“Philippa, my name is Crispin. An odd, and an old-fashioned name, I will admit.”
“It is not odd at all,” she told him. “It is from the Latin, Crispis, and he is the patron saint of shoemakers, my lord.”
“I should like to hear you say my name,” he said to her.
“Crispin,” Philippa said, “but there must be more.”
“Crispin Edward Henry John St. Claire,” he said. “Edward and Henry for the kings, and John for my father.”
“Why Crispin?” she asked him.
“It is a family name, and every few generations one male in the family is blessed or cursed, depending on his viewpoint, with the name,” he explained.
“I like it, Crispin. Oh, look! On the right bank of the river, a grove of willows. What a lovely place for our picnic! Please tell the rowers to pull in to the shore.”
The earl drew the diaphanous curtains aside and gave the order, and the rowers obeyed his command. The little boat touched the shore, and the earl jumped out, turning to help Philippa disembark. One of the rowers handed them the picnic basket, a coverlet for them to sit upon, and several silken pillows.
“There was an inn just downriver, milord,” one of the two rowers said. “May Ned and me go back?”
“How long until the tide turns again?” the earl asked him.
“About four hours, milord, and then there is the calm between the tides,” the man answered him.
“Come back in three hours’ time then, or sooner if you prefer. Let us try and catch the tide downriver before it turns again,” Crispin St. Claire said.
“Thank ye, milord,” the rower responded, and then jumping back into the barge, he and his mate turned the vessel about and headed back down the Thames to where they had seen an inn.
Philippa had spread the coverlet on the ground beneath a large willow. She set the pillows about and put the basket down. “Will you come and sit by my side, Crispin?” she cooed at him. Why had she ever been afraid of the intimacy between a man and a woman? When he had caressed her it had been wonderful. Before he turned back to her she pulled open the bow holding her laces tied, and quickly licked her lips.
He turned, and caught his breath. She was simply lovely. She wore no cap or veil, and her rich auburn hair flowed artlessly down her back. Her silk gown, a flattering Tudor green, was one piece. Her lips beckoned him on to his destruction. What the hell was the matter with him? Why this sudden burst of uncontrollable lust for Philippa Meredith? She took a deep breath, exhaled, and the laces of her gown gave way dangerously, and then she sat down upon the coverlet.
“Will you not join me, my lord?” she invited him sweetly.
“This was not a good idea,” he said as if to himself.
“Of course it was,” she disagreed. “Are we not getting to know one another better, Crispin?” She held out her hand to him. “Come, and sit with me. I want to be kissed and cuddled again. We are alone, and there is no one to see us in our little riverside grove of willows.”
He did not take her hand, but he sat down. He was a grown man. A man of experience. He could certainly restrain himself one more day. He was not some green and callow youth who sprayed his seed down his hose in a frenzy of eager desire. “I am hungry,” he said, eyeing the basket. Food would take his mind from his passion.
“So am I,” she replied, eying him as if he were some particularly rich sweet that she just had to have. Now.
He felt his mouth struggling not to smile. What had he done with just a few kisses and caresses. It was as if all her ladylike inhibitions were forgotten. “Madame,” he said in what he hoped was a stern, warning voice, “you must learn to control yourself.”
“Why?” she questioned him, pouting adorably. “I want to be kissed.”
“But just yesterday you did not. Why this sudden change in you?” he demanded to know. “First I cannot get you to kiss me, and now you must kiss me.”
“We are betrothed now. Our wedding is tomorrow,” she said as if that explained it all. “Don’t you want to kiss me, Crispin? Are you one of those men who wants what he cannot have until he gets it, and then he doesn’t want it anymore?”
“Philippa, I want to kiss you. I want to caress those sweet little titties of yours. But I have discovered to my surprise that what began as a mere lesson in passion to reassure you has whetted my desires so greatly that I am not certain I can control them. I want you a virgin tomorrow night. Our wedding night. I want the servants to gossip about the bloodstain on the bedsheet after we have departed for Brierewode. In the years to come I want them to remember that you were pure and untouched when I first took you. That you were an honorable woman.”
“Oh, Crispin!” she cried. “I should kiss you if you had not already assured me it would release the ravening beast in you. When I have returned to the queen’s service I shall proudly tell her of the honorable man to whom I am married. You are just what she would have wished for me. Alas, however, it seems that you have aroused a lustful nature in me that is perhaps not quite respectable. I long for your touch.”
“And I for yours, little one, but we will restrain ourselves for now. We will not have to restrain ourselves in another day. So you think the queen would approve of my gallantry, do you? Do you think I am the kind of man your mother would want for you?”
“I doubt it would matter to my mother, as you will not be the master of Friarsgate,” she told him frankly. “She will be happy that I am happy, for I know she loves me even if we do not always see eye to eye. You will like her.”
“I hope that you will like Brierewode,” he said. “The countryside is very unlike your wild Cumbria. The hills are gentle and the meadows green.”
