“Impossible. If you’ve heard his voice, then it’s delirium or dreams.”
Emeline shook her head. “He was tired of waiting alone in the Strand House, so he followed my mother’s trail. The inn is full indeed. My mother tiptoed in to tell me all about it a few hours back.”
“Oh, Lord.” Nicholas sighed and stood. “Then I’d better face him. But he’ll leave us alone once I whisper the word pestilence in his ear. I shall be back with food, wine, and ready to plump up the pillows for the night’s deep and conscious free sleep.”
“I shall dream of sickness and fire.”
Nicholas smiled, turning at the door as he was about to leave the room. “I shall dream of you,” he said.
Chapter Forty-Three
They lay on the bed, half clothed, the dish of food between them, their wine cups on the small chest and their eyes on each other. Nicholas broke off a wedge of crumbled goat’s cheese, and popped it into Emeline’s mouth. She had been about to speak, but with cheeks suddenly full, she grinned at him, trying not to spit crumbs.
Nicholas laughed. “My poor sick and suffering wife. Clearly ailing. Will more wine help, do you think?”
“I’m probably tipsy already.”
“Not nearly tipsy enough.”
She wore only her shift, its fine linen clinging across her breasts. The neck was low, and where her nipples protruded soft and dark, it barely covered. As Nicholas moved his hand to her shoulder, he brushed over the swell of her body and smiled. As her nipples tightened, she whispered, “Is that not response enough?”
“Should I make love to my sick wife, then? Would that be selfish? Uncaring?”
“It would be kind.” Emeline pushed the supper dish away and reached for her cup. “So must I be drunk, before you want me?”
“My dearest but foolish wife, there is never a moment when I don’t want you.” He took her cup and refilled it. “Drink. Enjoy our quiet moments for just a little longer. It’s been a long time on the road, with cold winds and dirty taverns, straw beds and long hours in the saddle. And for you, my sweetest, it has proved even more challenging. Once this absurd scare is past, I’m taking you home. I plan a peaceful future, with children in the nursery and only rare visits to court.”
He wore his shirt loose over his hose, boots kicked to the hearth and doublet thrown to the settle. Two candles were lit in a single stand but there was no fire in the grate, and the light was just a small golden flicker at their side. It reflected dancing fingers in the wine, the colour of flame. David and Petronella had been banished to other quarters, the room too small for servants, and the risk too great.
“And I’ve added to your exhaustion,” Emeline whispered, “just when you thought you’d already done enough.” She sipped her wine. “Did you do enough?”
“The young lord I was meant to meet never arrived. His escape was foiled, and the poor wretch is still held hostage in France.” Nicholas sighed, his fingers now wandering inside Emeline’s shift, encircling the firm warmth of her breast. “The other task proved more successful. An English traitor bringing a letter from the exile Henry Tudor, meant for delivery in the north. I met up with the messenger, stole the letter, and will take it to the king. The traitor lives and remains free, but that’s no shame for he’s well known to his highness, and is not a man easily taken.”
“The king will be pleased then? Not disappointed?”
“He will be both. But complete success was not expected, and Dorset’s failure was well nigh inevitable, being his second attempt. As for Urswick – the letter was more important than the arrest.”
Emeline did not think it important at first. Her body tingled, warm tucked into the first stages of seduction. For many nights she had dreamed of caresses, as he had, and she had little interest in understanding the problems of security with France. So lying back a little against the pillows, she smiled, saying, “Another Urswick? But he has gone, and you are here, my love.”
“Another Urswick?” His fingers slowed, pausing their exploration.
“The traitor you were looking for who brought the letter,” She shook her head. “And then, of course, the other one is Adrian’s friend.”
Frowning, “Adrian was not alone? How many friends?”
“Just two, and no servants. If he had a groom or squire with him, then they were already back at the inn. But Adrian’s friends were brave, and rescued us.” Nicholas’s fingers had now retreated, and she sat up, suddenly cold. “What’s the matter? I told you about Sissy being stuck in that horrid marsh and Adrian riding by at that perfect moment. There was Adrian, and Mister Urswick, and the other was the brave Mister Browne who rode down the thief who tried to trap us.”
“Urswick.” The short silence seemed strained. Finally, very softly, he said, “Urswick? Are you sure?” Emeline nodded. Nicholas said, “Describe him.”
She was worried now. “Tall, but not as tall as you, brown hair, lighter than yours and a little shorter than fashion. An ordinary man with very little to describe. Plain clothes. A kind smile.”
“Did anyone,” Nicholas asked carefully, “speak this Urswick’s first name?”
“Adrian called him Christopher. He was nice.”
Nicholas leaned back beside her, taking her hard into his arms, and speaking to the curls around her ears. “Dear sweet Lord have mercy,” he murmured. “Must I challenge Adrian as well, then? Is it him I’ve been chasing without knowing? Have I been blind?” He paused, as she listened in horrified silence. Then he asked abruptly, “Where did Adrian and his friends say they were going? And how long past?”
“Two days gone,” she gulped. “Urswick and Browne had a boat to meet and a journey across the water to make that next morning. Adrian was to see them safely off. He should be back soon, probably tomorrow.”
“Then it’s far too late to chase Urswick down.” Nicholas said. He thought a moment, then smiled, though the smile remained cold. “I had no idea it might be my own cousin involved. But then, I warrant he has no idea it is me.”
He turned, holding Emeline by her shoulders, facing her as if considering something. Then he released her and stood, abruptly pulling his shirt off over his head. He stood a moment, holding the shirt before he tossed it, his dark hair now tousled. The silk of black across his chest narrow striped the muscles of his breast and belly. The laces of his hose hung loose around his hips, the codpiece still in place, his legs tightly enclosed in the hugging soft knit of deep rustic green. Then he turned, wandering over to the candles standing on the stool beside the bed. He blew them out and the chamber blinked into shade. Nicholas became a shadow, half visible, half lost in suggestion.
“Come here,” he said.
Emeline whispered, “There? Now?”
His voice was quiet, husky, almost too soft to hear. He said, “Yes, now. Here.”
She heard the hint of menace in his voice. He had made love to her many times but this time, somehow, he had changed. The room was small; four steps and she was standing close so the heat of his body touched the tips of her breasts and her toes were against his. She mumbled, “You’re angry.”
“Yes. Do you mind?” He looked down at her. “But not with you. With Adrian. With myself.” He grasped the shoulders of her shift and wrenched it down over her arms. The thin seams pulled apart, and the white tumbled linen floated to the ground at their feet. His gaze followed her nakedness, watching, not touching. His voice sank even lower. “If I hurt you,” he murmured, “then you must hurt me back. Punch me and I’ll understand.”
She slipped her arms around his waist, her fingers clinging to the back of his hips. Still whispering, “It has to be love. Not anger.”