“Madam,” he growled, trying to gather the remaining shreds of his dignity, and then he heard her muffled giggles. “Oh, witch,” he laughed, “would anyone believe such a conversation between two lovers who are newly married?” Then he covered her face with kisses, and she sighed happily, which only made him laugh again.
“I shall not be able to hide my condition much longer, Geoffrey,” she said thoughtfully, “and the Queen has asked that I join her ladies.”
“When is the babe due, my love?”
“In early autumn, after the harvest.”
“Do you feel all right?” he asked anxiously.
“Sometimes in the evenings I feel queasy,” she admitted. “It’s the smell of roasting meat that does it to me, though tonight, thank God, I was not so distressed.”
“I want you in Devon as soon as possible,” he said. “We will hide your condition a month and then you must go.”
“It would be better if I went in two or three,” she said. “To admit my pregnancy in less than two months’ time would be to bring the Queen’s anger down upon us. She is a very moral lady, Geoffrey. Besides, it will be safer for me to travel later than now. We can avoid following the Court for a month or so, for Her Majesty will not deny us a honeymoon. Then, when we do return to the Queen’s service, I shall feign sickness. Everyone will be praising your virility long before we make our joyful announcement. Then, if you wish to escort me to Devon, it will be permitted and we will offend no one.”
“I begin to see,” said the Earl of Lynmouth, “why Khalid el Bey trusted your judgment. To find such a clever mind lodged in such a beautiful body is astounding.”
“I trust you mean to flatter me, my lord,” she said drily.
“Yes, witch. I mean to flatter you!” And tumbling her back amid the plump feather pillows of their bed, he kissed and tickled her until her happy laughter could be heard as far away as the ballroom.
CHAPTER 18
NIALLBURKE SLOUCHED DEEP IN A LARGE CHAIR IN THEstudy of his London house, staring out as the gray dawn rose over the dark and rainy river. A fire crackled merrily in the large fireplace, but the big Irishman scowled blackly, ignoring its warmth. He clutched in his clenched fist a large goblet from which the odor of spiced red wine rose. Around the house the sou’wester that had dampened Lord Southwood’s wedding was roaring itself out.
A blast rattled the windows, and Burke glowered again. The wedding of Mistress Goya del Fuentes and the Earl of Lynmouth had been hell for Niall. He and Constanza stood with the rest of the Court watching as the most beautiful bride he’d ever seen was married to a very handsome groom. It had been torture. For, in his mind, he saw again the candlelit chapel of the O’Malley tower house, and a hollow-eyed, frightened young bride whose face was whiter than her gown. He remembered how he had flung open the chapel doors only a moment too late, how she had fainted upon seeing him, how he had outrageously demanded thedroit du seigneur. Most of all, he remembered how sweetly she had yielded.
“Skye!” he whispered softly, saying her name aloud for the first time in many months. “Oh, Skye, how I love you!” He was so painfully confused, and the new Countess of Lynmouth was responsible. She washisSkye’s identical twin. He ached with longing for her, yet he was ashamed. Upstairs slept his sweet and faithful young wife, alone in their bed while he sulked downstairs, lusting in his heart for another woman, a dead woman, and another man’s wife.
Damn the Countess of Lynmouth, he thought bitterly, reaching for the decanter. What he should be thinking of was an heir, not a dead woman. He had been married to Constanza for almost twoyears now, and there had been no sign of a child. Had he not scattered his share of bastards about, he might be worried about himself, but obviously the fault lay with Constanza. He had wanted to return home to Ireland with both a wife and a child. The MacWilliam was growing old, and the reassurance of another heir would cheer the elderly man greatly.
They had lingered on Mallorca for several months after their marriage, then begun a leisurely wedding journey through Mediterranean Spain, to Provence in France, and up to Paris. They had stayed the winter in Paris—a happy, gay time in which he had fully initiated her into the sensual world of lovemaking and she had proved an eager pupil. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps she wasn’t too eager. Had he not been certain of her virginity when they had first made love, he would have had his doubts about Constanza’s character, for her enthusiasm was, he thought, unseemly. Then he cursed himself for a fool. How many men mounted cringing, cold women who lay like stone beneath them “doing their duty” while they said the rosaries to themselves, hating what was being done to them? Constanza enjoyed their lovemaking. He ought to be glad.
He would go to her now. He would slip into her bedchamber and she would be warm and fragrant with sleep. He would kiss her awake, then take her slowly, savoring her passion. She would whimper with pleasure and claw at his back. He made to rise but a wave of dizziness overcame him and he fell back. The room seemed overwarm. He sipped again at his wine, and suddenly he was so tired. His eyes closed, the heavy goblet fell from his grasp to the rug, and a small snore issued from his open mouth. Niall Burke slept a deep drunken sleep.
A few minutes later the library door opened softly and very slowly. Constanza Burke and Ana looked into the room. A look of annoyance crossed young Lady Burke’s face and her pansy-purple eyes narrowed in anger. “He is drunk again,” she snapped. “He has been drinking all night. In the name of all that is holy, Ana, what manner of man is he?”
“He is unhappy,niña. Perhaps it is the lack of a child that makes him so.”
“Can he sire one on me in this condition?” she snapped. Then her voice softened. “Ana, fetch my cloak.”
“Niña!No, no! Not again!”
“Ana, I burn! I must or I shall die.”
“I will soothe it,niña.”
“It is not enough, Ana! I must have a man! I must! If you won’tfetch my cloak I shall go without it and my white nightgown will be a beacon to the entire household.”
With a sob Ana went for the dark, enveloping cape. Constanza walked across the room and stood looking down at her husband. Why had he drunk himself into a stupor? This had begun only recently. When they first came to London all had been well, but in the last few months he had changed, quite suddenly, and for no apparent reason. Now he often drank himself into a stupor. Perhaps if he hadn’t changed, she herself wouldn’t have changed. But Constanza knew this wasn’t so.
It had all begun so insidiously. One night, in an excess of passion, he had taken her four times. But when finally he lay contented and happy, she lay awake and yearning. It was not that he had not satisfied her. He had. Each time had been better than the last. But suddenly it was not enough. And it never was enough anymore. She had grown edgy with her constant longings.
Then, one day, their head groom had been helping her to mount her mare and his hand slid up her leg farther than it should have. She said nothing and the hand moved higher yet until it was stroking the soft, wet place between her thighs, bringing her to a swift, delightful climax. The hand was slowly withdrawn and, without a word spoken between them, Constanza rode out from the stables with the head groom, his face impassive, riding at her side.
When they returned an hour later he lifted her down from her horse and carried her into the darkened stable loft. Constanza had been driven half mad by the friction of her saddle and the motion of her horse against her already inflamed body. She offered no objections when the head groom pushed her skirts up to her waist. He stared down at her for a moment.
“So it’s true, then,” he whispered wonderingly.
