Friarsgate Inheritance: Until You Part 14

"Nay," he said. "You have treated with kings, Rosamund. Just use your own charm, and remember he is but a duke," Patrick said.

"I will remember," she told him. "Do you want to share my tub, my lord?"

He smiled a slow smile. "I have been waiting for you to ask, my darling," he said.

After stripping his clothing off where he stood, Patrick climbed into the great tub with her. She offered him a sip of her wine, which he accepted. Then, setting the goblet aside on the tub's edge, she took up the flannel cloth, rubbed her soap over it, and began to bathe him herself.

"They say in earlier days, the lady of the castle and her serving girls always washed important guests," Rosamund told him. "They do not say if she got into the tub with her guests, however." She gently washed his face, saying as she did, "You must have Dermid shave you again before tonight. I can already see the shadow on your jaw, my lord." She kissed his mouth quickly.

He yanked her hard against him, and she felt his manhood pressing with some urgency against her thigh. His eyes blazed down into hers. His mouth fused itself against hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth to play with hers. Her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s were flattened against his broad chest. He held her face between his two hands while he continued to kiss her, his pa.s.sions rising even as he felt her pa.s.sions rise. "I do not believe," he said in a hard voice, "that I have ever f.u.c.ked you in our tub, Rosamund, but I am about to do it now," he growled, His hands plunged beneath the warm water, and pressing her back against the side of the tub, he lifted her up, impaling her on his hardness. "Ahh, my love," he groaned. She was tight and hot.

Rosamund's eyes closed with her pleasure as she slid her arms about his neck. He filled her with his pa.s.sion, and her head fell onto his shoulder as he loved her until their combined desire burst, leaving them both weak but sated. "I adore you, Patrick Leslie," she said softly in his ear. "I shall never love another as I love you."

His tongue licked at her face, her throat, her chest and shoulder as he stood, his manhood still hard and deep within her. "You consume me," he groaned softly. "I cannot get enough of your sweetness, Rosamund."

She entwined her legs about him, enabling him to press farther, and he groaned again. "I want to soar," she whispered in his ear, and she licked at the curled flesh.

Their bodies tightly locked together, he began to thrust and withdraw until they were both dizzy with the rapture their enthusiasm in each other gave them. The intensity of their mutual desire was intoxicating, and as their carnality overcame them, they both cried out, finally satisfied, if only briefly. Her arms still about his neck, her legs fell away from his firm body.

"If I let go of you," she said, "I shall drown here, for my limbs are as weak as a newborn's, Patrick."

He laughed softly. "You are an outrageous woman, Rosamund. I have never known anyone like you, nor do I expect I ever will."

"We have to get out of this water," she told him, but she still clung to him.

"Did you enjoy our little water sport?" he teased her.

"Aye," she murmured, and then, to his delight, she blushed. "I never considered making the beast with two backs in water, Patrick."

"But you liked it?" His gaze caressed her face.

"I did! It was most stimulating. I do not believe I have ever been made love to other than in a bed," she admitted.

"One day I shall take you in a stable on a pile of sweet-smelling hay," he promised her, and he laughed. "Or perhaps I shall catch you in a linen cupboard, my love."

"I think I am feeling stronger now," Rosamund answered him. It was said that the older men grew the less well they performed in bed. But, Rosamund thought, she had had a husband considered an older man and a young lover in King Henry, but neither of these men had made love to her with such unflagging enthusiasm or suggested such a variety of pa.s.sion as did Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. She let go of him now and climbed from the tub. The water sluiced down her lush form as she reached for the drying cloth.

He watched her appreciatively until, finally satisfied, she invited him from their bath, and standing naked in the sunshine, began to dry him off.

"Be careful, madame, lest you arouse my baser nature again," he warned her.

"Oh, no!" she scolded him, laughing. "I do not intend to go to the duke's fete tonight, meeting the man for the first time, with the scent of l.u.s.t hanging about me, Patrick. You will behave yourself, for you shall not have me again until after the fete. Your head must be clear, my lord, for it is likely you will meet one or both of your contacts tonight."

"And it does not disturb you that Scotland will attempt to undo Henry Tudor's ambitions?" he asked her, as he had on several occasions.

"I have told you, Patrick, that I do not consider trying to stop a war treasonous to England. Hal might, for anything interfering with his plans is anathema to him, but no reasonable man or woman would. Do what you must. If you Scots come over the border, it is my home that will be in danger first, not Henry Tudor's," Rosamund said.

He laughed. "Ever the practical lady of Friarsgate," he teased her. Then he looked about him. "Do you think we can be seen?" he asked.

