A VERY TUDOR CHRISTMAS Page 4

The long, lean muscles of his strong back and shoulders shifted beneath his thin linen shirt, and she remembered too well how his bare skin had felt under her touch. She swallowed hard and tried to turn away, but she feared she could not.

  Soon he had a fire blazing in the grate, crackling and snapping, driving away the cold. He found a jug of wine and some bread, and they shared the repast in silence for several long moments. Gradually the warmth and the wine worked their subtle magic, and Meg found herself relaxing back into her chair. Robert leaned back against her legs, his body hard and strong through her skirts. It almost felt like what might have been.

  “Tell me what else your old nursemaid said about Christmas,” he said, as if he sensed that they should not yet talk about personal matters. Of what had once driven them apart. This was too sweet a moment.

  Meg slipped down to sit beside him on the carpet, near to the fire. She stared into the cheerful red-gold flames, sipping at her wine as she remembered the old tales her nurse would tell by the nursery fire.

  Meg stared into the fire and remembered Christmases when she was young, the feasting and music, the games she and Bea would play trying to divine their future husbands. But she couldn’t tell Robert of those silly, girlish games.

  “There was a song we would sing,” she said, “about the holly and how no matter what comes it stays green and true.” As love never did. Softly she began to sing the old words.

  “The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown...”

  “The ivy... The ivy...” she faltered, and whatever she was going to say was lost when he leaned closer and brushed his lips softly over hers. She felt their breath mingle, the damp heat of his skin, his lips. It was more intoxicating than any wine could be.

  “Meg...” he whispered.

  She didn’t want him to let her go. For that moment, surrounded by the snow and the fire, the past dropped away, and she was just that young girl again, longing for this touch. She knew she should not be with him, that she had to keep being the sensible, staid Meg she had become at court. But she was so tired of being that girl.

  Before she could think, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips harder to his. She felt his hands close around her waist, and he shifted their bodies so they lay next to each other on the soft carpet.

  “My sweet Meg,” he said hoarsely, and his tongue traced the curve of her lower lip, light and teasing, before she parted her lips to him and he slid inside to taste her.

  And she soared up and up, free, even if it was only for the moment.

  Through the haze of her dream, she felt his touch slide around her hips, pulling her closer against him, their bodies so close even a snowflake couldn’t come between them. She arched against him and felt his erection, the proof that he desired her, too, through the layers of their winter clothes.

  He groaned deeply, and their kiss slid down into a wild, frantic need. Her fingers plucked at the lacings of his shirt until she could touch the bare, smooth, warm skin of his chest. She felt his breath catch under her touch.

  Sensations raced through her, like lightning over her skin, and she remembered that only he had ever been able to make her feel alive like this. She dug her fingers into his hard shoulders and held him with her as their kiss deepened. She wanted more and more, wanted to forget....

  But he drew away from her. “Meg. My pretty Meg,” he said roughly. He pressed his forehead against hers, holding her as their ragged breath mingled. “It can’t be this way. Not now. Not yet.”

  Meg was deeply confused, cold where she had been warm, dizzy and lost. He was leaving her again? “What do you mean?”

  He just shook his head, and gently set her away from him. “It must be right. After all I have done...”

  Meg shivered, feeling abandoned all over again. She gathered her disordered clothes around her with shaking hands, unable to look at him, to say anything at all. She just wanted to escape.

  “It has stopped snowing,” he said. “We should go back and find the others.”

  Only then did Meg notice that the gray sky was clear outside the small window. Why, then, did she feel colder than ever?

  Chapter Four

  The bride looked beautiful, Beatrice thought as she stood beside Meg and watched Anne Cecil, now the Countess of Oxford, proceed into her parents’ great hall on her new husband’s arm. Her gown, white satin embroidered with gold-and-silver thread twined in a pattern of vines and flowers, gleamed in the light of thousands of wax candles. Her hair fell down her back in a tumble of artful brown curls, bound around her brow with a wreath of pearl flowers. She looked as every bride should, Beatrice thought—like a fairy princess.

  Yet she didn’t even glance up to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd gathered for her wedding banquet, or the flower petals they showered over her. She gazed at the floor as she walked behind her parents, holding on to her new husband’s arm, almost as if she was marching to the gallows.

  The Earl of Oxford, however, just as splendid as his bride in a doublet of white and gold with a pearl-edged cap on his pretty head, waved and bowed. He didn’t look at his bride with her bent head.

  It would not be thus when she married, Beatrice vowed as she tossed her last handful of petals. Her husband would look only at her. He would not care if they married at Westminster Abbey before hundreds of courtiers and the queen herself, as Anne Cecil just had, or if there were satin and pearls or roasted peacock on gold plate. He would not care if she wed him barefoot in her shift, for he would want only her. She was determined on that.

  As the newlyweds made their bows to Queen Elizabeth, who had attended the wedding herself and now sat on a dais to watch the feast, Beatrice leaned forward to see if she could catch a glimpse of Peter Ellingham. As she had suspected—and hoped—he watched her, too. He was so handsome, so witty and full of fun, and such a fine dancer. She did so enjoy his company, his pretty compliments, and his sweet notes and bouquets.

