“You must be careful of such speech, Elizabeth,” he warned her. “I know your words are direct and truthful. Another man might misunderstand and think you a wanton. I know you are not, but then I am an honest man, and there are few at court who are. You must beware of appearing to be what you are not. Especially given your friendship with Mistress Anne Boleyn, the king’s little friend.”
“Why are you not married?” she asked him, changing the subject entirely. “Do you have a mistress? I understand most Stewarts do.”
“I am not married because I have nothing to offer a wife. I am bastard-born for all my father was a king, but I have little to call my own. A name, aye, but no land. No house. Few possessions. I serve my half brother with both love and loyalty. I am not a man for marriage, Elizabeth. And as I cannot afford a wife, I can scarce afford a mistress. Mistresses are far more expensive to keep than a wife would be.”
“You would think your brother would reward your service,” she answered him. “You are in the same position my father once was, but at least he was rewarded with my mother’s hand in marriage, and in those days it was my mother who was the heiress to Friarsgate. You need a propertied wife.” What on earth was she saying? Certainly she wasn’t offering herself to this man because he had kissed her? But nay! She found his company pleasant and his kisses heady. It was, she thought, as good a foundation for a marriage as any, and they kept telling her she had to marry. A poor man of good breeding, Flynn Stewart would never presume to pursue her, so she must pursue him.
“A propertied Scots wife,” he corrected her gently, his emphasis on the wordScots. “I will always serve my king, lambkin. My loyalty extends beyond our bond of blood. My birth was an accident, yet my father gave me his name and treated me with loving kindness. And when my mother died and I was forced from the only home I had ever known, my half brother’s guardian recognized me for who I was, and took me in. I was given a purpose in life, and trusted. I am a Scot, lambkin, and I can never be anything else but a Scot.”
“I think I should like to be kissed again,” she announced, and slipped her arms about his neck. “Would you like to be kissed again, Flynn Stewart?” He was rejecting any suggestion, direct or indirect, that he might take his place by her side as her husband, but perhaps she could convince him otherwise. After all, her stepfather was a Scot, and it didn’t seem to bother anyone except perhaps the king. Looking up into his handsome face she gave him a seductive smile.
And he laughed, to her mortification, shaking his head and saying, “You are a proper minx, Elizabeth Meredith, and you are learning court ways. I am not certain I like them on you. Yet I would be a fool to not accept what you are so freely offering me.” And then he kissed her.
But this time his kiss was neither sweet nor innocent. It was hard, demanding, and burningly passionate. Elizabeth almost swooned with the fierce pleasure it gave her. She kissed him back, matching him kiss for kiss. His mouth left her mouth, and he kissed her closed eyelids, traveling down the curve of her throat, brushing across the tops of her young breasts, which seemed to be struggling to break forth from her bodice. And then he suddenly ceased, groaning as he released his hold on her.
Elizabeth pressed herself against the trunk of the tree to prevent herself from falling. She could scarcely draw a breath, and when she did the first few she drew hurt her chest. “What is the matter?” she finally managed to ask him, for he looked both pale and pained.
“I cannot play lovers’ games with you, Elizabeth,” he finally managed to say.
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because you are a virgin of means and breeding with powerful friends, and I want more from you than kisses. I cannot have you, lambkin. Your king and my king maintain the barest of cordial relations. There is always the chance that war will ensue between them based on the slightest pretext.”
“There are many mixed marriages in the borders,” she told him.
“But there is only one heiress to Friarsgate, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “You are not nobility, but your lands, your flocks, your cloth trade give you a power you do not even understand. You are a prize to be had. The king’s father gave your mother to one of his most loyal knights. It was done to keep the part of the border you inhabit safe for England. When you came to court the old story made its rounds, lambkin.”
“My father loved my mother!” Elizabeth cried.