"I doubt it," Rosamund said. "There is but one villa just above us to the east, but no one seems to be inhabiting it." She took his hand and led him back into their apartment. "Go to your own bed, and rest," she instructed.

"I should rather rest in your bed," he said with a small grin.

"Neither of us would get any rest if we shared my bed, my lord, and well you know it. Celestina brought you a beautiful set of clothing for tonight. Now, go make certain Dermid laid it out so it will not be creased."

"You are a hard woman," he grumbled.

"I will see you later, my lord," she told him firmly, but she smiled when she spoke.

He left her, and Rosamund put on a clean chemise and laid down. She could hardly believe the incredible turn her life had taken over the last few months. She had found true love. And she was hundreds of miles from Friarsgate, yet she was happy. She missed her daughters, but there was something both thrilling and wonderful about being loved by a man like Patrick Leslie. They would love each other forever, even if they would part eventually to return to their own lives. This was but a fantasy, a beautiful day-dream. She wished it might be otherwise, but she knew it could not. Neither of them could eschew their responsibilities, and neither of them would give up what was theirs.

But they had today, and they would not think about tomorrow until it was done and past.

Annie came and brought her a light supper as the sun was setting. Rosamund was well rested, for she had actually slept for several hours. Her mind was clear, and while she intended being nothing more this evening than Lord Leslie's beautiful mistress, she would keep her ears open for whatever tidbits she might gather. Her French had improved considerably since their arrival a few days ago. She had just needed to use it again. She remembered how patient Owein had been as he had taught her French so she would not appear ignorant when she first came to court. It all seemed like a hundred years ago.

Annie helped her dress. Another chemise, one that would fit perfectly beneath the gown, was subst.i.tuted for the one Rosamund had been wearing. Cream-colored silk stockings embraced her legs. The neckline of the gown was even lower than it had appeared when the bodice had been lying innocently on the chair. Rosamund's round b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled dangerously over the lace edging of the gown's pearl-strewn top. Her shoulders and part of her upper arms were bare. The slashed sleeves were almost gauzy. Annie fitted her mistress with several silk petticoats and then brought the underskirt.

"Is there no shakefold?" Rosamund asked, looking for the stiffened hooplike garment usually worn beneath her gowns at home.

"Celestina says just a couple of petticoats, my lady. She says it permits the fabric to drape gracefully, showing the gown and its wearer to better advantage," Annie parroted. She tied the laces of the undergown tightly, then fitted the overgown atop it, fastening it neatly. Then the servant stepped back. "Oh, my lady, it is so beautiful, so elegant, and I think a bit naughty. But Celestina a.s.sures me that it is the fashion here."

Rosamund nodded. "She would not lie. She is long past her pa.s.sion for the earl, and her father's position would be endangered if she did me a disservice." She twirled, seeing how the gown moved, and was pleased. "Let us finish my hair," she said.

"Celestina's daughter Martina has been sent to do it, my lady," Annie said. "I am to learn from her."

"Have her come in, then," Rosamund replied, sitting down at a little table.

Martina looked nothing at all like her mother. She was tall and lanky, but she did have Celestina's direct manner. "Ah, madame is ready," she began. She moved quickly behind Rosamund. "First," she said, "I must see what kind of hair madame has." She began brushing the thick auburn locks. "Ah, excellent!" The brush worked vigorously.

"You will wear no cap," she said. "I am told that you have a jeweled ribbon to be worn." She found the part in the center of Rosamund's head. "Now, here is a style I particularly like and that will suit madame. It is simple. It will not detract from her beauty. I fold the hair thusly, fastening it with pins. Girl! Hold up a mirror for your mistress to see. I call it a chignon." And as Rosamund viewed herself in the mirror, Martina attached a half-moon of delicate silk flowers in cream, gold, and pale green across the top of the chignon. Lastly, she fastened the pale green silk ribbon with the oval green peridot set in its center about Rosamund's forehead. Then she held up a second mirror behind her client that Rosamund might see the full effect.

Rosamund stared. "I do not believe I have ever seen such a beautiful hairstyle," she said honestly. "In England we keep our hair beneath caps and hoods mostly. Thank you, Martina. Please teach Annie how you do this."

"It is simple, madame, and your servant does not seem stupid," Martina answered.

"What did she say?" Annie asked.

"That she will be delighted to teach you how to do this style, Annie. Really, you must try to learn the language better," Rosamund scolded gently.

There was a knock on the door, and Dermid stuck his head through. "His lordship wants to know if her ladyship is ready to leave yet. The amba.s.sador's carriage is already waiting outside."

