The queen is here, and safe with me, Robert Dudley,” he called, his voice unnaturally loud. “Who is there?”

  “Thank God. I’m the commander of the watch, Sir Robert. I will take the queen back to her rooms.”

  “She is…” Dudley fumbled with the lacing of Elizabeth’s gown and then thrust the laces into any holes he could manage and tied it up. From the front she looked quite presentable. “She is coming. Wait there. How many men have you?”

  “Ten, sir.”

  “Leave eight to guard the door and go and fetch ten more,” Robert said, buying time. “I will take no risks with Her Grace.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They ran off. Elizabeth bent her head and tied what was left of the strings at the waistband of her skirt. Robert snatched up his doublet and pulled it on.

  “Your hair,” he whispered.

  “Can you find my pins?”

  She was twisting it into bronze ringlets and tucking it under the ebony combs that had survived his embrace. Robert dropped to his knees on the floor and hunted for pins under the bench and under the table and came up with four or five. Swiftly, she speared them into her hair, and pinned her hood on top.

  “How do I look?”

  He moved toward her. “Irresistible.”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth so that the men waiting outside should not hear her laugh. “Would you know what I had been doing?”

  “At once.”

  “For shame! Would anyone else know?”

  “No. They will expect you to look as though you have been running.”

  She put out her hand to him. “Don’t come any closer,” she said unsteadily when he stepped forward. “Just hold my hand.”

  “My love, I must have you.”

  “And I you,” she breathed as they heard the tramp of the guard coming to the door.

  “Sir Robert?”

  “Aye?”

  “I am here with twenty men.”

  “Stand back from the door,” Robert said. He took up his sword and opened the drawing-room door, and then unbolted the front door. Carefully, he opened it a crack. The queen’s men were outside, he recognized them, he threw open the door. “She is safe,” he said, letting them see her. “I have her safe.”