FLAME OF DESIRE (20 page)

But what can I offer her?
He had sought to annul his marriage with Edlyn, but Mary had been adamant, no doubt remembering the way her own mother had been set aside. She had merely said a prayer for Edlyn, that God would show his mercy.

“It is plain to see that you are not hungry, Richard. Is the roast swan too tough, the beef overdone?”

The queen. He had forgotten the queen, who now appraised him with her knowing eyes. Reaching for his goblet, he raised it to his lips.

“I am thirsty,” he answered.

All sorts of exotic dishes were placed before him—in truth the table bulged with the large platters of venison, duckling, swan, pig, and pastries of every kind—but although he tried his best, he could not eat a bite. All he could do was look across the table at the beauty of the woman he loved, watching as another man laughed with her, touched her hand, passed the cup for her lips to relish, cast his eyes upon her. He was helpless, with nothing to soothe him but the silver chalice which flowed with the sweet magic of wine and forgetfulness.

When the dishes were cleared away, the tumblers, acrobats, and musicians competing with each other for the attention of the guests, Richard sought to go to her side, but was blocked by the figure of the queen, who seemed to read his mind. If she were jealous of the attentions this Edward Courtenay showed another, this man who had been whispered to be a possible consort, she did not show it, and he suspected that she had no intention of marrying the man at all. Unlike Heather, pure, innocent Heather, Mary knew what Courtenay was. A wastrel.

From across the room Heather looked wistfully at Richard. Not even the gaudily clad acrobats balanced upon their poles could cheer her. She felt Edward Courtenay’s arm encircle her waist and nearly cried aloud with her desire to have Richard's placed there instead. She could sense that the attentions of the man at her side were causing him pain and loathed the thought of doing so.

“You look sad,” she heard Courtenay’s voice say. “Someone as lovely as you should always be laughing.” Taking her hand as the dancing notes of harp, lute, viol, and timpani echoed through the hall, he led her in a round dance, twisting and whirling through the intricate maze of steps until they were out of breath and dizzy.

“I believe this dance is mine.” Stepping between the dancers, Richard led her onto the floor for a stately pavan. “I have to talk to you,” he whispered, his voice soft as velvet, stirring a chord within her like a harpist’s touch.

“Shhh. The queen is watching,” she breathed. She could smell the wine upon his breath, could see him weaving upon his feet. Was she the cause of his state?

“I don’t care. God’s blood, you are lovely.”

Taking her hands in his, he kissed them, letting his lips brush her fingers as lightly as the wings of a butterfly. Just this gesture set Heather’s senses spinning. She wanted him with a passion that was like a fever in the blood, but the fear that all about them would know of her desires, and the remembrance of his married state, caused her to pull away as the music changed tempo.

“She is mine again!” Courtenay stated with a laugh, pulling her in his direction.

Richard found himself feeling a fierce impulse to tear her out of the other man’s arms, and he reached out for her. He was no longer able to watch her beside Edward Courtenay.

“Leave me, Richard,” Heather chided, fighting to remember that he could never be hers.

Richard’s eyes turned hard at her rebuke as he lashed out in anger. “Take her and be damned!” turning away, he stalked off, leaving the hall, and Heather was helpless to do anything but watch him go.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Richard Morgan sought the quiet of the garden to soothe his jealous anger. He had never felt this emotion before, and its effect was therefore all the more devastating. He felt impotent with his misery, helpless to stop the pain that seeing Heather with the Plantagenet Courtenay had brought to him. He had come close not only to making a fool of himself before the entire court but also to causing Mary’s censure and anger. Never having loved, the queen would hardly understand the torture he was going through.

“How could I have nearly lost control of my emotions that way?” he asked himself bitterly. Courtenay was not his enemy. If he was a rather self-centered, immoral young man, he had always been polite and friendly toward Richard, yet tonight Richard had come perilously close to actually harming him, and would have if he had been so bold as to touch her with any more familiarity than he had displayed.