  But she was not yet ready to march down the wedding aisle herself. She was no Anne Cecil to be forced to wed so young. If Peter Ellingham would but wait a while...

  He grinned and waved at her, and Beatrice covered her giggle behind her hand.

  Meg tugged at her arm. “Beatrice, please! What if Her Grace saw you?”

  “The queen is too busy talking to the happy couple to notice me,” Beatrice whispered back. “Besides, we aren’t at the Abbey now—we needn’t be solemn. We can have a little fun before the masque.”

  The edge of Meg’s lips quirked in a quickly hidden smile. “Well—just a bit of fun, mayhap. You deserve it after all your good work on the masque.”

  “And so do you, Meg! You have been working so hard of late. You must promise me that you will be merry tonight, too.” Beatrice clutched tight to her cousin’s hand. Meg was always so serious, so responsible. She always took such good care of Bea at court. Meg deserved so much more than one evening of dancing. She deserved— She deserved...

  She deserved a fine prince of her own. A man who saw her great beauty and would marry her in her shift if need be, just as Bea dreamed of.

  Beatrice scanned the gathered crowd, the swirling, bright kaleidoscope of brilliant silks and velvets, emeralds and pearls. Everyone watched Queen Elizabeth, the peacock-center of it all in her blue-and-purple gown, her high-piled red-gold hair twined with sapphires and amethysts. Everyone but one man.

  And he was looking
at Meg.

  Beatrice studied him carefully. It was Sir Robert Erroll, the current star of the court who had newly arrived from Muscovy. A tall, handsome, mysterious man who all the ladies giggled about. Unlike the brilliance around him, he wore dark colors, tawny and black, his dark hair waving away from a face even Bea, who was choosy about male looks, had to admit was quite perfect. His eyes, a glowing blue even from across the crowded room, were focused on Meg.

  And Meg, Bea was fascinated to see, pointedly looked anywhere except him.

  Most interesting indeed.

  The bridal couple took their seats just below the queen on the dais, signaling the start of the dancing. Musicians, hidden high on a balcony above the revelers’ heads, struck the first notes of a pavane as servants moved through the crowd offering spiced wine and trays of delicacies.

  Beatrice saw Peter Ellingham making his way toward her, an eager smile on his face.

  “I suppose you will want to dance with the handsome young Lord Ellingham now, Bea,” Meg said.

  Indeed she did. Peter was an excellent dancer, and one of the few men who could keep up with her in a galliard or volta. But Bea had a new mission in mind now for the evening. She hurriedly scanned the crowd looking for Robert Erroll. He was still watching Meg, a small frown creasing his brow. Meg, though, still would not look at him.

  Bea tried to give him an encouraging smile, nodding toward her cousin. Maybe she could get him to ask Meg to dance. His frown turned puzzled.

  And Peter was nearly upon her.

  “Indeed I do want to dance,” Bea said quickly. “But only if you will, too, Meg.”

  Meg laughed. “You know I don’t often care to dance, Bea. I enjoy watching others more graceful than me. You go dance, and I will have some of Lord Burghley’s excellent wine.”

  Meg took up one of the offered silver goblets, and Bea tried to see if Sir Robert had gotten her little hint. He had vanished into the crowd.

  Peter reached her side, bowing over her hand in an elaborate, courtly salute that made her giggle. “May I have the honor of this dance, fairest lady?”

  “Go, enjoy yourselves,” Meg said. “Just remember we must change into our costumes soon, Beatrice.”

  “I remember.” Beatrice let Peter lead her into the forming dance. As she took his hand and waited to begin, she whispered, “Do you happen to know Sir Robert Erroll, Peter? I thought I saw you with him at rehearsal.”

  “Never say I have lost you to him already, fairest one!”

  Beatrice laughed. “Of course not! He is so old. He must be all of twenty-six. But I did see him watching my cousin.”

  “Your cousin? Was he?” Peter’s eyes lit with a spark of interest. He was always up for a fine lark—that was one of the reasons she liked him. Perhaps he would even help her with a bit of matchmaking in a good cause. “As it happens, I do know him a bit. His mother is a kinswoman to mine. But I have only talked to him a few times since he returned to England.”

  “He is very handsome,” Beatrice said. “But he seems quite lonely.”

  “Lonely? Nay, he is always surrounded by people in his lodgings.”

  Beatrice remembered the way Robert Erroll had looked at Meg, with such passion and longing. She shook her head. “What your kinsman needs, Peter, is a good, strong-hearted wife....”

  * * *

  Meg carefully slid through the crowded hall to find a spot near one of the tapestry-hung walls. All around her was music, the patter of dancing, leaping feet, the rustle of rich silks and satins, the scent of wine and expensive perfumes. All the desperate energy made her head spin.

