Linda Barlow (33 page)

Roger Trevor was not in the best of moods. He had just parted company with his current mistress, a sultry countess who had shared his bed for several weeks. Although she was beautiful, voluptuous, and a wickedly inventive lover, Roger was already growing bored with her, and that afternoon his boredom must have made itself apparent. In the middle of their lovemaking, the lady had rolled away from his naked body and reached for a cup of wine from the small table beside the bed.

"Your attention is elsewhere, if I am not mistaken," she had calmly observed. "You are cheating me, my friend, and this I will not tolerate."

She drank, then ran the tip of her tongue around her wine-coated lips in a deliberately sensual gesture that left him cold. She was right, of course. He'd found lately that his only enjoyment came in imagining that the countess's legs were slim, and coltish, her voluptuous breasts small and exquisitely sensitive, her silver-blonde hair as red as vibrant flames.

"I did not offer you my mind," he drawled. "My body, I believe, was all that you required."

She dipped her finger in her wine and ran it over his chest. "You have been an excellent lover, but body and mind are not as separate as your words suggest. Who is she, Roger? Who is the woman whose name you so gallantly swallow every time you come?"

He stared at her, startled. He had never guessed it was so obvious.

"Do you love her?" the countess persisted.

"I am incapable of love."

She laughed, dribbling wine across his belly, and lower. Leaning over, she casually licked it off. "Consider the question more carefully, my dear, before you become incapable of something else as well."

Roger rolled over and pinned her to the bed, removing the wine cup from her fingers and thrusting hard between her thighs, swiftly settling any doubts about his capability. He was careful to bring her fully to her pleasure before taking his own. But when the countess got up to leave an hour later, she informed him that their affair was over. "It is better so," she said, kissing him lightly as she took her leave. "I always end it before the excitement fades, my friend. That way I preserve my pleasant memories. Farewell."

The worst of it was that her decision left him indifferent. His vile mood was not because he cared about the ending of the affair. What she had given him could be easily found elsewhere. Rather it was because he was achingly aware there had been a time when what she'd given him would have been enough. But now, because of a red-haired chit named Alexandra, he wanted more.

Why couldn't he get her off his mind? Why did Alix seem to grow more poised, more lovely, every time they met? Why did his mouth go dry, his body rigid at the sight of her? Was it simply because she was forbidden to him? If he took her, possessed her, he'd grow bored with her soon enough, too, no doubt.

No, a voice inside him argued. He might grow bored with other women, but not with Alix; never with Alix.

Halfway through an evening when Roger had to pretend more interest in his friends' company than he was actually feeling, two young men, one dark and one fair, appeared on his doorstep. For once, Roger wondered if he had imbibed too much of his own fine wine. His brother Alan was supposed to be at Oxford, and as for the elegantly-clad lad beside him with the chin-length golden hair and the averted face, he couldn’t remember inviting any such person.

Roger took a harder look at the boy, and had to choke back his surprise, and that old familiar rigidity. He controlled himself enough to approach them. Clapping Alan on the back, he said, "Well, brother, I am astonished. I thought you'd written me off as the devil incarnate."

"I'd like to talk to you about that."

Alan was looking uncomfortable, as usual, flushing in that boyish way he had, as though unsure of his welcome. But Roger also noted that his brother was meeting his eyes unflinchingly, and that he was no longer hostile.

"Had a change of heart? I'm intrigued." His gaze turned to Alan's golden-haired companion. "Who's your friend?"

"Uh, this is Martin. From Oxford. I'm supposed to be looking after him tonight."

"I see." To Alan's companion, Roger bowed gravely and offered deliberately brutal fingers. "Such a delicate grip you have, Martin. And such soft, white hands. I'd keep them clenched by my sides if I were you."

Keeping his head down, 'Martin' tried to withdraw his hand. Roger refused to release it. "What, shy, lad? Haven't you the grace to greet your host properly?"

"He's from the university," Alan put in quickly. "He's not accustomed to court manners."

"Indeed?" Roger's voice was silky-smooth. "Let me instruct him, then." He raised the graceful hand to his lips. "One bows to a gentleman, but one is allowed to kiss a lady's hand. Like this." His mouth pressed the sweetly-scented fingers; his tongue flicked out to tease them. "Pray lift the eyelids that are hiding those uncharacteristically diffident green eyes."

The eyelids—and the chin—lifted immediately. As Alix's laughing gaze collided with his, Roger forgot the folly of this in the pleasure of having her here, in his house, in his reach. Christ, but he wanted her!

"Of course you'd know."

"Instantly."

"Will everyone else, do you think?"

He ran his eyes over the figure she cut in a creamy doublet and hose. She looked the height of masculine fashion in her hip-length padded breeches, fur-lined collar, and slashed sleeves. Her tight hose displayed her long, slender legs to great advantage. Because she was small-breasted, her womanliness was not difficult to disguise. Without the feminine paint he'd seen her wearing lately, her intelligent face and lively eyes could probably pass for those of a slightly precocious youth. "Not if we tell them you're barely more than twelve and your voice hasn't changed yet. Or your beard grown in." He stroked a finger through the golden hair. "Where did you get the wig?"

"From my father's disguise-a-spy wardrobe. I thought perhaps I could imitate one of those, uh, less masculine men we see at court occasionally."

"If so I'm glad you have Alan to protect you. 'Tis a pretty boy you are, my dear. You're liable to be taken upstairs and introduced to certain unmentionable acts of sophisticated vice. There are mariners here this evening, and you know how
they
behave, deprived so long of the company of women."

Alexandra smiled guilelessly at him, and he wondered if she was too innocent to catch his meaning. Surely not, after all her months at court.

