Katherine stared into Leicester’s eyes, breathless and afraid. But her mind was racing. Leicester was very powerful—he had the queen’s ear. He could champion Gerald’s cause yet again if he had a reason. She began to shake her head slowly in a frightened negation.
“Do not say no yet,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “I would take you to Kenilworth. Where you would lack for nothing, Katherine. But we would have to be discreet.”
“Discreet!” she gasped, trying once more to pull away from him and failing. “You do not understand the meaning of that word,” she panted. “The queen saw us leaving together! She will dismiss me from my position this very night!” But she was shaking, feeling very much cornered and trapped.
Leicester was silent for a moment. “Mayhap that is for the best,” he finally said. “’Tis not a good thing for us, your being here at court with her.”
Katherine was incredulous. “There is no us! And I do not wish to fall from the queen’s good grace—dear God—I do not!”
“You dissemble,” he told her, abruptly pulling her up against him. Katherine stiffened. She had been aware of the heavy, thrusting bulge of his loins on several occasions; more than once since she had come to court she had noticed his manliness, but those prior times she had chosen to ignore it, thinking, as some of the other ladies did, that he wore a codpiece. He certainly did not wear a codpiece now, or any other thing, under his Roman toga. His phallus, unrestrained by his wool garment, rubbed against the well-worn velvet covering her belly. “I have seen how you look at me,” he whispered, pressing her into the wall. “Do you think I am a foolish boy, to make such a mistake?”
Katherine choked. “Do not do this, my lord,” she begged. He did not repulse her. Like Sir John, he was a fine, virile man, and she could not be immune to him, not like this, when his hard body pulsed against hers. But it was a mere shadow of the kind of desire aroused in her by Liam O’Neill and she was acutely aware of the difference.
He studied her drawn expression, then bent his head. Katherine turned her face quickly away, and instead of plundering her mouth, his lips plied the delicate skin of her throat. She tried to push him off. One of his hands slipped into her bodice, his thumb flicking her nipple, which instantly grew taut.
Finally, because he too knew they could be discovered with grave consequences, he ceased his manhandling of her and she darted away from him. She stared at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and truly afraid.
“You will enjoy it, Katherine,” he told her.
She wanted to tell him that she would not, because there would be no liaison between them. Yet he was, as he had said, one of the most powerful men in the realm. If anyone could help her father, it was the earl of Leicester. Katherine knew that Leicester was a far more powerful ally than Liam O’Neill.
“I will not take no for your answer,” he whispered, his breath stroking her cheek.
And Katherine knew that he would force her into his bed whether she wished it or not. And should he do so, should it even be rape, she would have no recourse at all—because the queen would blame her, not him. But if she were clever, she would use him the way Gerald had asked her to use Liam. Muffling a cry, she turned and fled—not back to the dining hall, but to the stairs and her own small chamber on the upper floor. Never had she felt so adrift upon stormy seas that could only be navigated by one far more astute than she.
With but a single taper casting a dim, dancing light, Katherine hung up her beautiful mask and plain dress on a bedside hook. She wondered where Helen was, whose duty it was to help her prepare for bed. Undoubtedly she was involved in the festivities as well, not having expected her mistress to retire so early. Katherine could not blame her.
It was a damnable task, unlacing the farthingale herself, but she managed, trying not to think about Leicester and what might become of her should he seek to finish what he had begun this night. She placed the whalebone corset on the room’s single trunk, slipping off her chemise and then her linen drawers. Sitting, she slid off her shoes, then rolled down her stockings, one by one.
The undersides of her breasts were red from where the whalebones had dug into them, the price one paid for wearing a small corset in order to flatten oneself, and she began to massage herself gently. It was a nightly ritual. Once, at the convent, it had been innocent. Then, she had ignored the sweet tightening of her nipples, caused by her own fingers, and the pulse of pleasure shafting her loins. Now it was impossible to ignore the stirrings of desire. Molding her breasts, Katherine thought about how Leicester had touched her. He was the kind of man a woman—any woman—dreamed of marrying, at once powerful and rich, both virile and handsome. But Leicester was notavailable, not as a husband, not to her, not to anyone. He belonged to the queen and everyone knew it.
Katherine whimpered a little. She crushed her breasts just once, wishing it were Liam O’Neill, a man no woman dreamed of marrying, who had touched her tonight as Leicester had. Her hands stilled. Her nipples pointed over her fingers, red, rosy, and so erect that they hurt. It was impossible to ignore the feverish heat that throbbed between her thighs, a heat so strong that it made Katherine moan.
“Of whom are you thinking, Sir John Hawke, Robin Dudley—or me?”
Katherine shot to her feet with a gasp.
Liam stood in the open doorway of her room, leaning against the door. Her eyes were wide—because, for a single instant, she had not recognized him.
He was dressed as a blackamoor. He wore loose white breeches, a wide purple sash, and his own sword—which she now recognized. His broad chest and powerful torso were bare—and the color of dark oak. He had also stained his arms, neck, and face, even his hair, while wearing a red turban to complete the disguise. His gray eyes appeared remarkably silver in contrast to his dark skin.
Then she realized what he had seen—and what he was seeing now—and she felt her cheeks flame.
He smiled with no mirth, entered the room, and kicked the door closed, tossing the turban aside. The muscles in his chest and torso rippled and flexed as he turned to her. His gaze skimmed her pale curves, lingering on her heaving breasts and jutting nipples—and then on the area between her thighs. He pushed himself off of the door.
“How long were you standing there!” she cried.
He stalked toward her. His smile was not pleasant; he briefly touched his hugely swollen loins. “Long enough to have enjoyed a very good show, one far better than that staged below.”
Katherine stared at him. He had been spying upon her. She was as furious now as she was embarrassed.
Turning her back on him, she whipped the blanket from the bed. As she frantically wrapped it around herself sheheard him coming toward her. Katherine faced him just as he tore the blanket from her and hurled it across the room. He gripped her arms. “You have not answered me.”
Her chin lifted, despite her sudden fear. She was panting, acutely aware of being naked and in his arms. Her nipples brushed the soft hair of his chest. “I owe you nothing, knave.”
He growled. “I saw you tonight, cock-teasing first Hawke, then Dudley!”
She hissed and struggled, hoping to free herself and strike him, hard. He only laughed at her and gripped one of her buttocks in one palm. She froze. He pulled her against his own rock-hard, silk-sheathed loins. Katherine choked on thundering, demanding, feverish desire.