  She took a goblet of spiced wine from a footman and sipped at it as she scanned the dancers for a glimpse of Beatrice’s golden hair. Her cousin was skipping and twirling with Peter Ellingham, the two of them whispering and laughing together. Bea seemed very well-occupied at the moment.

  And Robert Erroll was nowhere in sight. At least for the time being, she could take a deep breath. She had been able to avoid him ever since their kiss in the abandoned hunting lodge. She had almost—almost—been able to forget it herself.

  Meg closed her eyes as she took a deep gulp of the wine. Why, why did he have to return now, when she had nearly forgotten how foolish she once was? And why did he have to be even more handsome than before? She didn’t need the terrible distraction of him in her life.

  “Will you dance with me?” she suddenly heard someone say behind her, his voice low and intimate.

  Startled, Meg whirled around to face him. Some of the wine sloshed from the goblet onto her silk sleeve.

  “God’s teeth,” she whispered. “How could you startle me so? This is my best gown.”

  “Forgive me, my lady.” He reached for her hand, his long, sun-roughened fingers closing around her wrist as his other hand took away her goblet and handed it to a passing servant. He took out his own handkerchief and gently blotted at the small stain. “I must speak with you, Meg.”

  “Really?” Meg murmured, trying to look anywhere but at him. Trying not to feel anything at all when he touched her. She wasn’t succeeding. “Surely we said all we needed to three years ago. It was the merest flirtation, quickly over.”

  His hand tightened over hers. Startled by the suddenness of the movement, her gaze flew to his face.

  His blue eyes were dark as he stared down at her intently. “It was not meant to be. Surely you knew that?”

  Meg was confused. Her memories seemed so clear from those few precious days they’d had together. He had kissed her and then left for France; surely that made it a mere flirtation, the likes of which she saw every day at court. But her feelings from then were so much more mixed-up, like the swirl of spices in her wine. “I know no such thing. You were a worldly gentleman of the court, and I was a young girl who knew little but her own home. A fine amusement. When you hid me from your parents...”

  “Because I knew I had to prove myself to you, to everyone. Only then could I present myself to you properly and honorably. I told you all of that. I thought, hoped, you were waiting.”

  Meg’s confusion grew, and she shook her head. Was he speaking some foreign language she did not know? For she could barely comprehend his words. It was like a romantic epic poem of the old chivalric days or some such. “How could I have known such a thing? Did you think me a mind reader?”

  Robert scowled. “It was in the letter I gave your maidservant. I dared not go to your house to find you.”

  “I never received such a letter! When you left without a word of farewell, I knew I was only a trifle to you.”

  “Meg, I never...”

  “Meg, we must away to dress for the masque!” Beatrice suddenly cried, cutting off Robert’s bemused words. Dizzy with confusion now, Meg pulled her hand away from Robert and spun around to face her cousin. Peter Ellingham stood just behind her, watching them.

  Beatrice’s bright eyes flashed between Meg and Robert. “You must be the famous Sir Robert Erroll! No one can speak of anything but your exotic travels of late. I’m sorry to whisk away my cousin, but I will return her after the masque.”

  “And I must show you something very important, Robert,” Lord Ellingham added. He and Beatrice gave each other strange, secret little smiles, quickly gone.

  Beatrice seized Meg’s arm and drew her away, chattering all the while about the masque. Meg glanced back, desperately seeking one more glimpse, one more word, from Robert. What had he meant? What letter?

 
But he was gone, vanished into the crowd with Peter Ellingham. And Bea, surprisingly strong for such a sprite, kept dragging her away.

  They made their way out of the crowded hall through a doorway hidden behind one of the tapestries. Beatrice led Meg up a narrow staircase and down a long corridor, chatting all the time. Occasionally she would pause to peer out a window, her words slowing but never halting.

  As they turned down yet another corridor, Meg had a sudden suspicion. There were no other people in that part of the house, but she couldn’t get even a word in between Bea’s laughter.

  At last they reached a closed door at the darkened end of the corridor. “Here we are!” Bea cried. “We must change quickly.”

  “Beatrice, what are you...”

  Beatrice pushed open the door and shoved Meg inside, cutting off her words. Before Meg could even spin around and demand to know what was happening, the door slammed shut. She heard the sound of a bolt clanking into place and Bea’s light footsteps running away. Only the echo of a giggle was left behind, and Meg was alone in a dim, windowless chamber seemingly lit only by one candle.

  Fear and anger tangled up in her mind. “Beatrice!” she cried, banging her fists on the door. “What is the meaning of this? Come back at once!”

  “She won’t be able to hear you,” a voice came from the darkness. “I fear we are alone.”

  Her heart pounding, Meg whirled around to see Robert standing in the single circle of candlelight, his arms folded across his chest as he smiled at her.

  She was quite trapped with him. Alone.

  Chapter Five

  “What is the meaning of this?” Meg cried. She was trying to stay calm and coolheaded, to not show him her emotions at being near him again. Leaving herself open to him had only wounded her last time. But her voice came out sharper than she’d intended, and she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.