He nodded. “I have been given a chamber for myself, as I am a guest of his majesty,” he told her. “And you?”
“As the queen’s invited guest I have been given a chamber, as well, for myself and my servant Annie,” she told him.
“We will go to my hidey-hole, then, madame, as I have no servant to dispossess,” he told her. “If your Annie is seen spending the night in another place, there will be gossip. I am not of a mind to share what is between us at the moment. Are you?”
“Nay,” she agreed. “Whatever this magic is, I want to keep it for ourselves, Patrick. For the first time in my life I am being selfish, but I don’t care!” Then she slipped her hand back into his and followed him as he led her down several corridors and finally up a flight of stairs.
He opened an oak door, ushering her into a simple room with but two pieces of furniture: a bed and a stool. There was no fireplace, and the room was cold. There were wood shutters drawn across the single window, but no curtains. It was spare, but they were unlikely to be disturbed. He laid his cloak upon the stool, then gently unbuttoned the frogs fastening her outdoor garment, and, removing it, put it with his own. Taking her face in his hands he smiled down into her eyes. “This is not fine enough for you,” he told her. Then he found the candle and lit it, before closing the door behind them and turning the key in the lock.
“Kiss me,” she responded softly.
With a sigh he complied, his chill lips warming atop hers. Rosamund slid her arms about his neck, drawing him closer. Her full breasts pressed against the velvet that covered his chest. Their kisses blended one into another until her mouth ached. Finally she drew her head away from his, saying as she did, “I can but hope you are a good lady’s maid, my lord.”
He laughed softly. “It has been many years since I have undone such finery, Rosamund, but I hope I may remember,” Patrick told her. Then he turned her about and began to unlace her bodice while placing small kisses upon the back of her neck. She smelled fresh, and of a scent he recognized as white heather. He put the elegant little bodice atop the pile of cloaks. Next he unknotted the drawstring holding her skirt up and let the heavy material drop to the wood floor. Then he lifted her from the velvet heap, setting her back upon the floor. “Now, what is that thing you have fastened about you?” he demanded, puzzled. Rosamund giggled. “ ’Tis called a shakefold, and it is used to plump my skirts out in a fashionable manner,” she explained.
“It looks dangerous,” he said. “Can you get the damned thing off without me?”
She unfastened the shakefold and stepped from it, kicked it over to the stool, where her other garments were piled. Then she added her flannel petticoats.
“Sit on the edge of the bed, and I will remove your stocking for you,” he said.
Rosamund sat, watching him as he first removed each of her square-toed leather shoes and then set about unrolling her wool stockings. When her feet were finally free, she wiggled her toes in an attempt to get some warmth back into them.
“Get beneath the coverlet,” he said, and then he turned away to undress himself.
She watched him in the pale flickering light of the single candle. He had lived a half century, he had said, yet his body was hard and firm. He was obviously not a man who was idle or lazy. His buttocks were tight, and his hairy legs long. His back was broad, and he was very fair of skin. Entirely naked, he turned about to enter the bed, and she caught a glimpse of his manhood. At rest it was large, and she shivered with anticipation, then blushed with her own lustful thoughts. What was she doing here, in bed with a stranger? And yet it was right.
He drew her into his arms, his fingers undoing the ribbons that held her chemise closed. When the delicate fabric spread itself open, he looked upon Rosamund’s breasts, and then his dark head bent. He rubbed his face against the perfumed skin, gaining the most intense pleasure as he did so. She shivered and held his head against her bosom, enjoying the act every bit as much as he was.
“I have never . . .” she began.
“I know,” he said, understanding instinctively what she was trying to say. He raised his head to look into her face. “I have conceived little of what has happened between us tonight, Rosamund. All I know is that you and I are meant to be together like this. You are not one of the ladies of the court with their light morals. This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. There is yet time. If you wish to leave me now, you may go unimpeded.”
“I cannot,” she admitted. “I feel exactly as you do, though it be confusing to me.” Then she removed her chemise and let it fall to the floor. “I am a practical woman, Patrick, and have not garments to waste.”
He drew her back into his embrace so he might caress and fondle her lovely round breasts. He had never before seen such perfectly luscious spheres. Her skin was firm and silken to his touch. She sighed with her pleasure as his hands petted her tenderly. Singling out one breast, his head dropped. He rained kisses across her sentient flesh. His mouth fastened upon a taut nipple, and he began to suckle upon her eagerly.
Rosamund had always loved the touch of a man’s mouth on her breasts. She almost purred her contentment. How long had it been since she had lain in a man’s arms enjoying his attentions? It seemed like forever. Her fingers glanced over the nape of his neck. His hair was dark and just lightly sprinkled with silver. She entwined her hand into his locks, kneading his scalp with what became a growing urgency.
He raised his head, and his green eyes were glazed with his rising passion for her. He began to kiss her hungrily, their bodies twining and untwining with their lust. His mouth touched her throat, her shoulders, her chest. Their lips met and burned as they kissed seemingly without end. He could feel her heart beating wildly. The pulse at the base of her throat leapt like a netted salmon. His lips moved to her breasts again, then down her torso. Rosamund was making little mewling noises that alerted him to her pleasure. The white heather that scented her body warmed, growing stronger with her passion. It intoxicated him, and he could feel himself growing harder with his desire for her. He could not ever remember a time when he wanted a woman so very much.
“God help us!” she half-sobbed, and he understood her concern.
His fingers began to brush the curls on her mons. A single finger explored.
She whimpered softly, her thoughts jumbled. But then, for a moment her practical nature pushed to the fore, and again she questioned what she was doing. Yet when his long fingers began to brush the insides of her thighs with a seductive stroking, she felt herself concentrating only upon her need for him. But why him?Because it is he for whom you have waited,her voice within replied. “Oh, yes,” she said aloud, knowing, but not quite understanding.
The big hands caressed her, pulling her into his arms again, sweeping down her back to cup and fondle her buttocks. “I cannot get enough of you,” he said quietly. “Your skin is like silk. Your body perfection.”
“I need you inside of me, Patrick,” Rosamund heard herself telling him.
“I need to be inside of you,” he replied. Then his big frame covered her, the fingers of their two hands intertwining as he slowly possessed her.
She felt the lengthy hardness tenderly seeking entry into her body. He was bigger than the two men she had previously known, but Rosamund opened like a flower for him, absorbing his length within her love sheath until he filled her. Their eyes met again, as they had earlier when this madness began. She felt as if her soul were flowing into his, and for a moment she was frightened.
He saw the look upon her lovely face and quickly reassured her. “ ’Tis all right, my love,” he told her. “I sense it, too. We are one now in every sense.” Then he began to move upon her, and within moments Rosamund found herself lost in passion as they sought to satisfy each other.
Her eyes now closed, she was enveloped in sensation. The rhythm their bodies created overwhelmed her. She moved from delight, past pleasure, to pure, hot ecstasy. She cried out as stars and moons exploded behind her eyelids, her voice rising to a scream of utter satisfaction as her nails raked down his long back. The thrust and withdraw of his manhood did not cease. He drove her further and further, until her cries of gratification echoed again and again within the stone walls of the small chamber.
