From what I could remember of the building plans we’d studied, and given the increase in guards, the decrease in foot traffic, and the general air of hushed reverence and luxury, I was near the queen’s private apartments on the second floor. She was here somewhere, anticipating the arrival of the charming Sir Richard, but making him wait, nonetheless.
I tried to breathe slowly, swallowing down my heart-hammering fear. My hindbrain was telling me to be careful – it was all far too easy so far.
Which just goes to show we should all listen to our hindbrains far more often, because, at that moment, I turned a corner and walked smash into the other person surreptitiously prowling the building that afternoon. That man-shaped collection of testosterone – sex-on-legs himself – James Hepburn, 4thEarl of Bothwell.
There was no mistaking him. Even if I hadn’t spent the last weeks studying his portrait, I would have guessed instantly from his behaviour. Whom else but the opportunist Bothwell would be wandering, unescorted, around the Queen’s private quarters?
Speaking of opportunist … Instead of pushing me away, or even just steadying me, he gripped my arms tightly, and boldly and openly scrutinised me from top to toe. I was suddenly thankful for the truly enormous number of clothes I was wearing. Obviously, he liked what he saw – female and with a pulse – because he pulled me close and crushed himself against me. I could feel his mounting excitement. I don’t think he could help himself. It was just instinct. He moved on anything wearing a dress. He backed me against a door. I could feel the handle hard in the small of my back.
‘Ouch!’ I said, indignantly.
He stopped and looked down, actually seeing me for the first time. Brown-green eyes, thickly fringed with black lashes laughed down at me and a rakishly broken nose only added to the charm. I could certainly see what all the fuss was about, and I was pretty sure that Mary Stuart could, as well. No wonder she kept him at arm’s length. Lady Caroline Lamb once described Lord Byron as, ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ but Bothwell was the prototype; the original. If he was ever in the same room as the queen …
‘Ouch?’ he said, laughing.
I resisted the urge to fan myself violently.
Obviously feeling he had wasted enough time on foreplay, he started fishing down my bosom again. I took a deep breath, which on reflection probably wasn’t my best move. He buried his head down there and began to tug at my clothing.
‘No,’ I said firmly, pulling things back into place. ‘No.’
He ignored me. I had a brainwave, ground myself against him and blew down his ear.
Now I had his attention. He raised his head.
‘In here.’
I groped behind me for the latch. The door opened and we both fell in. My faint hope that the room might be occupied died away.
He lay on the floor, laughing, while I hung on to my cloak and chess set as if they were my lifelines – which they were. Because I’d had an idea. A really, really, bad idea, but also a really, really, good idea. If it worked. I felt a sudden deep conviction. It would work. It was opportunity seized. It was inspiration. History had nodded. It was up to me now.
I had Bothwell. Now I needed to keep him here.
He was grabbing for my ankles. I stepped back, smartly.
‘Wine!’ I said.
‘What?’
I was right. He was already well away. Wine was definitely the way to go. I swerved towards the door.
‘I’ll fetch some wine.’
‘We have no need of wine.’
He moved more quickly than I expected, pulled my feet out from underneath me, and down I went. He caught me neatly. Obviously, he’d had a lot of practice. It was probably one of his best moves. Sadly marred only by the chess box falling on his head.
He cursed. ‘Are you trying to murder me, woman?’
I pulled away to a safe distance and said again, ‘Wine.’
He smiled up at me from the floor. He was easily the most sexually attractive man I’d ever met. Women must fall for him by the shedload.
I opened the door, peered cautiously out into the passageway and carefully pulled out the key, concealing it in my hand. He got up and, to my huge relief, threw himself on the bed, linking his hands behind his head. Then he sat up suddenly.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No! I mean, you stay here and – prepare yourself.’
God knows what I meant by that. Sometimes words just fall out of my mouth, but he took this for encouragement and began to unlace himself.
I fled.
I’m not proud of what I did that day, but up to that moment, I was reasonably OK. I’d had a wild idea and I never really thought it would come to anything, but it did. I can blame History all I want, but it was me. I did it. And if it means anything, I’m sorry.
I’d managed to drag my cloak out with me, but the chess set was gone for good. There was no way I was ever going back in there again. The next woman who walked through that door wouldn’t stand a chance …
Shoving my cloak into a nearby chest, I smoothed my hair, straightened myself as best I could, and keeping the key tight in my hand, set off again.
Straight into Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, Dowager Queen of France and self-styled Queen of England. Only a single lady-in-waiting, the very young girl, Margaret, accompanied her.