Idly he walked about the garden. Like a man chased by the very devil, he paced about, trying with difficulty to wipe away the memory of Heather. The image of her lying in his arms came back to him, her red hair spread about her slim body like a cloak. She had been all loving softness. How could he ever forget that night in the stable?

How long he walked about the yew tress, he did not know; he only knew that he could not sleep without seeing her. Reaching forth his hands, he ignored the prick of thorns to pluck several of the roses which grew in fragrant abundance. They seemed the perfect gift for her.

“I would pick all the roses in the world and throw them at her feet if she would but love me again as she did before,” he murmured beneath his breath.

“Do you pick them for
her
?” The woman’s voice was low and seductive as she asked the question. It was a voice he knew well. Catherine Todd.

Turning, he saw her standing a few steps away from him, her green eyes looking very much like a cat’s. He didn’t deem it wise to offer her an answer.

She moved with feline grace toward him. “Oh, Dickon, darling. I can read you like a book.”

Dickon. He hadn’t been called that for years. The name brought back bitter memories of his childhood.

With a swish of her skirts she stood before him, pouting petulantly. “I do believe you were so busy looking at her that you scarce noticed my arrival at all.”

“I’m sorry, Catherine.” His voice held the tone of a father’s with an errant child. Catherine Todd was spoiled, used to being the center of attention. How could he have so easily forgotten?

“Are you?” Reaching up her hand, she traced the hard-muscled lines of his chest. “Well, you should be. All the while I was traveling here, I thought of nothing but you, of seeing you again.”

His fingers caught her wrist, pushing her probing fingers away. “Don’t do this, Catherine. What was between us was over long ago. Five years ago.”

She raised her haughty head, her eyes blazed anger, but she controlled herself skillfully tossing her well-coifed black hair. “Not for me it isn’t. Never for me.”

He shook his head, not believing her words for a moment. He had not been her first lover, nor her last. Catherine Todd had a voracious appetite for men, and when she was widowed it had not taken her long to seek others to take her husband’s place in bed. How could he help but compare her to Heather and find Catherine wanting? Heather was all that Catherine was not. There was more to a woman than beauty.

Walking in and out between the yew trees, Catherine cast him a furtive glance. “Will you not even give to me some shred of affection? One rose?”

He shook his head, and she offered him a dark look. As if to taunt him, she reached out her hand to pick a rose for herself, crying out as a thorn pricked her finger. To seek revenge for her injury, to vent her frustration at being denied, she tore the rosebud from the stem to crush it with her shoe upon the ground.

“I much prefer violets anyway.”

Richard’s blood ran cold as he witnessed her temper tantrum. How could he ever have desired her? Had she not testified against his uncle, he might never have witnessed firsthand her heartlessness and treachery.

As if sensing his appraisal of her, she smiled, asking suddenly, “Is she your mistress, this merchant’s daughter?”

“Hold your tongue!” he thundered, his expression a grimace of warning.

“Ah, just as I feared. Well, ‘twill be no secret, not if you look at her again as you did tonight. Half the court was buzzing about it.” Her smile was full of venom.

“She is not my mistress, though if she were, it is none of your concern.”

Cocking her head to one side, she looked up at him. “If she is not, it is because she has learned of your marriage, is that not so?”

He forgot about the roses in his hands as he clenched his fists in anger, only to suffer the flowers’ barbs. “She knows about the marriage. It will do you no good to work your evil with a rattling tongue. I would have told her, had she not found out already. I am ever the honest man.”

“Or the fool, Dickon.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Ah, well. That is your concern.” Walking around him slowly, sensuously, stalking him as a cat does its prey, she whispered in parting, “Remember that my arms are warm and soft to soothe you. Think of me when you sleep in your lonely bed tonight. I would not shun you because of a wife.” With that said she was gone, vanishing into the trees like a night bird.

Richard pondered her words. Had he been a fool? Too much the gentleman? No. Love was based on honesty and trust. To betray either would be to destroy whatever chance there was for happiness.

Leaving the garden, making his way toward the door, Richard was again filled with a longing to see Heather. To tell her of his love, seek her promise to wait for him until he could be free of his marital chains.