"Give me my shoes," Rosamund said; then she slipped her feet into the slippers that were placed before her and arose, turning as she did to say, "I thank you both." Then she hurried from the bedchamber out into the dayroom where the Earl of Glenkirk awaited her. "Oh my!" she said as she caught her first glimpse of him.

His dark green velvet breeches were striped in deep forest green and cloth of gold. His fine silken hose were deep green with a tied gold cord garter on one shapely leg. His short coat was silk brocade, the sleeves padded and puffed. It was trimmed in dark brown marten fur. The doublet beneath, which was embroidered in gold thread with a floral design, was also slashed to show the cream-colored silk shirt beneath. His matching hat had a soft crown but a hard turned-up brim and a white ostrich plume. His shoes were fine brown leather. He had a large heavy gold chain about his neck, and both his hands were beringed. There was a bejeweled dagger at his waist.

"May I return the compliment?" the earl said, admiring Rosamund.

"You may," she replied.

"Then let us go, madame. Lord MacDuff awaits us below. I think it is time you met your host." The earl took Rosamund's arm and led her from the apartment and downstairs, where Ian MacDuff stood along with Celestina who nodded her approval at the couple, but said nothing.

The Scots amba.s.sador's gray eyes widened as he saw them descend. He came immediately forward, taking Rosamund's hand up and kissing it. "Madame, I am pleased to have you as my guest. It is an honor to entertain the queen's good friend."

"Unfortunately, the queen does not know I am here," Rosamund admitted. "She would be most vexed with me, I fear."

"Then we shall keep your secret, Lady Rosamund," the amba.s.sador said with a smile. "But the queen is generous of heart and would certainly want her friend happy," he finished with another smile. "Shall we go?" He led them outside where the open carriage awaited them.

Lord MacDuff obviously did not know Meg well, Rosamund thought, amused. Margaret Tudor wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. Still, the man was an amba.s.sador, and obviously a good one.

Rosamund allowed a footman to help her into the vehicle. She had never seen an open coach, for in England and Scotland such a thing would be considered ridiculous. Here, with the warm evening and the sun setting as they started off to the palace, it was quite perfect.

They moved down the hill upon which the amba.s.sador's residence was located and along a narrow street into the cathedral square. The carriage crossed the square traveling into a broader avenue lined with large and elegant houses. It eventually gave way to a thoroughfare lined with tall trees. They began to ascend a hill, coming finally to the duke's palace at the mount's summit. They pa.s.sed through great gates and traveled along a drive of perfectly raked white gravel. As their coach pa.s.sed, servants came out from the shrubbery to re-rake the drive that it might be perfect for the next vehicle.

The palace itself was built of cream-colored marble. They stopped before its entry porch, which was lined with elegant marble pillars speckled with green. There was a large marble fountain before the palace with a bronze statue of a boy on a dolphin, which sprayed water into the pool. Lanterns were hung everywhere in the trees. Their carriage stopped, and they were helped from it by servants in the duke's blue and gold livery. The two gentlemen escorted Rosamund into the palace where a majordomo greeted them obsequiously.

"My lord amba.s.sador, Lord Leslie, Lady Rosamund," he said, and he ushered them towards the exquisite hall where the duke was holding his fete.

Now, how, Rosamund wondered to herself, did this servant, whom she had never before in her life seen, know her name?

They were announced by a second majordomo, the first having left them at the entry to the hall to return to his place in the entry foyer.

"His excellency, the amba.s.sador from his most n.o.ble and Catholic majesty, King James of Scotland, Lord Ian MacDuff. Lord Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. Lady Rosamund Bolton," the majordomo called out in ringing tones.

They moved down several marble steps into the lovely hall, so different from what she was used to, Rosamund noted. For one thing, there were no fireplaces, and one wall of the room opened to a terrace that she could see beyond the pale gold marble pillars. There was a ducal throne at one end of the hall, and they now moved towards it.

Sebastian, Duke of San Lorenzo, watched them come and struggled to maintain his surprise. When he had learned that his old friend Lord Leslie traveled with a lovely female companion, he had not antic.i.p.ated she would be so . . . so . . . so young and so deliciously ripe. He would not have expected such a thing from a man from the north. Lord Leslie, while enjoying San Lorenzo during his tenure as amba.s.sador, had always been most correct. A man his age did not travel with so exquisite and youthful a mistress unless he was very much in love. Sebastian di San Lorenzo had never considered that Patrick Leslie would be in love at any age.

He arose from the ducal throne, and stepping off the dais, offered both his hands in greeting to the Earl of Glenkirk. To any watching it would certainly appear as if they were just meeting. "Patrick!" His voice boomed for all to hear. "Welcome back to San Lorenzo!" He turned his head slightly and gave a sharp look to his heir, Rudolpho, who immediately stood up and came forward, bowing to the earl. "You will remember my son, of course."

