Up the lane and sharp left, both keeping a tight grasp on the basket where the pies were wrapped in damp linen, oozing perfume. Over the little slope, and down the alley between Master Lumpton’s milking sheds and the kitchen garden’s rosemary hedges. Through the big turfed courtyard leading to the stables, into the smaller cobbled courtyard backing the pantries and kitchens, and finally up the steps to the back door, and home. It was raining heavily now and the sky lowered in thunderous charcoal, promising to turn rain to storm. So, hurtling inside and slamming the door hard behind, shaking out soaked hems onto the worn slate tiles, stamping mud from their feet, and tearing off the dripping headdresses with their sodden gauze, pins flying.
“If you waste expensive pins –” Avice mumbled, stooping to collect those fallen.
And Emeline twirled in one delighted circle, arms outstretched and hair uncoiling, laughing, “But Papa is not here. How delicious. What freedom. Come on, I shall race you upstairs and we can eat our pies by the fire. Your chamber or mine?”
“Mine,” said Avice. “It’s the furthest from the chapel, and besides I need to change my shoes.”
“I need to change everything.” Emeline made a dash for the stairs. “I will put on my bedrobe and come to your room in just minutes. Besides, I still think of it as my room too.” Both girls hurtled up the back stairs, Avice pushing past and Emeline squeezing in front again. “I have won,” she yelled on reaching the upper corridor, “and claim my right to first bathwater. You can have the tub after me, but I promise to finish before the water is cold.”
“Well hurry now,” grumbled Avice, “or the pies will be cold.”
Emeline scrambled up the passageway to her own chamber at the far end, where the sound of the rain pelting against the window was an echo in the shadows. She pushed open the door and hurried inside.
The arm slipped silently from behind her, well-muscled but silk clad, taking her firmly by the waist. A strong, long fingered hand swung her around. Dark hair, thick and as silky as the luxurious sleeve, was against her face. Two brilliant blue eyes blinked, then glinted below hooded lids as the face pressed against hers, and she was kissed, hard and long and as forcefully as surprise would allow.
Nicholas murmured in her ear, “And now, my sweet, and now –” She was pushed deeper into the shadows and only his eyes lit the gloom. His hands were on her breasts, probing the damp satin. He whispered, “I see your nipples standing erect when your gown is wet, and your breasts are cold. Even in this half-light I see you.” And his palms cupped her body, still easing her backwards towards the bed. The fire had not been lit and the huge mattress, its embroidered covers and feather pillows deep shaded, stood like a great curtained archway, the charmed entrance to dreams. Nicholas tossed the curtains apart and laid his wife back so she tumbled down and the rope paillasse swung and creaked beneath. Nicholas chuckled. “The ropes need tightening. But first I’ll see if I can loosen them further.” He released the curtains and they moved together again like heavy screens, enclosing the bed in darkness. “Now,” he said, “let me remember you as I’ve tried to picture you for these past days.”
Fingers deft and quick, he had untied the laces beneath her arm and was unclipping her stomacher. Then one hand was in her hair, thick damp coils just released from their ribbons and caul. “I like your hair,” he murmured, fingers combing and ironing away the raindrops, “but it’s your shorter curls I want now.”
“You – you are – back,” squeaked Emeline, flinging both her arms around him.
“Rode in an hour gone,” Nicholas told her, “and found you out. Managed to be polite to your mother for an hour, then pleaded tiredness and came up here to wait for you.” He grabbed her hand and held it tight between his own legs. “I’ve thought of nothing but bedding you for the past twenty miles.”
He released her hand and put both his to the hems of her skirts. She mumbled, “I have been dreaming too – wanting –” and immediately he swept her skirts up to her waist, bundling the folds beneath her and laying his face on the warm flat plain of her stomach. His breath tickled, and his fingers crept at once, playing in the thick curls at her groin.
“Open your legs,” he whispered, “and let me in.”
She gasped, “I want you so much – so very, very much, but there is Avice waiting for me in her bedchamber –”
“I don’t care if the Pope is waiting for you,” his voice now muffled against her, “you are mine, my sweetness, and I shall have you now,” and he pushed her legs apart, and pressed his fingers up. “No doubt I smell of the saddle, but you smell of summer rain, and that’s how I want you.”
Trapped by swathes of clothes, Emeline trembled. The mattress groaned. “Oh, Nicholas, I am so – utterly – delighted – let me –”
But he interrupted her again. “Go where I lead you, my sweet, that’s all I want. But I’ll have you naked.” He leaned back a moment, laughing at her. “Trussed like a pullet for the skewer. How apt.”
She tried to sit up. “Nicholas, you are shameless.”
“Should I be ashamed of bedding my own wife? Isn’t this what marriage is for?” He pushed her back down, half kissing, half undressing her. Finally he pulled the gown from her arms and tumbled it off over her head. He lay beside her then, tucking one leg between hers. He smoothed his fingers down across her breasts, first very, very softly, and then firm, as though he meant to dry her with his palms where her skin was still damp.
“But it is daytime,” whispered Emeline, peeping up at him.
“If I wait for night, I shall have already expired with impatience,” he whispered back. “Are you still so timid to face me in daylight? But I like how the shadows across your body slip and slide. You’re a beautiful woman, my Emma. Don’t hide.”
“Papa would be terribly shocked – it is forbidden, you know –”
“If your infernal Papa were not so damned parsimonious, you would have a bed that did not squeak and cringe, and a mattress with more down than bumps.”
“Oh dear,” Emeline mumbled, “This is the very best guest chamber, where my mother insisted I stay this time. I used to share a horrid little bed with Avice.”
He lay back, smiling across at her. “Do I shock you then? Must I learn a gentleman’s manners?”
Emeline shook her head. “I am just so happy you have come back. I was so frightened, wondering what might have happened, and it has been such a long time. Have you been terribly ill?”
“Devil a bit,” he told her, watching cheerfully as she tried and failed to pull the bedcovers across herself, “I got the barest skeleton of infection, and threw it off quick enough. Seems there’s no pestilence strong enough to floor me. But I took advantage of the time in London, and planned a few adventures to amuse myself. Then I thought of you. I came here simply to take you away with me.”
There was a slight pause and Emeline sat up abruptly, staring at him. “Adventures? Then you thought of me? You’ve been perfectly healthy, and enjoying yourself in London while I’ve been heartbroken and sick with worry? And you promised to send messages and have sent not one single word. I even thought you might be dead.”
“Would be a rare devilry capable of killing me off.”
“I might do it myself.”
He laughed. “And this is marriage too, I imagine, with a wife to plague me, and scold me endlessly and spoil all my plans?”
“You didn’t even miss me?”
“I missed you, yes indeed my sweet. I missed you every night, with my prick hard against my belly and no soft place to put it.”
She hurled the pillow first, and when he laughed and threw it off, she jumped on him with both fists, punching at his ribs. He grabbed her wrists, forcing her arms back and she winced. He was still laughing but his grasp on her was like iron and her arms throbbed as he forced her back. She gasped, “You wouldn’t – you won’t – and I will never forgive you for these horrible weeks alone thinking you in pain – I couldn’t even eat –”