The conversation turned rapidly onto matters of falconry, and Polly made her escape, well satisfied with Nick's response to Buckingham's goading. Of course, she had provided them with the cues, and with complete intention. She had hoped to discover without the question direct whether Nick would go ahawking in the morning, and she had also hoped to encourage him to do so, since she had every intention of surprising him with her own presence. Buckingham's question had left him with little option but to respond as he had. The rest was up to her. A little ingenuity and careful timing were all that was required.
Chapter 17
Nick woke just before dawn and lay for a minute returning himself to the shape and sense of the daytime world. Polly lay sprawled on her stomach beside him, one arm flung across his chest, her legs tangled up with his. A strand of honey hair tickled his nose. He brushed it aside and ran his hand in a dreamy caress down her back, lingering on the silken curve of her bottom.
Polly stirred in sleepy arousal beneath the touch, the gently questing finger slipping between her thighs. Her body lifted, moved in an invitation that she was too deliciously languid to articulate. She burrowed deeper into the pillow, stretching her arms above her head as Nick rose above her, swinging himself over her prone body. Catching up the tumbled ringlets from her neck, he bent to kiss her nape, nuzzling softly, moving his mouth to her ear so that she squirmed in sensual enchantment, lifting her hips as invitation became demand.
He slipped his hands beneath her, holding her on the shelf of his palms, gliding into her with slow sweetness. He exhaled in deep pleasure to find himself where he belonged, feasting his eyes on the narrow ivory perfection of her back, the sharp points of her shoulder blades that begged for the teasing caress of his darting tongue.
Polly whispered and moved beneath him, lost in the magical realm where reality and dream were intertwined as the tender benediction of this loving flowed through her, anointing muscle and sinew, thinning her blood, bringing profound peace and languour to every cell in her body.
Dawn, pink and gray, was filling the easterly casement when Nick reluctantly left his bed. This proposed hawking expedition had somehow lost its appeal beside the competing charms of the still somnolent Mistress Wyat. A smile quirked his lips as he thought of his response to Buckingham's taunting question the previous evening. Lying in his teeth, he had been!
He drew the curtains securely around the bed, ensuring the sleeping figure privacy, before pulling the bell rope for his man, who would be awaiting the summons. An hour later, astride Sulayman, a gerfalcon, hooded and jessed, perched on his wrist, he joined the other hunters, milling around on the driveway, awaiting the king's arrival.
Polly had lain in the darkened tent of the bed curtains, waiting impatiently for the manservant to cease his bustling as he tidied the chamber, laying out my lord's clothes against his return from the hunt. At last the door clicked shut on his departure; she flew out of bed, into her own chamber. Susan was asleep on the truckle bed, but she struggled up in sleepy bemusement at the sound of the door.
"Lor', what time is it?" She straightened her nightcap, blinking at the naked Polly.
"Oh, 'tis past dawn," Polly said hurriedly, opening the armoire. "I need my riding habit." Pulling out the skirt and doublet of tawny velvet, she tossed them onto the bed, and turned to the ewer and basin. "Damnation, I do not have the time to wash the sleep from my eyes!"
"What're ye up to?" demanded Susan, now on her feet, assembling smock and petticoats, stockings and boots for the clearly distracted Polly.
"I go riding!" Polly said with an exultant laugh. " 'Tis time my lord realized that I have learned more in the last week than he gives me credit for… My thanks." She
took the proffered smock, dropping it over her head. "Pass me my stockings, will ye, Sue?"
"There, that must serve." It was barely five minutes later when Polly tucked her hair beneath her black beaver hat, adjusted the plume so that it fell in fetching fashion over her shoulder, and drew on her leather gloves. " 'Tis to be hoped I do not arrive at the stables in- a muck-sweat, for I must run."
"Is it mischief ye brew?" asked Susan uneasily.
Polly threw her a smile as she hastened to the door. "Of a kind; but fret not, I have the matter well in hand."
The door closed. Susan shook her head in bewilderment. Life never grew tedious these days, that was for sure.
Polly hastened to the village. All was quiet at this early hour, and there were few to see and remark upon her impetuous progress as she half ran, skirt gathered over one arm, hat plume bobbing, to the stable yard at the rear of the inn. Nick's groom would have accompanied his master, she knew, so there was only a stable lad employed by the inn to convince that it was at my lord's instructions that Tiny was to be saddled, and Mistress Wyat assisted to mount.
The lad was morose, sleep still in his eyes, and if he thought it strange that one he had seen riding only at the end of a leading rein should now be mounted on his lordship's spirited mare, he did not consider it his business to question. It was easier and quicker simply to do the job; he was sore in need of the breakfast that even now cooled while he labored.
Polly had a moment of panic as she urged Tiny out of the yard. Nothing about her position atop this dainty, sweet-stepping creature bore the least resemblance to being mounted upon the piebald. Tiny moved eagerly, sniffing the wind, reacting instantly to the slightest touch on the rein, the least pressure of her rider's knee, even when these signals were accidental. Polly took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. As she did so, she felt the change in Tiny, the instant response to her rider's attitude. The mare lengthened her stride as if settling into a comfortable enjoyment of the exer-
cise. Polly settled down to enjoy herself. There was nothing in the least alarming. How could there be when she and the animal were so much in tune, could communicate with each other so readily?
She directed the mare into the park, knowing that she would come up with the hunt in the fields beyond the ha-ha, the deep ditch boundary that separated the park from the fields. The quarry that hawks and huntsmen sought was to be found on the flat land bordering the river. Falcons could not be flown in the woods. They must be given uninterrupted view of their prey, and an unhindered flight path.
She heard voices, clear in the still morning air, as, greatly daring, she set Tiny to jump the ha-ha. The mare gathered herself, sailed over, landing gently on the other side, the whole movement so smoothly accomplished that Polly was barely conscious of the change in motion.
"You beauty," she whispered exultantly, leaning forward to pat the long, arched neck. "How could Nick have made me ride that insensate, mindless hulk? No one could learn to ride with such a mount."
The hunt came into view when she crested a rise and could look down to the broad stretch of the river, flanked by wide green banks and open fields. Rooks circled above a spinney off to the right, and the sun, mist-wreathed, set the dew on the grass to winking so that each blade appeared jewel-tipped. The richly dressed riders and their elegant mounts made a colorful scene on this misty morning, when the promised heat of the day was for the moment in abeyance, and the land looked new-washed in its fresh greenery.
Tiny whinnied softly, becoming aware of her own kind and a sport in which she might take part. She increased her speed, but tentatively as if to be certain that her rider was content to have it so. When no restraining tug came on the bit, she broke into a full canter. Polly, after a second of fright because this canter was twice as fast as any the piebald had managed, fell in with the rhythm, found that she was in no danger of falling off, and began to relish the dashing picture she was going to present, cantering up to the hunt on her