Climbing the stairs, he stood before her door, only to hide in the shadows like a thief in the night as he heard laughter and the sound of approaching footsteps. He knew instinctively that it was Heather—she was not alone. The fact that Edward Courtenay was escorting her to her bedchamber flamed Richard’s jealousy anew.

“No, I’m sorry,” Heather was saying. “I cannot go for a walk in the garden with you, Edward. It is late. I must be abed.”

“At least leave me with a kiss.” The sound of rustling cloth told Richard that the man was gathering her into his arms.

“No. No, please.”

“I will not take no for an answer.”

Richard advanced out of the shadows. “I will see that you do.”

“Ah, my lady’s watchdog.” Edward Courtenay flashed a toothy smile, throwing up his hands in the air in defeat. “For the moment I yield.” With a jaunty walk he departed, leaving Heather and Richard alone.

“We have to talk.” Richard moved toward her, fighting against the longing to take her in his arms. He held out the roses to her, the red and pink roses. “These are for you.” He took a step toward her, still unsteady on his feet from the wine he had partaken of at dinner. Instinctively she stepped away.

He stepped toward her again as she stared at him mutely, mesmerized by the potency of his gaze. Taking the roses from his hands, she admired their beauty, touched by his gift, but wary of his intentions.

“It is late,” she breathed. Her voice was tinged with sadness. She loved him. She wished that she could say that she did not, but she could not do so.

“I know it is late, but you must hear me out.” He reached out for her and she was unable to pull away. His arm encircled her waist, and he spoke her name.

They did not hear the footsteps behind them until it was too late. “A midnight tryst?” A young red-haired page stood behind them, his eyes urging them to caution.

“I brought a gift of roses to the queen’s new lady-in-waiting, nothing more.” Richard swore beneath his breath at the interruption, wishing again that he had not been so determined to bring Heather to Greenwich.

The young page looked as if he did not believe him, making no comment, but asking of Heather, “Are you Heather Bowen?”

“Yes.” She eyed the boy cautiously.

“The queen has need of you. There are some letters that she would read before she retires for the night. Come this way.” With a look of regret, Heather followed after the boy, clutching the roses to her breast as they walked.

Richard watched as she quickly made her escape to the queen’s chambers, and clenched his fists in frustration. She had eluded him this time, but he was determined to settle once and for all this ill feeling between them.

Unaware of Richard’s resolve, of the torment her rejection of him was causing, Heather read to the queen. She had a longing to be home again. Perhaps there she could forget Richard. She knew how loath Thomas Bowen would be to part with the pennies to hire another to take her place.

“Poor Tabitha. She will have to do my share of work as well as her own. She will be old before her time.”

“What did you say, my dear?” the queen asked. Heather liked her, sensing that Mary was a forgiving soul. She was by far the most pious ruler England had seen, maintaining a constant observance of her devotions.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about home,” Heather whispered quickly, bending to the task of reading a letter from the Lady Jane Grey. In the letter she begged forgiveness.

“I cannot and will not execute my little cousin Jane,” Mary was saying now, “no matter what Simon Renard tells me.” Heather had learned that Simon was the diplomat from the court of Charles V. This Holy roman Emperor was also Charles I of Spain, Mary’s cousin, whose influence was growing greater day by day. “Why, I remember her from babyhood, adorned in her swaddling. We exchanged Christmas presents, she and I.”

Remembering Jane’s kindness to her, Heather said a silent prayer of thanks, then reached for another letter. “The Lady Elizabeth has written to you, your Majesty,” she said, opening the letter.

“What does she want?” Mary snapped in answer. If she was fond of Jane Grey, the feeling did not extend to Mary’s half-sister. Seeing Heather’s wounded expression, Mary softened her tone. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to sound unkind.”

“Shall I read it, your Majesty?” Heather asked, unsure of how to soothe the ruffled royal feathers.

“Yes.” It was a plea for friendship between them, a flowery letter full of praise for her “noble sister.” Mary listened as Heather read, but her expression spoke of her true feelings. Heather could see that though Mary tried to keep the bitterness at bay, her dislike ran very deep.