The Spymaster's Daughter (37 page)

“I be strong. We be helpin' each other. Yer secret be safe with me.”

Had she a choice, trapped in this tangle? Removing several pennies from her pocket, she handed them over. “Take these and bring some pottage, bread, and broth…and ale in about one hour of the clock. He will awake then. Hot broth, boy.”

“I have horses to feed and groom or get a beating. Then I be here with yer wants.” He took the coins and was away, but turned to her after a few steps with a begging face. “My name be not boy. My name be Will.”

She almost laughed at his impudence, though she admired his courage. She could trust him.

Frances went to the bed, where Robert slept deeply, and felt his forehead and cheeks for fever. Finding none, she rolled the barber-surgeon's sealskin kit back into a tied bundle, of a sudden weary in her bones. She curled herself beside Robert, settled a hand to his chest to feel it rise and fall; then, satisfied, she closed her eyes and slept.

F
rances woke to a knock on the door. The sun had moved down the slanting ceiling. It was well into the late afternoon. Going to the door she questioned, “Will?”

“Aye.”

The knock had awakened Robert and he struggled up, flinching with pain, yet not crying out.

Frances opened the door and motioned the boy inside.

“I be sorry to take so long, but my master told me to sweep the inn yard and bring in water from the well. He suspects nothing but that yer master be havin' a bad head and sick belly.”

The aroma of good, brawn broth made her stomach rumble. She took the bowl to Robert and without a spoon held it to his lips. “Take small sips.”

He accepted small sips, then took the bowl when his stomach called out for more. “Some bread, Frances, please,” he said, balancing the bowl on his chest.

She tore off a piece, dipped it into the broth, and fed him.

He opened his mouth obediently, his eyes on her until Will came near and parted the bed curtains. “What is the boy doing here?”

“He knows I am not who I seem.”

Robert stared at the stable boy, his eyes hard.

“Name be Will, sir. I be tellin' no secret to my master.”

Her hand tightened on Robert's arm. “We need him and he has need of us. I will explain later.” She bent close to whisper in his ear, “Do you think to travel tomorrow?”

“Aye, early, before dawn. I am stronger with the salty broth.”

She looked skeptical.

“Truly,” he said, reaching for the ale bottle and taking a long draft, healthy color flooding his pale face.

Frances stood and went to Will with the barber-surgeon's kit.
“Take this to the village and pay for the loan of it,” she said, handing him a silver shilling.

He looked at the coin for a moment. No doubt it was more money than he'd had in his pocket at one time in a year. She could see the calculation in his gaze. Then he shrugged, and she knew that he had decided to be true. She did not begrudge him the thought; she blessed him for his choice.

“I be takin' the kit to the village this night and then hidin' until we leave.”

“Have the team in harness and the dray in back before dawn. Can you put a heavy harness on?”

“Aye.” He flexed his thin boy arms. “I be strong. Ye be havin' no regret helpin' me, lady.”

She heard him slip down the back way, while behind her Robert's feet hit the floor. He hung by one arm to the bed curtains as she ran to him. “Back to bed with you,” she ordered.

“Nay, dear surgeon, I must walk about. A man rapidly loses his strength in bed. Lend me your shoulder,” he said, his good arm reaching for her.

She drew him up and, bracing herself, steadied him, standing close, body touching body. A great heat rose in her, as if the sun reaching now to the uneven floorboards had slipped under her skin and was trapped. She tried to hide what she felt, but he must sense her warmth, for his arm tightened about her.

F
or a moment Robert was alert to her anxiety and silently cursed his weakness. Then, holding her close, careful of his balance, he walked in a halting shuffle about the room, each step surer and firmer than the last.

He allowed himself to think a moment only of holding her like this for all his days. Too much of her young life had been stolen. He could give it back to her.

Stopping his wilder thoughts before they became too real to him, he looked to his next step and growing energy. If it would not pain his shoulder, he would have laughed to think that he was alone with her in a bedchamber, and less a man than he needed to be. Indeed, than she needed.

Though her voice trembled as his body moved next to hers, she had to admit the truth of what he had said. “You were right, Robert. You do seem to gain in strength.”

He smiled down on her. “Aye, my lady. I am right. Yet you have never said such a pleasing thing to me ere now. I would hear it more often.” His teasing gaze searched her face. “Henceforward, I doubt you will ever mistake me.” He turned slowly toward the bed and, after she pulled back the bed curtains, he sat, looking up at her, seeing her hesitate. He took her arm and lowered himself slowly to the pillow, half sitting.

“Frances, I want to say so many things.”

“I
want to hear you say them.” His need was clear, as was hers. She felt her heated blood rush to her veins. Now that his body was not pressed against hers, Frances missed the warmth and firmness of him. Slowly she walked around the bed and climbed in on the other side, blood rushing to her woman's part.

Robert made no move to touch her.

“As your surgeon,” she murmured, “I caution you against sudden…movement—”

“Frances, there is nothing sudden in what I would have of you.” He stared at her, his dark eyes glowing within the dim light of the curtained bed. “I have wanted to give love to you since that first day in your carriage, when your deep sadness mirrored my own.”

Her heart pulsing in her ears, she moved closer, the dry straw jabbing her knees. “Robert, I would have truth between us at last.”

“Truth has always been my dearest wish.”

Taking a deep breath, she knew nothing now except the certainty so long buried under her cautious, untrusting heart. “Robert Pauley, I have longed for you and called it other names. Now I would be truthful with myself, whatever it costs me.”