"Of course," Patrick said. He would never as long as he lived forget Rudolpho di San Lorenzo. Had it not been for this man now before him, his daughter might not have been lost to him. He bowed curtly.

"And this is his wife, Henrietta Maria," the duke said, drawing his daughter-in-law forward.

"Madame," the earl said, bowing low over the outstretched hand. She might have once been pretty, he thought, but she was worn and wan with all of her child-bearing.

"You are most welcome to San Lorenzo," Henrietta Maria said in a soft voice. Her warm brown eyes were sympathetic.

So she knew, the earl thought, and then he smiled at her. "I thank you, madame," he said quietly.

"MacDuff," the duke greeted the amba.s.sador.

"My lord duke," was the equally short reply.

The duke's gaze now fastened itself on Rosamund. "And who is this?" he almost purred, his black eyes plunging into the valley between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"May I present the lady of Friarsgate, Rosamund Bolton," the amba.s.sador said, and Rosamund curtsied low, allowing the duke an even better view of her ample charms.

"My dear lady," the duke said, oozing charm, "so fair a flower is most welcome to my duchy." And he took her hand up to kiss, but he did not release it.

"I am honored, my lord," Rosamund said quietly in perfect French, withdrawing her hand from his in a smooth motion.

The duke then introduced her to his heir and his heir's wife before they were able to move off into the crowd of other guests.

"What happened to his wife?" Rosamund asked Patrick.

"She died about five years after my daughter disappeared," he responded.

"And the duke did not remarry?"

"He had a grown heir, and by then Rudi had one son and three daughters. I imagine he saw no need. Besides, he has always enjoyed the attentions of many women. The d.u.c.h.ess Maria-Theresa was a patient woman with a good heart. I suspect he might even have loved her."

Rosamund nodded. "Where is the guest of honor, I wonder?" she said.

And at that moment the majordomo at the entry to the lovely hall called out, "My lords and my ladies, Maestro Paolo Loredano di Venetzia!"

And all eyes turned to the man atop the steps.

Chapter 7.

Paolo Loredano was a tall, slender man with bright red hair. He was dressed in the most elegant and fashionable garb. His silken breeches were striped in silver and rich purple, and his hose was cloth of silver with a gold rosette garter on one leg. His doublet was lavender and gold satin brocade embroidered in deep purple. His short silk coat was of cloth of gold and cloth of silver with large puffed and padded sleeves. On his head was a purple velvet cap with an ostrich plume. The gold chain that fell from his neck and lay on his chest was studded with sparkling gemstones. His round-toed shoes were purple silk, and on each of his fingers he had a ring of some sort. He carried a single silver glove in his hand, and at his waist was a light dress sword with a cruciform hilt.

He stood a moment atop the steps leading down into the hall, observing. Then, with mincing steps, he descended as the duke came forward to greet him.

"My dear maestro, I bid you welcome to San Lorenzo. We are so honored you have decided to make it your winter home," the duke said.

"Grazia," Loredano said. "Anywhere is preferable to Venice in February, my dear duke. Your little enclave, however, has everything I like. Sunny weather, the sea, and an abundance of good light for painting. I have taken a villa overlooking the harbor for my servant and myself." He took in the hall again. "And," he continued, "you seem to have many beautiful women and young men as well. I think I shall be quite content here, my dear duke. The doge sends you his greetings."

"He is well, I hope," Duke Sebastian replied.

"Considering his age, he is indeed well. We fully expect him to continue to rule for at least another ten years, if not more," Paolo Loredano answered.

"Excellent! Excellent!" the duke said jovially. "Come now, and meet my son and some of our guests." And he drew the artist forward by the arm so he might be introduced to his son and his daughter-in-law. One by one the other guests came forward to meet the Venetian. "And here is another visitor to my duchy. She joins us each winter," the duke said. "May I present to you Baroness Irina Von Kreutzenkampe of Kreutzenburg."

"Baroness," the artist, said bowing over the beautiful woman's plump beringed hand, his bright black eyes surveying her bosom. "You must pose for me," he said, smiling. "I shall paint you as a barbarian warrior queen."

The baroness' blue eyes looked directly at the artist. "And how shall I be costumed?" she asked. Her tone, while quiet, was also teasing.

"You shall have a helmet, a spear, and a discreet drapery," he told her, "but your bosom must be bared. Barbarian warrior women were always bare breasted," he finished.

The baroness laughed a low and smoky laugh. "I shall consider it," she said.

"I would gift your husband with the painting," the artist murmured.