“Aye, that is what they say of him. That he loved her the moment he saw her. But how rare is that? I am surprised that this king has not rewarded one of his minions with you, but should you even consider taking a Scot for a husband, he would forbid it. As he should, Elizabeth Meredith. His duty is to England, as yours must be as well.”
“The king would not dare arrange my marriage, for he knows my mother too well. She would never allow me to be parceled off to anyone who would not come north to Friarsgate and help me care for the land,” Elizabeth said angrily. “And no one can ever make me marry someone I don’t want to marry!”
“I have not a farmer’s nature,” Flynn told her brutally. “I am a man of the court as your sister, the Countess of Witton, is a lady of the court. I thrive on the very air that surrounds the mighty, their intrigues and schemes. I should be bored if I had to live in the country, lambkin, even as you are bored here at court.”
“Then why did you kiss me, Flynn Stewart?” she wanted to know.
“Because you are pretty, and tempting, and oh, so ripe for seduction,” he told her.
“But you did not seduce me,” she countered. “In fact at no time did you not act the gentleman.”
“A proper seduction takes time, Elizabeth. First the wolf must gain the trust of the little lambkin. And when the foolish creature is thoroughly beguiled by the wolf, he strikes!” Flynn said, yanking her back into his arms and looking down into her face. “Do you want me to ruin you? Do you think if I do, and you tell Mistress Anne, I would be forced to wed you? Nay, lambkin. I should be thrown in the Tower, and perhaps, depending on his mood, my brother might intercede for me. Then I should be sent home in disgrace. Or my brother might wash his hands of me, and I would languish forever. As for you, lambkin, you would be sent home with your uncle. And he would carry a list of suitable northern eligibles from which your family would choose a husband for you. Provided, of course, my seed had not taken root in you. Stewart seed is most potent, you know, and you could bear a bastard.”
“Whom I would recognize and raise to be a good Englishman. Then I should have an heir. It is a more pleasant outlook than being forced to the altar with a man I couldn’t love, and should probably have to kill in the end when he attempted to usurp my authority,” she told him defiantly.
He laughed again, and when he did his eyes crinkled endearingly. “I will not act as your breeding ram, lambkin. Nor in the time you remain at court will I allow you to do anything foolish. There is no one here for you, but perhaps when you return to Friarsgate you may look upon some of your neighbors more kindly.” He caressed her face. “I should never be a docile mate, lambkin,” he told her, “and I would keep you on your back so that you would have no time for anything else other than me.” Then he kissed her, a slow, sweet kiss that left her breathless.
Finally she pulled away from him, and, drawing the key from her pocket, she went to the little door in the wall, and, opening it, stepped through. “You are a fool, Flynn Stewart,” she said, slamming the door shut, and to her fury she heard his boisterous laughter from the other side of the garden wall. With a sputter of outrage Elizabeth hurried up to the house. He was an impossible man, and she had made a perfect fool of herself with him. But, oh, his kisses were so delicious!
She needed to think, and so Elizabeth took to her bed. Was she ill? Philippa fussed about her. Her birthday fete was in just two days. She had to be well for it, her sister insisted. “I thought you didn’t approve of Mistress Boleyn,” Elizabeth said wickedly to her older sister.
“I do not,” Philippa replied loftily, “but the king does approve of her, and she has planned a birthday fete in your honor, which is, as of the moment, considered an honor. If you are not well enough to attend it will cast a pall over the whole thing.”
“I do not think I can go unless you are at my side, sister,” Elizabeth said in a weak voice. “I rely upon you and your knowledge of court customs.”
“You are a little liar,” Philippa said, “and I suspect there is nothing wrong with you at all.” But she smiled and smoothed her sister’s hair from her forehead. “What has happened, Bessie? And do not say nothing, for I am older and wiser than you.”
“I threw myself at a man, and was quite firmly rejected,” Elizabeth said. “And do not call me Bessie!” Why she was telling Philippa she did not know, but she simply couldn’t keep it to herself.