"You're a mariner, too, are you not? Am I to assume that if there didn't happen to be a woman available, you were yourself a party to such vices?"

No, she wasn't innocent. With a flash of jealousy, he wondered just how far her education had progressed. He offered her his arm. "Come upstairs with me now, my lad, and find out."

"For the love of God!" Alan sounded far more appalled than Alexandra. "Must you always find some way to taunt her?"

Roger's good humor deserted him. "You both deserve more than taunting for attempting such a foolhardy masquerade. If her father hears of this, he'll probably thrash her. And challenge me to a duel."

"Your gatherings are famous, Roger. I couldn't resist attending, even at the risk of a thrashing. Are you going to send me home?"

"Am I your keeper?" Her blithe attitude annoyed him. It was dangerous for her here. His friends were present, as were some of his ill-wishers. At any court in Europe, there was a fine line between the two. "No doubt you'll do whatever you wish."

"Tonight, yes. It's my birthday and I wanted to enjoy it in the company of my oldest friends."

Roger took in the sight of her green eyes sparkling with excitement as she glanced around at the other guests. He knew he couldn't deny her. "How old are you?"

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Now where are
your
court manners? One may kiss a lady's hand, but one never asks how old she is. Particularly when she is several years beyond marriageable age, and still unwed."

"You have more than your share of suitors. Why don't you put one of them out of his misery?"

She laughed. "I fear the misery of most men would only be increased if I accepted them. I'm convinced I should make a spectacularly poor wife. I'm far more interested in politics than domestic matters; I talk too much, and I don't see how I could ever promise to obey my husband. No, Roger. I've decided to remain a single woman for life. Or rather," she cast a merry look down at her male attire, "a single man for life. Rather like you." She slapped him heartily between the shoulder blades. "We'll be comrades at arms. Lead on, sir, to the wine and the wenches!"

His lips quirked, and in a moment he was laughing. Looking at her, his worries seemed to melt away, and he felt, for once, completely happy. "Outrageous baggage," he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "My best wishes for your birthday, sweetling."

While Alexandra grinned at him in pleasure, Roger turned to his brother. "And you, Alan? I know it's not your birthday, and there's no leave for scholars at this time of the year. Don't tell me they've tossed you out?" He looked back and forth between them, wondering at the amusement in Alexandra's face, and the smug embarrassment in his brother's.

"Yes, actually; I was sent down."

"What for? Studying your lessons in the middle of the night?"

"No. For drunkenness and wenching."

"Good God, you're taking after me." Roger's feelings of good will and merriment persisted. Look at them. They were so damned proud of themselves—Alexandra for her ingenious disguise and Alan for his fledgling manhood. He ought to turn them out into the street before they ended up in trouble, but he hadn't the heart to spoil their fun.

Looping an arm around each, he led his two young friends toward the wine. "Very well; let this evening be a celebration for you both. I only hope we all don't end up regretting it."

* * *

After so many months at court, Alexandra was accustomed to conversing with people of wit and intellect, worldliness and sophistication. Alan was not. The gathering clearly awed him, and more than once he pulled her aside to say, "Sweet Jesu, that fellow's sailed to the New World!" Or "Alix, one of those two women has written an erotic sonnet to the other."

There weren't any notorious heretics here, Alexandra was relieved to see. The subject of the burnings did not come up in any conversation she was privy to. Even the prospective war with Henri of France was not widely discussed. Instead the talk centered on the economic aspects of government—specifically, on the subject of ocean-going commerce.

There were several men present who had made the perilous journey across the Atlantic Ocean to the New World. Lurking on the edge of one such discussion, Alexandra was surprised to hear Roger express his desire to trade in the west as well as the east. She envied him the freedom to indulge such a dream. How exciting it would be to stride across the decks of a sailing vessel, bound for a life of adventure and discovery in the New World.

"There are riches to be had in the Americas," said a rangy young man named Richard Bennett, who had recently returned from one such voyage. "In the south especially, the Spaniards have made a fortune ransacking the heathen temples of the Aztec and the Inca peoples. I have seen their galleons founder from the weight of the gold and silver stashed in their cargo holds."

"Is that why they founder?" Roger asked, his merry smile flashing. "Are you certain it's not due to the strike of a good English cannonball just below the water line?"

"How could that be? We are allied to Spain," Bennett said with a wink at several of his friends.

"At present," Roger said dryly, and it was clear in the face of every mariner present that they were thinking of the day when this might not be so.

Treason, thought Alexandra with a sigh. Yet she could hardly be shocked. No doubt treason was uttered in every tavern. The English had hated Mary's Spanish husband from the start, and the hostility was all the more powerful now that the Queen had levied taxes to aid her husband in his feud with France.

Poor Mary! As Alexandra lingered on the edge of the group watching her handsome, dark-haired host adroitly entertain his guests, she realized she wasn't having such a happy birthday after all. It had been a mistake to come here and torment herself. It only served to remind her of the burden she shared with the Queen of England: both she and Mary Tudor were enamored of men who didn't feel a groat’s worth of love for them in return.

Someone offered her a large cup of wine. After draining it, she helped herself to another. She had heard of people drowning their sorrows, but this was the first time she'd ever tried it herself.

It was not long thereafter that Alexandra set off to search for the privy, which was down a long and badly lit corridor in the rear of Roger's house. She was just finishing up in the surprisingly commodious compartment when she heard footsteps pass her and continue down the corridor. As she stepped back out into the hallway, she recognized the two men who were entering another chamber—Roger and Francis Lacklin.

Alexandra told herself later that there was no excuse for what she subsequently did. On previous occasions when she'd eavesdropped, it had been by accident, but this time she boldly followed the two conspirators down the corridor and put her ear to the door through which they'd passed.