His gaze never left her face, looking up and down, side to side, devouring her beauty. Yet he made no move to her. She must come to him completely, even across so small a space.

She must ever know that this loving was something she freely gave and was not cruelly taken. Something had happened with Sir Philip to make her think herself less the lovely creature that she was.

Robert knew that must have changed her from what she could have been. He would give it back to her if he could. But only if she came to him freely. Could she?

Frances was waiting for him to reach out to her first, but still he did not take hold of any part of her. And he suspected she had always been taken. Would she know how to offer herself as he wanted? As she wanted? Dreaming it was one thing, but to embrace him, forsaking her vows…Could she do such without regret? If not, could she live with her regret? Could he? God's grace, his mind was awhirl!

He heard her gasped words. “I cannot live without…at least once knowing what it is to freely give myself to a man who loves me for myself.”

Robert could not bring himself to do more than wait. Custom, rank, and privilege separated them. Though his manhood spoke its urgency, if the chasm of their separate stations was to be bridged, it must be Frances who came to him, or he would forever heap blame upon himself.

“Robert,” she murmured, “I love you. Only you.” She caught her breath. “What must you think of me? A wanton? I have tried—”

He reached for her with his good arm, and she moved the rest of the way to him.

“My love…Robert…do not injure yourself.”

He pulled her face down to his, their lips almost touching. “I will not need two arms, sweetest.”

Her breathing was shallow, but quick. “What must I do? How can I help?”

He laughed without sound. “Frances, I need no help.”

“I want to say so many things to you.”

“What o'clock is it?” His mouth curled in jest, though his breathing was heavier now that she was so close.

Half laughing, she moved her lips to his, lightly at first and then, as the flame burned hotter, his lips took command. As Robert's mouth pressed against hers, taking her very breath into himself, she knew she would never rue this night as long as she had life.

His arm was indeed strong enough to hold her close until he began parting her clothes and once again exposed her breasts. “They are so white,” he said, and she shifted so that he could kiss them again, and again. “Have you been revealing them to the moon at night, as so many fine ladies do?”

She laughed, albeit with a catch in her throat. “I have never believed that old wives' tale. If the sun browns, that does not mean the moon whitens.”

“You think for yourself, sweet, and in you and on this night I find it a good thing.”

Frances yet found the clothes she wore hindering the closeness she wanted. She stripped off her doublet, sleeveless shirt, breeches, and hose. A deep sigh rose from her chest: She was happy she had so few boy clothes to remove.

She spread her garments over the mattress to ease the scratching of the straw on her bare body.

“Help me off with my breeches,” he said, tugging them down as far as he could.

She did as he asked, and since he wore no codpiece he was completely exposed to her gaze.

For a moment they just stared at each other as the gloom within the bed curtains deepened.

“Frances, you are beautiful in my eyes…womanly perfection.” He caressed her neck and her dark hair that shone as bright as the best-grade sea coal, with an inner light that looked as if it could burst into bright, warming flame at any moment. What light shone through the window was trapped in her short locks.

As his hands stroked her tenderly, she could not hear her own breath. “What shall we do, Robert?”

“I think you know.”

And she did. His manhood was fully erect. She slid her leg over him and looked down into his face. “This may be too much for you, dearest.”

He laughed; his gathering strength deepened his voice. “Frances, I will not have you do all the work of bedding.” He sat upright, pushing the bolster in tight against his back until they were face-to-face. His hands covered her breasts. “Oh, mistress mine, forever after I will call my love Frances, sweetest Frances.”

She knew that other women would someday look at him as she did now. “Even if Frances is not her name?”

“Frances will always be her name.”

With a deep breath, he pushed himself into her and she moaned with excitement, bending, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his eyelids, smoothing his hair from his forehead.

She was drowning in the dark depth of his eyes as he filled her, touching her deepest self, which had remained truly untouched until this moment. “I love you, Robert, only you.” She gasped. “No one but you will ever share it.” There was such a fire building inside her that she could not stop such words, wanton though they seemed.

She had never known a woman's body could soar so. Then any thought left her; the past left her. All she knew was the pleasure of Robert's body, then of Robert himself, all of him.

They moved together in common ecstasy, his hand hard clasping her buttocks, drawing her closer and closer to him, so heated he felt no pain, a great strength flowing through him and into her.

She threw back her head and opened her mouth, his hand suddenly covering it to hold the pleasure scream inside, the first she had ever felt with a man.

Emptied, Robert fell back, his eyes still feasting on her.

Frances, breathing rapidly, looked down at him as he slowly left her; then she toppled over to the side, looking up at him.

Through the small windowpanes, she saw the stars come out one by one.

They slept and woke; they kissed and held each other's bodies, time passing, time not passing. They caressed until the hour before dawn, when they dressed reluctantly and made their silent way down the back stairs.

Will waited, the horses' hooves muffled in straw-packed cloth bags, the wheels greased. They moved slowly and quietly from the inn yard and turned onto the Greenwich Road as the first faint light of dawn appeared in the east, Will riding the lead horse so Robert need not drive.

They moved steadily toward Greenwich Palace, and her old life threatened to envelop Frances. With one last look back at the inn, she clung to Robert's good arm and whispered, “How I am to live without you?”

“We are in love's hands, sweetest.”

“Love's hands…” she repeated.

“Aye, Frances, and love is never conquered.”